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Chapter Text

King’s Cross was too loud. Too crowded.

Hermione stood motionless in the middle of the terminal, her fingers clenched around the worn leather handle of her suitcase. Travelers rushed by in waves, their hurried conversations blending into a blur of noise, punctuated occasionally by sharp announcements echoing overhead. She breathed in deeply, the scent of hot metal, damp wool, and spilled coffee settling uncomfortably beneath her skin.

Her heart beat a tense, uneven rhythm against her ribs.

She was back.

Three months away, and yet the moment her feet touched English soil, a familiar heaviness pressed itself back into her chest, a sensation not unlike homesickness, but with nowhere to direct it.

Her summer had been spent chasing ghosts.

She had done everything right. Had tracked down her parents, reversed her own magic, restored memories that never should have vanished—and yet, somehow, nothing had returned to normal. She had tried desperately to slip back into her old life: lingering quietly in the kitchen as her mother brewed tea, settling stiffly beside her father as he flipped through the paper. She had fitted herself carefully into spaces that had once been hers.

But the cracks were impossible to ignore.

Their smiles had become careful, hesitant—always polite, always distant. Her father barely met her eyes, retreating behind his newspaper whenever silence threatened to stretch into something awkward. Her mother’s hands twitched nervously when Hermione moved too quickly, as though she were afraid of sudden movements, afraid of her own daughter.

They spoke gently to her, asked safe, distant questions: How was her health? Had she been eating well? Did she have plans for school? They talked as though she were some cousin visiting from abroad, not their only child.

She swallowed thickly, fighting back the painful lump lodged in her throat.

It didn’t matter anymore.

She had done her best. Had spent the summer clinging desperately to something that no longer existed, while her friends celebrated, healed, and moved forward without her.

Now she stood here, about to return to a place that had never entirely felt hers, either.

True, Hogwarts had always been closer to home than anywhere else, but returning on Ministry orders instead of by choice made something bitter twist inside her. After everything they had suffered—after all they had fought for and lost—being forced back to classrooms haunted by memories felt unfair, almost cruel.

Still, she would endure. She always had.

She squared her shoulders, took a steadying breath, and stepped toward the familiar red-bricked barrier.

No more fighting. No more running. No more battles to survive.

This year would be different.

This year, she would focus on her studies, on herself.

Something fluttered gently inside her chest—a spark that felt dangerously close to hope. For the first time in years, she could think about her future—what she wanted, rather than what was expected of her. She wasn’t just Harry Potter’s smart friend, wasn’t just a Muggle-born girl, wasn’t a soldier in a thoughtless war.

This year, she could simply be Hermione.

Taking another deep breath, she moved forward, bracing herself for the brief, familiar moment of disorientation as she passed through the barrier.

The sound hit first.

Laughter, voices rising in cheerful greetings, the sharp whistle of the Hogwarts Express, trunks scraping against stone. Steam billowed from the scarlet train, the air thick with the comforting scent of magic.

Platform 9¾ was just as she had left it.

A small, tentative smile tugged at her lips. The gleaming engine stood proudly before her, steady and welcoming, exactly as she remembered. For the first time in months, something finally felt right.

Her eyes scanned the bustling platform, searching instinctively. Familiar faces rushed past—Lavender and the Patil twins giggling as they boarded the train; Neville and Hannah lingering near the doors, heads bowed closely together, fingers intertwined.

A flash of red in the corner of her vision—too quick to react before—

A force slammed into her, knocking the breath from her lungs.

Hermione stumbled backward, gasping sharply, suitcase slipping from her fingers. Warm, strong arms wrapped around her tightly, squeezing until she felt breathless. A familiar fragrance—lilies and chamomile—filled her senses as a cascade of red hair obscured her vision.

“Merlin, Hermione!” Ginny’s voice, muffled against her shoulder, vibrated with joy. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?”

Hermione let out a surprised huff of laughter. The sound felt foreign—like something she hadn’t used in a long time. She squeezed back fiercely. “Enough to flatten me apparently.”

Ginny pulled back slightly, rolling her eyes. “Please. You act like I don’t do this every time I see you.”

Hermione brushed stray curls from her face, still grinning. "It’s still a bit like being hit by a Bludger."

Ginny arched an eyebrow. “And you’d know how that feels?”

“Fine,” Hermione conceded, unable to stop smiling, “like being tackled by both twins at once.”

Ginny smirked triumphantly. “Who do you think taught me?”

Hermione laughed again as a comforting warmth settled deeply into her bones. It felt good to see her best friend.

“Come on, I’ll help with your trunk,” Ginny said, already grabbing the handle. “We need to get you on the train before McLaggen spots you. He wouldn’t shut up about you last week at the Burrow.”

Hermione blinked, frowning. “Why was McLaggen at the Burrow?”

Ginny sighed dramatically. “Mum threw a party—basically a massive Gryffindor reunion. Nearly everyone showed up. Unfortunately, that included McLaggen.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “And why was he asking about me?”

“No idea. But it was creepy.”

“Lovely,” Hermione muttered. “Just what I need.”

Ginny just laughed, tugging her trunk along as they wove through the crowd. “So… how was Australia?”

The question hit harder than expected.

Ginny must have noticed because her tone softened. “That bad?”

Hermione exhaled slowly through her nose, lips pressing into a thin line. “Not bad. Just… not great. I expected it.”

Ginny’s frown deepened, her fingers tightening slightly where they had looped around Hermione’s arm. “Are you alright?”

She could lie. It would be easier.

But Ginny had always been able to see straight through her.

Instead, she forced a small, honest smile. “I will be.”

Ginny studied her for a long moment before nodding. That was one of the things Hermione loved most about her friend—she knew when not to push.

“Come on then,” Ginny said, looping her arm through Hermione’s and steering her toward the train. “Let’s find the boys.”

The crowd pressed around them, voices blending into a comforting hum. Hermione tightened her grip on her bag as they weaved between students, the scent of steam and magic thick in the air—something unplaceable yet deeply familiar, woven into the very fabric of the platform itself.

And then she saw them.

Harry and Ron stood near the train doors, waiting.

They looked… good.

Harry no longer had that gaunt, haunted look he had carried through the war. His frame had filled out, shoulders broader, stronger. His glasses sat slightly crooked on his nose, dark hair as untamed as ever, but it was his eyes that struck her most. Brighter now. Warmer. They softened the moment they landed on Ginny.

And Ron—he looked taller, somehow. His usual slouch had lessened, and his skin, kissed by summer, glowed with the warm flush of freckles. He looked more like the boy she had grown up with—the one who used to grin too wide, who used to make her roll her eyes, who used to argue with her over the most ridiculous things just for the sake of it.

Something in her eased. A weight she hadn’t even realized she was carrying.

Harry reached her first, closing the distance in two quick strides before wrapping her in a tight hug.

“How have you been?” he murmured against her hair, voice quiet, familiar.

She shut her eyes, letting herself lean into him. Harry. Her brother in every way that mattered. For the first time in months, maybe even longer, she felt like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

“I’ll be fine,” she whispered.

Harry pulled back, scanning her face with that sharp, assessing gaze of his, a faint crease forming between his brows. A silent question passed between them—one he didn’t voice. Then, without warning, he ruffled her hair.

Hermione swatted at his hand, laughing despite herself. “Harry!”

He grinned. “Just making sure you’re still you.”

She rolled her eyes, smoothing her curls back into place, but her heart felt lighter.

As Ginny stepped up beside them, Harry turned toward her, pulling her close. Hermione watched them quietly, a small, bittersweet ache blossoming beneath her ribs.

Ron cleared his throat, startling her slightly. When she turned, he gave her a shy, almost hesitant smile.

"Hey, ’Mione," he said quietly.

She studied his face, noticing the careful way he was watching her, as if unsure how she'd react. His ears reddened slightly under her scrutiny.

"We missed you at the Burrow this summer," he went on, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Wasn’t the same without you.”

Hermione smiled, small but genuine. “I missed everyone too.”

And she had.

The Burrow—chaotic, loud, messy—had always felt more like home than the quiet, suffocating walls of her parents’ house. It had been the first place she had ever truly felt wanted. Even if she had spent the summer chasing something she could never get back, that had never changed.

Ron’s shoulders relaxed, relief spreading across his features. Harry joined them again, and Hermione found herself flanked by her boys as they moved toward the waiting train, their familiar chatter filling the space around her.

“You should’ve seen it, ’Mione,” Ron said, laughing. “George invented these awful self-replicating Dungbombs. One went off in the garden, and suddenly the whole yard was covered. Mum nearly hexed him into next week.”

Harry grinned. “We tested some new products, too. There's this one called a Lurking Lizard—sticks to your back and randomly shouts insults.”

Hermione laughed softly, shaking her head. Ginny caught her eye and rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Honestly,” Ginny muttered, “the time they spent letting Fred hex them ‘for research purposes’—”

“It was educational,” Ron insisted quickly.

“For who, exactly?” Hermione raised an eyebrow.

Ginny snorted. “Not them, clearly.”

They reached the train, and Harry and Ron stepped onto the stairs first. Hermione was about to follow when something flickered at the edge of her vision.

A flash of white-blond hair.

Her breath froze.

Almost involuntarily, she turned her head, scanning the busy platform. And there, unmistakably, was Draco Malfoy.

He was boarding several cars down, shoulders squared beneath robes of black. He was taller than she remembered, his features older, more defined. There was an ease to his movements now, a quiet confidence replacing the arrogance of childhood.

And his expression—

Still unreadable. Still guarded.

Behind her, Ginny huffed impatiently and gave her a gentle shove.

Hermione stumbled slightly, shaking herself. By the time she glanced back, Malfoy was stepping onto the train—but for just a moment, she thought he’d looked her way.

Her stomach twisted strangely.

Did his eyes still have that unsettling silver gleam?

She shook her head sharply, pushing away the thought, and followed Harry and Ron into the narrow corridor. They found their usual compartment, and Hermione slipped inside, taking her favorite spot by the window as the boys stowed trunks overhead.

She breathed in deeply. The compartment smelled like old leather, polished wood, and steam—familiar and comforting. Grounding.

“Finally,” Ginny sighed, sprawling across the bench, her feet propped comfortably on Harry’s knees.

Ron dropped onto the seat next to Harry, already pulling out a deck of Exploding Snap cards.

“You’re going to lose again,” Harry teased, deftly shuffling the deck.

“Oi!” Ron protested. “I won twice last time!”

“Pure luck.”

Hermione smiled faintly at their bickering but leaned her forehead gently against the cool window glass. The train lurched forward, the rhythmic rattle of wheels beneath her soothing. Conversations hummed around them, comforting and normal, yet her thoughts kept drifting elsewhere.

To Malfoy.

She told herself it was only curiosity. After all they’d lived through, it was natural to wonder. Had he changed? Had life been kinder to him since the war ended?

Yet, deep down, Hermione knew there was more to it.

Without thinking, her fingers slipped into her cardigan pocket, brushing against folded parchment. She’d handled it so often the edges were frayed, the creases soft and worn.

His letter.

Even though she knew the words by heart, she drew it out anyway, unfolding it carefully. Her breath caught as she traced the sharp slant of his handwriting.

Granger—

I don’t expect you to respond. I wouldn’t, if I were you.

But I need you to know—I’m sorry.

You didn’t deserve any of it.

I hope you’ve found a way to breathe again.

D. Malfoy

Warmth spread up her neck as she slowly refolded the note. She had forgiven him a long time ago—not because of his letter, but because she understood. They’d all been children caught in a war they hadn’t chosen, pushed into roles they never wanted.

Draco Malfoy had been no exception.

She remembered his eyes clearly that night at Malfoy Manor. The way his voice had wavered when he’d been asked to identify them. The way his hands had trembled at his sides, his body rigid with fear and defiance.

He had saved them. Saved her.

Something had shifted in her that night. She hadn’t yet found the courage to examine exactly what it meant, but even now, the memory sent a shiver through her.

She swallowed, carefully refolded the letter, and slipped it safely back into her pocket.

Across from her, Ginny was murmuring quietly to Harry, her voice soft beneath the steady rumble of the train. Harry had Ginny’s feet resting comfortably in his lap, rubbing them absently as he listened, eyes fixed on her as though no one else existed.

Beside them, Ron had already fallen asleep, slouched in his seat, mouth slightly open, a familiar snore starting to drift through the compartment.

Hermione allowed herself a moment to relax, leaning her head gently against the cool glass of the window. The gentle sway of the train calmed her, the rhythmic sounds slowly easing the tightness she’d carried in her chest all summer. It wasn’t peace—not exactly—but it felt close enough for now.

Yet beneath it all, unease lingered.

Something about this year felt different. The instant she'd seen Malfoy on the platform—that brief glimpse of familiarity mixed with something new—she’d felt an odd shift deep within herself.

She didn’t know yet what it meant. But as the train cut through the countryside, her fingers never quite left the pocket where his letter slept.

Chapter Text

The train slowed into Hogsmeade Station with a gentle hiss, steam drifting up from beneath the wheels like ghostly tendrils in the fading twilight.

Hermione stood, stretching out the ache of the journey, feeling it in every stiff muscle and bone. Beside her, Ginny casually swung her leg and gave Ron a sharp kick.

He jerked awake, gripping his thigh with a wounded look, hair standing in wild tufts. "Blimey, Gin—was that necessary?"

"Absolutely," she replied brightly, already reaching for her bag.

Harry chuckled, sliding his bag onto his shoulder as he stepped into the aisle. Hermione hid a smile, adjusting her cardigan sleeves before following her friends onto the platform.

The moment her feet touched the ground, crisp September wind sliced through her, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant pine. It wrapped around her like an old friend welcoming her home.

Or at least, the closest thing she had left to home.

She pulled her sleeves over her hands, warmth stubbornly evading her as they moved toward the waiting carriages. Lanterns flickered gently, illuminating the skeletal silhouettes of the Thestrals. Their presence still unsettled her, their hollow eyes seeming to watch her with knowing patience.

Hermione quickly turned away, gaze wandering instead through the bustling crowd of returning students.

Silver eyes. Pale blond hair.

Without meaning to, she found herself scanning the faces—but he was nowhere to be seen. 

Not that she'd been looking.

"Who’re you looking for?" Ron’s voice startled her, eyebrows knitted together curiously.

Heat crept into Hermione’s cheeks. "No one," she answered quickly, turning toward the carriages.

A slow, knowing smile crossed Ginny's lips. "Probably just making sure McLaggen doesn’t join our carriage."

Hermione seized the lifeline gratefully. "Exactly. I'd rather not endure a lecture about his so-called ‘Quidditch brilliance’ the entire ride."

Ron shuddered dramatically. "Merlin, that bloke’s unbearable."

Harry nodded solemnly. "Bit of a stalker, too."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "He once offered me private flying lessons. Told him exactly where he could shove his broomstick."

Hermione laughed despite herself, climbing into the carriage and settling beside Ginny as it jolted gently forward, gravel crunching beneath the wheels. She leaned her head back against the seat, watching Hogsmeade’s lantern-lit windows drift by, feeling strangely detached from it all.

Ginny shifted closer, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. "So, did you meet anyone interesting in Australia?"

Hermione blinked, startled. "No—why?"

Ginny’s eyes sparkled mischievously as she nodded toward Hermione’s pocket. "No reason. Just curious about that letter you were clutching earlier."

Hermione’s face burned. "It’s nothing," she said quickly.

Ginny raised a brow, clearly unconvinced.

Hermione shifted awkwardly, aware suddenly of Ron's quiet glance, catching the fleeting flash of hurt on his face before it vanished. A pang of guilt tightened in her chest.

She hadn’t meant to hurt him.

Their conversation before she left for Australia had been difficult—painful, even. She loved Ron deeply, but not in the way he'd hoped. She had tried, really tried, to picture the future he'd imagined for them, but it never felt right. And pretending would have only hurt him more.

The carriage halted gently, and Hermione stepped out, lifting her gaze to the castle towering before them.

It looked untouched—as though the war had never come crashing through its walls. Stone gleamed warmly in the torchlight; archways stood proud, repaired seamlessly, the battle scars wiped away as if they'd never been.

But Hermione knew better. Memories lingered here, hidden beneath the surface, etched into the castle as deeply as they were etched into her.

With a deep breath, she followed the stream of students toward the Great Hall.

Inside, the enchanted ceiling stretched high overhead, mirroring a clear night sky dotted with stars. Candles floated softly above the polished tables, their warm glow casting golden circles onto empty plates.

Everything felt too new—as if the castle was desperate to erase the past.

She took her place beside Ginny at the Gryffindor table, determinedly turning her attention to the Sorting Ceremony. The Sorting Hat sang its familiar, croaky tune, and first-years shuffled forward nervously as McGonagall read their names aloud.

Hermione clapped automatically whenever a new Gryffindor joined their ranks, but her attention soon slipped away.

Without meaning to, her eyes drifted to the Slytherin table.

To Draco Malfoy.

He sat at the far end as always, Blaise, Theo, and Pansy at his side. He seemed unchanged at first glance—still composed, still arrogant. Yet beneath that familiar confidence lay something else, something tight and guarded.

He’d grown, too. The sharp angles of his youth had softened into defined, striking features. His jaw was stronger, his shoulders broader, and the tired lines of wartime stress had faded. He carried himself with an ease she hadn’t seen before.

And his hair—

She swallowed, startled.

His pale blond hair was slightly disheveled, a careless elegance she’d never associated with him before. Hermione’s pulse quickened.

She wanted to see his eyes.

The thought took her completely by surprise and she inhaled sharply, sitting straighter, heat creeping up her neck.

She had always thought Malfoy’s eyes were beautiful.

Wait—what?

Oh, for Merlin’s sake.

She jerked her gaze back toward the Sorting Ceremony, heart pounding embarrassingly fast.

Focus, Hermione.

She grasped for something—anything—to distract herself. Her future. Yes, her future. She had decisions to make.

A Ministry position? Once tempting, but she’d seen too much corruption there already.

Healer? Practical, but lacking Muggle science—and she couldn’t stomach all the blood. Not anymore.

Auror? Absolutely not. She was done with fighting.

Potions Mastery?

She wrinkled her nose slightly. Potions had always calmed her, requiring discipline and precision. But she'd never quite excelled at it, had she? For a long time, she'd blamed Snape’s bias. But deep down, she knew there was another reason.

She’d watched Malfoy, year after year, grudgingly forced to admit his brilliance. Every movement graceful, precise, instinctive.

Well, of course it was. He’d probably been brewing since childhood, the spoiled git.

Hermione exhaled sharply, frustrated.

Why was she thinking about him again?

Loud applause broke through her thoughts. She blinked, startled—the Sorting had finished, and she hadn’t heard a single new student's name.

Be present , she scolded herself silently.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward, her voice firm and clear as she welcomed them back. She spoke about rebuilding, unity, and the importance of moving forward.

Moving forward. Forgetting.

Hermione’s jaw tightened.

She kept her expression neutral, joining the polite applause when McGonagall finished, but inside she felt restless. Some scars needed remembering.

With a familiar pop, food suddenly filled the tables, filling the hall with delicious, comforting smells. Roast meats, fresh bread, spiced pumpkin, and buttery potatoes sent warmth spreading through her senses.

Harry and Ron attacked the meal as though they hadn't eaten in weeks, piling their plates impossibly high. Hermione shook her head fondly, about to exchange an amused glance with Ginny—but stopped short.

Ginny was already digging in herself, stuffing a piece of sausage into her mouth before even lifting her fork.

"What?" Ginny asked innocently, muffled around her mouthful. "I’ve got Quidditch practice, too."

Hermione laughed, taking a few small bites herself. But her attention soon drifted, thoughts wandering as her gaze slid once more toward the Slytherin table. Almost unwillingly, she found herself searching through the sea of faces until—

Her heart stumbled.

Malfoy was looking directly at her.

She froze, pulse quickening sharply.

His eyes hadn’t changed at all.

They were still piercing, unsettlingly silver, locking onto hers with startling intensity. 

Did he still mean what he wrote in his letter?

Did he realize how much it had mattered to her—how she’d carried it with her all summer?

Even Harry and Ron didn’t know how far Malfoy had gone to protect her that night in the Manor. They didn’t know how terrified she had been for him when she escaped.

She owed him her life. She hadn’t forgotten that—and clearly, neither had he.

Their eyes held, and Hermione’s heartbeat quickened, nervous tension humming beneath her skin.

Why was he still looking at her?

And why couldn’t she tear her eyes away?

Malfoy’s grip tightened visibly on his fork, jaw tense. He finally turned away, murmuring sharply to Blaise, his shoulders stiffening.

Hermione sucked in a breath, her pulse still fluttering unsteadily.

A sharp nudge in her side jolted her back to reality.

Ginny cleared her throat loudly, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Interesting," she murmured.

Hermione's jaw tightened. "What?"

“Oh, nothing.” Ginny’s voice was dripping with mischief. "Just wondering what had you so... distracted."

Hermione forced her expression into careful neutrality, quickly slicing a roasted potato into precise little cubes. She gripped the knife tightly, pretending it required every ounce of her concentration.

“I wasn't distracted,” she mumbled.

Ginny made a skeptical noise, clearly unconvinced, but—mercifully—let the subject drop.

Hermione had barely relaxed her shoulders when a shadow fell across the table, smothering their quiet moment like a dark cloud blocking the sun. The easy comfort she’d felt with Ginny evaporated in an instant.

Looking up, she groaned inwardly. Cormac.

He stood in front of her, arms folded across his chest, wearing that insufferable smirk she’d grown to despise.

“Hermione,” he said smoothly. “You're looking lovely tonight.”

She fought back a grimace, offering only a polite nod. "Hello, Cormac," she said flatly.

If he noticed her lack of enthusiasm, he ignored it, leaning closer as though they shared some private joke. “You know, this year might finally be our chance to get better acquainted.”

Hermione’s mouth opened, fully prepared to turn him down—

But before she could speak, a sudden crash echoed sharply from the Slytherin table.

Her head snapped around on instinct.

Malfoy sat rigidly, knuckles white, fork stabbed deeply into the table. His whole body radiated tension, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched tight as stone.

But it was his eyes—storm-dark, burning silver, locked directly onto Cormac—that sent a shiver through her.

Beside Malfoy, Blaise murmured something urgently, pressing a steadying hand onto his shoulder. Hermione’s chest tightened with unexpected anxiety.

"What the hell?" Ginny murmured beside her, following Hermione’s stare.

Cormac, oblivious as ever, glanced around cluelessly. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing," Hermione snapped quickly, perhaps too sharply. She turned to face him again, straightening her spine and lifting her chin firmly.

"Look, Cormac, I appreciate the… interest, but I'm really not looking for anything like that this year."

For a moment something ugly flickered behind his eyes, his arrogant smile faltering. "That's a shame—"

"Move along, McLaggen," Ginny cut in sharply. "You're blocking the view."

Cormac's smile dropped instantly, replaced by a scowl. With a huff, he turned sharply and strode away.

Hermione released a breath, shoulders sagging as the tension drained away.

So," Ginny said, watching Hermione closely, "any particular reason Malfoy looked like he wanted to hex Cormac into next week?"

Hermione stiffened. "How should I know?" she said immediately.

Ginny tilted her head knowingly, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Hmm. Maybe because of the way you were staring at him earlier?"

Hermione's cheeks flamed. She ducked her head, busying herself with food again. "I wasn't staring."

Ginny laughed softly, clearly unconvinced.

Hermione stabbed her potato cubes with unnecessary force. Her mind was racing, replaying Malfoy’s intense stare, the way his entire body had tightened when Cormac spoke to her.

Why had he reacted like that?

The rest of dinner passed in a blur. Hermione barely tasted anything, thoughts swirling relentlessly around the memory of Malfoy's intense stare, his tension, the fierce way he'd watched her.

When dinner finally ended, she stood up mechanically, following the others out into the corridor. Before she reached the doors, she risked one last glance toward the Slytherin table, expecting—hoping?—to see him again.

But Malfoy was already gone.

A strange disappointment settled quietly in her chest.

Chapter Text

The first rays of morning sunlight slipped through the heavy crimson curtains of Hermione’s four-poster bed, painting soft golden lines across her tangled blankets. She groaned quietly and rolled onto her side, pressing her face deeper into her pillow. It smelled faintly of vanilla and cinnamon—comforting scents that usually eased her into restful sleep. But last night, rest had been impossible.

Because of him.

Malfoy.

His name hovered stubbornly at the edge of her thoughts, haunting her no matter how firmly she tried to push it away.

That stare.

The way he’d looked at her across the Great Hall, intense and unreadable. And the way he had glared at Cormac, fingers gripping his fork so tightly she'd been certain it would snap.

Had something happened between the two of them before? Some pureblood rivalry thing? That would make sense, wouldn’t it? It wasn’t unusual for those tensions to bubble beneath the surface, for old family grudges to fester like an untreated wound.

But it had felt different.

It had felt like…more.

Hermione sighed, pressing her fingers to her forehead. It meant nothing. Surely it was nothing.

But her stomach twisted anyway, uncertainty gnawing quietly at her.

A sudden rustle broke into her thoughts.

“Hermione?”

Before she could reply, the curtains were yanked open, flooding the bed with bright, relentless sunlight. Hermione winced, cracking one eye open to see Ginny standing there, arms folded, a smirk firmly in place.

“Were you planning to sleep through the whole day,” Ginny drawled, “or just the first couple of classes?”

Hermione’s mind jolted awake.

Classes.

Oh, Merlin—

She shot upright, her curls flying wildly as panic surged through her chest. “What time is it?” she croaked, voice still heavy from sleep.

“Ten minutes until class,” Ginny replied cheerfully.

“What?!” Hermione flung back the blankets, nearly toppling over a pile of books as she scrambled from her bed. Her heart pounded as she frantically began tearing through her trunk, grabbing her robes, tie, books—anything she could reach.

“I would’ve woken you sooner,” Ginny added, still grinning wickedly, “but you looked so peaceful.”

Hermione’s frantic movements stalled just slightly at her friend's tone.

Ginny’s smile widened. “Well—as peaceful as someone muttering about Malfoy can be, anyway.”

Hermione’s neck warmed.

“I did not!”

“You absolutely did.”

“Oh, for Godric’s sake—” Hermione snapped, hastily buttoning her shirt, shoving her wand roughly into her bag, trying desperately to avoid Ginny’s smug stare.

Ginny leaned lazily against the bedpost. “So are you going to tell me why you were dreaming about Malfoy?”

Hermione glared fiercely at her. “I wasn’t!”

Ginny raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Or why you spent dinner staring at him last night?”

“No time!” Hermione nearly shouted, fleeing toward the stairs, Ginny’s delighted laughter following her down the steps.

By the time Hermione reached the dungeon corridor, she was breathless, disheveled, and thoroughly unprepared for class.

Her tie hung crookedly around her neck. Her hair was chaos. Her robes were buttoned wrong, and—oh no—one shoe was still half-unbuckled. She looked an absolute mess.

She skidded into the Potions classroom, barely managing to stop herself from crashing straight into a desk. Twenty pairs of eyes turned toward her, openly staring.

Brilliant.

“Ah, Miss Granger!” Professor Slughorn’s voice rang out jovially. “Fashionably late, I see—very unlike you!”

She swallowed a sigh, cheeks burning as she straightened her posture, determinedly avoiding the curious looks of her classmates as she scanned the room for a seat.

Her stomach dropped.

The only empty seat left was right beside Malfoy.

He sat rigidly upright, his hands folded stiffly on the desk, knuckles white. His gaze stayed stubbornly forward, face unreadable, refusing to even acknowledge her presence.

Hermione hesitated, pulse fluttering nervously at her throat. She gripped her bag tighter, chest tight with embarrassment.

Slughorn clapped his hands cheerfully, oblivious to her inner turmoil. “Take your seat, Miss Granger! You’ll be working with Mr. Malfoy today.”

Of course. Of course this was happening.

She swallowed hard, squared her shoulders, and forced herself forward, sliding carefully into the seat beside him.

The faint scent of his cologne drifted toward her—clean, sharp, like pine needles edged with frost. Her pulse gave a traitorous little jump, and she clenched her teeth in annoyance.

Ridiculous. It was only Malfoy, rigid and aloof as ever, pointedly ignoring her.

Her fingers hovered uncertainly at the edge of the desk. Should she say something? A greeting, perhaps? Or—a thank you?

For the letter.

For saving her.

Her heart lurched strangely. No. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

Maybe later.

Maybe never.

“You’re late.”

His voice sliced through her thoughts—cool, clipped, emotionless.

He still didn’t look at her.

Hermione’s jaw tightened.

“I noticed,” she replied stiffly, pulling parchment and quill from her bag.

“I prefer my partners punctual,” he added, his voice low and faintly scornful.

She turned sharply toward him, intending to shoot him a glare—but it was a mistake. His eyes flashed up, meeting hers briefly, and something flickered through them, a fleeting emotion she couldn’t name. It vanished just as quickly, replaced by his usual cold indifference.

“Well,” she said firmly, hiding the tremor in her voice, “you’ll have to deal with it.”

Malfoy’s jaw twitched, a muscle tightening visibly in his cheek. Then he looked away, fingers briefly curling into fists on his thighs before relaxing again.

So much for gratitude.

Perhaps nothing had really changed. Perhaps his letter had been nothing more than an impulsive attempt at redemption—one he now regretted.

The thought left her feeling oddly hollow.

Why should I care? she thought fiercely, forcing her attention back to the task at hand.

Potions was her best chance at a Mastery, and she refused to let Draco Malfoy distract her.

Hermione tried to lose herself in the familiar rhythm—chop, measure, stir, repeat—but Malfoy’s presence was impossible to ignore. Each careful, graceful movement he made grated on her nerves, effortless and controlled.

Infuriatingly perfect.

She tightened her grip on the stirring rod, counting rotations quietly, desperate to ignore him. Yet she felt the weight of his gaze again.

She glanced up sharply and found him watching her. Her stomach tightened.

“Stop staring at me,” she whispered fiercely.

“I’m not,” Malfoy replied evenly, though his jaw clenched slightly.

“You are.”

He met her gaze, eyes glinting cool silver in the dim light. “Don’t flatter yourself, Granger.”

Hermione scowled, irritated, though something in the way he said her name sent an unwelcome warmth prickling across her skin.

She huffed, reaching for her notes to distract herself—but her sleeve caught on the edge of the desk and she lost her balance, pitching forward toward their bubbling cauldron.

Before she could brace herself, Malfoy’s hand shot out, gripping her arm. His touch was cold, sending a chill straight through her.

Her breath caught.

She looked up instinctively and saw his pupils widen—darkness swallowing the silver for a split second before his expression hardened again. His jaw clenched, fingers flexing once before releasing her as though she'd burned him.

“Be careful,” he muttered harshly.

She jerked her arm away, embarrassment heating her cheeks. “I don’t need your help,” she snapped, smoothing her robes with trembling fingers.

“Clearly.”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply—but his gaze had shifted downward. Confused, she followed his eyes and felt her face burn hotter.

Oh, Merlin.

In her rush that morning, she'd missed a button on her blouse, revealing an embarrassing sliver of skin just beneath her collarbone. Malfoy stared, his expression suddenly blank, forearm muscles tensing beneath the sleeves of his robes.

Humiliated, Hermione hurriedly tried to fix the button, fingers fumbling clumsily. Her pulse quickened, her heart hammering painfully. Why did it have to be Malfoy, of all people, noticing every imperfection?

Finally, the button slipped into place. Hermione pressed her hands into her lap, wishing she could sink beneath the floorboards.

Malfoy’s fingers twitched slightly before he abruptly turned away, attention snapping back to their cauldron as if nothing had happened.

Before she could think another mortifying thought, Slughorn’s voice boomed cheerfully through the classroom, mercifully dragging her back to reality.

“Miss Granger! Mr. Malfoy!”

Hermione snapped her gaze away from Malfoy, her breath uneven.

“Your potion looks splendid—perfect consistency! Keep it up!”

She quickly turned her attention to their cauldron, stirring mechanically as if nothing else in the room mattered. Still, she couldn’t ignore the lingering chill where Malfoy’s fingers had gripped her arm or the memory of his gaze on her exposed skin.

The tension refused to fade—not as the class continued, nor as they worked in brittle, awkward silence.

When the lesson finally ended, she stuffed her belongings hastily into her bag, determined not to show how shaken she truly felt. Beside her, Malfoy moved calmly, each action smooth and deliberate, betraying nothing of the tension she felt crackling between them.

Yet she sensed his attention, the subtle, persistent weight of his stare even without looking up.

She bit the inside of her cheek, frustrated.

He always did this. Got under her skin, in her head, made her feel things she absolutely did not—

“Granger.”

She looked up sharply.

Malfoy stood partly turned away, his bag slung casually over his shoulder, posture stiff beneath the flickering torchlight.

“Yes?” she asked warily.

He remained silent for a moment, gaze fixed firmly on the polished surface of their workstation, as if carefully considering his words.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and oddly soft.

“You shouldn’t let your guard down.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he turned just enough for her to see his face in profile, eyes like a distant storm.

Then, without another word, he strode swiftly toward the classroom door, leaving her staring after him, bewildered.

She stood frozen, frustration tightening her throat.

What was that meant to be—a warning? A threat?

She hated how he always managed to unsettle her, leaving her thoughts tangled and confused.

With a frustrated sigh, Hermione ran her fingers absently over the smooth wood of the desk, her mind crowded with unanswered questions.

She didn’t want to think about him. She didn’t want him to matter.

Yet, as she climbed the dungeon stairs, the echo of his words followed her like an invisible thread, pulling tighter with each step.

"You shouldn’t let your guard down."

Chapter Text

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm golden glow over the Gryffindor common room and its well-worn furniture. The air smelled comfortingly familiar—old parchment, melting candlewax, and the lingering sweetness of pumpkin pasties someone had smuggled up from dinner.

Hermione sat curled up in the corner of the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, wrapped securely in a thick knitted blanket she'd brought from her dormitory. Her Charms textbook rested open across her lap, illuminated gently by the flickering firelight. Around her, quiet conversations drifted, blending with the occasional rustle of turning pages and the rhythmic click of chess pieces on the table nearby.

It should have been calming.

She should have been able to concentrate.

But no matter how many times Hermione reread her notes, the words slipped away, refusing to settle. Her eyes skimmed the same paragraph again and again, absorbing nothing, her mind stubbornly drifting back to a single name:

Malfoy.

He'd been in nearly every class, always on the edge of her awareness, like an unsettling shadow that wouldn't fade. He barely looked at her, barely spoke, yet somehow she felt him every time she entered a room.

Seven years she'd dealt with Draco Malfoy—seven years of insults, sneers, and tense silence. Seven years of knowing exactly where he stood: always opposite her, always distant.

But now…now it felt different.

The letter. The war. His hand gripping her wrist in Potions, his touch so cold it burned. And that strange look in his eyes, as if he were fighting himself.

Hermione sighed softly, pressing two fingers against her forehead. How was it only the first day back? How was she supposed to manage an entire year of this?

Ridiculous, she scolded herself. She'd survived Malfoy for seven years; she could surely survive one more.

Probably.

Taking a deep breath, she forced her attention back to her book, determined to lose herself in something safe, familiar, and sensible. For a while, it worked.

Until a sudden weight crashed onto the sofa, sending her notes sliding sideways.

Hermione jumped, clutching her textbook tightly. Ginny sprawled beside her, already halfway through a Chocolate Frog, chewing noisily with a smug expression.

Hermione shot her a mock glare. "Comfortable?"

"Very," Ginny said cheerfully, biting off another chunk of chocolate. "So—"

Hermione tensed instantly, sensing trouble.

"Are you finally going to tell me what's going on between you and Malfoy?"

Her stomach twisted sharply, and Hermione straightened, glancing nervously around the common room.

"Not so loud!" she hissed.

Ginny raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, then leaned closer, whispering dramatically, "You. Malfoy. Explain."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, resisting the very strong urge to hex her best friend—just a minor one, nothing permanent.

She sighed heavily, snapping her textbook shut. There was no escaping this conversation now.

"Not here," she muttered, already gathering her things.

Ginny’s smirk widened victoriously. "Thought so."

Together, they climbed the staircase to their dormitory, slipping past the other beds until they reached Hermione's four-poster. As soon as the curtains fell around them, sealing them safely inside their private little bubble, the tightness in Hermione's chest returned.

For a moment she hesitated, uncertain how to begin.

She wanted to tell Ginny. Desperately, in fact. Maybe speaking the words aloud would help clear the clutter in her head, make the confusion easier to manage.

But how?

Hermione picked anxiously at her fingernails, words tangled tightly in her throat.

A warm hand gently covered hers.

Startled, she glanced up. Ginny was watching her quietly—not teasing or mocking now, just patient, concerned, understanding.

"You know you can tell me anything," she said softly.

Hermione swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "I know. It's just… difficult. I don’t really know where to start."

Ginny gave a gentle smile, squeezing her hand lightly. "How about from the beginning?"

Hermione took a slow breath, and finally, she began to speak.

She started with the letter—how it had arrived one morning, so unexpected she'd stared at it in disbelief before opening it. How she'd turned it over and over in her hands, tracing the sharp, careful handwriting, her stomach twisting with feelings she couldn’t name.

Then, how finally she'd broken the seal—and how those few simple words had loosened something deep inside her chest, something she hadn’t known she was holding so tightly.

She admitted that despite everything, she’d felt relieved. Even strangely happy.

Then Hermione hesitated, took another shaky breath, and began to tell Ginny something even Harry and Ron didn't know.

Malfoy Manor.

Ginny sat in silence as Hermione relived the memories—the fear, the pain, the utter helplessness. How she'd been separated from Harry and Ron, dragged upstairs by Bellatrix, bound and defenseless. She remembered standing frozen in that cold drawing room, waiting for the agony to begin.

She remembered Bellatrix’s wand pressing lightly against her throat, the witch’s voice silky and poisonous. "Crucio hurts more if you fight, girl. Best not struggle too much."

And then, suddenly, Malfoy had stepped forward.

Hermione closed her eyes briefly. She could still see him clearly—the rigid tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his jaw, the terrified determination in his pale eyes.

“He told her to stop,” Hermione whispered. “And she—” her voice faltered, “she turned on him instead.”

Ginny drew a sharp breath.

“She tortured him with the Cruciatus,” Hermione went on softly. “Right there, in front of everyone.”

The memory was painfully clear—Malfoy collapsing, convulsing silently on the marble floor as Bellatrix laughed. His mother’s anguished screams echoed in Hermione’s mind, desperate and raw, while Lucius held Narcissa still, eyes cold and helpless.

“He never screamed,” Hermione murmured, throat tight. “Not once. Even when it kept going and going—he never made a sound.”

Ginny’s hand tightened around hers.

Hermione inhaled shakily, her voice thickening. She could still hear it—the horrible, muted thuds of Malfoy’s body hitting the floor, the shallow, broken gasps escaping his lips as he trembled.

And she could still hear her own voice, screaming herself hoarse, begging Bellatrix to torture her instead.

Bellatrix had only smiled, delighted as she watched her nephew writhe on the floor.

Hermione’s hands shook as she continued, “When she finally stopped, he was barely breathing. And then she turned back to me.”

The memory shifted, darkening.

This time Bellatrix’s wand was gone. Instead, her dagger gleamed dangerously under the dim chandelier. Hermione still remembered the cold bite of the blade, pressing gently below her ribs, teasing and cruel.

“I thought I was going to die,” she whispered. “But then Malfoy—he pulled her off me. Physically grabbed her, threw her aside, and—” She paused, looking up to meet Ginny’s stunned eyes. “He held his wand to her throat.”

Ginny stared in disbelief, her mouth slightly open.

Hermione finished softly, the memory flickering vividly—Bellatrix’s furious scream, her lunging at Malfoy, and the flash of magic as Dobby’s spell pulled them all away.

Ginny exhaled slowly. “Holy shit.”

“I thought she’d killed him after that,” Hermione admitted quietly. “When we escaped, I was sure he wouldn’t survive.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and full of unspoken questions.

"Why didn't you ever tell Harry or Ron?" Ginny finally asked.

Hermione sighed, helplessly lifting her shoulders. "There was never a good time. After the Manor, everything moved so quickly. We were always running, always fighting. And when it was finally over…" She paused, her voice quiet. "I suppose it just never came up."

Ginny studied her thoughtfully. “And now?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Now... I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Ginny’s eyebrows rose slightly.

Hermione felt her face flush. She quickly looked away.

“Have you tried talking to him?” Ginny asked carefully.

Hermione snorted. “I don’t think he wants to talk.”

Ginny tilted her head, a playful gleam appearing in her eyes. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, you weren’t the only one staring at dinner last night,” Ginny replied breezily. 

Hermione shifted as her face flamed.

“And did you see how he looked at Cormac? If looks could kill—"

Hermione made a strangled sound, burying her face in her hands. "Ginny—"

Ginny laughed, bumping Hermione's shoulder. 

Then—softer—“Whatever happens, just know—I love you. Even if it means accepting that ferret.”

“Godric, Gin.”

“I’m serious. If you wake up one day and decide you fancy him, I’ll stand by your side and hex anyone who has a problem with it.”

Hermione shoved her playfully, laughing.

For the first time in far too long, she felt lighter.

But as she lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, that lightness didn’t last.

Because no matter how much she had finally said out loud, Draco Malfoy was still a mystery. And she wasn’t sure she had the strength to solve him.

Chapter Text

The warm, honeyed scent of toast and pumpkin juice filled the Great Hall as Hermione stepped inside, the familiar murmur of morning conversations wrapping around her like a low, steady hum. The golden glow of floating candles flickered overhead, casting soft light across the long tables, illuminating plates piled high with steaming eggs, crispy bacon, and buttered toast. The scent of autumn spices lingered in the air—cinnamon, cloves, something rich and sweet that reminded her of Hogsmeade weekends.

The weight of her bag tugged at her shoulder, a quiet but persistent reminder of the day ahead. She adjusted the strap absently, weaving past a group of Hufflepuffs chattering excitedly about the Yule Ball, their voices rising and falling in animated bursts. The normalcy of it should have been comforting.

It wasn’t.

It had been a week since school started back, but she still felt… unmoored. Out of sync. Usually, the rigid structure of academia grounded her, gave her purpose. But this year, something felt off-kilter. Her routines were slipping. Her carefully planned study schedules were falling apart before she could even put them into place.

She tried to tell herself it was just the adjustment period after the war. But deep down, she knew better.

Slipping onto the bench at the Gryffindor table, she exhaled quietly, shrugging off her bag. The chatter around her faded into background noise as she pulled out her Potions homework, smoothing the parchment against the table.

Focus.

Her quill scratched against the page, the familiar rhythm of logic and structure soothing her frayed nerves. She lost herself in her work, writing about how potions could aid in Muggle medicine without violating the Statute of Secrecy. For the first time in days, she almost felt like herself again.

The bench lurched beneath her.

Her inkpot rattled dangerously, nearly tipping over.

Ron collapsed onto the seat across from her, his broom clattering against the table with a careless thud . His Quidditch robes were damp with sweat, his hair windswept, the scent of fresh air and grass clinging to him.

“Bloody hell, I’m starving,” he groaned, reaching for a heaping portion of eggs and bacon like he had just flown through a hurricane instead of morning practice.

Hermione shot him a withering look, flicking her wand to steady her inkpot.

Ginny plopped down beside him, tossing her broom under the bench before stretching out with an exaggerated sigh. Her Quidditch gear was slightly scuffed, a smear of dirt streaking across her cheek.  “Ignore him. He spent half of practice swinging at Bludgers that weren’t even there because McLaggen kept shouting about imaginary threats.”

Ron scowled, stuffing bacon into his mouth. “Oi! I was being cautious!”

“You were being paranoid,” Harry said, joining them and pouring himself a much-needed cup of coffee. He looked tired but relaxed, leaning comfortably against Ginny as she placed a muffin on his plate.

Hermione watched as Harry smiled at Ginny, murmuring something quiet and gentle enough that only Ginny could hear. She laughed softly, nudging his shoulder. The easy affection between them felt like a warm glow—one Hermione couldn't help but notice.

She glanced away quickly, heat rising in her cheeks. She was happy for them—of course she was—but something in her chest tightened at the sight. The war had taken so much from them, but Harry and Ginny had found each other again, stronger than ever. It was comforting…and lonely, somehow.

Hermione shook her head slightly, frustrated with herself. She was independent. She didn’t need someone else to lean on. But still—she wondered what it might feel like to have someone look at her the way Harry looked at Ginny. To feel known, seen, understood.

She sighed, forcing her attention back to the table and trying to follow the conversation around her. But it was no use; the words seemed distant and muffled, like a conversation overheard from another room.

Without thinking, her gaze wandered across the Great Hall.

Malfoy was sitting where he always did, staring down at a cup he wasn’t drinking, his posture stiff, withdrawn. Beside him, Pansy Parkinson gestured sharply, clearly irritated, whispering fiercely into his ear. Malfoy’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, didn’t even glance her way.

They looked like they were fighting. Perhaps a lovers' quarrel? Hermione's stomach twisted oddly at the thought, but before she could dwell on it, Malfoy lifted his head and—

Their eyes met.

Hermione froze, her breath hitching sharply.

His gaze was piercing, silver and intense. A sharp shiver rippled through her, tightening her chest. For just a second, something flickered behind his carefully guarded expression—something conflicted and uncertain—before it vanished again behind the usual cold mask.

Why was he looking at her like that?

Why couldn’t she look away?

Her fingers curled around her quill, gripping so hard her knuckles ached. She felt exposed, raw—as if he’d uncovered a secret she didn’t even know she had.

Stop it, Hermione. Look away.

With great effort, she tore her gaze from his, forcing herself back to her table, her friends. 

The sounds of the Great Hall came rushing back—the scrape of benches, the murmur of conversations, the clink of cutlery against plates. Nearby, Harry chuckled as Seamus waved his wand frantically, trying—and failing—to remove pumpkin juice from Dean’s robes.

Hermione smiled faintly, grateful for the distraction. She forced her attention onto the tea she poured, focusing on the warmth of the cup in her hands.

But despite her best efforts, her eyes drifted again.

Malfoy was still looking at her.

She felt suddenly exposed, like he could see right through her carefully built defenses.

It was too much.

Abruptly, she stood, her teacup rattling against the saucer, tea splashing perilously close to the edge.

“I’m heading to class,” she blurted, voice higher than she'd meant it to be.

“Already?” Ron asked through a mouthful of bacon. “We’ve still got time—”

“I know,” she interrupted, shoving books into her bag without looking up. “I—I want to get some extra reading done.”

Ginny arched a knowing eyebrow.

Without waiting for another word, Hermione turned on her heel and strode from the Great Hall, her cheeks hot, heart hammering unevenly against her ribs.

She needed air.

She needed space.

She needed to get far away from Draco Malfoy and his stupid silver eyes.

~ * ~

The day passed in a hazy blur, each hour crawling by, weighed down by a restlessness Hermione couldn't escape.

She kept telling herself she was imagining it—the heightened awareness, the prickling feeling whenever he was nearby. And yet it persisted, refusing to fade into the background.

During Potions, she threw herself into chopping roots and counting precise stirs, losing herself in the routine. Still, she felt him. Even though Malfoy sat far across the classroom, she could sense his gaze like the cold press of metal at her back.

Every time Ron leaned close to whisper a question, she swore she could feel Malfoy's eyes on her, piercing and unnerving.

Then, in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Cormac sidled up with his usual swagger, asking—with unbearable confidence—if she'd partner with him. Hermione nearly rolled her eyes into the back of her head, irritation surging. But her reaction stalled when she saw Malfoy’s expression darken from his shadowy spot in the corner. His eyes flicked toward them, silver flashing dangerously beneath lowered lashes.

It threw her off-balance, that strange emotion in his gaze—annoyance or anger, she couldn't tell—and she quickly declined Cormac’s offer, retreating back to her own seat, heart hammering too fast.

By Herbology, she was utterly exhausted.

The greenhouse had always been relaxing—the rich scent of damp soil and the gentle rustle of leaves usually helped settle her nerves. But even here she couldn't shake him from her mind.

Malfoy was two stations over, carefully untangling the roots of a Venomous Tentacula. His movements were graceful, and Hermione found herself watching him, mesmerized by the easy way he handled the aggressive plant. His fingers moved deftly, ghosting over leaves and roots as though he'd done it a thousand times before.

She caught herself staring and flushed.

Ridiculous, she scolded herself. I'm not staring. I'm just... observing.

Yes, observing. Waiting for him to slip up, for the plant to snap at him. Because surely he would. Surely no one could be that effortless at everything.

But he didn't slip.

Not even once.

His touch was steady, sure. There was a quiet confidence in the way he handled the plant, his fingers ghosting just out of reach of the snapping tendrils, coaxing the roots apart with delicate, precise movements.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

Why on earth am I staring at his hands?

Heat flushed her face, and she wrenched her gaze away, focusing furiously on her own plant. But her pulse wouldn’t slow, her heartbeat hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm beneath her ribs. She dug her fingers into the soil, grounding herself in the damp earth, willing herself to regain control.

When class ended she hurried outside, grateful for the cool, fresh air against her heated cheeks. 

Enough.

She took a deep breath, determined to shake off the lingering unease that had followed her all day. There were more important things—real things—to focus on. Her future, her studies, her plans. Certainly not Draco Malfoy.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned toward the castle and hurried toward the library, letting the crisp night air chase away the last remnants of distraction.

The castle was quiet at this hour, the usual hum of voices and footsteps swallowed by the vast corridors. Only the distant crackle of torches disturbed the silence, their flames casting restless shadows across stone walls.

Hermione's footsteps echoed sharply as she quickened her pace, her pulse uneven in the quiet. She turned a corner abruptly, thoughts tangled, distracted—

And collided with something solid.

The impact jolted through her, knocking her bag from her shoulder. It hit the stone floor with a muffled thud.

A startled breath escaped her lips.

A hand closed around her arm. Firm and cold—but not like the chill of dungeon air. Not like drafts slipping through ancient cracks. Colder. Like marble touched by frost, untouched by warmth or time.

She didn't need to look to know who it belonged to.

The dim torchlight fractured across Malfoy’s features, sharpening the lines of his cheekbones, highlighting the precise angle of his jaw, illuminating the pale silver of his eyes.

His grip was controlled, steadying her effortlessly—sending a confusing thrill spiraling low in her stomach.

Neither of them moved.

The castle itself seemed to pause, the silence deepening between them.

She felt everything at once—the thrum of her pulse under his fingertips, the soft rush of breath between them, the subtle scent of parchment mixed with cedar, something sharp and intoxicating.

A warning echoed faintly in her mind: Move away. Say something. Step back.

But she didn't.

He didn't.

Up close, he seemed even taller, stronger, a quiet power in his stillness. She barely reached his shoulders, and for one reckless heartbeat, she wondered what it would feel like to lean into him, to let someone else hold her steady for once.

His fingers flexed subtly—a slight hesitation, a moment of uncertainty that tightened something deep within her.

Then he released her.

His absence was immediate, unsettling. Hermione swayed, catching herself quickly, her breath ragged.

"Granger."

"Malfoy."

She tried to sound composed, but something unsteady crept between the syllables.

His eyes dropped to her fallen bag. Without a word, he bent gracefully, retrieving it in one smooth motion.

Standing again, he offered it silently.

Hermione reached for the bag, clutching it protectively against her chest as Malfoy stepped back, his face carefully blank.

"Thank you," she managed, voice tight.

He regarded her briefly. "Careful."

Then something shifted behind his expression, breaking whatever held him there and he turned away, striding quickly down the corridor.

Hermione stood frozen, her heartbeat frantic, fingers tight around her bag's strap.

The torchlight flickered. Shadows lengthened.

And the ghost of his touch burned against her skin.

Chapter Text

The dungeons were heavy with the scent of crushed valerian and damp stone, steam curling lazily from simmering cauldrons. Around Hermione, students murmured quietly, knives tapping rhythmically against cutting boards in a routine that should have calmed her racing thoughts.

But today, as with most days since the start of term, calm felt impossible.

Across the room, Malfoy sat poised and unbothered, a silent storm trapped in human form. His profile cut sharply against the flickering torchlight, each movement precise, each glance calculated, as if nothing could ever unsettle him.

Hermione's jaw tightened, her quill nearly tearing through the parchment. Why was it so effortless for him? Why was she unraveling, her composure fraying thread by thread, while he remained perfectly collected?

Frustrated, she wrenched her gaze away, stirring her potion with a forceful jerk that nearly spilled its contents. Weeks of this—weeks of feeling his presence like an unbearable itch beneath her skin, noticing small details she had no business noticing.

How carefully his fingers moved. How his brow furrowed slightly when he focused. The subtle parting of his lips just before he spoke.

She wanted to scream.

Years of successfully ignoring Draco Malfoy, and suddenly she couldn’t stop noticing him. It felt wrong—unnatural—like prodding a bruise, knowing it would ache but unable to resist.

Across from her, Malfoy raised a vial, inspecting its contents with cool detachment. She watched helplessly, feeling clumsy and restless in comparison, her mind a tangled mess.

Her quill scratched angrily at her parchment. She should be focusing on her potion, impressing Slughorn, mastering techniques. Not spiraling into distraction every time Malfoy breathed.

Not fixating on the way his fingers ghosted over ingredients with the ease of someone who spent their entire life surrounded by magic.

And certainly not wondering how it would feel if those steady hands touched her instead.

A sudden sting bit into her palm. Startled, she glanced down, realizing her nails had dug sharply into her skin.

Enough.

She drew a shaky breath, straightening her shoulders. She was being ridiculous. She was better than this.

The violent hiss of a potion boiling out of control snapped her head up. At the front of the class, Seamus was twirling his stirring rod, laughing with Dean, casually tossing powdered asphodel into his cauldron.

“Careful, Mr. Finnigan,” Slughorn warned sharply. “One misstep, and—”

Too late.

A deafening crack shattered the silence. Fire and smoke erupted from Seamus’s cauldron, sending a wave of heat rolling outward. Hermione gasped, breath stolen by the force of the blast. The world blurred, senses clouded by acrid smoke and panicked shouts.

Then something collided hard with her, knocking her from her feet.

No—someone.

She hit the stone floor, the impact stunning, disorienting. Her heart pounded wildly, but beneath the confusion, she felt an undeniable certainty:

She wasn’t alone.

A voice—urgent, sharp—pierced the chaos.

“Granger.”

Her eyes snapped open, clarity rushing back.

Malfoy hovered inches above her, shielding her body with his own. His eyes flashed, darting rapidly over her, an expression flickering across his face that looked alarmingly like panic.

His breath came quick, shallow, his arms braced protectively around her, holding her securely beneath him.

“Are you hurt?” 

“I—I think I’m fine,” Hermione stammered, her mind slow to catch up. A dull ache throbbed at the back of her head where it had struck the stone floor. She glanced at her arm, her stomach twisting. Her sleeve had burned away, leaving behind angry, blistered skin that screamed in the cool dungeon air.

She winced.

Malfoy’s eyes dropped to the burn, his whole body stiffening at the sight. Before she could protest, his hand reached out, cool fingers brushing lightly against the singed edge of fabric.

A shiver shot through her. She told herself it was from pain.

His touch was gentle, almost cautious, but his jaw had tightened, a muscle jumping beneath pale skin. “You’re not fine,” he muttered, his voice low, strained.

Hermione barely registered his words, her attention suddenly drawn to Malfoy’s own arm. His sleeve was scorched, fabric curled and blackened, yet beneath it, his skin remained untouched.

“Your arm,” she whispered shakily. “You’re not burned.”

His hand stilled, hovering just above her skin. “I’m fine.”

He shifted back onto his knees, movements sharp and controlled, but something had changed. He wouldn’t look at her now. The brief warmth of his closeness vanished, replaced by something colder, distant.

Hermione struggled onto her elbows, her thoughts spinning. He had shielded her. Not simply pushed her aside—he’d moved impossibly fast, thrown himself over her, absorbed the worst of the blast—

Yet he wasn’t injured.

“Can you stand?” Malfoy asked, voice suddenly flat, guarded.

She nodded, though when she tried to rise, her knees buckled. Instantly, his hand was there again, fingers closing around hers, pulling her effortlessly to her feet.

Her grip tightened on his before she could stop herself. His touch felt—wrong. Too cold. Too steady. Too… right.

Her heart crashed against her ribs.

He let go abruptly, stepping away and folding his hands into his robes.

A panicked voice broke through the chaos. “Merlin, Hermione!”

Seamus stood wide-eyed and pale, guilt etched across his face. “I—I didn’t mean—I swear, I didn’t—are you all right?”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but Malfoy turned on him first, shifting the air with sudden intensity.

“You’re an idiot,” he snarled. “You could’ve killed her.”

Seamus recoiled, voice faltering. “I’m—I’m sorry, I—”

“Sorry isn’t enough.”

Hermione barely recognized Malfoy’s voice—it was icy, vicious, razor-sharp. Without thinking, she reached out, catching the sleeve of his robes in her fingertips.

He turned sharply, his eyes locking onto hers, chest rising quickly.

For just a heartbeat, she saw beyond his careful mask: the tension, the struggle, something fierce and hidden beneath his controlled façade.

“Stop,” she whispered.

His breath escaped in a sharp exhale, and the fury faded, replaced by something she couldn’t name.

Malfoy looked at her a moment longer. Then, shaking his head slightly, he tore his gaze away, shoulders rigid with whatever war he fought internally as he turned back to Seamus.

“Watch yourself next time,” he said quietly, voice tightly restrained.

“That’s enough!” Slughorn’s booming voice cut through the room, snapping everyone back to attention.

Smoke cleared with a swift wave of his wand. He surveyed the damage, his gaze finally resting on Malfoy. “Mr. Malfoy, would you kindly escort Miss Granger to the infirmary?”

Malfoy’s eyes flickered toward Hermione, brows pulling together briefly, before he released a slow, controlled breath.

With a single, reluctant nod, he agreed. “Let’s go.”

He reached out, fingertips barely grazing her arm. His touch was brief, cool, sending a shiver rippling down her spine—a quick spark of sensation like the faint prickle before lightning struck.

She moved mechanically beside him, mind racing. Questions swirled relentlessly, tangling with the memory of the explosion. How had he escaped injury? How had he reacted so impossibly fast?

And, most troubling—why?

They walked in silence to the infirmary, Hermione clutching her injured arm protectively against her chest. Inside, Madam Pomfrey hurried forward, sharp eyes assessing the situation in seconds.

“What happened?” she asked briskly.

“An explosion,” Hermione answered. “My arm’s burned. And I hit my head.”

Pomfrey’s gaze darted to Malfoy, eyes narrowing critically. “And you?”

“I’m fine,” he said stiffly.

Hermione opened her mouth to protest—to point out that he couldn’t possibly be—but Pomfrey spoke first.

“Sit,” she instructed sharply, gesturing at the nearest cot. “Both of you.”

Malfoy hesitated a moment, his jaw tightening, before he settled stiffly on the cot beside Hermione’s. She watched him closely. There was something he wasn’t saying—something he was hiding behind that practiced mask.

Before she could voice her suspicion, the infirmary doors flew open.

Seamus stumbled inside, face pale and stricken with guilt, cradling his arm awkwardly. “Hermione! Merlin, I’m so sorry—I swear I didn’t mean—”

Madam Pomfrey intercepted him before he could barrel toward Hermione’s cot, already guiding him to another bed. “Sit down, Mr. Finnigan. I’ll tend to that arm.”

Seamus followed but didn’t take his eyes off Hermione, his hands shaking as he tried to explain himself.

“I swear, Hermione—I wasn’t paying attention, and—”

“That’s enough,” Malfoy interrupted sharply, voice slicing coldly through the infirmary.

Seamus flinched but didn’t stop. “I just need her to know—”

Malfoy stood abruptly and strode to the dividing curtain. With a single yank, he drew it closed, the metal rings clattering loudly against the rod. “Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw tight as he returned to the cot beside Hermione’s.

She raised a brow, her lips parting slightly in surprise. A flicker of amusement tugged at her irritation.

“That was excessive,” she murmured.

He met her gaze. “Consider it a favor.”

“Insufferable,” she muttered, though the corner of her lips twitched against her will.

“Frequently,” he agreed dryly, gaze dropping again to the wound on her arm. “Does it hurt?”

She glanced down, studying the raw, angry red burn spread along her skin. Pain pulsed steadily with every small movement, yet she forced a casual shrug.

“It’s not too bad,” she lied softly.

His eyes remained fixed on her injury, something darkening subtly in his expression. His hands, usually so controlled and composed, flexed restlessly on his knees.

Her brow furrowed slightly. Why was he reacting like this? What was bothering him?

“Why did you do it?”

His gaze snapped sharply to hers, guarded. “Do what?”

“Help me,” she pressed, voice tight.

He exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling in a measured rhythm, clearly fighting some internal battle. “I couldn’t very well let you get blown apart, could I?”

She studied his face intently, frustration deepening. There was something else—something beneath his expression that made her pulse quicken.

Then, the real question—the one she'd been choking on since hitting the floor—escaped before she could stop it.

“You’re not hurt,” she said softly, almost accusingly. “How?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied tightly.

It does. The words burned insistently on her tongue, desperate to be voiced. But before she could speak, Madam Pomfrey bustled back into view, shattering the delicate tension between them.

She held a jar filled with shimmering blue paste, her expression brisk and efficient as she gently took Hermione’s injured arm. “This will sting,” she warned.

Hermione flinched sharply as the cool salve met her burned skin, sucking in a quick breath through clenched teeth.

Beside her, Malfoy’s fingers curled tightly against his knees.

“Careful,” he muttered roughly, eyes fixed on Pomfrey’s hands, watching each movement closely.

Pomfrey shot him a swift, irritated glance but continued without comment, spreading the healing balm expertly.

Hermione hardly noticed the sting now; her attention had shifted entirely to Malfoy, confusion stirring uneasily in her chest.

Why does he look like he’s in pain?

When Pomfrey finished, she handed Hermione a small vial. “For your headache.”

Hermione swallowed the bitter potion quickly, grimacing as it burned down her throat.

“You’ll need to stay here for observation,” Pomfrey continued firmly. “I don’t want to risk complications with that head injury.”

“I’m fine—” Hermione began stubbornly.

“She’ll stay.”

Hermione’s gaze snapped toward Malfoy, eyes narrowing sharply. “I don’t need you deciding that for me.”

He turned slowly, meeting her glare with cool composure. “Clearly, you do.”

The air crackled between them, charged and electric.

Pomfrey clapped her hands sharply, interrupting before Hermione could respond. “Enough.” Her voice left no room for argument as she turned toward Malfoy. “Mr. Malfoy, back to class.”

Malfoy hesitated, eyes flickering once more to Hermione. For an instant, his features softened, revealing something that made Hermione’s heart falter.

Then it was gone.

He rose gracefully, smoothing down his sleeves with practiced ease. As he reached the infirmary door, his voice drifted quietly back, intended only for her ears.

“Try not to get yourself killed, Granger.”

Then he slipped through the doorway, leaving Hermione staring after him, pulse racing and questions burning fiercely in her throat.

~ * ~

The next morning, Hermione left the infirmary with a dull ache throbbing at the base of her skull and a restless tension beneath her skin. The castle air felt crisp and sharp, but it did nothing to soothe the turmoil twisting inside her.

She couldn't stop thinking about Malfoy.

The way he'd moved—faster than thought, quicker than should've been humanly possible. The way he'd shielded her from the explosion without hesitation or fear, as though self-preservation meant nothing. And how, impossibly, he'd emerged completely unharmed.

It made no sense.

Her head pulsed steadily as she walked slowly through the castle, corridors echoing faintly with chatter from the Great Hall. But she wasn't ready to join the warmth and noise, not yet—not while her mind felt raw, her thoughts tangled with too many unanswered questions.

She needed space.

She needed to stop thinking about him.

But as she turned the next corner, her breath caught sharply in her throat.

Malfoy stood ahead, partially hidden in shadow beside a stone pillar. His stance looked casual, but tension radiated from his shoulders. Blaise Zabini faced him, arms folded, speaking in urgent, hushed tones.

Hermione froze. She knew she should leave—knew she shouldn't eavesdrop.

Yet she found herself pressing silently into the shadows instead, holding her breath.

“—need to protect her,” Malfoy murmured fiercely, his voice low, edged with frustration.

Her heart stumbled painfully.

Protect who?

She clutched her robes tightly, pulse hammering.

Blaise replied, too quietly for her to hear clearly, but Malfoy's hand clenched tightly at his side, his jaw tensing as if holding back something violent.

“I won’t let it happen again.” Malfoy's voice was rough now, tense and burdened by unmistakable guilt.

Hermione's stomach knotted painfully. She didn't fully understand—but somehow, she knew this conversation was about her.

Before she could choose whether to retreat or step forward, Blaise glanced sharply around the corridor. Hermione flattened herself against the cold stone wall, hardly daring to breathe.

Blaise muttered something final, then turned and walked briskly away, footsteps fading into silence.

Malfoy remained motionless, head bowed, his gaze fixed on the floor. His shoulders were rigid, strained beneath an invisible weight.

Every nerve in Hermione's body screamed at her to leave, to pretend she'd never heard a thing—but she couldn't.

“Malfoy.”

He stiffened sharply, head snapping up, silver eyes meeting hers with an intensity that stole her breath.

For a fraction of a second, something raw, almost relieved flickered across his face—then vanished instantly.

“What do you want, Granger?”

She squared her shoulders, ignoring the ache in her chest at his distant tone. She stepped forward, bridging the gap between them despite the anxiety twisting through her stomach.

“What happened yesterday?”

Something shifted in his gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A lie.

She took another step, emboldened now. “Yes, you do.” Her voice remained steady, unwavering. “How did you move so fast? How did you—”

“Drop it,” he snapped, eyes flashing.

A warning.

But Hermione wasn't afraid. She moved closer, her voice softer, more urgent. “Why won’t you tell me?”

He stepped backward, and irritation flared hot beneath her skin.

“You saved me,” she insisted quietly, breathless now, unwilling to let him slip away. “You—”

“It’s none of your business.”

The words struck her like a slap. Not because of his harshness, but because of the way he looked away—as if meeting her eyes hurt him more than speaking.

Frustration twisted sharply into something closer to pain.

“I didn’t ask you to protect me,” she whispered, voice trembling as she fought to keep tears at bay.

He flinched visibly, inhaling sharply. His hand tore roughly through his hair as he turned away, spine locked tight as though the conversation was burning him alive.

“Forget it, Granger.”

Her breath hitched painfully. “Why won’t you just—”

“Forget it,” he repeated, softer now, almost pleading.

Then he was moving, swiftly striding down the corridor and leaving her standing there, frozen, staring after him.

She didn't understand him. She didn't understand why he wouldn’t tell her the truth.

And most of all, she didn't understand why it mattered so deeply.

That night, Hermione dreamed of silver eyes and whispered warnings.

And when she woke, her heart still heavy with unanswered questions, one clear, determined thought rose above all the rest:

I'm going to find out the truth.

Chapter Text

Darkness pressed in on Hermione from every side, thick and suffocating, pulling her forward yet holding her back. She strained against it, breath trapped painfully in her chest, her pulse racing in her throat. Ahead, barely visible, a figure moved swiftly, gliding through shadow with an unnatural ease.

A flash of silver caught the faintest gleam of unseen light.

“Malfoy!” Hermione called, her voice barely a whisper, swallowed by the endless dark.

He didn’t stop.

Her heart pounded harder as she quickened her pace. He stayed just out of reach, slipping away effortlessly, like mist through her fingers.

“Wait!” she called desperately, lungs aching from the effort.

Suddenly, he slowed, turning just enough for her to catch a glimpse of him.

Her breath froze.

His silver eyes were sharp, piercing—and utterly wrong. Something darker, more dangerous, stared back at her, cold and merciless. Crimson flickered in silver depths, alien and frighteningly unfamiliar.

He held her gaze, and the world seemed to tilt beneath her feet.

Hermione jolted awake, heart slamming against her ribs.

For a disoriented moment, she thought she was still chasing him, hand outstretched toward a figure always too far away. But no, the dormitory was quiet, moonlight spilling gently across her bedspread.

Not again.

She pressed shaking fingers against her eyes, as if she could scrub the image away—erase the dream, erase him.

Since the explosion, Malfoy had haunted her every night. The same chase, the same unreachable distance, the same ache in her chest when she woke.

But tonight, the red eyes—what the hell did that mean?

Probably nothing, she reasoned firmly. Probably just her subconscious tormenting her further. As if dreaming about Malfoy at all wasn’t humiliating enough.

With a resigned sigh, she drew her knees up, pressing her forehead against them. The weeks since the accident had worn her thin. She didn’t need confusing dreams adding to the weight of everything else.

Seamus had become her shadow, guilt etched permanently on his face. Constant apologies, incessant offers to carry her books—help she neither needed nor wanted.

Then there was Cormac, who’d somehow convinced himself that her repeated refusals were a playful challenge. He seemed determined to block her path at every turn, his arrogant grin making her teeth grind.

And Ron—

Hermione closed her eyes tightly. She'd said no to him clearly, months ago, after the war. Yet lately, he lingered again, hovering in the spaces between classes. His touches lasted too long, his fingertips brushing hers when he passed parchment or sugar, always hesitating as if waiting for something she couldn’t give.

She didn't have time for any of it—not Seamus’s guilt, not Cormac’s arrogance, certainly not Ron’s quiet, stubborn hope.

And definitely not Malfoy’s maddening contradictions.

He haunted her relentlessly, a constant thorn lodged in her mind. Ever since the explosion, he’d turned cold, distant—no lingering glances, no quiet acknowledgments. His silver gaze brushed past her, indifferent, as though she had ceased to matter.

She should have been relieved.

Instead, it left her feeling restless, distracted, inexplicably hollow.

She hated it—hated the way her thoughts splintered whenever he was nearby, hated how her pulse sped whenever she caught even a glimpse of him. Hated most of all that, as his interest seemed to lessen, hers only grew sharper.

He’d saved her that day in the dungeon. He’d shielded her, impossibly quick, impossibly unhurt. Yet he refused to explain, shutting her out completely.

What was he hiding?

She groaned softly, pressing palms to her eyes once more. She needed answers. She couldn’t continue like this, dreaming of crimson eyes and endless darkness, feeling questions pile higher with no resolution.

But for tonight, alone in the stillness, she could do nothing except wait for sleep to return—and hope it carried no more shadows shaped like Draco Malfoy.

~ * ~

“Hermione, wait!” Seamus called after her, nearly jogging to catch up. “Let me carry your books—”

She spun sharply, frustration bubbling over before she could control it. “Seamus, I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own things!”

Seamus flinched, eyes wide with guilt. Hermione immediately regretted her tone; his expression reminded her of an injured puppy, desperate to make amends.

She softened her voice, guilt replacing her irritation. “Look, I forgive you, alright? It was an accident. You don’t need to keep feeling guilty about it.”

He opened his mouth to say something else—another apology, no doubt—but she shook her head gently, forcing a small smile as she turned away. “Really, it’s fine.”

She didn’t wait for him to reply, quickly moving into the Potions classroom, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of Seamus’s remorse. Ever since the explosion, Professor Slughorn had rearranged seating to avoid any further mishaps—a decision Hermione now deeply resented, as it meant she was permanently seated next to Malfoy.

As she made her way toward her desk with a sigh, Cormac appeared, leaning casually against the nearest table and flashing her an insufferable grin.

“Need any help today, Hermione?” he drawled. “Happy to lend a hand.”

“No, Cormac,” she said sharply. “For the hundredth time, I don’t.”

He merely smirked, entirely unfazed. Hermione gritted her teeth, shoving past him with an irritated huff. She dropped heavily into her seat beside Malfoy, bristling when she noticed his silver eyes flicking toward her. When she turned to confront him, his gaze shifted smoothly away, as if he'd never been looking at all.

She clenched her jaw, heart pounding in her ears. Ignoring him, she arranged her notes and ingredients with unnecessary force, but her irritation quickly overtook her attempt at calm. Her fingers twitched restlessly around her quill until finally, she couldn’t bear the silence a second longer.

“What’s your problem?” she demanded under her breath, eyes fixed forward, refusing to look directly at him.

Malfoy didn’t glance up from his cutting board. “What do you mean?”

Frustration tightened painfully in her chest. “You’re really not going to say anything?”

He resumed slicing evenly, indifferent as ever. “What’s there to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hermione snapped, irritation sharpening into something deeper as she turned to look at him. “Maybe something about the fact you saved my life?”

This time, his knife paused—just for an instant—so brief she might have missed it had she not been watching so closely. Then he continued as though she hadn’t spoken at all.

“I was there. I acted. That’s all.”

“That’s not all,” Hermione pressed, leaning closer, her voice dropping to a tense whisper. “You weren’t even next to me when it happened, but somehow you reached me before anyone else even reacted. You moved impossibly fast. And afterward—you weren’t even hurt.”

She waited for his denial, his mockery, a dismissive roll of his eyes. None came.

Instead, Malfoy’s grip tightened on the knife handle, knuckles whitening with the force of it.

Encouraged, Hermione pushed further. “And it’s not the first time, either,” she murmured softly, voice trembling with frustration and memories she’d tried desperately to bury. “At your manor—during the war—you could’ve stood back. You could’ve let Bellatrix—”

“Let it go, Granger.”

His voice was quiet, dangerous, edged like shattered glass.

She stared at him, frustration tangled painfully with something deeper, more vulnerable. “Why won’t you just—”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” he snapped, finally turning to face her.

His silver eyes locked onto hers for the first time in weeks, intense and volatile, simmering beneath the careful mask he always wore. Her breath caught sharply in her throat, pulse hammering in her ears.

She clenched her fists tightly, refusing to back down. “It matters to me,” she whispered fiercely.

He turned abruptly back to the cutting board, jaw set tight as he resumed slicing.

Hermione’s heart thundered unevenly, pulse racing beneath her skin. She forced her gaze down, staring hard at their potion, her breath uneven.

The silence between them was stifling now, thick and heavy with things left unsaid—but she didn’t dare break it again.

~ * ~

The dreams wouldn’t stop.

Every night Hermione chased Malfoy through darkness so thick it felt tangible, like running through ink. No matter how fast she ran, he always remained just beyond reach, slipping in and out of the shadows. And his eyes—no longer silver, but a deep, burning crimson—followed her through the gloom, searing themselves into her mind.

Each morning she woke tangled in sheets, heart heavy, the images lingering stubbornly in her thoughts. They weren’t real, she reminded herself. Just the product of an overstressed mind grasping at things she didn’t understand. But knowing that never eased the feeling left behind.

By mid-October, the strain had become nearly unbearable.

Late one evening, Hermione sat in the Gryffindor common room, surrounded by books she couldn’t bring herself to read. A fire crackled softly, casting a gentle golden glow over the stone walls, but the warmth failed to touch her. She rubbed her temples, frustration twisting sharply in her chest.

Across from her, Ginny lounged comfortably, watching her with mild concern.

“You need to let this go,” Ginny said at last, breaking the silence.

Hermione looked up wearily. “I can’t, Gin. Something isn’t right. Malfoy—he’s different now. He saved me, and I need to understand why.”

Ginny tilted her head, her usual playful expression sobering. “And what if he doesn’t want you to know?”

Hermione flinched slightly, the words hitting deeper than she expected. She knew Ginny was right, yet admitting it felt like giving up. She’d come too far already to turn back now.

Ginny sighed gently and stood, placing a reassuring hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “Just… don’t lose yourself in this, alright?”

Hermione managed a small nod, watching as Ginny drifted toward Harry by the hearth. But the truth was, she was already lost, and they both knew it.

She hardly noticed the shadow approaching until someone cleared their throat softly nearby. Hermione glanced up, startled to see Lavender Brown hovering awkwardly by her side, nervously twisting a lock of blonde hair.

“Hermione… can I talk to you?” Lavender asked hesitantly, voice unusually high.

Hermione straightened, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. Lavender and her hadn’t talked in ages. She closed her book carefully. “Of course. What is it?”

Lavender shifted uneasily, glancing around to ensure no one was listening. Lowering her voice, she leaned closer. “It’s about Ron.”

Hermione blinked. “What about him?”

Lavender bit her lip, letting out a nervous little giggle that grated terribly on Hermione’s already-frayed nerves. “Well, I was thinking about asking him to the Yule Ball. But—I didn’t want to step on your toes, you know?”

Hermione stared, momentarily stunned.

Step on her toes? Ron and her had never actually been together, despite what everyone seemed to think. And yet, once again, she was being treated like some invisible barrier guarding his heart.

Irritation flared in her chest, hot and sharp.

“Lavender,” Hermione said slowly, carefully controlling her tone, “you don’t need my permission to ask Ron to the Ball.”

Lavender’s shoulders visibly sagged in relief. “So…you don’t mind?”

Hermione forced a polite smile, even though it felt tight and false. “Not at all. Ask him. I’m not going anyway.”

Lavender’s eyes lit up immediately, and she nearly bounced away, curls swaying brightly as she vanished down the hall.

Hermione stared blankly at the spot where Lavender had stood, her mind caught on the words.

The Yule Ball.

Memories surfaced swiftly, unbidden: swirling dresses, shimmering lights, awkward dances, and childish dreams she’d once cherished. Now, the thought of attending seemed draining and pointless.

Yet—without permission, without logic—her mind flickered traitorously to another face.

Malfoy.

Her stomach clenched, pulse quickening. 

No. Absolutely not. 

She wasn’t thinking about him in relation to the Ball. That was ridiculous.

She pressed her hands firmly to her temples, as though she could physically push the idea away.

It was impossible. Stupid. And besides—Draco Malfoy wasn’t the kind of person who would ask someone like her to the Yule Ball.

…Was he?

Chapter Text

Breakfast the next morning was a subdued affair.

The clatter of silverware and the low hum of conversation filled the Great Hall, but Hermione barely noticed it. The porridge in her bowl had long gone cold, untouched as she absently stirred it, her mind too tangled to care.

It wasn’t the exhaustion—though the lack of sleep was certainly catching up with her. It wasn’t even the lingering remnants of last night’s dream, the one where crimson eyes burned through the darkness, where she had run and run but never reached him.

It was Lavender.

Seated several spots down, the other girl was throwing sharp, pointed glances in her direction, her expression twisting between irritation and… something almost accusatory.

Hermione frowned, her spoon hovering mid-air. What on earth did I do now?

The answer came an hour later, delivered in the form of an awkward whisper from the table behind hers in Potions.

“‘Mione.”

Ron’s voice was uncharacteristically tentative. Hermione didn't look up, concentrating instead on slicing daisy roots into perfectly even strips.

“Yes?” she asked.

“I, er—” Ron fumbled. “I wanted to tell you… Lavender asked me to the Yule Ball.”

“I know,” Hermione replied, blade never pausing. “She mentioned it.”

Ron cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, I said no. Thought maybe… maybe you’d ask me instead.”

Her knife froze mid-slice, disbelief washing through her. She turned slowly, staring at Ron with narrowed eyes.

“You what?”

Ron’s ears flamed crimson. He shifted uneasily. “I thought maybe you’d ask me.”

Hermione stared, momentarily speechless. Then an incredulous laugh slipped free, bitter and sharper than she intended.

“Ron,” she said, her voice laced with disbelief. “I told Lavender to ask you.”

His face fell. “But—”

“No,” she cut in, firmer now. “I’m not going to the Ball. I already made plans to go to London that weekend. You should go with Lavender.”

Ron opened his mouth, then shut it, clearly floundering. His expression was a mix of disappointment and wounded confusion, as though he’d convinced himself of something that had never been true.

After a moment, he mumbled something under his breath and nodded. “Fine. I’ll… I’ll tell her I changed my mind.”

She sighed, shaking her head as she turned back to her potion, irritation simmering beneath her skin.

She didn’t have the patience for this. Not for Ron’s misplaced assumptions, not for the quiet guilt that clung to him, not for the way Lavender now looked at her like she was some obstacle in her way.

And certainly not for the pair of silver eyes she could feel fixed intently upon her.

Determined to ignore Malfoy, she focused fiercely on their cauldron, stirring with far more force than necessary. But awareness prickled beneath her skin, electric and irritating, impossible to ignore. She felt his gaze like a physical touch, distracting and infuriatingly warm.

Slowly—stupidly—she glanced sideways.

Malfoy’s expression was blank, but his eyes, intense and guarded, were locked firmly on her. The air tightened in her lungs, heart suddenly pounding faster.

As soon as their eyes met, he turned quickly away, returning to his cutting board as if nothing had happened.

But it had, and Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling of being utterly exposed.

She forced herself to breathe evenly, tightening her fingers around the knife as irritation and confusion knotted painfully in her chest.

Why do you even care if he looks at you?

The question echoed in her mind. She had no answer—at least, none she was willing to admit, even to herself.

It was pathetic, really. The way he made her feel. The way he affected her.

She spent the rest of Potions class pretending Draco Malfoy didn’t exist.

She kept her gaze fixed on the cauldron, her hands steady as she stirred the potion in precise circles, willing herself to focus. He didn’t say a word to her. Just like every other day for the past month.

And yet, the air between them felt… different.

By the time Slughorn dismissed them, Hermione felt lightheaded, like she’d been holding her breath the entire lesson. She swept her things into her bag with too much force, desperate to escape—to shake off this suffocating tension before it tangled her any further.

But before she could slip through the door—

"Granger."

Her name, low and commanding, stopped her mid-step.

She turned slowly, pulse thudding against her ribs.

Malfoy stood by their workstation, his bag slung over one shoulder, his stance deceptively casual—but his jaw was tight, his expression tense, like the words forming on his lips were reluctant, difficult.

Hermione lifted her chin. “What is it, Malfoy?”

For a second, he didn’t speak. His gaze shifted—down to her hands, then back up, silver eyes searching hers.

“I know I’ve been… rude,” he said finally. “It’s intentional.”

She blinked. What?

“Really?” she said, crossing her arms. “And here I thought you were just being your usual self.”

His eyes flared, like he wanted to react, but he didn’t take the bait.

“It’s better this way,” he said instead, clipped and careful. “If we’re not… friends.”

She almost laughed.

Friends?

She stared at him, waiting for the smug punchline, the inevitable smirk. But none came. He just stood there, rigid, his fingers curling slightly around the strap of his bag—a barely-there tell.

And suddenly— suddenly —she was furious.

"Friends?" Her voice rose despite the emptying classroom. "You’ve barely spoken to me in years, Malfoy. You think I want to be your friend?"

His face remained blank. 

"You saved me," she went on, stepping forward, frustration boiling over. "And now you regret it, don’t you? That’s what this is about. You wish you’d just let me die."

Something in him fractured. 

His eyes widened, shock flashing across his face. 

"You should’ve decided that earlier," she bit out. "Before you went and played the hero."

His jaw tensed.

And then—he moved.

A step closer, so quick, so sudden she barely had time to react. He towered over her, his presence colder than the dungeon air.

"You don’t know what you’re talking about."

Her pulse skipped. Something reckless rose in her, clashing with the irritation clawing at her ribs.

"Then tell me," she shot back. "If I don’t understand, explain it."

She watched as he hesitated, as a glimpse of something raw and unguarded danced across his face. His lips parted and her entire body went taut, waiting, aching for whatever he was about to say.

But—nothing.

Just like that, his expression hardened, snapping shut like a steel door. 

The loss of it—of that fragile moment—hit her like a blow.

Typical.

Her lips pressed together as she turned abruptly, needing distance, needing air, needing—

A sharp tug pulled her backward. Her bag had snagged on the corner of the desk, jerking her off balance as books and parchment scattered across the floor in a clatter loud enough to make her flinch.

Brilliant.

With a breath that barely held back a curse, she dropped to her knees, reaching for the nearest book—only to freeze when a pale hand appeared beside hers.

Malfoy knelt next to her, already gathering her things with quiet efficiency. His long fingers moved with a grace that would’ve been irritating if it hadn’t also made her forget, just for a second, how to breathe.

"You don’t have to—"

“Let me,” he said, and something about the way those words fell made her hesitate.

He handed her a book, and when their fingers brushed, something jolted through her—abrupt enough to catch her breath.

His gaze shifted to her mouth, caught by the sound.

She swallowed. Her lips felt suddenly, impossibly dry, and before she could think better of it, her tongue darted out to wet them.

His breath stuttered.

She watched his eyes track the movement, and for a fraction of a second—just long enough to send heat curling low in her stomach—his eyes darkened.

Her heart picked up its pace, steady and hard against her ribs, and before she could stop herself, her gaze dropped to his mouth. And all at once, the only thing she could think about was how Draco Malfoy’s lips might feel against her own.

Would they be cold, like the rest of him? Or warm? Would he kiss like he did everything else—controlled and calculated?

Or would he lose himself in it?

The thought was dangerous.

But before she could make sense of it, of him, the moment passed.

He drew back, the air between them cooling. She watched his hands flex once before he shoved them into his pockets.

“You shouldn’t assume things you don’t understand,” he murmured, his voice back to its usual clipped detachment.

She exhaled, trying to chase the lingering heat from her chest. “Then help me understand,” she whispered.

His gaze searched hers, something flickering, something hesitant—

“I can’t.”

The words were so soft, so quiet, that for a second, she wasn’t sure she had even heard them.

Before she could form a response, before she could demand why, he was already rising to his feet, adjusting the strap of his bag, and then turning to walk away.

Hermione remained kneeling, her fingers still curled around the book he had handed her, her pulse still hammering against her ribs.

She inhaled, pressing a hand to her chest.

She had to get him out of her head.

Before it was too late.

~ * ~

The hallways of Hogwarts buzzed with the low hum of students drifting back to their dormitories after dinner, the murmur of conversation and shuffle of footsteps blending into a steady hum. Hermione moved through the crowd with purpose, her appetite ruined by the lingering tension from Potions.

She was still rattled.

No. She was frustrated.

And not just at Malfoy, but at herself.

Because this was no longer about unraveling the mystery of him. It hadn’t been for a while, had it? If she was being honest—truly, painfully honest—she would admit that whatever this was, it had shifted into something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

Her mind kept looping back to that moment in the classroom—the way he had looked at her, the way his eyes had dropped, searing her from the inside out.

And worse, the way she had looked back.

The memory sent heat rushing to her face. She had noticed his lips. Had wondered about them. How soft they looked. How they would feel against hers. The thought of kissing him—actually kissing him—had flashed through her mind before she had been able to snuff it out.

Merlin, she was losing it.

She was no stranger to attraction. She had kissed before. Krum, once. It had been clumsy and stiff, and she had spent most of it overanalyzing rather than feeling. But this—this pull toward Malfoy—was nothing like that. It was unwanted and intrusive, creeping into her thoughts like ivy through stone.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head as if she could physically dislodge him from her mind.

Enough.

She needed a distraction.

A trip.

Yes. That was it. Maybe a weekend in Hogsmeade with Ginny, just the two of them, away from Hogwarts, away from its stone walls and silver eyes and suffocating tension. That was what she needed. A break. Distance. Anything to shake this strange obsession before it consumed her whole.

But before she could fully solidify her escape plan, she rounded the corner near the Charms corridor and nearly walked straight into Cormac McLaggen.

She stopped short, her shoulders tensing on instinct.

Not tonight.

He leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed, wearing a smirk that made her stomach churn.

“Hermione,” he drawled, stepping into her path with all the grace of a troll in dress robes.

She gritted her teeth. “What do you want, McLaggen?”

His grin widened as his gaze swept over her, far too self-assured. 

“Just wanted to make sure you hadn’t already been snatched up for the Yule Ball,” he said smoothly. “Thought I’d do you the honor of asking.”

She stared at him. Seriously?

Her patience, already hanging by a thread, snapped.

“Cormac,” she said flatly, “I’m not going to the Ball.”

If she had expected that to deter him, she was sorely mistaken. He barely blinked, his smirk unfazed.

“Then change your mind,” he said, stepping closer, dropping his voice like he thought it made him more appealing. “We’d look great together, don’t you think?”

A sharp, disbelieving laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

“No,” she said, eyes flashing. “We wouldn’t.”

Cormac tilted his head, still grinning, like this was some sort of game. “Come on, Granger. Think about it—”

“I have,” she snapped, “and I’d rather hex myself into next week.”

Cormac blinked.

And behind him, someone snorted.

The sound was soft, barely there, but it sent a bolt of awareness through her.

She glanced past Cormac’s shoulder and— of course.

Malfoy.

He was hovering a few paces away, leaning against the opposite wall with effortless ease, Theo Nott beside him. Both of them looked far too amused for her liking.

Malfoy’s lips were curved in a maddening smirk, silver eyes gleaming with thinly veiled amusement.

Oh, he had been listening.

Hermione’s stomach twisted, a fresh wave of irritation surging through her.

Cormac, oblivious, finally seemed to grasp that he wasn’t charming his way into anything. With an exaggerated scoff, he threw up his hands and turned away, muttering something about “wasting his talents.”

Hermione exhaled, already determined to march away and forget this entire encounter.

But then Malfoy moved.

Casual, smooth, just enough to step fully into her line of sight.

And when their eyes met—

He smirked.

A slow, knowing curve of his lips, like he had thoroughly enjoyed that interaction at her expense. Like he found it delightful.

Heat flared in her cheeks, her grip tightening around the strap of her bag. Arse.

She scowled, tearing her gaze away before he could see the full extent of her embarrassment, before he could smirk any further.

She stormed off toward the library, fists clenched, pointedly ignoring the quiet chuckle that followed her down the corridor.

By the time Ginny caught up with her at the arched entrance of the library, she was fuming. 

“Why do you look like you’re about to hex someone?” Ginny asked, falling into step beside her.

“McLaggen,” Hermione muttered, still seething, although it had nothing to do with Cormac.

Ginny wrinkled her nose. “Say less.”

“He asked me to the Ball,” she continued, her irritation bubbling over. “As if I’d ever go anywhere with him.”

Ginny arched an eyebrow, amusement sparking in her gaze. “Did you hex him?”

“No,” Hermione said. “But I wanted to.”

“Pity.”

Hermione let out a reluctant huff of laughter as they stepped into the library.

The scent of parchment and ink wrapped around her, the familiar quiet a balm against her frayed nerves.

She led Ginny toward her usual table near the back, where the towering bookshelves muffled the faint whispers of other students. As she slid into her seat, she allowed herself to breathe deeply, willing the tension from the day to fade.

But as she opened her book, her mind betrayed her.

Silver eyes. A smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

Her fingers clenched the pages.

Damn him.

Chapter Text

The girls’ dormitory hummed with quiet chatter, the dim glow of enchanted star lights casting warm halos over the canopied beds. Outside, the wind rattled the windows, carrying a crisp October chill through the cracks. The fire in the hearth had burned low, its embers pulsing faintly, sending lazy shadows flickering against the walls.

Hermione sat cross-legged on her bed, The Daily Prophet open on her lap, scanning the headline for the third time that evening.

BRUTAL HOGSMEADE ATTACK—MINISTRY SUSPECTS WILD ANIMAL

Her stomach twisted.

She skimmed the article again, pulse slowing with every grim detail.

The body of Wilfred Stout, a Ministry clerk, had been found just outside the Three Broomsticks in the early hours of the morning. The authorities called it animalistic, the injuries gruesome.

The poor man hadn't just been attacked. He'd been drained.

The Prophet hadn’t used the word, of course. Instead, it wrapped the horror in layers of careful detachment.

Extensive blood loss.
No signs of attempted robbery.
Deep lacerations to the throat and upper torso, cause of death likely exsanguination.

Hermione’s fingers tightened around the newspaper, the rough parchment crinkling under her grip.

The Ministry was brushing it off. A rogue werewolf, perhaps, even though the full moon was still days away. There was mention of strange howling, but no one had seen anything.

And yet, something felt… wrong.

Hermione exhaled slowly, rubbing her temple. She wasn’t an Auror, wasn’t an investigator, but this wasn’t normal.

And for some reason, it unsettled her more than it should.

She hadn’t finished the article when a voice sliced through the quiet—bright, sing-song, and unbearably triumphant.

“Hermione, you’ll never guess what happened.”

Lavender.

Hermione sighed, folding the newspaper closed, grip tightening at the edges. She already knew where this was going.

Still, she forced her voice into something polite. “What?”

Lavender perched on the edge of her bed, practically vibrating with excitement. “Ron said yes!” she squealed, clasping her hands together like she’d just won a prize. “He’s going to the Ball with me!”

Hermione’s fingers stiffened around the Prophet, the parchment crumpling under her grip.

Lavender beamed, basking in her own delight, oblivious to Hermione’s silence. “I wasn’t sure he’d say yes, but he did! I think he’s finally over that silly little crush he’s had for… well, forever.”

From across the room, Ginny—lounging lazily on her bed—lifted an eyebrow and shot Hermione a look dripping with amusement. One that read: good luck with this.

Hermione cleared her throat, summoning what little enthusiasm she could muster. “That’s great, Lavender, really.”

Lavender, satisfied, turned back to Parvati, already launching into a breathless conversation about dress shopping, color coordination, and how she’d absolutely convince Ron to dance.

Hermione released a slow, measured breath and smoothed the newspaper across her lap, pressing out the creases like she could iron out her irritation. She lifted the Prophet again, ready to refocus—

Ginny plopped onto the edge of her bed, smirking.

“You know,” she murmured, voice low and conspiratorial, “if you did want to go, we could just go together. Harry wouldn’t mind.”

Hermione shot her a look over the rim of the newspaper. “Gin, I told you—I’m not going.”

“You’re not even a little tempted?”

“No.”

Ginny hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Plans can change.”

“They won’t.”

Her friend studied her, gaze sharp despite the lazy tilt of her smirk. “You could just admit you don’t want to go because of the chaos that’d come with it. Ron. McLaggen. Malfoy—”

The newspaper twitched in Hermione’s hands.

“Ah,” she said, grinning in triumph. “So it’s Malfoy.”

“It’s not Malfoy,” Hermione said too quickly.

Ginny’s eyebrow shot up, unimpressed. But—mercifully—she let it drop. Instead, she patted Hermione’s knee with infuriating sympathy and stood, stretching.

“If you say so.”

Hermione glared at her retreating form, irritation simmering beneath her ribs.

It shouldn’t have unsettled her as much as it did.

But it did.

Because the moment Ginny named him, the moment she put words to the thing that had been creeping into Hermione’s thoughts for weeks, she’d felt it latch on.

She turned sharply back to the Prophet, determined to focus on Hogsmeade. On things that actually mattered.

But later, when the dormitory had quieted and only the soft rustle of sheets and the steady rhythm of Ginny’s snores filled the air, Hermione lay awake, staring at the canopy above her bed, her thoughts a tangled mess.

It’s better if we’re not friends.

His voice looped through her mind like a stubborn refrain.

She groaned softly, rolling onto her side and yanking the blanket over her head.

She shouldn’t be dwelling on this. On him.

He was Malfoy. Aloof, infuriating, perfect Malfoy.

And yet, her mind betrayed her, dragging her back to Potions.

To the way he had moved—too fast, impossibly fast—when the cauldron exploded. To the way he had shielded her, unscathed, untouched, while her skin had burned.

To the way his storm-dark eyes had scanned her face, frantic, like she was the only thing that mattered in that moment.

Her chest tightened. A warmth—traitorous and unwelcome—bloomed beneath her ribs.

Her eyes slipped closed, and for the first time, she let herself picture it.

His mouth.

His lips—so carefully guarded, so rarely parted in anything but smirks or sharp-edged words. She imagined them softer. Warmer.

What would they feel like against hers?

Her breath hitched.

No.

She shouldn’t be thinking about this.

Her fingers curled into the blanket, gripping it like an anchor as she whispered fiercely into the dark, “Stop it.”

She needed to focus. On her essays. Her mastery applications. Her future.

On the fact that someone had died in Hogsmeade under suspicious circumstances, and the Ministry wasn’t taking it seriously enough.

Not on Draco Malfoy.

Tomorrow, she would bury herself in her books, ignore the insufferable Yule Ball drama, and stay as far away from him as possible.

It was the only way forward.

And yet, as she drifted into uneasy sleep, the last thing she saw wasn’t the letters on her parchment or the headlines of The Prophet.

It was silver eyes.

And lips she should not be thinking about.

~ * ~

Hermione hadn’t slept.

Again.

She sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table, The Daily Prophet spread open in front of her, parchment and quill forgotten at her side. The bold headline glared up at her, its ink staining the edges of her already sleep-deprived thoughts.

MINISTRY INVESTIGATES SECOND MAULING IN HOGSMEADE

Her fingers tightened against the newspaper as she scanned the article for the third time.

Another death.

This time, the body had been found closer to the heart of the village, in an alley behind Spintwitches. Drained of blood. Nearly decapitated.

The Prophet, careful with its wording, danced around the details, but Hermione read between the lines.

A shiver crawled up her spine, unease settling like a stone beneath her ribs.

A sharp giggle cut through her thoughts.

Her grip faltered. Across the table, Lavender was practically in Ron’s lap, laughing at something he muttered between bites of toast, their heads bent together.

Further down, Harry and Ginny whispered quietly, their fingers brushing in a way that sent something unwanted curling in Hermione’s chest.

Not jealousy. Not exactly.

But she felt out of place in a way she couldn’t quite name—adrift, like she was watching the world move on without her.

Today was supposed to be different. No distractions. No unnecessary drama.

But from the moment she stepped into the Potions classroom, she knew the universe had other plans.

Malfoy’s presence beside her was an unwelcome ghost at her elbow, his posture deceptively relaxed. His fingers tapped idly against the desk, an irritatingly steady rhythm that sliced through Slughorn’s droning lecture on the Draught of Living Death.

She kept her shoulders squared, eyes forward. She wasn’t going to think about the way his sleeve brushed against hers or the faint scent of something woodsy and clean that hung in the air between them.

She wasn’t.

But then came Defense.

And Malfoy, like some cruel trick of fate, was impossible to ignore.

He sat across the room, his quill twirling lazily between his fingers, clearly not paying attention. And yet—when her gaze flickered toward him, just for a second—his eyes lifted, as if he’d been waiting for it.

Her breath hitched.

She tore her eyes away, her hand jerking against her desk, nearly knocking over her inkpot in the process.

By Herbology, she was tense, frustrated, and wound too tight. 

Professor Sprout’s assigned seating for the day only worsened her mood.

Malfoy. Beside her. Again.

Because of course he was.

He worked in silence, his dragon-hide gloves flexing as his long fingers deftly steadied the writhing Bubotuber. The plant twisted violently, but he didn’t flinch. He was precise. Controlled. Maddeningly perfect.

Hermione’s own attempts were… less elegant.

Her grip was too tight, her movements too forceful. When she squeezed, the Bubotuber shuddered in protest, its thick pus missing the vial entirely and dribbling down her gloves.

A sharp, irritated sigh slipped from her lips.

“Too much pressure, Granger.” His voice was low, even, but something smug lurked beneath it. “You’ll agitate it.”

“I know,” she snapped, her next attempt more measured.

She felt his gaze flick toward her, but he said nothing.

The greenhouse was humid, her hair frizzing at her temples, the carefully twisted bun unraveling under the weight of the heat. She exhaled sharply, blowing a stray curl from her face, resisting the urge to glance at Malfoy—to see how impossibly composed he remained.

She hated him. Hated how effortlessly he made everything look.

The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy. The only sound was the occasional squelch of pus hitting glass.

When she couldn’t stop herself from sneaking a glance, she found him already watching her.

A faint smirk tugged at his lips.

Her stomach flipped.

“What?” she hissed.

Malfoy’s brows lifted, his face carefully neutral, but amusement gleamed in his eyes.

“Nothing,” he said smoothly, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

The realization hit like a slap.

He was enjoying this.

Watching her struggle. Watching her fight for control while he sat there, calm and untouched by the greenhouse heat, his stupid, perfect hair somehow unbothered.

By the time their vials were full, Hermione was ready to scream.

She yanked off her gloves with a sharp snap, stuffing them into her bag with jerky, frustrated movements. Across from her, Malfoy removed his gloves slowly, placing them neatly on the workbench—not a strand of hair out of place, not a bead of sweat on his skin.

Infuriating.

She shoved her notebook into her bag, moving too fast, too recklessly.

Her wand slipped free, clattering against the stone floor with a sharp, echoing clatter.

Perfect. Just perfect.

She dropped into a crouch to grab it but—of course—Malfoy was faster.

He moved with that same effortless grace, long fingers curling around her wand before she could reach it.

“Here,” he said simply.

Hermione snatched it from his grasp, but not before their hands brushed—a fleeting contact, brief but electric, sending a jolt straight up her spine. Hot and unwanted.

Her breath hitched.

She hated him for it.

“Why do you keep doing this?” she demanded, the words leaving her in a sharp exhale.

Malfoy’s brow creased slightly, head tilting as though genuinely confused. “Doing what?”

“Helping me.” She shoved the wand into her bag with more force than necessary. “It’s like you’re trying to irritate me to death.”

For a second, he just stared at her.

Then—to her absolute disbelief—his lips twitched.

A smirk ghosted over his face, faint, amused, like her frustration was the most entertaining thing that had happened to him all day.

“Irritate you to death?” he repeated, voice dry, teasing.

Hermione’s glare sharpened. “I’m serious.”

“I can see that,” he murmured.

That damn smirk lingered.

She let out a frustrated huff, yanking the strap of her bag over her shoulder so aggressively that it nearly slipped off again.

“You said you don’t want to be friends,” she reminded him. “So why don’t you just stay away from me?”

The amusement vanished from his face.

“You’re being absurd,” he said flatly.

Her temper flared. “ I’m being absurd?” she echoed. “You’re the one who—”

“Granger.”

He stepped closer.

She froze.

His shoulder grazed hers as he passed, his voice low, quiet at her ear—“Stop overthinking everything for five minutes.”

She spun, ready to retort—

But he was already walking away.

She clenched her jaw.

Just let him go.

It would be easier—safer—to let this moment pass, to ignore the way her pulse thrummed with frustration, confusion, something worse. She should just turn around, walk in the opposite direction, bury herself in her books and pretend none of this had ever happened.

But her pride had other plans.

Her grip tightened.

No.

He didn’t get to do this. Didn’t get to push and pull at her like this. Didn’t get to invade her thoughts, act like he wanted nothing to do with her, and then turn around and tell her she was being absurd. 

Her irritation boiled over. Spilled out before she could stop it.

“Malfoy!”

He paused mid-stride, glancing back over his shoulder. “Yes, Granger?”

Her pulse raced. She had no plan—had called him back on instinct, on frustration alone—and now what?

She opened her mouth, prepared to scold him, demand answers—

But then he turned fully.

And the words died on her lips.

His eyes weren’t on hers.

They were on her mouth.

A rush of heat curled through her, pooling low in her stomach, creeping beneath her ribs.

He’s looking at my lips.

She swallowed, hard.

He exhaled, like he had just snapped out of something.

“I was going to ask,” he said smoothly, voice far too even, “if you’d like an escort to London.”

Hermione blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re going the weekend of the Ball.” He shrugged, like this wasn’t completely derailing her sanity. “I’m offering to accompany you.”

For a solid five seconds, she could do nothing but stare.

“And why would I want you to do that?” she demanded, the words coming out breathier than intended.

His lips twitched—just slightly—but his eyes remained serious. Guarded.

“Call it a gesture of goodwill.”

She exhaled sharply, already irritated beyond reason. “Goodwill?” she scoffed. “You told me yesterday we shouldn’t be friends!”

His jaw tightened. His fingers flexed at his sides.

“I said we shouldn’t be friends,” he corrected quietly. “Not that I don’t want to be.”

The air rushed from her lungs.

Her thoughts swirled violently, grasping for meaning, for something concrete, something solid.

He doesn’t make any sense.

“You don’t make any sense,” she whispered, voice faltering.

Malfoy sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

For once, he didn’t look cold. Didn’t look calculated.

Just… tired. Frustrated.

“I’m tired of staying away from you, Granger.”

The words hit like a blow—unexpected, knocking the breath from her.

She searched his face, desperate for some kind of explanation.

What does that mean?

But before she could demand an answer, he turned.

Striding away.

At the far end of the corridor, he hesitated.

Then, without looking back, his voice—softer now, almost… pleading—

“But you should still stay away from me.”

And then he disappeared around the corner, leaving her standing there, her heart thundering, her thoughts completely unraveling.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s feet carried her through the corridors on autopilot, her mind far behind—still tangled in Malfoy’s parting words.

I’m tired of staying away from you.

The words looped in her head, their meaning shifting each time she turned it over.

What did he even mean? Why say something like that only to tell her to stay away?

It was infuriating. He was infuriating.

Everything about Malfoy baffled her. He was cold and detached one moment, then watching her the next—his eyes tracking her like she was some kind of puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. He was cryptic, maddening, and for some reason, he was consuming her every thought.

Her fingers clenched into fists as she turned a sharp corner, her frustration mounting—so much so that she didn’t realize how much time had passed.

Not until the heavy creak of a door jolted her back to reality.

The classroom was already full.

The sound acted like a whip crack, severing conversations, drawing every set of eyes toward her.

Heat crept up her neck as a few Ravenclaws exchanged surprised glances. At the front of the room, Professor Flitwick peered at her over the rim of his glasses, his bushy brows lifting.

“Miss Granger,” he said. “You’re late.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

She forced her head down, gripping her books tighter. “Sorry, Professor,” she murmured, slipping into the nearest seat.

Flitwick’s gaze lingered for a second longer before he nodded briskly. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”

Hermione barely heard him.

She sank into her chair, heart pounding, hands trembling slightly as she fumbled to unpack her things. The classroom hummed back to life—the scrape of quills against parchment, the murmur of whispered incantations—but she couldn’t shake the prickling sensation creeping up her spine.

Someone was watching her.

She didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Her fingers tightened around her quill. This was ridiculous.

She needed to get a grip.

Malfoy was just… Malfoy. Nothing more.

And yet—that pull was still there, dragging at the edges of her awareness.

She fought it. Ignored it.

But curiosity won. It always did.

Her gaze slid sideways.

And she instantly regretted it.

Malfoy wasn’t even pretending to pay attention. He lounged a few rows away, wand twirling idly between his fingers, his long frame draped across his chair with that insufferable ease he always carried.

The flickering candlelight played with his features, casting shadows across the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the aristocratic cut of his jaw.

The moment their eyes met, a slow, knowing smirk tugged at his lips.

Her face burned.

Her pulse stumbled, a sharp, uneven rhythm lodging in her throat.

She whipped her attention back to her parchment, gripping her quill so hard her knuckles ached.

Ignore him. Ignore him.

The moment Flitwick dismissed them, Hermione shoved her parchment into her bag with unsteady hands. She didn’t wait for anyone. Didn’t stop, practically fleeing the classroom, as if distance alone could erase the weight of Malfoy’s lingering stare.

The cool air of the corridor was a relief.

But it wasn’t enough.

Focus, Hermione. Focus.

She barely made it ten steps before—

“You’re late to class now?”

Ron's voice shattered her fragile calm.

She blinked, startled to find him leaning against the wall ahead, his bag slung over one shoulder, brow furrowed.

“What?” she said, still disoriented.

“You were late,” he repeated, falling into step beside her. “You’re never late.”

Hermione let out a small, irritated huff, dragging a hand through her hair. “Well, I have been lately,” she muttered. “Practically all term, actually.”

Ron stared at her, looking genuinely thrown.

“You?” His voice was flat with disbelief. “Since when?”

Hermione shook her head, brushing past him with a frustrated sigh. “I got distracted, okay?” she said quickly, waving the matter away. “It’s nothing.”

Ron squinted at her. “Distracted by what?”

Her stomach tightened.

“Just—things after class,” she said vaguely, keeping her gaze forward. “I lost track of time.”

She felt him watching her. 

“You’ve been acting weird lately, ‘Mione,” he said finally, his voice edged with concern. “Is something going on?”

Yes.

“No,” she said, schooling her expression into neutrality. “Everything’s fine.”

Ron’s frown deepened. A beat of silence passed between them before he cleared his throat, shifting the conversation.

“Listen, uh… it’s supposed to be nice out this weekend,” he said, his voice too casual. “I thought maybe you’d want to come down to the lake. You know, just to relax a bit.”

Hermione blinked. “This weekend?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, avoiding her gaze. “You’ve been working too hard this year. I figured you’d want a break… unless you’ve got other plans.”

She hesitated.

Her eyes flicked over his face, noting the way he refused to meet her gaze, the way his hands fidgeted slightly at his sides.

She knew Ron. Knew what he was trying to do.

“Thanks, Ron,” she said carefully. “I’ll… think about it.”

His shoulders relaxed—just a little. “Right. Yeah. Just let me know,” he mumbled, offering a quick half-smile before turning toward the stairs.

Hermione watched him disappear into the sea of students, her chest tightening with a tangled knot of guilt and frustration.

She shook her head, exhaling through her nose. This was ridiculous. She had better things to focus on.

Like the letter she was about to send.

Turning into a quieter corridor, she quickened her pace, letting the muted chatter of the Great Hall fade behind her as she made her way to the Owlery. She planned to send a letter to Kingsley, inquiring about the Hogsmeade attacks. 

Even though the official statement claimed it was a rogue werewolf, the sharp edge of unease in the Ministry’s wording told her they had no idea what had done this.

Something wasn’t adding up.

And she intended to find out why.

~ * ~

The next day at lunch, Hermione entered the Great Hall with a stomach knotted tight—equal parts frustration and nerves. The usual hum of students laughing, chattering, the scrape of cutlery on plates filled the space, but her focus honed in on the Slytherin table like an arrow loosed from a bow.

Blaise and Theo sat close, deep in conversation, Blaise gesturing lazily with his fork. Pansy twirled a strand of hair around her finger, whispering something to Daphne Greengrass before dissolving into a giggle.

But Malfoy wasn’t there.

The space where he usually sat gnawed at her. The absence of him sank into her chest in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Why do I even care?

It was good, wasn’t it? The less she saw of him, the better.

Suppressing a sigh, she turned sharply on her heel, making her way toward the Gryffindor table. She dropped onto the bench beside Ginny, reaching for a piece of bread, spreading butter across it with agitated strokes.

Ginny, ever perceptive, arched a brow over the rim of her goblet.

“Alright, what’s with you?” she asked, setting her cup down with a soft clink.

“Nothing,” Hermione muttered, tucking a stray curl behind her ear with more force than necessary. The crisp October air had left her hair even wilder than usual, strands tumbling into her face, worsening her already sour mood.

Ginny didn’t push—but Hermione caught her glancing down the length of the Hall, her spoon hovering over her soup as she muttered, “Oh, now that is interesting.”

Hermione stilled.

“What is?”

“Near the windows,” Ginny said, lowering her voice.

Hermione followed her gaze—and her stomach flipped.

Malfoy.

Perched on the wide stone windowsill at the far end of the Great Hall, bathed in pale, ethereal light streaming through the high window. It softened the sharp angles of his face, turned his usual harsh features into something almost delicate.

Almost unreal.

The secluded spot wasn’t unfamiliar—students seeking privacy often gravitated there. But somehow, it suited him too well. Removed. Untouchable. And yet—impossible to ignore.

One leg bent on the ledge, the other dangling carelessly toward the floor, he looked entirely at ease. His body language was deceptively lazy, casual—but his eyes…

His eyes were locked on her.

Something curled at the base of her neck—heat rising, slow and insistent.

“What’s he doing over there?” Ginny muttered, suspicion creeping into her tone.

Hermione’s mouth had gone dry.

Then—his hand moved.

Just slightly. A shift of his fingers—two of them curling, beckoning.

Ginny nearly dropped her goblet.

“Oh, absolutely not.” She sucked in a sharp breath, eyes flicking from Malfoy to Hermione. “Did he just—did he just summon you?”

Hermione didn’t answer.

Because her breath had hitched.

Because her brain was screaming at her not to move.

Because her feet were already shifting.

“I’ll be back,” she muttered, standing abruptly.

“Hermione,” Ginny hissed, grabbing for her sleeve, but Hermione shook her off, already weaving her way through the tables.

What the hell am I doing?

Every step toward him felt like stepping off a ledge. Like she was deliberately walking into something she wouldn’t be able to come back from.

Malfoy watched her approach, his gaze never wavering.

By the time she reached him, her pulse was a thunderclap in her ears, but she forced herself to mask it—crossing her arms in a show of defiance.

He leaned back slightly against the stone, settling further into the frame. His smirk was faint, almost lazy—but his eyes…

His damn silver eyes held something sharper. 

“You came.” His voice was smooth, low—carrying just enough amusement to irritate her.

Hermione lifted her chin. “You waved me over like a house-elf,” she snapped. “What did you expect?”

He huffed a laugh. “Fair enough.”

She hesitated before lowering herself onto the opposite edge of the windowsill, keeping a deliberate distance.

The smooth, cool stone pressed against her palms as she adjusted her seat. Morning light spilled across her skin, catching on the faint dusting of freckles over her nose and cheeks.

She folded her arms, fingers gripping the fabric of her robes as she forced her voice into something sharp, unaffected.

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

“This.”

A simple word, punctuated by a vague flick of his fingers, gesturing at the space between them.

Her brow furrowed. “You’re going to have to elaborate.”

He studied her for a long moment, his gaze steady, contemplative in a way that made her pulse skitter. Then, his voice dipped—quieter now, something thoughtful threading through it.

“If I’m going to stop pretending,” he said slowly, “I might as well do it properly.”

“Stop pretending?” she echoed. “What are you talking about?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze flicked past her, toward the Gryffindor table. His lips twitched faintly, amusement glinting in his eyes.

“Your friends look ready to hex me for taking you from them.”

She followed his line of sight and grimaced.

Ron sat rigid, his knuckles white around his fork, his jaw clenched tight. Across from him, Ginny looked ready to storm over, brown eyes sharp with suspicion. Lavender’s not-so-subtle voice carried across the Hall as she whispered furiously to Parvati, disbelief and indignation etched into every syllable.

Hermione turned back to Malfoy with a scowl.

“I might not give you back,” he added lightly, but there was something off about his tone—something that made her heart pick up speed.

“This isn’t funny.”

“Who said I was joking?”

His smirk deepened. And then—without warning—he leaned closer.

The shift was small, but it stole the air from her lungs.

The scent of him curled between them, faint but consuming, clouding her thoughts before she could shove them into order.

His voice dipped, a murmur meant only for her.

“I told you, Granger—I’m tired of staying away from you.”

Her breath hitched.

“Then why were you?”

“Because it’s safer.”

Her pulse thrummed at the base of her throat.

“For who?” she whispered.

His jaw tensed.

“For both of us.”

Something heavy settled between them. 

“And now?”

He exhaled slowly, leaning back slightly, but his eyes never wavered.

“Now, I’ve decided I’ll keep you safe.”

He said it so simply, like it was a fact. Like it had already been decided. But there was weight behind it—weight that pressed against her ribs and made something unsteady coil low in her stomach.

Hermione’s fingers curled around the edge of the windowsill, bracing against the unsteady feeling beneath her ribs.

Keep me safe? From what? From who? From him?

“Are you saying you want to be… friends?” Her voice felt small, uncertain.

He tilted his head, considering.

“We can try,” he said at last. “But I won’t be a good friend, Granger. If you were smart, you’d stay away.”

Her brows pulled together. Defiance burned beneath her skin.

“Why?”

His expression hardened.

“Because you won’t like the truth.”

A flicker of something uneasy crawled up her spine.

“Are you saying you're… dangerous?” she asked, voice barely more than a breath.

He held her gaze. “Yes.”

Her chest tightened as she searched his face, looking for some tell, something to show her he was lying.

She found nothing. And yet…

“I don’t believe you,” she said finally, her voice steady.

His jaw ticked, tension coiling beneath his skin.

“You should.”

Regret laced the words, wrapping around them like an admission of something worse. Something final.

The distant chime of the clock tower rang through the air—the end of lunch.

Hermione startled slightly, the sound breaking the moment like shattered glass.

She glanced toward the Hall, the reminder of normalcy feeling bizarrely out of place after this conversation.

“We’re going to be late for Herbology,” she muttered, standing abruptly, brushing down her robes.

“I’m not going.”

She hesitated. Her curiosity winning.

“Why?”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her. Then, slowly, he smirked.

"It’s healthy to skip class every once in a while."

A sharp exhale left her, and before she could stop it—a small, unwilling laugh slipped out.

"Of course you’d say that."

She should have walked away. It should have ended there.

But still, she hesitated.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, her body suddenly too aware of the space between them—of him, still watching her.

She shifted on her feet. She didn’t want to go, she realized.

But she also didn’t trust herself to stay.

“Alright, then,” she murmured, suddenly unsure. “See you later.”

His gaze flickered as he watched her fidget, then let out a hum, low and smooth.

“Goodbye, Granger.”

She turned quickly, her footsteps echoing against the stone as she put distance between them.

But his voice lingered.

Why did her name sound like that on his lips?

Even as she walked away, she could feel it—the weight of him, the presence of him, like a tether wrapped around her thoughts.

And for the first time…

She wasn’t sure if she wanted to escape it.

Chapter Text

Hermione couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked at her.

The castle air was thick with the promise of rain, the scent of moss curling through the corridors, grounding her only halfway. She moved too quickly, half-aware of her surroundings, as if walking fast enough might erase the echo of his voice.

“I might not give you back.”

He hadn’t smiled when he said it—not fully. Just that slight twitch of his mouth, like he meant more than he’d ever admit. Like the words were a test. And she’d walked away wondering if she’d passed or failed.

She shouldn't be thinking about this.

It had been a moment. A strange one. Charged, yes—but fleeting. Maybe he was just... trying to be a friend. Maybe she was reading too far into the way his eyes had dropped to her lips. The way his voice had gone quiet so no one else could hear it. The way the air had stretched, thick and still, between them like something waiting to break.

She was definitely reading into it.

Her hands clenched at her sides as she turned sharply toward the greenhouses. She needed to stop thinking about silver eyes and smirking mouths and stupid comments that made her chest feel like it was full of static.

By the time she slid into her seat, breathless, the door creaked open. Professor Sprout bustled in, a large wooden crate hovering in her arms, filled with writhing dark green plants. The vines slithered restlessly, coiling like serpents eager to strike. Hermione’s stomach twisted.

“Good afternoon, class!” Sprout chirped, setting the crate down with a thud. The plants shuddered on impact, their tendrils twitching. “Today, we’ll be feeding our Vampiric Vegetations. These fascinating specimens thrive on small amounts of blood—don’t worry, just a prick will do!”

Her brain stalled.

Blood.

Something inside her recoiled, a visceral, gut-clenching reaction that struck too fast, too hard.

Scarlet on stone. The thick metallic stench in the air. Screams echoing. The dull, lifeless weight of bodies crumpled where they’d fallen.

Her breath turned shallow. Her vision darkened at the edges.

Her fingers clutched the edge of the table, nails digging into the wood. The plants—sensing her distress, drawn to the quickened pulse thrumming beneath her skin—curled in her direction, tendrils twitching hungrily.

“Miss Granger?” Sprout’s voice barely registered. “Are you quite alright?”

She tried to answer, but her throat felt too tight.

“Professor,” she eventually forced out, her voice uneven, “I think I need to sit this one out.”

Sprout’s sharp eyes softened. “Oh, dear. Of course. Should I send for Madam Pomfrey?”

“No.” Hermione shook her head too fast, the movement sending another wave of dizziness through her. “I just need—I need to step out.”

Before she could push herself up, Ron’s hand shot into the air. “I’ll take her, Professor.”

Sprout hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, good idea, Mr. Weasley. Make sure she gets some fresh air, and let Madam Pomfrey know if she doesn’t improve.”

Ron was at her side a second later, his grip firm on her elbow as he guided her outside. The moment they stepped into the open, a rush of crisp October air hit her, shocking and sharp against her overheated skin.

“I need to sit,” she muttered.

Ron helped her lower onto a stone bench, her hands shaking as she dropped her head into them, willing her pulse to slow. The tightness in her chest refused to ease.

For a few blessed moments, silence stretched between them. Then, just when she thought she could breathe again—

“So, what was that at lunch?”

Hermione stiffened.

“With Malfoy,” Ron clarified, his voice edged with something cruel. “What the bloody hell was that?”

Her fingers curled into fists against her lap.

“Ron, not now.”

He crossed his arms. “It’s Malfoy, Hermione! You know what he’s like. You can’t seriously—”

“I can make my own decisions,” she snapped. “And I’ve told you before—stop acting like—”

“What happened?”

The voice cut through their argument like a knife.

Hermione’s breath caught.

Malfoy stood a few paces away, half-shadowed beneath the arching canopy of leaves, his expression unreadable. His eyes—cool and sharp, scanning—landed on her trembling hands, his jaw tightening.

Ron straightened, his stance shifting. “What are you doing here, Malfoy?” he snapped. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Malfoy didn’t look at him.

His focus stayed locked on her. “Are you hurt?”

Ron scoffed. “She’s fine. She just felt faint because of—”

“Because of the blood in class,” Hermione cut in, her voice low and tight. She didn’t have the energy to endure their sparring. “I’m not injured.”

Malfoy’s eyes flicked to hers, narrowing slightly. His expression softened—barely—but it was enough to send an unsettling jolt through her chest. Without a word, he moved closer, crouching beside her with an ease that made her stomach tighten.

“You don’t look fine,” he said, voice low. “You’re pale.”

“I said I’m fine,” she muttered, though the heat creeping up her neck betrayed her.

His jaw ticked.

And then, before she could react, he scooped her up as if she weighed nothing.

“Malfoy!” She gasped, heat flooding her face as her arms instinctively clutched at his shoulders. “Put me down—now! ”

“No.” His grip on her was effortless, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You can barely sit up, Granger.”

Ron, who had been frozen in stunned silence, came to life with a furious scowl. “Oi! What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

Malfoy didn’t spare him a glance. “Something useful.”

Hermione groaned, mortification washing over her in waves. She wanted to disappear, to sink through the floor and never resurface. Instead, she did the next best thing—she buried her face against Malfoy’s shoulder, if only to block out Ron’s indignant glare.

That was a mistake.

The faintest hint of cedar and parchment clung to him, clean and crisp, threaded with something cooler—mint, maybe? The scent wrapped around her senses, grounding and strangely soothing, and her stomach twisted for an entirely new reason.

She needed to focus. On anything else.

Her thoughts latched onto the undeniable strength in the arms supporting her, the way he carried her with such unshakable steadiness, as if she wasn’t fully grown but something feather-light and fragile. And the worst part? She felt safe. Completely, utterly safe.

The realization sent her pulse skittering wildly, and she straightened slightly, putting as much space between them as she could manage without flinging herself onto the stone floor.

Stop it, she scolded herself fiercely. This is Malfoy.

The corridors stretched empty ahead of them, silent except for the steady rhythm of his footsteps. His pace was unhurried, composed, as if he had all the time in the world. The contrast between his calm and the erratic pounding of her heart only made her more flustered.

She folded her arms tightly, glaring up at him in a desperate attempt to regain control. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

His lips twitched, smirk barely restrained. “A little.”

That infuriating confidence curled through his voice, smooth and easy, and something deep in her stomach coiled in response—annoyance, she told herself. Definitely annoyance.

His hands remained steady, cool even through the fabric of her robes, and she hated the way her traitorous pulse reacted to the sensation. She clenched her fingers into the sleeves of her jumper, pressing her lips together, determined to smother whatever ridiculous thing was happening inside her.

By the time they reached the infirmary, she was more than ready to be free of him.

Madam Pomfrey bustled over, her sharp gaze flicking between Hermione and Malfoy with mild surprise. “What happened?”

Malfoy lowered her onto the cot with surprising care. She felt the way his grip adjusted at the last second, as if making sure she wouldn’t tip forward the moment he let go.

His hands lingered—a fraction of a second too long.

Then he stepped back, his face carefully neutral.

“She felt faint in Herbology,” he said simply.

Madam Pomfrey made a huffing noise, already bustling to retrieve a potion. “No surprise, given today’s lesson,” she muttered, pressing a small vial into Hermione’s hand. “Drink up, Miss Granger. You need to rest.”

Hermione nodded, though her mind was still racing, her heart unsteady, her skin too warm. She needed a moment. To think. To breathe. To process whatever had just happened.

She barely had time to settle before—

“We’ve got another one!”

The voice rang through the doorway, sharp and urgent.

Before Hermione could react, the metallic scent of blood slammed into her senses, thick and suffocating.

Her stomach turned violently.

The infirmary door burst open, and a student stumbled inside, clutching their bleeding hand. Scarlet dripped onto the stone floor, blooming in small, vivid pools.

The moment the smell hit her lungs, the room tilted.

She choked on the air, vision swimming, as the past crashed down on her like a wave.

Blood soaking into stone. The sharp sting of iron in the air. Screams that didn’t stop. Bodies that didn’t move.

Her breath came too fast, her throat tightening, panic clawing its way up.

No. No, not here. Not now.

Her fingers clenched into the blanket beneath her, nails digging in as she tried to keep herself anchored. But the walls were closing in. The scent wasn’t leaving. She needed out.

“I—” The word barely escaped before she slapped a hand over her mouth.

“Granger.”

Her head snapped up.

Malfoy.

His eyes locked onto hers, sharp, assessing. He took one step toward her, then another.

“Come on,” he said, already reaching for her.

His hand found her elbow, his grip steady, his fingers refreshingly cold against her clammy skin. The contact sent a shock through her, grounding her just enough to nod weakly, barely processing as he guided her up with careful, precise movements.

The moment the cool corridor air hit her, she sucked in a ragged breath, her free hand bracing against the cold stone wall. She sagged slightly, willing her heartbeat to slow.

Malfoy stayed close beside her, the weight of his presence pressing into her skin, making her hyperaware of every shaky breath she took. He didn’t speak, didn’t move away, just hovered there—watching her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to collect herself. “I couldn’t stay in there,” she muttered, her voice raw. “I could smell the blood.”

“You could smell it?”

She swallowed hard and nodded. “It’s… metallic. Like copper.” The memory twisted inside her, cold and sharp. “It made me feel faint again.”

Malfoy studied her, a shadow crossing his eyes—too quick to name, and she didn’t have the energy to try.

Then, so softly she almost didn’t catch it, he murmured, “Interesting.”

Her frown deepened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Before he could answer, footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Malfoy stepped back.

Hermione sucked in another breath, forcing herself to straighten, to push the dizziness aside.

She turned just as Ron rounded the corner.

He wasn’t alone—he had an underclassman with him, the younger student looking just as pale as she felt. But that wasn’t where Ron’s attention went. No, his focus snapped straight to her.

His eyes flicked from her face to Malfoy, and his jaw tightened.

“You alright?” he asked tightly.

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m fine,” she said. “I just—I couldn’t stay.”

Ron’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His gaze flicked to Malfoy again, then back to her.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, his voice carefully casual, “if you’re feeling better by the weekend, you’re still coming to the lake, right?”

Something about the way he said it—the slight arch of his brow, the sideways glance at Malfoy, the edge of challenge buried beneath his words—set her teeth on edge.

The implication was clear.

Malfoy wasn’t invited.

Like Ron had any say in it.

Her irritation flared, but she shoved it down, unwilling to start another fight. “I’ll see,” she said shortly.

Ron’s expression darkened. He hesitated, as if debating whether to argue, but finally shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he led the student into the infirmary.

The door clicked shut, leaving silence in its wake.

Hermione let out a slow breath, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Charms is next,” she muttered absently, already preparing to walk away.

“You’re not going,” Malfoy said.

She turned, blinking. “Excuse me?”

His tone was perfectly calm, completely matter-of-fact. And then—without another word—he turned on his heel and slipped back into the infirmary.

Hermione gaped after him.

What the hell?

Her feet itched to follow, but before she could move, he reappeared, his expression as composed as ever.

“You’ve been excused for the day,” he said simply.

Her mouth dropped open. “How did you—?”

“Madam Pomfrey’s not hard to convince,” he said smoothly, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he gestured toward the corridor. “Move your feet, Granger. Unless you want me to carry you again.”

Heat prickled at the base of her neck.

Her mind flashed—too quickly, too vividly—back to the feel of his arms around her, the way he had lifted her without hesitation, how steady he had been.

She scowled. “You’re impossible.”

He only hummed in response, falling into step beside her as they moved down the corridor.

The rhythmic click of their footsteps filled the silence, but her mind refused to settle. There was something off about all of this—about him, about the way he’d been watching her, how he had reacted to her response in the infirmary.

She burned with curiosity.

When they reached the library doors, she turned toward them instinctively, already reaching for the handle—ready to drown herself in books, in anything that might dull the overwhelming buzz in her thoughts.

But before she could step forward, a firm hand caught the edge of her sweater.

She whirled, a chill flashing up her spine.

“No, you don’t,” Malfoy said.

His fingers had already dropped away, but she could still feel the ghost of their presence. Her pulse skipped.

She crossed her arms, bracing herself. “Malfoy, really—”

“I don’t trust you to take care of yourself,” he interrupted.

Hermione’s mouth opened but no retort came. The words knocked the breath from her. She swallowed, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “I—what?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned toward the stairs, heading for Gryffindor Tower like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like it didn’t feel utterly surreal that Draco Malfoy was ordering her to rest.

Her frustration warred with something far more dangerous—something warm, something weightless.

She followed, frowning at his back.

“When did blood start affecting you like this?” he asked abruptly as they climbed the stairs.

Her steps faltered. His question was casual, but it pressed into her like a weight.

She let her fingers brush against the cool stone of the wall, steadying herself, inhaling through her nose before answering. “After the war.” 

From the corner of her vision, she saw him glance at her. For the briefest moment, she thought she saw something in his expression soften.

He didn’t press her. Didn’t say a word.

But somehow, the silence urged her to continue.

“I wanted to be a healer,” she admitted. The confession sat heavy on her tongue, something she’d never said aloud before. “Before the war, I thought I could handle it. The blood, the injuries, the responsibility. But after everything…” Her breath hitched. She swallowed hard, fingers curling at her sides. “I just… I can’t. I don’t think I ever will.”

The silence stretched.

She braced for sarcasm. For some cold, dismissive remark. Anything to put space between them, anything that would remind her who she was talking to.

But Malfoy surprised her.

“You would have been a good healer.”

Her head snapped toward him, startled by the certainty in his voice. “You think so?” 

He shrugged slightly. “You care too much not to be.”

The quiet confidence in his words softened something inside her, a small but dangerous crack in the walls she had built.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, offering him a small, tentative smile.

His gaze flicked away, a faint flush creeping over his sharp cheekbones before he composed himself. They continued walking, but the air between them shifted. Not as heavy. Not as cold.

After a moment, Hermione spoke again, this time carefully. “Malfoy,” she said, measuring her words. “At the Manor, when you stopped your aunt—why did you do it?”

He faltered mid-stride, his posture stiffening as the question hung in the air between them. For a moment, she thought he might ignore her altogether, but then he stopped walking entirely and turned to face her.

“Because I couldn’t just stand there and let you get hurt,” he said, voice rough. “Not you.”

The confession sent her pulse skittering, her breath catching in her throat.

She stared at him, searching his face, trying to grasp the weight of his words.

Not you.

“Not me?” she whispered. “What makes me any different?”

His hand dragged through his hair, a sharp exhale escaping him. “Because you didn’t deserve any of it,” he said, the words breaking free like a dam giving way. “The war, the hatred… me.”

Her throat closed.

The memory crashed over her like a tidal wave.

The cold marble of the Manor. Bellatrix’s laughter. The way Malfoy’s face had twisted in horror as his aunt lifted her wand.

“You didn’t deserve it either,” she whispered.

His jaw tensed.

“What Voldemort did to you. What your aunt did to you—what she made you endure because you refused to—”

“Stop.” His voice was sharp. Final.

She flinched.

But she didn’t back down.

“You suffered because of me,” she said, her voice unwavering. “And I never got to thank you for—for protecting me.”

His eyes burned. “Don’t thank me.”

“Why not?” she pressed, stepping closer. “You made a choice. That matters to me.”

“Because I don’t deserve your gratitude,” he snapped. “After everything I put you through, everything I did—you should hate me, Granger.”

She shook her head. “I don’t hate you.”

His breath hitched. Just barely.

“I forgave you a long time ago,” she said softly. “Maybe it’s time you forgave yourself.”

For a moment, it looked like he wanted to argue, but instead, he exhaled shakily and turned away, his shoulders sagging slightly.

“You shouldn’t have had to forgive me,” he murmured, barely audible. “You deserved better.”

Before she could stop herself, she reached out, her fingers brushing the fabric of his sleeve.

His gaze dropped to where her hand rested.

Hermione swallowed, resisting the urge to pull away. “Maybe,” she said carefully. “But you’re trying now. That matters.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. He let the moment stretch between them, his rigid posture loosening ever so slightly. Like her words had taken some of the weight he carried, had lifted something he hadn’t realized was crushing him.

Then, without another word, he turned and started walking again.

She followed, her thoughts spinning, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

He had opened up—just enough to wreck her composure.

She had thought of him as a puzzle to solve, a mystery to unravel, but maybe… maybe he wasn’t something to be figured out.

Maybe he was just… Draco.

And maybe she wanted to know him.

The entrance to Gryffindor Tower loomed ahead, the Fat Lady’s portrait swinging into view. As soon as the painted woman saw them together, her eyes widened in barely concealed intrigue.

She tilted her head, smirking. “What an odd pair you two make,” she mused, voice sing-song and sickly sweet.

Hermione groaned inwardly, fixing the portrait with a glare, willing her into silence. But as she turned back to Malfoy, something in her frustration shifted, giving way to a startling realization.

She wasn’t ready for this to end.

For all the times he had ignored her, brushed her off, shut her out—tonight, he hadn’t. And the thought of letting him walk away now, without pushing just a little further, made something tighten in her chest.

The words left her before she could stop them.

“What about your friends?” 

Malfoy’s brow furrowed. “What about them?”

“Do they feel the same way you do?” she asked, unsure why she needed to know, only that she did. “About… everything?”

A breath escaped him, slow and measured. “After the war, my mother took them in.” His voice stayed level, but his eyes gave him away. “Blaise, Theo, Pansy… They all lost their families one way or another. My mother gave them a home.”

Hermione’s fingers curled into the hem of her sweater.

“Your mother sounds kind,” she said. “It must have helped, having each other.”

For the briefest moment, his features softened—just a trace of warmth, something almost nostalgic. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but enough to make her pulse catch.

And then, just as quickly, it was gone. His posture shifted, walls snapping back into place, his expression sharpening as if he’d suddenly remembered who he was supposed to be.

“I should go.”

A weight settled in her chest.

She should let him. She wanted to—needed to.

But before she could think better of it, she blurted, “Come to the lake this weekend.”

The words stretched between them, an invisible tether tightening.

Malfoy turned back slowly, silver eyes locking onto hers with something like surprise.

“What?”

Her face burned. It was too late to take it back now. She squared her shoulders, scrambling for composure.

“The lake,” she repeated, steadier this time. “I—Ron invited me, but I can bring whoever I want.”

The last part came out rushed, her pulse hammering, palms suddenly clammy.

It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t.

It was just… friendship.

Yes. That was all. Just an invitation to sit by the water with Malfoy—who had carried her across the castle today, who made her chest ache with something unfamiliar and impossible—like it meant nothing.

Nothing at all.

He was still watching her.

His lips parted slightly, as if the invitation had knocked the breath out of him. And then, for a fraction of a second, his face softened.

Just barely.

But she saw it.

“I can’t.”

Disappointment lanced through her before she could stop it.

“I have to leave home for the weekend,” he added, voice low, almost regretful. “I won’t be back until Monday.”

She hated the way her stomach sank.

“Oh,” she said quickly, forcing a small nod. Casual. Unbothered. “Right. Of course.”

There was a hesitation in his eyes, something unspoken lingering, like the edge of a confession. But instead, he stepped back, adding distance between them.

“Be careful, Granger.” His voice was quieter this time, gentler.

Something settled deep in her bones.

She wanted to ask why—why he said it like that, why he always looked at her like he wanted to touch her but wouldn’t, why he walked away like he was keeping himself from something.

Instead, she forced out, “I always am.”

His smirk returned—small, fleeting, almost fond.

Then he turned, disappearing into the dim corridor.

Hermione stood there, watching him go, fighting the ridiculous sting of disappointment curling beneath her ribs.

Behind her, the Fat Lady sighed dramatically, clasping her painted hands over her chest. “What a handsome young man.”

Hermione groaned, yanking open the portrait hole and climbing inside before she could dwell on any of this a second longer. The warmth of the fire hit her like a wall, wrapping around her, but it didn’t touch the cold still lingering beneath her skin. She sank onto the nearest sofa, ignoring the confused glances from Ginny and the others.

She stared into the flames, her heartbeat still too fast, her thoughts still spinning.

His smile.

The way his face softened when he thought of his mother.

The way he had looked at her.

And the way, for a single, fleeting moment, it had almost felt like he wanted to stay as much as she had wanted him to.

Her fingers curled into her sleeves, gripping tightly, as if she could hold onto the warmth of that thought.

As the fire crackled and the common room slowly emptied around her, she let it sit there—this impossible thing between them.

Unspoken.

And yet, undeniably real.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke on Saturday morning to golden light spilling through the Gryffindor Tower windows, a rare reprieve from October’s usual gloom. The warmth of it kissed her skin, soft and fleeting, doing little to ease the restless dreams that had tangled her in her sheets.

She sat up slowly, pressing the heel of her hand against the crease between her brows. Her mind was already racing ahead. She’d barely slept last night, thoughts spinning in endless loops—Malfoy’s voice in the corridor, the flicker of something warm in his eyes when she invited him to the lake, the tight knot of disappointment in her chest when he said no.

It was ridiculous. She shouldn’t care.

And yet…

No.

She shoved the thought aside and climbed out of bed, reaching for a thick jumper and her most comfortable pair of jeans.

The common room was already buzzing when she descended the stairs, excitement thrumming through the air. Gryffindors darted between armchairs, clutching blankets and baskets, their chatter filled with the promise of a carefree afternoon.

Near the fireplace, Ginny sprawled across an armchair, lazily tossing one of Harry’s practice Snitches between her hands. The tiny golden ball twitched, wings fluttering restlessly.

“Morning,” Ginny greeted, stretching with a yawn.

“Morning.”

Ginny arched a brow. “You’re coming, right?”

For a moment, Hermione considered saying no. The thought had been lingering since she woke up, the temptation of a quiet day in the library far more appealing than whatever Ron’s mood swings had in store for her. But now, standing here, she realized she couldn’t stomach another day spent thinking.

“Yeah, why not.”

Ginny grinned, swinging her legs over the chair’s arm. “Good. Because I am not spending the whole day listening to Ron and Lavender be disgustingly lovey-dovey without you there as moral support. It’s unbearable.”

Hermione smirked, rolling her eyes. “I’ll spare you the suffering, then.”

~ * ~

The crisp autumn air greeted them as they set off, cool and sharp against Hermione’s cheeks. She trailed near the back of the group, letting their laughter and teasing flow around her like a current—distant, separate from herself. The winding path through the grounds was lined with trees half-stripped of their leaves, the scent of earth and damp foliage thick in the air. Beneath her boots, the crunch of fallen leaves blended with the rustling of branches overhead.

For a moment, she let herself breathe.

Then Ron’s voice shattered the calm.

“Lavender, look at this,” he crowed, far too loudly. His arm looped around her shoulders in an exaggerated show of affection, his grin unmistakably smug. Lavender giggled, tilting her head up at him with something close to worship in her eyes.

“Best day we’ve had all term, isn’t it?” Ron added, casting a glance over his shoulder. Directly at Hermione.

Her jaw locked.

Oh, for Merlin’s sake.

She slowed her pace, letting the others pull ahead. She didn’t need to see the smug glances Ron kept throwing her way to know exactly what he was doing. He wanted her to notice. Wanted her to react. Maybe, once, she might have.

Now?

She just wanted him to shut up.

The worst part was Lavender. She wasn’t even the problem. She was just being herself—blissfully unaware of whatever ridiculous game Ron thought he was playing.

“You’ve got to admit,” came a low voice at her side, “it’s almost impressive how determined he is to act like a prat.”

She startled slightly before turning her head. Harry had fallen into step beside her, grinning. His green eyes glinted with amusement, but there was something knowing in his expression.

Hermione huffed a quiet laugh. “Impressive isn’t the word I’d use.”

Harry’s smirk widened. “Persistent?”

“Infuriating,” she corrected. But the tension in her shoulders eased just slightly.

Harry shook his head, watching Ron with mild exasperation. “You know how he gets.”

Hermione let out a slow breath. “I do.” She cast Ron one last glance, then looked away. “I’m trying to ignore him.”

“Good plan,” Harry said, nudging her shoulder lightly. “Want me to ‘accidentally’ knock him into the lake later?”

Hermione laughed, the sound escaping before she could stop it. “Tempting.”

Harry gave her a look—one that was far too perceptive.

“You alright, though?”

She hesitated.

It wasn’t really about Ron, was it?

Her fingers twitched at her sides. “I got a letter from Kingsley this morning,” she admitted.

Harry’s expression shifted, his amusement fading. “About Hogsmeade?”

She nodded. “He says it’s under control. That I shouldn’t worry.”

Harry didn’t answer right away, but she could feel him thinking.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She sighed. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard about any more attacks, so maybe he’s right.” Her gaze drifted ahead, watching the wind ripple through the grass, the sunlight glinting off the Black Lake like shards of glass. “And as much as I love a good mystery…”

She trailed off.

She didn’t need to say it, not to Harry.

He nodded. “You don’t want to fight anymore.”

She swallowed hard.

No. She didn’t.

The war had already taken too much.

She forced a small smile. “Maybe it really was just a wild animal,” she said, though the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.

Harry gave her a long, searching look before nodding. “Maybe.”

She didn’t know if she believed it.

But for today, she wanted to.

~ * ~

By the time they reached the lake, Hermione’s thoughts had quieted—at least for now.

The Black Lake stretched wide and calm before them, its glassy surface gilded by sunlight. A soft wind sent ripples spreading outward, breaking the golden reflections into scattered shards of light. It looked peaceful. Untouched.

They settled quickly, the sound of laughter spilling across the grass. Harry and Ginny bickered over the best spot for a fire, Dean and Seamus engaged in an exaggerated debate over proper marshmallow-roasting techniques, and Luna sat cross-legged at the shore, her serene voice identifying unseen creatures darting beneath the surface.

Hermione found a shaded spot beneath a tree, balancing a book on her lap.

But as the day went by, her eyes drifted.

Ron and Lavender were tangled together on a blanket, their hushed giggles floating on the breeze. Ginny tackled Harry into the shallows, their laughter echoing off the water as he retaliated, yanking her in after him.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, despite every effort to push him away, she thought of silver eyes and the weight of a quiet confession.

She turned a page, barely processing the words.

She’d thought today would be an escape.

But it seemed that no matter how far she walked, no matter how many distractions she threw between herself and her thoughts…

Draco Malfoy was still there.

She forced her attention back to the book, gripping the edges of the worn parchment.

And then she saw him.

Theo Nott.

He was perched on the grassy hillside overlooking the lake, one knee bent lazily, an arm draped over it. He looked utterly at ease, like he had all the time in the world, watching the scene below with quiet amusement.

Hermione bit her lip.

This was her chance.

If anyone knew what was going on with Malfoy, it was Theo. Their friendship wasn’t exactly a secret, and for all his sharpness, Theo seemed far more approachable than Malfoy.

Before she could second-guess herself, she snapped her book shut and stood.

Her feet carried her up the hill, her pulse picking up as Theo’s sharp brown eyes flicked toward her. His lips curled into a slow smirk, like he’d been expecting her.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice smooth as honey. “Hermione Granger. To what do I owe the pleasure? Don’t tell me you’ve come to interrogate me.”

She faltered mid-step, heat creeping up her neck. Was she really that obvious?

Clearing her throat, she forced herself to sound casual. “I just… thought I’d sit here.” She gestured vaguely to the grass beside him.

Theo arched a brow, his smirk deepening.

“Really? You just happened to want to sit on this hill, instead of down by the fire with your friends?” His lazy posture didn’t change, but there was a knowing gleam in his eyes. “You’re either terrible at subtlety, or I’m far more interesting than I realized.”

Damn it.

Her cheeks burned. “I—”

“Relax,” Theo interrupted, chuckling softly. “I’m only teasing.”

She exhaled and lowered herself onto the grass a few feet away, tucking her knees beneath her. His smirk lingered, but he turned his attention back to the lake, giving her a moment to gather her thoughts.

For a while, they sat in silence.

Then, carefully, she asked, “You and Malfoy are close, aren’t you?”

Theo didn’t even blink. “We’ve been known to tolerate each other.”

She huffed. “I’m being serious.”

He sighed dramatically, flopping onto his back with a theatrical groan. “And here I was hoping we’d talk about something fun. My tragic love life, perhaps. Or how devastatingly handsome I am.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

Theo grinned wickedly. “I do hope so.”

She shook her head, exasperation cutting through her nerves. But her curiosity won out.

“Malfoy’s been acting… different lately.”

Theo’s smirk didn’t fade, but something in his expression sharpened. “Different how?”

Hermione hesitated. “I don’t know. He keeps showing up. At first, I thought it was a coincidence, but then… he keeps—”

She faltered, warmth creeping up her neck.

Theo propped himself up on his elbows, his eyes glittering with amusement. “He keeps what, Granger? Staring at you like you’re the only person in the room? Hovering like a particularly brooding guardian angel?”

Her mouth fell open. “He doesn’t—”

“Oh, he does,” Theo cut in smoothly. “Draco doesn’t do anything without a reason.”

Hermione’s pulse stumbled.

She swallowed, ignoring the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her sweater. “Then what’s the reason?”

Theo’s smirk faltered. A flicker of something serious passed over his face.

“That,” he said finally, “is something you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

She exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling to the surface. “And how am I supposed to do that? Just walk up and demand an explanation?” She scoffed. “He barely gives me straight answers about anything.”

Theo let out a slow, exaggerated hum, tilting his head as if considering. “Well,” he mused, running a hand through his dark waves, “you could try. March right up, corner him in some dark corridor, and demand to know why he looks at you like you’re an unsolvable equation he desperately wants to crack.”

She shot him a flat look.

Theo grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself.

“Or,” he continued airily, “you could simply ignore him.” He sighed, wistful and dramatic. “Pretend he doesn’t exist, go about your day unbothered, unaffected, blissfully free of Malfoy-related distractions.”

Her nostrils flared. She wanted to say she could ignore him, that she could pretend Draco Malfoy was as insignificant as a speck of lint on her robes.

But she couldn’t.

And Theo knew it.

His smirk turned knowing. “But let’s be honest, that’s not going to happen, is it?”

She scowled. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are, hanging onto my every word.” He winked, stretching his arms behind his head, looking as pleased as a cat in the sun.

She huffed, but her mind was already circling back to something he’d said earlier—Malfoy doesn’t do anything without a reason.

That thought lodged itself deep, an itch she couldn’t quite reach. If that was true—if every glance, every silence, every too-close moment was intentional—then why?

What was he trying to do?

The question gnawed at her, restless and relentless, until, before she could stop herself, she blurted, “Is something wrong with him?”

Theo hesitated, his gaze flickering toward the castle before settling back on her.

“Being a Malfoy isn’t just about status, Granger. It’s a… curse.”

She frowned. “Curse?”

He shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Every family has its skeletons. Some are just better at hiding them.”

A shiver trailed down her spine.

She leaned in slightly. “Theo—”

“Don’t waste your breath,” he said lightly, standing in one fluid motion. The easy mischief slid back into place, but Hermione wasn’t fooled.

“If you want answers, start in the library,” he continued, flicking a speck of grass off his trousers. “The old families left plenty of breadcrumbs for curious minds like yours.”

Her mind raced with questions, but before she could press him, he gave her a quick wink and strolled off toward the castle—leaving her staring after him, her thoughts spinning faster than ever.

~ * ~ 

The castle loomed against the twilight sky, its turrets carved into fading hues of blue and pink. Laughter echoed faintly through the corridors as the group spilled through the towering wooden doors, their voices a fleeting remnant of the carefree hours spent by the lake.

Hermione lingered at the rear, her steps slowing as her thoughts curled inward.

“I’ll catch up later,” she murmured to Ginny.

Ginny shot her a questioning look, brows knitting, but after a moment, she only shrugged. “Don’t stay too late.” Then she disappeared up the staircase, leaving Hermione alone in the dimly lit corridor.

She turned toward the library, her feet carrying her forward on autopilot.

The scent of parchment and old ink enveloped her as she entered. She dropped her bag onto her usual table with a soft thud, then immediately set to work, pulling books from the shelves—her fingers trailing along cracked spines and embossed titles, pausing on anything remotely useful. Magical ailments, ancient curses, pureblood histories. Anything that might explain Malfoy’s strange behavior.

She flipped open the first book and began reading.

Time bled away.

The world outside the tall windows had long since darkened, but she barely noticed. Pages turned, ink soaked into parchment, and the distant crackle of the enchanted fireplace filled the silence. Her quill scratched hurriedly across notes, her thoughts spinning, searching, but—

Nothing.

The pieces refused to fit.

Her shoulders ached, exhaustion creeping in, but still, she kept flipping pages, chasing answers she couldn’t quite grasp.

Eventually, her body betrayed her.

Her quill slipped from her fingers, her head drooping forward until her cheek pressed against the cool surface of an open book. The words blurred into nonsense. She fought to keep her eyes open, to keep searching—

But the darkness swallowed her whole.

~ * ~

The cold woke her.

A sharp, biting chill that curled around her limbs and turned her breath into pale clouds.

She blinked, disoriented, the world shifting into focus.

The Forbidden Forest.

The towering trees loomed around her, their skeletal branches stretching toward the sky, stark against the suffocating blackness. There was no moon, no stars. Only the shadows.

Something was wrong.

A thick, unnatural silence pressed against her ears.

Then a voice shattered the hush—

“Hermione! RUN!”

Ginny. Sharp. Desperate.

Hermione spun, her pulse surging. A blur of red hair disappeared behind a tree.

Another voice—deeper, urgent—

“GO, Hermione! GET OUT OF HERE!”

Ron.

Her lungs seized. She wanted to move, to run, but her body refused. Something held her there, locked her in place.

The shadows shifted.

A figure emerged from the darkness, moving with unnatural grace. Pale hair gleamed in the dim light.

Malfoy.

Relief flared through her, sharp and fleeting—

Until he stepped closer.

Her heart stuttered, cold washing through her bones.

His eyes gleamed red, burning with something raw and hungry. His skin, eerily smooth, was paler than the moonlight, his features sharper, more predatory. And when his lips parted—

Fangs.

No.

Malfoy didn’t move. He only watched her.

Then, slowly, he lifted his hand—two fingers curling—beckoning her closer.

The world narrowed.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her feet shifted forward, drawn by something unseen, something pulling at her very bones.

One step.

Another.

She was close enough to see the unnatural sharpness of his teeth, close enough to feel the wrongness crackling in the air around him.

Then—the shadows behind him exploded.

A second figure lunged from the darkness, colliding with Malfoy in a violent blur of limbs and snarling fury.

Hermione stumbled back, her scream caught in her throat. The two figures clashed, moving impossibly fast, their bodies twisting, colliding, inhuman in their ferocity.

The world blurred—

And then she woke.

Her gasp shattered the silence.

She bolted upright, her fingers digging into the wooden table. Her heart slammed against her ribs, her breath coming in ragged, uneven pulls.

Just a dream.

She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, but the vividness wouldn’t fade.

She could still feel the cold.

Still see the red, piercing eyes. The sharp gleam of fangs.

A fresh wave of nausea curled through her stomach as a thought struck her.

The Hogsmeade attacks.

The victims had been drained of blood. Their throats mauled.

Could it be—?

She shook her head fiercely. No. No, it wasn’t him.

Draco Malfoy wasn’t a monster.

He didn’t kill innocent people.

She knew it, as surely as she knew her own name.

But still—what was he?

Her hands shook as she reached for another stack of books, pulling out volumes on vampires, cursed bloodlines, and dark creatures. The pages painted grim pictures—creatures of unnatural beauty and power, with inhuman speed, strength, and healing.

Her thoughts raced.

Malfoy was strong, faster than he should be, eerie in the way he moved. He was too beautiful, almost too perfect.

But some things didn’t fit.

He wasn’t weak to sunlight. He had a reflection. And—as far as she knew—no fangs.

The contradictions unsettled her.

She groaned, shoving the book aside and pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. The library felt too small, the weight of her unanswered questions pressing in on all sides.

She needed air.

~ * ~

The night greeted her with crisp, biting cold as she wandered beyond the castle grounds, her feet moving on instinct rather than intent. Soon, the Forbidden Forest stretched before her, its darkness curling into the horizon like ink spilling across parchment.

She sank onto a fallen log, wrapping her arms around herself.

What if I’m right?

The thought gnawed at her. If Malfoy was something inhuman, it would explain so much.

But the idea didn’t sit right.

She thought of his sharp wit, the way his smirk softened just before it became a real smile. The way he looked at her sometimes—like she was something fragile, something he had to protect.

A killer wouldn’t carry her to the infirmary just because she was dizzy.

A monster wouldn’t watch her with something that looked like longing.

The wind picked up, carrying with it the distant chime of the castle’s bells.

Hermione sighed, rubbing at her temples.

Maybe she was imagining things. Maybe her paranoia was getting the better of her.

She stood, pulling her cloak tighter around herself.

Whatever secrets Draco Malfoy was keeping—she was going to find them.

But somehow, she already knew—

He wasn’t the one she should be afraid of.

Chapter Text

Monday dawned bright and golden, sunlight pouring through the tall windows of Gryffindor Tower. Hermione stirred early, her pulse thrumming with restless energy. She had barely slept, her mind still tangled in a mess of lore, half-truths, and the impossible.

She had spent most of the night devouring books on dark creatures, tracing every whisper of legend and fact. Vampires. Cursed bloodlines. Magical mutations. Each new revelation only unraveled her theories further, stretching her logic to the breaking point.

Some things fit—his unnatural speed, the way he healed too quickly, the ethereal sharpness of his features. Other things didn’t—no fangs, no aversion to sunlight, no missing reflection. It didn’t add up.

And yet—if it were true, did it even matter?

The realization had crept in sometime after midnight, curling into her thoughts like a vine wrapping around stone. If Malfoy wasn’t entirely human, if he had been keeping some terrible secret, it still wouldn’t change… whatever this was between them.

They could still be… friends.

The thought sent an unwelcome heat through her, so she pushed it down, buried it beneath the safe and logical need for answers.

Malfoy would be back today. She didn’t know why the thought buoyed her—it wasn’t as though she missed him. No, it was because she needed answers. Her theories, her research, the dream…  

Confronting him was the next logical step.

Clutching her stack of books, she descended the stairs to the Great Hall, her anticipation growing with every step. The warmth of the sun bathed the house tables, and the smell of toast and bacon mingled with the chatter of students. 

She had barely entered the Hall before her gaze flickered to the Slytherin table.

Theo was there, laughing at something Blaise had said. Pansy sat beside them, filing her nails with practiced indifference, her gaze flicking up only occasionally, as if nothing in the room was particularly worth her attention. But Malfoy’s usual seat remained empty.

Her eyes snapped to the window ledge, the last flicker of hope fading away as she saw that it too was empty.

A flicker of unease twisted in her chest.

She had told herself she wasn’t expecting him, that she wasn’t watching for him, and yet—the hollow pang of disappointment told her otherwise.

He might just be late, she reasoned silently, forcing herself to focus as she settled at the Gryffindor table.

“Morning,” Ginny chirped, pushing a plate of food toward her.

Hermione forced a smile, her fingers gripping her fork. “Morning.”

Ginny’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the tension in her posture. “What’s wrong?” She paused, smirking. “Missing Malfoy already?”

Hermione stiffened, heat creeping up her neck. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered, stabbing her eggs.

Ginny smirked, propping her chin in her hand. “It must be tough, huh? No brooding stares or cryptic little comments to start your day?”

Hermione scowled and tossed a piece of crust at her, which Ginny dodged with a laugh.

Before she could retaliate, Harry dropped into the seat beside Ginny, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek.

“Morning,” he greeted, reaching for a plate.

Ginny hummed in response, but her gaze flicked pointedly toward the entrance.

Hermione followed her line of sight just as Ron trudged inside, looking like he had spent the night fighting a wild hippogriff. His tie hung loose, his hair a mess of cowlicks, and his expression dark.

Lavender trailed stiffly behind him, her arms crossed so tightly it looked painful. The moment she spotted the Gryffindor table, she veered away, taking a seat at the far end.

Ginny snorted, clearly delighted. “Merlin, Ronald, you look awful. Trouble in paradise?”

Ron shot her a dark glare but didn’t reply. Instead, he dropped into the seat across from Hermione and stabbed his fork into a sausage.

Hermione braced herself.

She could feel it—his eyes burning into her, his irritation practically vibrating off him.

This again.

She refused to look at him, keeping her focus on her plate. She knew exactly what was coming, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

What did he expect from her?

They had never been more than friends. Not once had she given him a reason to think otherwise.

And yet, Ron still looked at her like she had done something wrong.

Like she had somehow betrayed him.

It only made her grip her fork tighter, her irritation bubbling dangerously close to the surface.

This—his sulking, his temper, the way he made everything a competition—was exactly why she had never fallen for him.

She preferred someone… different.

Someone who carried themselves with a quiet kind of confidence. Someone who didn’t explode at the first sign of discomfort.

Someone with pale hair and sharp silver eyes.

Her mind betrayed her before she could stop it. A flash of a smirk. The way he watched her, always half-amused, half-something else.

She shook her head.

No. Absolutely not.

It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t.

She forced herself to focus on something else—anything else. Her gaze flickered downward, catching sight of The Daily Prophet crumpled near Harry’s plate.

She smoothed out the page, her eyes scanning the bolded headline.

Hogsmeade Attacks Cease – Ministry Declares Threat Has Moved On

Her chest tightened.

The article claimed that whatever wild animal had been responsible for the attacks had likely migrated elsewhere, as there had been no further incidents. The Ministry assured the public that there was no cause for concern. No further investigation was necessary.

A knot of unease settled in her stomach.

She didn’t trust it.

She wanted to believe it was over, wanted to believe Kingsley when he told her she didn’t need to worry.

But she knew better.

Still, there had been no new attacks. Maybe—just maybe—this time, the Ministry was right.

She exhaled slowly, smoothing a hand over the page before folding it shut.

The rest of breakfast passed in a blur. Hermione barely registered the chatter around her, her responses clipped and automatic, her thoughts elsewhere.

Every time her gaze drifted toward the entrance of the Great Hall, she had to physically force herself to look away. It was getting ridiculous—this gnawing, restless energy coiling in her chest, this unreasonable expectation that at any moment, he’d just walk in.

He wasn’t here. She had no reason to care.

And yet, the empty space at the Slytherin table felt like a missing piece of her morning.

The hall gradually emptied as students headed to class, but Hermione lingered behind, casting one last glance at his table before stepping into the corridor.

“‘Mione,” Ron’s voice cut through her haze as he fell into step beside her. 

She straightened her shoulders, shifting her books higher in her arms. “What is it, Ron?”

He hesitated, his hand lifting slightly—too close to her face, reaching for something.

“You’ve got a curl—”

She froze mid-step, stepping away sharply before he could touch her.

“Ron.” Her voice was a clean, sharp cut through the air. “You’re with Lavender, aren’t you?”

His face fell. A flicker of something painful flashed across his features before his shoulders sagged, his hand dropping uselessly to his side.

“Right,” he muttered. “Yeah. You’re right. I’ll… see you later.”

Hermione didn’t look back as he turned away, though a dull weight pressed against her ribs.

She wasn’t being cruel. She had drawn the line as clearly as possible, and yet he still lingered, still held on to something that had never existed in the first place.

Not that it mattered.

The only thing bothering her right now was the fact that Malfoy’s absence had stretched past breakfast.

The rest of the day dragged painfully.

Malfoy’s seat in every class remained empty, and each time she saw it—unoccupied, untouched—the frustration in her chest deepened. Her thoughts wouldn’t settle. Every time she told herself she was being irrational, that his absence wasn’t important, her mind turned against her.

By lunch, the ache of disappointment had settled into a constant thrum beneath her skin.

She barely touched her food, pushing it around her plate as Ginny chattered beside her.

It wasn’t because of him.

It wasn’t.

She just… wanted to finish connecting the dots. She needed to confront him about what she’d found, needed to see his reaction, needed to understand. That was all.

And yet—that excuse rang hollow in her own head.

Because the ache in her chest wasn’t about theories.

It was about him. 

And that infuriated her more than anything.

By the time the final class ended, she retreated to the library, hoping the quiet might untangle the storm in her head.

… It didn’t.

Her notes sprawled across the table, a chaotic mess of scribbled theories and half-baked conclusions. Books lay open before her, their pages filled with everything and nothing—fragments of lore that didn’t quite fit, answers that only led to more questions.

But her concentration was useless.

She kept glancing at the entrance.

This was absurd.

She barely knew him.

She pressed her fingers to her temples, willing the tangled mess of thoughts to calm.

Maybe she should find Theo. Ask if Malfoy was okay. Maybe that wasn’t completely out of line.

Wait—no.

What was she thinking?

It wasn’t her business.

It wasn’t like she was his… girlfriend.

The thought slammed into her, sharp and horrifying.

Her cheeks burned.

She groaned softly, burying her face in her hands.

The scrape of a chair broke through her downward spiral.

She lifted her head to find Ginny dropping into the seat across from her.

“There you are,” she said. “You’ve been in here all afternoon.”

Hermione sighed, snapping the nearest book shut. “Just trying to keep busy.”

Ginny arched a brow. “Uh-huh.”

Hermione folded her arms. “What?”

Ginny grinned. “You look like you’re one more overanalyzed thought away from losing your mind.”

“I’m fine.”

Ginny tilted her head, studying her like she could see every frantic thought racing through her mind. Then, with a smirk, she declared, “Alright, that’s enough brooding for one day.”

Hermione scowled. “I am not brooding.”

Ginny ignored her. “Girls’ trip to Hogsmeade. We’ll shop for Yule Ball dresses, grab some butterbeer, maybe stop by that fancy new restaurant that just opened.” She wiggled her brows. “What do you say?”

Hermione hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding.

The ache in her chest was still there, but she was tired of sitting with it, letting it grow into something unmanageable. Maybe some air, some distance, would help.

“That actually sounds perfect,” she admitted.

Ginny beamed, looping her arm through Hermione’s as they left the library.

Chapter Text

Hogsmeade’s cobblestone streets glistened under the dying light, damp from a lingering mist that curled around shop eaves and clung to the folds of students' cloaks. The scent of damp earth, fallen leaves, and something faintly spiced—cinnamon, maybe, from Honeydukes—threaded through the crisp October air.

Hermione pulled her scarf tighter, her fingers brushing over the soft wool as the wind tugged at the ends like a restless hand. The village hummed with life—students weaving in and out of shops, their laughter carrying through the narrow streets—but the noise barely registered.

She kept pace beside Ginny, who had her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets, her breath puffing softly in the chilled air.

Ahead, Lavender and Parvati leaned close together, their hushed voices carrying back in bubbly fragments.

“…Ron’s finally getting it together,” Lavender declared, her tone brimming with satisfaction. “He’s even planning a date before the Ball. It’s going to be perfect.”

Parvati sighed dreamily. “Lucky you.”

“Thrilling,” Ginny muttered under her breath, making Hermione snort.

Without warning, Lavender spun around, fixing Hermione with an eager gaze.

“And you?” she asked, raising an expectant eyebrow. “You’ve never been on a proper date, have you?”

Hermione stumbled slightly over uneven stones, caught off guard. The question pierced her chest, awkward and unwelcome.

“I—” Her throat felt dry. “I’ve been busy.”

Lavender’s perfectly shaped brows rose dramatically. “Busy?” she echoed, scandalized. “Hermione, that's tragic. You're serious?”

Hermione bit back a sigh. Why was this even a conversation?

“Yes, Lavender. Busy.”

Lavender pressed a hand theatrically to her chest. “But the boys adore you! Seamus told Dean he wants to ask you to the Yule Ball. Isn’t that sweet?”

A sinking sensation curled through Hermione’s stomach.

She sighed wearily. “Seamus asked last week. I turned him down.”

Lavender’s lips pursed. “Well, perhaps you should reconsider. It’s not like you have better options lined up.”

Ginny snorted softly, casting Hermione a wry glance. “I think she’s doing just fine, Lavender. Not everyone needs a date to feel content.”

Hermione suppressed her relief, silently grateful for Ginny.

Lavender flipped her hair, unfazed, and returned to Parvati as they entered the boutique, the chime of a bell welcoming them with warmth. Candles flickered, illuminating rows of shimmering gowns and neatly folded silks. Lavender and Parvati rushed immediately toward velvet dresses, voices fading into excited whispers.

Hermione lingered behind with Ginny, absently running her fingers along a row of winter robes.

Ginny picked up a pair of crimson stilettos from a nearby shelf, holding them up with amusement.

“What do you think?” she asked. “Too much?”

Hermione tilted her head, a smile creeping onto her lips. “Are you hoping to make Harry faint?”

Ginny’s grin turned wicked. “Hmm, maybe not this time.”

They wandered toward a quieter corner, away from Lavender’s dramatic declarations about finding the perfect shade for her gown. Hermione’s fingers brushed gently across emerald silk, cool beneath her touch.

Should she ask?

Ginny caught Hermione’s hesitant look immediately. “Alright,” she said gently, crossing her arms. “Out with it.”

Hermione glanced around carefully before lowering her voice. “Can I ask you something odd?”

“Always.”

She hesitated. “Do you know much about vampires?”

Ginny blinked, clearly surprised. “Vampires? Not really. Why?”

Hermione kept her expression neutral, feigning mild curiosity as she smoothed a velvet sash. “I read something recently. It got me wondering.”

Ginny shrugged thoughtfully. “Dad always says they’re secretive. Don’t trust outsiders, which makes them hard for the Ministry to track. Most of what people say about them is probably nonsense.”

Hermione nodded slowly, absorbing every word.

Ginny cast her a sideways glance. “You’re not planning a vampire rights campaign, are you?”

Hermione laughed softly, shaking her head. “Nothing like that. It's just… fascinating how little we really know about them.”

Ginny studied her closely for a moment before shrugging. “Well, if you’re researching, good luck. Getting real answers about vampires is like asking centaurs for directions.”

Hermione hummed in agreement, though her thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.

After another few minutes of idle browsing, she excused herself, citing an interest in a new bookstore. Lavender and Parvati barely noticed, too caught up in a debate over fabric swatches, but Ginny smirked knowingly.

“I'll meet you at the restaurant in an hour,” Hermione promised, waving off Ginny’s teasing look before stepping outside.

The air had turned colder, sharper, the damp mist curling tighter around the village. Gas lamps cast flickering pools of golden light onto the glistening cobblestones, their glow stretching long and thin over the wet streets. She shoved her hands into her sleeves, her feet carrying her automatically toward Mystic Tomes & Treasures—a quiet, nondescript shop wedged between two larger buildings. Its wooden sign swung gently in the night breeze.

The chime above the door jingled softly as she stepped inside.

A thick wave of sandalwood and burning herbs filled her lungs. The shop was smaller than expected, and not at all what she had hoped for.

Shelves crowded the space, packed not just with books, but with jars of dried flowers, crystals, and ornate candles promising everything from clarity to spiritual rebirth. At the counter, a witch with long black hair flipped idly through a dog-eared book, her dark-painted nails tapping against the parchment.

“Looking for something specific, dear?” she asked.

Hermione shook her head. “Just browsing.”

She scanned the shelves quickly, eyes moving over elaborate gold-lettered titles on divination, past-life readings, chakras—nothing useful. Nothing that would help her.

Frustration gnawed at her.

With a sigh, she turned for the door, pushing past rows of creaking wooden shelves.

Outside, night had deepened.

The streets had emptied some, the noise of the evening reduced to the occasional burst of laughter, a shop bell jingling in the distance. She pulled her scarf tighter, her thoughts still tangled.

She should head to the restaurant. She knew that.

But her feet didn’t turn toward The Gilded Crescent. Instead, they carried her further down the winding streets, away from the crowds, away from the warmth of lit windows and familiar voices.

Her mind was restless.

Malfoy.

His absence had followed her all day, a glaring, empty space she couldn’t quite explain. They weren’t friends. Not really. So why did it bother her? Why did it feel like something was—

A hush.

The shift was subtle but unmistakable—like the air had thickened, like the world had paused around her.

She stopped walking.

The warm glow of shopfronts had vanished, leaving only the yawning mouths of dark alleys and the glisten of damp stones beneath her boots.

Her breath curled in the cold air.

How did I—?

A low laugh shattered the silence.

Her pulse slammed into her ribs.

Ahead, two figures peeled away from the shadows, pushing off the stone wall. Their faces were half-hidden in the dim light, but their movements were slow, deliberate.

Wrong.

A sharp warning zipped through her veins.

“Well, well,” one of them drawled. “Look what we’ve got here. A little witch, all alone in the dark.”

Her fingers curled instinctively around her wand. She kept walking, chin up, shoulders squared, boots tapping sharply against the stones.

Don’t stop. Don’t engage.

A second voice, smooth as oil, slid into the space between them.

“Oi.”

Footsteps quickened behind her.

“Where you off to, sweetheart? We’re just being friendly.”

Sweetheart.

The word turned her stomach.

She gripped her wand tighter, her pace increasing—but the steps behind her matched, too fast, too close.

“Didn’t your mum teach you manners?”

The first man’s voice was nearer now, low and amused.

She turned sharply into a narrow alley, hoping to lose them—only to freeze as a third figure emerged from the darkness ahead.

“Lucky night, isn’t it?” he jeered, yellowed teeth flashing.

A spike of cold fear shot through her chest.

They’d herded her.

She spun, wand raised. “Stay back,” she warned, forcing steel into her voice.

“Or what?” The first man stepped into the dim light. Grinning. Thin. His eyes were sharp as broken glass.

The second flanked him, gaze dragging over her like she was something small, something caught. “Gonna hex us, little witch?”

She didn’t hesitate. “ Stupe— ”

The blow came fast.

A hard, jarring strike to her wrist—sharp pain shot up her arm as her wand was knocked clean from her grasp.

No—

It clattered to the cobblestones, skidding just out of reach. She lunged for it, but a rough hand seized her arm, yanking her back.

Pain sparked up her shoulder as she slammed into the alley wall, the cold stone biting through her coat.

“Feisty,” the first man leered, his face inches from hers. He reeked of alcohol and sweat, the scent clogging her throat.

She twisted violently, but his grip was iron.

“Relax, sweetheart.”

She opened her mouth to scream, but another hand clamped over it, filthy and rough, pressing hard enough to cut off her breath.

The world tilted, her head slamming back against the wall. Stars exploded behind her eyes, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Do something. Do something!

Her free hand shot forward, nails raking down the man’s arm, hard enough to draw blood.

He swore, jerking back just enough—

She drove her knee up, fast, sharp.

A grunt, a stuttered step.

Her opening.

She wrenched free, staggering forward—but another set of hands caught her, forcing her back.

No. No, no, no.

Panic surged hot in her veins, raw and electric. Her wand. Where was her wand?

She twisted, kicked, but they were stronger.

Then, the air shifted.

A blur tore through the alley—too fast, too violent, too sudden.

One moment, the crushing weight of her attacker pinned her to the wall, the stink of alcohol and sweat clogging her throat. The next, he was gone. Ripped away so violently the ground seemed to shudder beneath her boots as his body slammed against the stone.

The abrupt absence sent her world tilting. Her breath hitched in her throat, the cold air slicing into her lungs as she gripped the alley wall, desperate for something solid—something real.

A shape moved in the dim light.

Malfoy.

But not the Malfoy she knew. This was something else.

He emerged from the shadows like a specter, his silhouette tall and razor-edged against the flickering lamplight.

For one disoriented, breathless moment, she barely recognized him.

His face was carved from fury, frozen and lethal, but his eyes—

His eyes burned.

Cold. Glowing.

Predatory.

Her attacker coughed weakly, his limbs twitching as he tried to right himself, but Malfoy was already moving—a slow, deliberate advance that made the hairs on Hermione’s arms stand on end.

“No…” the man rasped, scrambling backward on his elbows. His wand skittered across the cobblestones, forgotten.

Malfoy didn’t hesitate.

In one seamless motion, he seized the man by the front of his robes and slammed him against the wall.

“You touched her.”

The words were barely a whisper, but they scraped the air like a blade. Malfoy’s hand shot out, closing around the man’s throat. His fingers pressed into the skin with a deliberate, unyielding force. The man’s boots scraped against the stones, kicking at nothing, his hands clawing weakly at Malfoy’s wrist.

Hermione blinked, unable to look away.

“Malfoy…” she whispered, but the sound barely carried.

A shadow shifted behind him.

“ Draco, behind you! ”

Everything happened in a flash. She flinched as the second man lunged from the darkness, wand raised, a faint green glow gathering at its tip.

Malfoy turned sharply—his hand snapping out, catching the attacker’s wrist mid-air with a sickening crack.

The wand clattered to the ground.

The man barely had time to gasp before Malfoy’s elbow drove into his jaw with brutal precision. The impact sent him sprawling, blood streaking from his mouth as he collapsed in a limp, groaning heap.

Hermione barely had time to process the violence of it before movement at the alley’s entrance yanked her attention away—the third man, bolting.

Malfoy turned, breath misting in short, controlled bursts. Without missing a beat, he flicked his wand, a jet of red light streaking through the dark.

The fleeing man barely made it three steps before he crumpled mid-stride, crashing onto the wet stone in an unconscious heap.

Malfoy turned back, and Hermione’s breath hitched at the look in his eyes. The man he still held sagged in his grip, choking on shallow gasps. Malfoy’s knuckles were stark white against the other wizard’s throat, his body rigid, vibrating with cold, silent rage.

“You think you can touch her?” his voice was low, almost gentle, the sound more terrifying than a shout. “You think you’ll walk away?”

“Draco!” Hermione’s voice broke, sharp and desperate.

The sound cracked through the alley, pulling him back like a tether.

He froze, shoulders heaving with every strained breath. Slowly, almost painfully, he turned his head toward her. The furious light in his eyes flickered, dimming as her voice seemed to ground him.

“Let him go,” she said, forcing steadiness into her tone despite the trembling in her hands. “Please.”

For a beat, he didn’t move. The man in his grip let out a strangled whimper, his face pale and damp with fear. Malfoy’s lip curled slightly, as though he found the sound revolting.

Then, with a sharp exhale, he dropped him. The man crumpled to the ground, coughing violently as he clutched at his bruised throat.

Before he could scramble away, Malfoy flicked his wand, a sharp, effortless motion, and the man slumped bonelessly against the floor.

Hermione’s pulse thundered in her ears as Malfoy turned fully to face her. The menace that had shrouded him moments before evaporated, replaced by something else—raw and fractured. He took a halting step toward her, then stopped, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice hoarse and stripped bare.

She shook her head quickly, words tripping over themselves in her haste to respond. “No. I—I’m fine.” But her voice betrayed her, shaking as adrenaline lingered in her veins, making her knees feel unsteady beneath her.

His gaze swept over her like a searchlight, pausing on her face, her neck, her arms. His jaw flexed, and a fresh wave of tension rippled through him.

“They hurt you,” he muttered, the words low, unsteady, thick with something she didn’t know how to name. His eyes flickered back toward the unconscious men sprawled across the cobblestones, narrowing with a dangerous glint.

“Malfoy—” she started, but before she could get the words out, he was stepping closer, his presence filling the small space between them. His fingers wrapped carefully around her wrist turning her hand upward to inspect the dark bruises blooming under her skin.

She swallowed hard, her heart stuttering in her chest. His touch was cool, his grip grounding, and though he didn’t speak, the tension rolling off him in waves was almost palpable. His gaze dropped to her fingers, to the dried blood under her nails, the grime caked along the lines of her palm.

Then, without a word, he flicked his wand. Warmth ghosted over her skin, gentle and precise, cleansing away the blood and dirt. The evidence of the attack vanished, but the bruises remained, stark against her pale skin—a reminder of what she’d just endured.

His fingers lingered, thumb brushing over the tender flesh at her wrist, and she felt her pulse quicken under his touch, heat rising to her cheeks. She knew she shouldn’t feel this way—shouldn’t feel this strange sense of security in his presence—but she did. 

He’d come for her, saved her, again, and the weight of that realization was dizzying.

His grip tightened slightly, frustration flickering in his eyes as his gaze darted back to the fallen men. His expression twisted, a shadow of helplessness crossing his features.

She reached out, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his coat, forcing his attention back to her. “You stopped them,” she said softly, the words trembling in the cold night air. “I’m okay now. You stopped them.”

His breath hitched, and he dragged a hand through his hair, the motion jerky and desperate. His other hand twitched on her wrist, his thumb resting against her pulsepoint, as if reassuring himself that she was still there, still alive.

“You shouldn’t have been here,” he said, his voice cracking around the edges. “If they—if you—”

“But I’m okay,” she interrupted, her voice stronger this time.

His gaze snapped to hers, wild and searching. 

“You found me,” she whispered, her voice almost lost to the cold wind.

He stared at her, his eyes dark and unreadable, before his gaze dropped to where her hand lingered against his arm. Slowly, he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders sagging.

Then, with a sharp shake of his head, he stepped back, his expression shuttering closed, the walls rebuilding in real time. He cleared his throat, glancing toward the darkened alley. “We need to go,” he said roughly. “Use your Patronus to send word to the authorities. They’ll find them before they wake up.”

She hesitated, then nodded, picking up her wand. She took a breath, focused, summoned a memory—

But when she cast, the expected silver otter didn’t appear.

Instead, a swirl of blue mist curled from her wand tip, amorphous and shifting, as if something else were trying to take shape but couldn’t quite form.

She stared, stunned, heart pounding with shock and confusion. The mist dissipated, the message sent, but her old Patronus was gone.

Malfoy watched her, his eyes glinting, but he didn’t say anything.

Neither did she.

Instead, she turned, her mind racing as they stepped out of the alley, leaving behind the crumpled figures in the dark.

Malfoy’s hand found her back, a steady, grounding weight.

He didn’t remove it.

And Hermione didn’t ask him to.

Chapter Text

The soft, golden glow of The Gilded Crescent spilled across the cobblestone street, pooling like a warm beacon against the cool night. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and spiced cider, a sharp contrast to the lingering scent of damp stone and sweat still clinging to Hermione’s thoughts.

She forced herself to take a deep breath, steadying the slight tremor still ghosting through her limbs. She wasn’t shaking anymore—not exactly—but something in her still felt off-kilter, unsteady, fragile in a way she hated.

Draco stayed close. His hand still on the small of her back. A constant, solid presence.

The weight of him beside her—his quiet, watchful stillness—settled something inside her. Her pulse, which had been erratic since the alley, slowed.

They stepped toward the restaurant, and Ginny’s unmistakable fiery hair came into view near the entrance.

Hermione’s shoulders loosened marginally.

Parvati must have returned to the castle early—it was just Lavender and Ginny now, their figures bright against the darkened street, oblivious to the tension still coiling beneath Hermione’s skin.

Then, Lavender turned.

The moment her gaze landed on Hermione and Draco together, she froze mid-sentence, her mouth parting in a perfectly comical ‘O.’ Ginny’s sharp eyes followed, her expression flickering through surprise, curiosity, and then something far too sly.

Oh, for Merlin’s sake.

Draco exhaled a quiet chuckle beside her, the sound low and knowing. He didn’t look at her, but the faintest smirk curved his lips.

“Your friends are wondering why you’re with me,” he murmured, voice pitched just for her. Smooth. Amused. Unbothered by their attention.

She barely had time to process the remark before his next words knocked the breath from her chest.

“Let me make it simple for them—I’d like to buy you dinner.”

She stumbled, her boots scraping awkwardly against the stone. “What?” she blurted, heart lurching into a frantic rhythm. Heat climbed her neck. “That—no, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

The weight of his words settled over her, stealing her next breath, her next excuse. She turned fully toward him, intending to protest, to brush it off—but then she met his gaze.

And—oh.

Draco Malfoy didn’t look at her like this. 

Not the way he was looking at her now—intent, resolute, like he’d already made up his mind and was just waiting for her to catch up.

He wants to have dinner with me.

Her heart hammered. Not because she was scared. No—not of him. Never of him.

Because she knew. 

Knew that no mere wizard moved the way he did. No human fought like that, moved like a shadow, vanished like mist.

He was something else. Something more.

And she didn’t care.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, her breath unsteady. She swallowed hard, trying to gather herself, to find some logical response.

“I’m not sure I—”

“You’re overthinking again.”

He stepped in, close enough that she could feel his warmth, hear the quiet hum of his breath. The scent of his cologne curled between them, grounding her, wrapping around her like something solid.

His lips tilted at the corners, but the challenge in his voice was unmistakable.

“Say yes, Granger.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. The quiet command in his voice had a way of scattering her thoughts like leaves in the wind. She bit her lip, hating the way her heart raced under his watchful eyes.

“Alright,” she heard herself say, the word soft, barely audible.

Draco’s smirk deepened. A gleam of satisfaction sparked in his silver eyes, and he leaned in, just enough for his voice to drop into a low, deliberate register that sent a slow, curling heat through her veins.

“Good girl.”

She inhaled sharply, lips parting, body betraying her.

Oh.

Heat flooded her stomach, her skin prickling, burning in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

Draco straightened, his expression maddeningly composed, as if he hadn’t just—

As if he hadn’t just wrecked her.

Hermione blinked, dazed.

“Go on then,” he said smoothly, tilting his chin toward Ginny and Lavender, who were still watching—utterly fascinated. “I’ll wait here.”

She hesitated. Turning suddenly felt very difficult, but she forced her feet to move, her steps shaky as she crossed the cobblestone toward her friends. Every nerve in her body was acutely aware of Draco’s gaze tracking her.

Ginny’s smirk widened the closer Hermione got, amusement dancing in her sharp brown eyes. Lavender, however, looked like she’d been hit with a Confundus Charm, her jaw slack as her gaze flicked from Hermione to Draco, then back again.

“What’s going on, Hermione?” Ginny asked, her tone far too smug. She crossed her arms, arching a knowing brow.

Hermione cleared her throat, fighting the warmth creeping up her neck. “Draco—Malfoy,” she corrected quickly, “he, um…” She trailed off, wincing inwardly.

Words. Where were her words?

“He’s insisting on buying me dinner,” she finished in a rush, as if saying it faster would make it sound less absurd.

Lavender blinked. Then she gaped, as if Hermione had just announced she was running off to elope with a troll.

“Malfoy?” she sputtered, voice climbing dangerously high. “Dinner? With you?”

Ginny, far more composed, tilted her head, studying Hermione closely. Then, leaning in, she murmured low enough that only Hermione could hear—“Are you okay with this?”

The glint in her eyes said she already knew the answer.

Hermione exhaled, her fingers tightening around her sleeves as her pulse raced. The logical part of her brain scrambled for caution, for reason—but her heart had already settled.

“I trust him.”

The words left her without hesitation.

Ginny’s smirk melted into a wide, triumphant grin. “Well, that’s settled then.”

Lavender opened her mouth again, looking seconds away from combusting, but before she could unleash another round of high-pitched disbelief, footsteps approached from behind.

Hermione didn’t need to turn to know who it was. 

Draco stopped just behind her, a cool chill brushing against her back. Close enough to be felt, not quite enough to touch. But she swore she could feel him anyway.

His gaze swept over the two girls, sharp and assessing, before settling on Lavender.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, voice clipped—a quiet threat buried beneath civility.

Ginny’s grin widened, positively gleeful. “None at all.”

Lavender made a strangled noise, visibly flustered, and shook her head quickly. “N-no, no problem.” She darted another quick, wide-eyed glance at Draco, then at Hermione, before dropping her gaze entirely.

Draco held her there for a second longer—a slow, deliberate moment of tension. Then, just as easily, he dismissed her entirely, turning his attention back to Hermione.

The sharpness in his features softened, the hard lines around his eyes easing as his voice dropped, quieter, just for her.

“Shall we?”

Her breath hitched and she nodded mutely, warmth curling at the base of her spine as he placed a light hand against her back, guiding her forward.

The touch was brief, barely there, but it lingered. A shiver ran down her spine, and she had no idea if it was from the chill of the night air or him.

Behind her, Ginny’s voice rang out, far too cheerful.

“Have fun!”

Hermione shot her a scorching glare over her shoulder, but Ginny only winked, utterly unrepentant. Lavender, meanwhile, still looked as if she needed a Calming Draught.

The restaurant door swung shut behind them, cutting off the cool night air, wrapping them in the warm glow of The Gilded Crescent.

The small, elegant restaurant hummed with quiet magic. Floating orbs cast golden light over the booths, illuminating polished wood and rich leather upholstery. A soft string quartet played in the corner, their music threading through the clink of glasses and low murmur of conversation.

Hermione inhaled deeply, letting the warmth settle over her.

It felt… intimate.

She followed Draco inside, tucking her hands into her sleeves.

The hostess greeted them with a bright, polished smile. But as soon as she took in Draco, her demeanor shifted.

Her smile widened, her posture straightening slightly—preening.

Oh, for Merlin’s sake.

“Welcome to The Gilded Crescent,” the hostess said, a little too smooth. She tucked a stray piece of rich brunette hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering as she batted her lashes.

Hermione felt a sharp, irrational annoyance curl in her stomach.

The woman wasn’t even being subtle.

Draco, for his part, looked entirely unimpressed.

He barely acknowledged the hostess, his focus remaining firmly on Hermione as he stepped aside, gesturing for her to go first.

The hostess didn’t seem deterred. As they walked toward a secluded booth in the back, she kept sneaking glances at him, lingering just a fraction too long.

When they reached the table, she hesitated, smoothing the menus unnecessarily, her eyes fixed on Draco like she was hoping he’d finally notice her.

“Are we comfortable?” she asked, her voice sickly sweet.

Draco slid into the booth without sparing her a glance.

“Perfect,” he said, tone flat, disinterested.

The hostess flushed. And after another awkward pause, she finally drifted away, her shoulders slumping.

Hermione busied herself with the menu, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

He hadn’t even looked at her.

Her irritation faded into something smug.

And then—before she could fully analyze why that mattered—a new problem presented itself.

The waitress.

Here we go.

“Good evening,” she purred, not even glancing at Hermione. Her attention was locked onto Draco, her smile coy, posture shifting slightly as if to draw attention to her neckline. “Can I get you something to drink to start?”

Hermione fought the urge to roll her eyes so hard they might get stuck.

“Water,” she said briskly, forcing her tone to remain polite, though her grip on the menu tightened.

The waitress barely acknowledged her, her eyes already drifting back to Draco with renewed interest. “And for you?”

“Nothing.” 

The waitress hesitated, clearly thrown by his disinterest. For a brief moment, her polished, flirtatious demeanor cracked, but she recovered quickly, pasting on another practiced smile.

“And food?” she asked, flipping her order pad open with a deliberate flick of her wrist.

Draco leaned back, completely at ease, his silver gaze steady on Hermione. “She’ll have the mushroom ravioli.”

Hermione blinked, her mouth parting. “I—”

His eyes flicked to hers, a silent challenge glinting in them. One brow lifted, daring her to argue.

She clamped her mouth shut.

Heat prickled up her neck as she sank back into her seat with a muttered, “I was going to say I’m fine.”

Draco looked entirely unbothered.

The waitress, however, still lingered, clearly waiting for his attention, but he didn’t acknowledge her. Finally, with a barely concealed huff, she scribbled on her notepad and walked away.

Hermione exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “You could’ve at least looked at her.”

He tilted his head slightly, considering her, then replied, deadpan, “Why?”

Her brow furrowed. “Because she was obviously—” She caught herself, snapping her mouth shut.

Draco’s lips curled slightly. That infuriating, knowing smirk.

Oh, Merlin. He’d noticed.

He was enjoying this.

She straightened, forcing herself to appear unaffected. “It’s called common courtesy, Malfoy.”

Draco hummed, clearly unconvinced. “I don’t waste time entertaining people who don’t matter.”

The words landed heavier than she expected, settling somewhere deep in her chest.

Did that mean he thought I mattered?

She looked down at the table, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood.

His voice dipped, quieter now. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

The shift in his tone made her still. She glanced up, meeting his gaze, and was momentarily caught off guard by the concern flickering behind the pale grey.

“I’m fine,” she answered too quickly.

His gaze scanned her face, searching. He wasn’t convinced.

She forced a small smile. “Really, Malfoy. It’s over.”

Except the alley still lingered—the memory pressed at the edges of her mind, like phantom hands still gripping her arms. Her fingers curled into fists, as if she could physically push the thoughts away.

Draco’s hand twitched against the table, fingers curling and flexing, as his eyes landed on her wrist.

The bruises forming against her skin were stark, standing out in the dim light of the restaurant. 

“What happened tonight…” he started, voice low, reluctant. He exhaled through his nose, his jaw clenching. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

She swallowed past the tightness in her throat. “It’s over now,” she said softly.

He didn’t look like he believed it. His gaze drifted to the window, the muscle in his jaw flexing. He looked ready to bolt—to chase something down, as if his body was still wired for a fight.

She shifted slightly, her knee knocking against his under the table.

Draco snapped his focus back to her immediately, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

Without a word, he stood.

Hermione frowned. “What are you—?”

He shrugged off his coat in a single fluid motion. Before she could protest, he rounded the table and draped it over her shoulders, the heavy fabric enveloping her. The weight was warm, grounding. The scent of him—cedar, parchment, something uniquely him—wrapped around her, steadying the shivers she hadn’t realized were still there.

Her fingers tightened around the lapels, pulling the coat closer.

“Better?” he asked, voice low and rough as he sat back down.

She nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”

His gaze settled back on her, steady and unreadable, though a shadow lingered behind it.

“You told Ginny you feel safe with me,” he murmured after a long pause. “Why?”

She stilled, her fingers tightening in his coat. The weight of his question pressed heavily on her chest, making her hesitate.

“Because…” She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “You’re always there. Saving me. Every time something happens.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He looked away, his hand flexing briefly before stilling. “You shouldn’t rely on me,” he said.

“Why not?” 

He inhaled sharply, as if the question had disturbed something deep inside him.

“Because I’m not—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. He exhaled sharply, his lips curling in something almost self-deprecating. “Because you’re a magnet for trouble, Granger.”

Hermione huffed a soft laugh, her lips twitching. “Maybe. But you keep saving me anyway.”

Draco leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. His smirk returned, but it was still tight. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re…” Hermione tilted her head, considering. “Complicated.”

The word lingered between them, more weighted than she intended. His smirk twitched at the corners of his mouth, but before he could respond, the waitress returned, placing Hermione’s plate in front of her.

She thanked the woman quietly, determinedly avoiding the glances still being thrown Draco’s way.

Oh, honestly.

She speared a bite of ravioli with more force than necessary, as if the poor pasta was responsible for her simmering irritation.

She took a few bites, pretending not to notice the waitress lingering longer than needed.

With a visible slump of disappointment, the woman finally turned and disappeared toward the bar.

Hermione let out a breath, refusing to acknowledge the ridiculous amount of satisfaction curling in her chest.

Draco smirked.

Her stomach dropped. He noticed. 

She scowled, shifting in her seat. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” His voice dipped into something lower, lazier.

Like you know exactly what I’m thinking.

“Like you’re amused,” she muttered, forcing herself to focus on her food.

His smirk deepened but, mercifully, he let the matter drop.

A few beats of silence passed before Hermione spoke again, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

“You look different this year.”

Draco blinked, caught off guard. “Different how?”

She hesitated, heat creeping into her cheeks. “I don’t know,” she admitted, feeling oddly self-conscious under his gaze. “Just… different.”

His eyes darkened slightly, as if considering her words.

But before he could respond, she added quickly, “I have theories.”

That pulled a real smirk from him. “Of course you do.”

Her gaze flickered to his hand, where it rested on the table. Long, pale fingers, elegant yet tense. He was always so composed, always in control, but there was something wound tightly beneath the surface, a tension that never seemed to ebb.

Before she could think twice, she reached out and placed her hand over his.

His fingers twitched beneath hers.

She froze, her breath catching. Warmth spread up her arm, despite the coldness of his skin, curling low in her stomach. She half-expected him to pull away, to break the moment with a cutting remark or a smirk.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned his hand in a flash, his palm meeting hers.

His thumb ghosted over her knuckles, slow and careful.

A faint shiver skated down her spine. Her fingers curled slightly against his—tentative, testing. The space between them felt suddenly smaller, the air heavier.

She forced herself to breathe. “Malfoy,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze snapped to hers.

“Why were you in Hogsmeade tonight?”

His thumb stilled, pressing lightly against her knuckles. Then, slowly, he traced along the ridges of her fingers.

“I followed you.”

Her breath caught.

The words settled between them, thick and tangible. She knew she should be unnerved, maybe even angry. But instead, something entirely different uncoiled in her chest.

She swallowed. “Why?”

His fingers flexed around hers, tightening briefly before slipping over her palm again, his touch restless. His gaze flickered downward, like looking at her was too much. But then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he admitted, “Because I couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to you.”

The words sent her pulse spiraling.

Her fingers curled against his palm, a silent response she didn’t fully understand.

Draco’s grip shifted slightly, his fingertips brushing the inside of her wrist now, lingering against her pulse. He exhaled slowly, his voice rough.

“I lost sight of you,” he admitted. “I didn’t mean to, but I did. And when I couldn’t find you…” He exhaled sharply, frustration threading through every word. “I had to rely on someone else.”

Her brow knit. “Someone else?”

“Lavender,” he said flatly, the name escaping him like a sour taste. “I heard her thoughts—that you’d gone to the bookstore alone.”

Her brow furrowed, her mind racing to keep up. “You… used Legilimency on her?”

“No,” he replied, his tone sharp but even. “I don’t need spells or eye contact. It’s… something else.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted, the implications sinking in. “You can read minds?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly with a mix of unease and curiosity.

“Not exactly.” He exhaled. “It’s more like… background noise. Some thoughts are clearer than others.”

“Can you hear mine?”

His lips twitched into a bitter smirk. “No,” he said simply. “Yours are… quiet.”

Her brow furrowed. “Quiet?”

“Frustratingly so,” he admitted, irritation lacing his tone, as though her silence was a personal affront. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met whose thoughts I can’t hear.”

Relief twisted with unease, and she let out a slow breath, trying to steady the racing thoughts in her mind.

She lowered her gaze, watching his fingers still moving against her skin.

“Why hide this?” she asked, searching his face for answers.

His smirk faded, replaced by something quieter, more guarded. A shadow flickered across his sharp features, something she couldn’t quite name.

“Because it doesn’t matter,” he said simply.

“It does matter,” she countered, her brows drawing together.

“It doesn’t,” he said, shaking his head, his jaw tightening. “What matters is that I heard what those men were planning, and I stopped them.”

The memory of the alley clawed its way back, vivid and sharp. Cold hands on her skin. The metallic scent of fear in the air. The raw panic that had seized her before Draco had ripped through the night like a force of nature.

Her fingers twitched, then tightened—just slightly—where they still rested against his.

“You almost killed them,” she murmured.

“I wanted to.”

The raw honesty of his words sent a jolt through her. There was no anger in his tone, no bravado—just a stark, chilling truth.

“Why didn’t you?”

His gaze softened, the tension in his posture shifting, something breaking just beneath the surface.

“Because I knew you’d hate me for it.”

Her breath caught, the weight of his confession settling over her. He’d stopped—for her. The realization wrapped around her like a rope, pulling her closer to something she couldn’t yet name.

She sat back slightly, her thoughts spinning. She should have been horrified, angry even, by everything she’d learned. But all she felt was a strange, steady relief.

“Are you angry?”

“No.” It was instant, sure.

His eyes searched hers, as though trying to find the lie she wasn’t telling. His expression turned conflicted. “You should be,” he said roughly, his voice gravel-edged, as if the words tasted bitter. “I shouldn’t have followed you.”

She swallowed, the weight of the night settling heavy on her shoulders.

“Maybe my number was up,” she tried, attempting levity she didn’t quite feel. “Maybe I was supposed to—”

“Stop,” he cut her off sharply, his tone firm enough to make her flinch. His expression hardened, his stormy eyes pinning her in place. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” she asked, frowning.

He looked away, his hand flexing around hers as though holding himself together. When he finally looked back at her, his face was unguarded, raw in a way that made her breath hitch.

“Because your number was up the first time I met you.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. “What does that mean?”

The silence that followed felt heavy, weighted with unspoken truths.

“It means you’ve been in danger since the moment you entered my world,” he said finally, his voice low and quiet, as though admitting it cost him something.

“And yet you keep saving me,” she whispered.

He didn’t respond. His gaze held hers, searching, as though he were looking for something he couldn’t quite find.

The moment shattered when the waitress returned, breaking the fragile stillness as she set the bill on the table. 

Hermione startled, suddenly hyper-aware of how close they had leaned toward one another—her hand still resting in his, their fingers loosely intertwined. Heat surged up her neck. She let go hastily, pulling back as if burned, her heart thudding unsteadily against her ribs.

Draco didn’t say anything, but something in his expression tightened. He reached for the bill, his quick movements leaving no room for argument.

“Malfoy,” Hermione began, reaching out, but he silenced her with a simple wave of his hand.

“Let me,” he said firmly.

She exhaled, looking away, her exasperation mingling with something warmer.

As they stepped into the cool night, the silence stretched between them. The distant glow of the castle rose against the dark horizon, but Hermione’s focus remained on the man beside her. His jaw was set, his shoulders tense, but there was something else—something fragile beneath the surface.

“You can ask,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking through the quiet.

She blinked, startled. “Ask what?”

His silver eyes flicked toward her, catching the faint moonlight.

“Anything.”

Chapter Text

The grounds of Hogwarts stretched before them, bathed in silvery moonlight. The castle loomed in the distance, its many spires piercing the night sky like dark silhouettes against the scattered stars. The cool air carried the scent of damp earth and pine, mixing with the lingering, intoxicating trace of Draco’s coat still draped over Hermione’s shoulders.

Their footsteps crunched softly along the gravel path, the sound swallowed by the vast stillness of the grounds. Draco’s stride was smooth, effortless, a stark contrast to the way Hermione’s pulse thrummed wildly beneath her skin. The wind toyed with his hair, catching the pale strands and making them shimmer faintly under the moon’s glow. She stole glances at him despite herself, unable to stop noticing him—the sharp line of his jaw, the way the faint tension in his brow hadn’t fully eased, the quiet intensity of his presence.

She pulled his coat tighter around herself. The warmth, the scent of him, the weight of the fabric—it was grounding. She told herself it was for the cold.

Draco broke the silence first.

“You’re unusually quiet,” he murmured, voice low and smooth, cutting through the crisp night air.

She hesitated, her boots pressing into the gravel as she glanced down. “I don’t know where to begin,” she admitted softly, biting her lip. “And I’m afraid you’ll be angry.”

His steps slowed. “I won’t be,” he said, though there was something dangerous in the certainty of his voice. His hand brushed lightly against her back, a fleeting touch that lingered just long enough to steady her. “Say it, Granger. Whatever it is.”

She inhaled deeply, gathering her courage.

“I talked with Theo by the lake this weekend.”

Draco stopped walking.

The shift in him was instant. His hand fell from her back. His shoulders stiffened. Even the air between them seemed to grow colder.

“And?” 

She swallowed. “He didn’t tell me anything outright,” she said quickly, the words spilling out before he could shut her out. “But he hinted at things—something about a family curse. It made me curious. So, I started researching.”

His jaw tensed further, the muscle feathering beneath his skin.

“Researching,” he repeated flatly.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Silence stretched between them, thick and charged. She stepped closer, hesitant, her heart thrumming against her ribs.

“I also… dreamed about you,” she admitted, her voice barely more than a breath. The words burned her throat, hot and humiliating, but she forced herself to keep going. She met his gaze, her face heating. “In it, you had red eyes. And… fangs.”

Draco turned fully toward her, his presence suddenly overwhelming. His silver eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight, cold and beautiful.

“And?”

She pressed on, despite the tightness in her chest. “And… it made me wonder,” she murmured. “I started reading about vampires. But after a while… I stopped.”

His brows drew together—faint confusion, wariness. “Why?”

She held his gaze.

“Because I decided that it didn’t matter anymore,” she said softly.

For a breath, he just stared at her, as if she’d spoken in a language he couldn’t quite understand.

“It didn’t matter?” he echoed, his voice sharper now. A blade unsheathed. “You think I might be a vampire—a literal monster—and it doesn’t matter?”

She sighed. “You’re angry,” she murmured, glancing away.

“Of course I’m angry!” He bit out, his voice rougher than before. His hand flew through his hair, the strands falling messily across his forehead. “Do you even care how dangerous I am?”

Her heart stuttered, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.

“No,” she said quietly.

He stilled.

The answer had the effect of a wand to the chest, like she’d winded him.

“You should,” he said at last, his voice rough.

“I don’t,” she repeated, her voice softer but firm. She wasn’t afraid of him. She couldn’t be, not after everything he’d done for her.

He stared at her, something wild and disbelieving flickering across his face before he exhaled—long and slow—and looked away, jaw tight.

“How long have you been… like this?” she asked, curiosity threading through the tangle of emotions in her chest.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked toward the horizon, his posture rigid, as though bracing for something.

“A while,” he finally said. “Long enough.”

The admission hit her harder than she expected. Not with fear, but with something closer to… sorrow.

She swallowed. “And the myths? Sleeping in coffins? Avoiding sunlight?”

His lips curled—not quite a smirk, but close.

“Rubbish,” he muttered. “I don’t sleep much. And sunlight doesn’t bother me—not the way those stories claim.”

That… made sense. Now that she thought about it.

He was outside all the time—flying over the pitch, walking the path down to the forest with Blaise or Theo, stretched out on the grass near the lake with a book open and his eyes half-shut in the light. She’d seen him in sunlight often enough to know it hadn’t done anything to him. 

Not that she’d been watching him or anything. Obviously.

She cleared her throat, hoping her face wasn’t doing something unfortunate.

“What about other abilities?” she asked quickly. “You can read minds. Is that… a vampire thing too?”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking over her face. Watching her. 

“I’ve always been able to do that,” he said. “But after I turned it got stronger. Harder to control.”

There was something careful in the way he said it. Like he wasn’t used to explaining. Like he wasn’t sure if he should be.

“Some of us are born with extra abilities,” he went on. “Some gain them after they’re turned. It’s… unpredictable.”

She nodded, trying to play it cool. But inside, she was buzzing. He was answering her. Actually answering her. He wasn’t shutting her down or changing the subject. He was just… letting her ask, like it didn’t bother him at all. 

And gods, it only made her want to ask more. 

“And in Potions,” she said, pushing forward. “When Seamus’s cauldron exploded. You moved so fast. One second you were across the room, and the next—”

She shook her head, still not understanding it.

“You were just there.”

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at her.

“And your sleeve was burned,” she added, cheeks going warm again. “But your skin… there wasn’t even a mark.”

He glanced down then, at her arm. The one that had blistered. 

His brow furrowed, and without a word, he stepped forward. 

Carefully, he reached out. His fingers brushed her wrist, then slid up her sleeve, lifting the fabric just enough to see the pale skin beneath.

Her breath caught as he turned her arm slightly, examining the skin like he needed to be sure it had healed properly.

Her heart thudded wildly, unreasonably loud in her chest. Every part of her was suddenly hyperaware of him: the chill of his touch, the gentle strength in his grip, the way his brows drew together in that same pinched crease she'd seen when he was working in class. 

“We heal fast,” he said, quietly. “Move faster.”

But she wasn’t really paying attention to his words. His gaze was still on her arm. And hers was still on him.

She couldn’t think straight. Her thoughts were everywhere. He was still so close, his hand still around her arm, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to take a step back or lean in and never stop asking him things.

She had so many questions. About the way he moved. How it all worked. If he could feel it when he healed, or if it just happened. She wanted to compare notes, cross-reference the books she’d been reading with his answers. But more than that, she wanted to keep him here. Talking. Looking at her like this. Touching her like this.

She dragged in a shaky breath. Pulled herself together.

And asked the question that mattered most.

“And blood?” she said carefully. “Some of the books say vampires don’t have to drink human blood. That it’s a choice.”

He stilled. The shift was subtle—his jaw tightening, shoulders drawing back—but it felt like a door quietly shutting. He released her arm and stepped away, and it took effort not to close the space he left behind.

“It is,” he admitted. His voice was quieter now, the weight of the confession pressing between them. “But it doesn’t make us less dangerous. Sometimes… we slip. Sometimes we make mistakes.”

She swallowed, forcing her voice to stay steady. “The attacks in Hogsmeade,” she said slowly. “The ones in the Prophet. Was that…?”

Draco’s jaw locked instantly, the faint tension in his posture hardening into something unreadable. The flickering moonlight carved sharp lines into his face, but his expression was impossible to decipher.

“It wasn’t me,” he said firmly.

Something loosened in her chest. “Then was it—” She hesitated, feeling the question catch in her throat. “Was it another vampire?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Yes,” he admitted, voice clipped.

Hermione exhaled, her breath curling in the night air like smoke.

It was one thing to suspect. It was another to hear him confirm it.

The Prophet had said the Ministry was handling it, that the creature must have moved on. But if it wasn’t an animal… if it was one of them…

Her thoughts raced.

“Do you know who?” she asked, watching him carefully.

Draco shook his head, but something about the motion was stiff, uneasy. “No,” he said simply.

She studied him, searching for cracks in the truth.

“But you suspect.”

He let out a slow breath, gaze flickering toward the darkened path ahead. “I have my theories,” he murmured, his voice just above a whisper. “But none I can prove.”

A shudder ran through her before she could stop it.

She didn’t doubt him. Not really. But the idea of something else lurking in the shadows, something like him—only without his restraint—made her stomach twist.

“You don’t…” She hesitated. “You don’t drink human blood, do you?”

His head snapped back toward her. “No.” The word came sharp, immediate. “Never.”

A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding escaped her in a rush.

He exhaled too, his tension easing only slightly. His hands unclenched at his sides.

“I hunt animals,” he said, quieter now. “It’s not… perfect, but it keeps me in control.” 

She hesitated, her chest tightening. “Why?” she asked softly. “Why not people?”

His gaze dropped, his fingers flexing as though fighting the urge to clench into fists again.

“Because I don’t want to be a monster,” he said at last, his voice so low she barely caught the words. “Living on animals… it’s like being a vegetarian. But it’s not easy. Especially not…”

His eyes flickered up, locking onto hers.

“Not with someone like you around.”

Her breath hitched. “Someone like me?” 

His silver eyes tracked over her face—her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, before snapping away like he’d caught himself.

“You’re impossible to ignore, Granger,” he muttered, his voice tight. “Your scent, your appearance… It’s like…” He shook his head, his voice dropping to something more strained. “It’s dangerous.”

Hermione swallowed hard, heat creeping up her neck.

“Are you… hungry now?” she asked hesitantly.

His jaw tensed. His fingers twitched. But after a beat, he exhaled sharply and shook his head.

“No,” he said, though his voice was slightly rougher than before. “I went hunting with Blaise today.”

The answer surprised her. “Blaise? He’s… like you?”

Draco’s face hardened slightly. He nodded once. “Yes.”

Her mind reeled. Blaise Zabini, a vampire?

“Are there… more?” she asked carefully. “At Hogwarts?”

A flicker of hesitation crossed his features. He studied her for a long moment, as if deciding how much to tell her.

Finally, he sighed.

“A few,” he admitted. His voice was even, but something about it made her stomach twist. “Mostly among pureblood families.”

Her brows furrowed. Purebloods?

“You’re saying this… it’s common?” she pressed.

His lips twitched, but not in amusement.

“More common than anyone cares to admit,” he said. “But even among us, it’s treated like a myth. A secret whispered behind closed doors.”

The pieces started fitting together. The secrecy, the obsession with bloodlines, the lengths they would go to protect their image.

“So, it’s a curse?” she asked quietly, remembering Theo’s cryptic comment.

“In a way. It runs through some of the ancient bloodlines—a curse that accompanies the so-called privilege of purity.”

Hermione inhaled slowly, absorbing the weight of it.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You’ve lived with this your whole life.”

“Not my whole life,” he corrected, his voice dipping lower. “It doesn’t work that way.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

Draco’s gaze stayed on the horizon.

“It lies dormant,” he said. “Typically activating when a witch or wizard comes of age. Even then, it doesn’t affect everyone—it skips generations. My father…” He hesitated, his jaw clenching visibly. 

“My father never dealt with it,” he finished, his tone clipped.

Her heart ached at the flicker of pain behind his words.

“When?” she asked softly.

His eyes darkened. “Sixth year.”

Hermione’s stomach lurched. Sixth year. The upcoming war. The stress, the weight of impossible choices, the nightmares she knew he must have lived through—and this, too.

“I thought the stress, the fear—I thought that was why I felt so… different,” he admitted. “But then it all fell into place. And I realized what I was becoming.”

She stared at him, her chest tight. A lump formed in her throat.

“And your parents?” she asked gently. “Did they… did anyone help you?”

His expression softened slightly. “My mother. She has the affliction too. She helped us all.”

“Us?”

He held her gaze, unreadable. “Blaise, Theo, Pansy…”

She blinked. “Theo and Pansy too?” 

“Yes.” 

The revelation settled heavily in her mind. She thought of Theo’s quiet watchfulness, of Pansy’s sharp, cutting edge that always seemed to mask something deeper. It made sense in a way she didn’t want to admit.

The quiet stretched between them as they continued to walk, but her mind refused to still. Questions pressed against her skull, too loud, too demanding. One broke free before she could stop it.

“Is that why you went home this weekend?” she asked. “To see her?”

“Yes.”

“But you were back today.” Her voice was careful now, searching. “Why weren’t you in class?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

She pressed on, narrowing her eyes. “You were back, weren’t you?”

He sighed—sharp, frustrated. “I couldn’t risk it.”

“Risk what?”

“Seeing you,” he admitted.

Draco turned to face her fully again, his eyes dark with something heavy. “I needed to hunt,” he continued, each word slow and careful, like he was trying not to break something fragile between them. “I couldn’t… be near you like that. It’s dangerous.”

A shiver ran through her.

“So instead of telling me,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended, “you just avoided me?”

“I sent Theo to check on you,” he said defensively.

She stared at him, incredulous.

“You sent Theo,” she repeated, her breath catching on the words. “So you get to know I’m okay while I’m left worrying about you?” Her voice rose slightly, disbelief turning to hurt. “How is that fair?”

Draco groaned, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration coiling through him like a storm barely contained. “This is wrong,” he muttered, his voice tight. “You shouldn’t feel this way about me.”

Her chest contracted. The words should have hurt more than they did. But all she could focus on was the way his hands clenched at his sides, how his silver eyes burned with something she hoped was longing.

“Too late,” she whispered.

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

His head snapped up. 

“Don’t say that,” he said sharply, voice cutting.

The sting of his tone hit her harder than she expected. Her throat tightened, tears burning behind her eyes.

She looked down quickly, blinking against the sudden blur in her vision.

His face changed instantly. The hardness cracked, regret flickering across his features. He stepped forward, hesitating for only a second before his hand came up to her cheek, cool fingers brushing against her skin.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice softer now, strained. “I just… it’s not too late for you. You can still walk away.”

“I can’t,” she whispered.

The words felt like a confession, a truth that had been waiting to be spoken.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I care about you too,” she admitted, barely recognizing the sound of her own voice.

For a long moment, he just stared at her, the quiet of the night folding around them. She could feel the pounding of her heart in her throat, the weight of everything pressing between them.

Finally, he exhaled, his gaze slipping toward the faint glow of the castle. “Let’s get you back,” he murmured, his voice soft. “It’s late.”

~ * ~

The castle stood eerily quiet as they stopped outside the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady’s portrait loomed ahead, her painted eyes half-lidded with sleepy disinterest, barely sparing them a glance.

Their walk back had been silent—not awkward, but thick with words unsaid, with a new tension Hermione didn’t know how to handle.

“I’ll be in classes tomorrow,” Draco murmured, his voice low and steady, as though speaking louder might break the fragile balance between them.

She nodded, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite the whirlwind inside her. “Good.”

He lingered, his gaze flickering over her face as though memorizing every detail. 

Then, his eyes grew serious. “Don’t wander the castle alone at night,” he said. “It’s not always safe.”

She sighed, tipping her head back against the cool stone wall. “How many warnings are you planning to give me, Malfoy? I think I’ve heard—”

She stopped. Her breath stuttered.

Draco had moved closer. Much closer.

Her back pressed instinctively against the wall as he stepped forward, the movement almost predatory.

His gaze dropped—to her throat. To the bare sliver of skin exposed when she’d tipped her head back, where her pulse fluttered wildly beneath her skin.

“Malfoy,” she whispered.

One of his hands lifted, fingers splaying against the stone wall beside her head. The other found her waist—hesitant but firm.

Heat coiled through her, sharp and consuming, the weight of his palm burning through the fabric of her sweater. Instinct screamed that she should push him away, but she didn’t—couldn’t. Instead, her fingers lifted, curling into the fabric of his sweater.

Her breathing hitched, shallow and erratic.

“You don’t know what you do to me, Granger,” he murmured.

He dipped his head lower, his nose brushing just beneath her jaw. The light contact sent a tremor cascading down her spine, her skin tightening in awareness.

“Your scent…” he whispered. He inhaled slowly and she felt the shiver that wracked through him. “It’s maddening. I can’t—”

His words broke off with a low growl. The sound vibrated against her skin, sending heat spiraling through her, pooling between her thighs. Before she could stop herself, a soft, involuntary whimper slipped from her lips.

His fingers tightened at her waist. His body pressed just slightly closer, a fraction more, enough for her to feel the hard muscles of his chest against her breasts.

“Draco,” she breathed.

His name slipped from her lips like a confession.

He groaned softly, like hearing it unraveled something inside him. His lips brushed higher along her neck—above her collarbone, to where her pulse pounded like a war drum.

He hesitated.

Then she felt it—the barest graze of his teeth against her skin.

A sharp gasp tore from her throat. Her fingers clenched tighter into his sweater, tethering herself to reality even as it threatened to slip away. The world shrank to just him—his touch, his breath, the electric pull thrumming between them.

Slowly, achingly, he lifted his head. His face hovered mere inches from hers, his pale eyes blazing.

She felt the faintest brush of his breath against her lips. His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingering, lingering.

But just as his lips seemed to lower, closing the distance, he stopped himself.

“I can’t,” he rasped.

His forehead dropped to hers, his breaths uneven. His fingers flexed once more at her waist before, with a sharp inhale, he let her go.

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open, her vision blurred. Her skin still burned where he had touched her, where his lips had hovered—where his teeth had grazed.

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

Regret flickered through his features, etched into the furrow of his brow, the parting of his lips as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

“Goodnight, Granger,” he murmured, his voice raw and soft, an apology buried deep within the words.

And then—before she could respond, before she could reach for him—he was gone.

The space he left behind felt cold, hollow.

For a long moment, she remained frozen against the wall. Her heart pounded in her chest, her legs shaky, her skin alive with the memory of his touch. She reached up, fingertips brushing her neck, the exact spot where his mouth had hovered, where his teeth had barely— barely —grazed her skin.

A sharp shiver raced through her, making her pull Draco’s coat tighter around herself.

It took several long moments before she finally pushed off the wall, her hands trembling, her breath coming in uneven waves. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to move, to function. The warm glow of the common room welcomed her as she stepped through the portrait hole, but it did little to settle the storm raging in her chest.

Ginny was curled up on the sofa, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in hand, her legs tucked beneath a thick blanket. She looked up as Hermione entered, and her sharp brown eyes immediately honed in on her—the flush still burning her cheeks, the dazed, faraway look in her eyes.

Ginny’s gaze narrowed.

“What on earth happened to you?” she demanded. Suspicion thickened her tone as she sat forward, placing her mug aside. Her gaze dragged over Hermione—her mussed hair, her unsteady breathing—before locking onto something with laser focus.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Is that Malfoy’s coat?”

Hermione blinked. She glanced down, as if only now realizing the heavy black fabric still hung over her shoulders, the warmth of it like an imprint of him.

Ginny’s mouth fell open.

“Oh my god.”

“It’s not—” Hermione started, already knowing she’d lost the battle.

Ginny’s grin was outright wicked. “Did Malfoy… kiss you?”

“No,” Hermione mumbled, dropping heavily onto the sofa beside her.

Her fingers drifted back to her neck. That same spot. The skin there still tingled, warm—as if her body refused to forget what had almost happened.

“But I wish he had,” she admitted before she could stop herself.

Ginny let out an ear-splitting squeal. She tossed the blanket aside and practically launched herself at Hermione, gripping her arms with an almost bruising force.

“Finally!” she crowed, shaking her slightly. “You admit it! You like him!”

Hermione groaned, pressing her burning face into her hands. “A lot happened tonight, Gin,” she muttered through her fingers.

Ginny grinned, entirely unbothered. “Oh, I bet it did. And you’re going to tell me all of it. Every single detail.”

Hermione peeked at her through her fingers, exasperated. “I’ll explain in the morning,” she promised weakly. “Right now, I just—” she exhaled, sinking further into the couch, “—I just need to sleep.”

Ginny pouted, dramatically flopping back into her seat. “Fine. But don’t think you’re getting out of this,” she warned, pointing a finger at her. “I want everything.”

Hermione managed a small, tired smile before dragging herself up from the sofa and toward the stairs.

By the time she reached her dormitory, exhaustion was pulling at her limbs, but her thoughts refused to settle. She collapsed into bed, curling beneath the covers, tugging them up to her chin in a desperate attempt to calm her racing mind.

But every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.

Draco.

His silver-grey eyes, dark and consuming. The way his breath had ghosted over her throat. The low, raw way he had said her name.

She could still feel the heat of his touch, the almost unbearable tension crackling between them. The moment where she’d thought— hoped —that he might actually kiss her.

And yet, he hadn’t.

I can’t.

The words echoed through her, stirring something deeper.

Did that mean he wanted to?

Her pulse fluttered wildly beneath her fingertips.

She didn’t know what it meant. She didn’t know where it would lead.

But one thing was certain.

She was falling for Draco Malfoy. Dangerous or not.

Chapter Text

The dream began innocently enough.

Hermione wandered down an empty corridor, the flickering torches casting restless shadows against the cold stone walls. Her steps echoed softly, each one a measured beat in the thick, humming stillness of the air.

Something about the quiet felt charged—like the air before a storm. It pressed against her skin, sending an unsteady ripple through her nerves, making her pulse quicken, her breath shallow.

Then came a voice.

“Granger.”

She stopped cold. Her heart slammed against her ribs, her pulse hammering in her throat as she turned toward the voice.

Draco.

He stepped out of the shadows, his eyes gleaming, pinning her in place. There was a hunger in his gaze, a weight to it that sank into her bones and left her breathless.

Before she could gather herself, he moved.

One moment, he was across the corridor. The next, his fingers curled around her wrist, firm, insistent, inescapable. Without a word, he pulled her into an empty classroom, the door clicking shut behind them with a quiet click.

Her back met the cool wood before she had time to react.

“What—what are you doing?” she stammered.

His eyes darkened. 

“I’ve tried,” he rasped. “But I can’t stay away from you anymore.”

The confession wrapped around her, tightening like a band around her chest. Her hands shook at her sides, her body wound so tight she felt like she might snap.

“Malfoy—”

His hands were on her before she could finish. Fingers sliding over her hips, dragging her closer. His touch was searing, possessive.

A gasp tore from her throat as he lifted her onto the desk, stepping between her thighs.

“Draco,” she whispered, the sound barely a breath.

His hands slid higher, fingers spreading against her ribs, tracing the hem of her blouse, pushing fabric aside. His mouth brushed against her throat—a featherlight touch, teasing, deliberate.

A shudder wracked through her.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, and he groaned.

His lips pressed harder, a kiss that was soft at first, then firmer, deeper, hungrier. The heat of it spread through her, settling low in her stomach, between her thighs.

He moaned against her pulse, and the sound shot straight through her.

His tongue flicked over her skin, and she arched into him instinctively, gasping.

A growl vibrated against her throat—a dark, wicked sound—and then, he was lowering himself to his knees.

His hands skimmed down her thighs, spreading them apart. The first press of his lips against her inner knee tore a moan from her. 

His lips trailed higher.

He kissed the sensitive skin slowly, inching upward.

Higher.

Her breath came in uneven pants, her hands gripping the desk so hard her knuckles ached.

Higher.

His fingers tightened on her thighs, his mouth hovering just above her underwear—

She woke with a gasp.

The dream tore away from her, leaving her chest heaving, her body slick with sweat.

Dim morning light filtered through the dormitory windows, soft and indifferent, doing nothing to ease the frantic thrum beneath her skin.

She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the wild hammering of her heartbeat.

It had felt so real.

His hands. His lips. His voice.

Every part of him still echoed inside her, lingering in the heat coiling deep in her belly, in the shuddering thrum of her pulse, in the way her body refused to forget.

She pressed her thighs together tightly, chasing relief that wouldn’t come.

Her breath hitched, and she clenched her fists in the sheets, desperate to steady herself. But the images clung to her, curling into the edges of her mind like smoke.

She dragged Draco’s coat from the foot of her bed, pulling it tight around her, burying her face in the fabric. The scent of him was too much, too intoxicating. It sent another unwanted shiver racing down her spine.

“What the hell is wrong with me?” she whispered into the fabric, her voice shaky, weak.

A rustle of movement made her freeze.

Her head snapped toward the sound, eyes wide as she caught Ginny’s reflection in the mirror. She sat at the vanity, lazily brushing her hair, her expression entirely too sharp.

They locked eyes in the glass. Ginny’s mouth curled into a slow, knowing grin.

Hermione’s stomach plummeted.

Shit.

“Morning,” Ginny sang, her voice far too smug.

Hermione stiffened, dragging the blanket up to her chin as if it could somehow protect her. “Don’t start,” she mumbled, but her voice wavered, betraying her.

Ginny spun on the stool, facing her properly, eyes practically gleaming with mischief. “Oh, Merlin.” She leaned in, grinning wickedly. “Did someone have a dream last night?”

Hermione went up in flames.

“Ginny!” she hissed, grabbing her pillow and hurling it across the room.

Ginny dodged it with ridiculous ease, laughing as she twirled a strand of fiery hair between her fingers.

“If you blush any harder, you’ll set the bloody room on fire,” she teased, tilting her head. Then, with an absolutely sinful smirk, she added, “Let me guess—tall, blond, and infuriating?”

Hermione choked.

Heat spiked up her neck, her stomach flipping violently as the dream crashed over her again—Draco’s hands tight on her thighs, his lips skimming her throat, his voice rough with need—

Stop it.

“I’m going to be late,” she blurted, scrambling out of bed so quickly she nearly tripped.

Her legs felt unsteady, the aftershocks of her dream still thrumming through her, and she cursed herself for how utterly ridiculous this was.

Ginny hummed, watching like a cat playing with a trapped bird. “You’re not denying it,” she pointed out, smug as ever.

“I’m not dignifying it either,” Hermione snapped, her fingers fumbling with the buttons of her blouse. But her hands betrayed her—shaking and needy.

She clenched her jaw, willing away the phantom press of Draco’s mouth against her throat.

Ginny cackled. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear about this later,” she said airily, turning back to the mirror. “And you will tell me. Don’t think you’re escaping me forever.”

Hermione didn’t dignify that with a response. She shoved her feet into her socks, her hands still clumsy.

Merlin, she needed to get out of this room.

“Don’t forget to include the steamy bits!” Ginny called as Hermione bolted for the door.

“Goodbye, Ginny!” she shouted, the words rushed and strangled as she fled.

The common room was mercifully quiet, the early morning hush barely disturbed by the faint crackle of the dying fireplace. The air was cool against her heated skin, but it did nothing to slow the frantic beat of her pulse.

Hermione exhaled sharply, tugging at the sleeves of her robe, forcing herself to focus on anything but the way her body still tingled in places that shouldn’t.

But as she stepped through the portrait hole—her shoe still half on, her balance precarious—her luck ran out.

Draco was waiting for her.

Leaning lazily against the wall, one shoulder pressed to the cold stone, the very picture of casual arrogance. His arms were crossed, his robes pristine despite the early hour, his silver-grey eyes locking onto her the instant she stumbled into view.

The moment their gazes met, heat flooded her stomach, sharp and unwelcome.

Her half-secured shoe slipped from her grip, tumbling to the floor with a dull thud.

Bloody hell.

Draco pushed off the wall in one smooth motion, closing the distance between them before she could recover, before she could will away the very obvious flush creeping up her throat.

His fingers found her wrist, steadying her with effortless confidence.

“Careful, Granger.” 

She yanked her arm back as if burned, fumbling to jam her foot into her shoe properly. “I’m fine,” she snapped, the words breathless and unconvincing.

He arched a brow. “Are you?”

No. Absolutely not.

She straightened, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “Yes,” she lied, lifting her chin.

His gaze dragged over her slowly, considering. 

His smirk deepened. “You’re unusually red this morning.” He took a measured step closer, his voice dropping into something silky and teasing. “Why is that?”

Because I dreamt about you with your mouth between my thighs and woke up trying not to cry about it?

“No reason,” she squeaked, wincing at how high-pitched she sounded.

His eyes gleamed—triumphant.

“Liar,” he murmured, his voice a lazy caress.

Her pulse thundered as he reached out, his fingers catching a stray curl and tucking it behind her ear. His touch lingered, barely there, the tips of his fingers ghosting along the line of her jaw.

A shiver ran through her, her entire body taut, achingly aware of how little space there was between them.

She took a shaky step back, her hand clutching at the strap of her bag.

“I’m just… late,” she managed, but the words barely carried any weight.

Draco chuckled—low, knowing, entirely too pleased with himself.

And then, just as quickly as he’d invaded her space, he stepped away.

“Come on then,” he drawled, turning toward the corridor. “We’re both going to be late at this rate.”

She exhaled hard, like surfacing again, and made herself walk.

Draco walked beside her. Every step of his felt deliberately even. And when she dared a glance at him—just a small one—the corner of his mouth quirked.

She looked away immediately. 

He knows. He absolutely knows.

She focused on the stone beneath her feet, anything but the smug glint in his silver eyes.

But it didn’t help.

“Stop thinking so loudly, Granger.”

She startled, her head snapping up.

He wasn’t even looking at her, but his smirk had widened.

“I’m not thinking anything,” she said, far too fast.

Draco let out a soft, infuriatingly smug chuckle.

They reached the doors of the Great Hall. The scent of freshly baked bread, bacon, and tea drifted through the open archway—warm, normal. But just as she made to step inside, Draco stopped.

She turned, brow furrowing. “What—?”

“I have to sit with my friends this morning,” he said smoothly, but something in his tone made her pause. A deliberate choice of words. The usual drawl tempered with something heavier. “There are things we need to… discuss.”

A flicker of unease curled in her stomach. 

She hesitated. “Is everything alright?”

“It will be.”

That didn’t exactly ease her concern, but she nodded, pressing her lips together in reluctant understanding. She forced a neutral expression. “Alright.”

Draco studied her for a moment longer, head tilting slightly, as if deciding something. Then, with the ease of someone who had never been told no in his life, he said, “But I’m having lunch with you.”

Her breath hitched, her stomach lurching traitorously at the casual command in his voice. “Oh,” she said before quickly catching herself. “Okay.”

A slow smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, and before she could recover from the flush creeping up her throat, he stepped closer again.

The space between them shrank, and his presence curled around her, a weightless thing that left her feeling trapped, unsteady.

“You’re still flustered,” he murmured.

“I am not,” she snapped, but the words wavered, thin and unconvincing.

Draco’s eyes gleamed with something wicked. He reached out, fingers brushing against her cheek.

Hermione’s breath stuttered.

His touch was deceptively light, barely there, but her body reacted as if he had grabbed her, as if he had pressed his whole body against hers. Heat licked up her spine, pooling low in her stomach, a dangerous, intoxicating warmth that unsettled her.

And still, he didn’t pull away.

His fingers lingered, the pad of his thumb skimming along her cheekbone before dipping lower, settling against the pulse at her throat.

Hermione knew he could feel it.

The frantic rhythm, the way her body betrayed her, how it wanted this—wanted him.

Draco hummed, a low, pleased sound. “You’re thinking about last night.”

A shiver licked up her spine.

“I thought you couldn’t read my mind,” she said, her words tumbling out before she could stop them.

He chuckled, low and indulgent, and his thumb traced one last agonizing pass over her pulse before he let his hand fall. “I can’t,” he said, smirking as his eyes locked onto hers. “But you’re easy to read, Granger.”

Heat flooded her skin, unbearable and mortifying.

His expression darkened as he leaned in, just enough that his breath ghosted against the shell of her ear.

“You’re not the only one who is thinking about it.”

The breath caught in her throat, her chest rising and falling far too quickly as she tried—and failed—to find her footing.

He didn’t wait for her response. “Your friend, Lavender,” he added suddenly, his voice shifting but his gaze never leaving hers, “is very loudly thinking about interrogating you the moment you step inside.”

“What?” The word fell from her lips, half-distracted, as her mind scrambled to keep up.

“She’s wondering what I’ve done to you.” His eyes glinted with something positively sinful. “If I’m the reason why you’ve been so… distracted.”

Her face went up in flames. “I—”

“What are you going to tell her?” he asked, almost lazily, but there was an unmistakable challenge in the words.

Her stomach flipped.

Oh, he was enjoying this.

Her mouth opened, then closed, panic tightening in her throat. “I—I don’t—”

“I’ll be listening,” he cut in smoothly, his voice dipping lower again, a tease and a warning wrapped in one.

Her pulse skyrocketed.

“Malfoy,” she hissed, scandalized.

His smirk widened, sharp and wolfish. He tilted his head slightly, studying her one last time before flicking his gaze—so briefly she might have imagined it—to her lips.

“I’m curious,” he added. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Then before she could respond, before her brain could even catch up, he turned and walked into the Great Hall, his steps calm and unhurried, as though he hadn’t just unraveled her in the middle of a quiet corridor.

She stood frozen, breath uneven, pulse hammering so hard she could feel it beneath her skin.

Draco Malfoy was flirting with her.

The realization struck like a live wire, sending a sharp jolt through her nerves. Flirting. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? That teasing edge in his voice, the way he had leaned in, the way he had touched her.

It made her feel alive.

Her senses on high alert, every nerve tingling, her body thrumming with awareness, something hot and restless curling in her stomach. She had never experienced this kind of attention before, never from someone she wanted.

And yes, she could admit that now.

She wanted him.

The dream last night was proof enough. 

It was overwhelming. She didn’t know how to handle it, didn’t know what to do with this new, insufferably flirty Draco Malfoy who kept stealing the breath from her lungs.

Get it together, Hermione.

She swallowed hard, pressing a hand to her throat, trying to steady the erratic rhythm beneath her fingertips.

Only when the trembling in her legs subsided did she push off the stone wall and step into the Great Hall.

The moment she did, her eyes sought him out without permission. Draco was already at his table, head tilted as though he were listening to Theo, but his eyes flicked to hers the moment she crossed the threshold. A smirk tugged at his lips, subtle and entirely aggravating.

She tore her gaze away, her cheeks blazing with renewed fervor as she marched toward the Gryffindor table. Lavender’s face lit up immediately, her wide eyes practically sparking with curiosity.

Hermione sighed heavily. Here we go.

Chapter Text

Hermione slid into her usual spot at the Gryffindor table, shoulders stiff with the weight of inevitability. Lavender was waiting—plate forgotten, breakfast abandoned—because clearly, her priority this morning wasn’t food, it was interrogation. Hermione sent up a silent thanks that Harry and Ron were still at Quidditch practice. At least that spared her their reactions, their overprotective glares, and worst of all, their opinions. But Ginny’s absence meant she was on her own.

No buffer. No one to deflect for her.

Lavender pounced immediately.

“So…” she began, drawing out the word dramatically. She leaned in, curls bouncing, all conspiratorial energy and barely contained glee. “Was last night a date?”

Hermione inhaled, slow and careful, before reaching for her pumpkin juice. She took a sip, dragging out the pause as long as possible, as if the answer might rearrange itself into something less dangerous before she spoke it aloud.

“I… think so?”

Lavender gasped. “You think so?” She shook her head rapidly, as if Hermione had fundamentally misunderstood something. “No, no, no. It’s either a date or it’s not a date. What did he do?”

Hermione hesitated, suddenly hyperaware of the Slytherin table across the room. She didn’t dare look. Didn’t need to. She could feel him. A pull at the edge of her senses, a presence pressing against her awareness even though there were dozens of students between them.

Don’t look. Don’t look.

She set her glass down carefully, smoothing her fingertips over the condensation beading on the surface. It felt safer to focus on something tangible.

“Well… he paid for dinner,” she admitted, “and he walked me back to the common room.”

Lavender’s eyebrows shot up so fast Hermione thought they might launch off her face. “That sounds like a date, Hermione. Merlin’s beard, I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

“It’s not…” Hermione started, then sighed, deflating slightly. “It’s complicated.”

Lavender scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Of course it’s complicated. It’s Malfoy. But let’s focus on the important things. Details.”

Hermione fidgeted with a piece of toast, though her appetite had long since vanished. Lavender wasn’t going to drop this, and Hermione knew it. She had to be careful, had to choose her words precisely.

“The waitress was… pretty,” she said cautiously. “But he didn’t seem to notice her.”

Lavender’s head tilted, her eyes narrowing. “Didn’t notice her? Malfoy?”

Hermione’s stomach twisted. “No. He didn’t.”

Lavender’s lips curled into a slow, knowing grin. “That’s a very good sign. Guys don’t ignore pretty girls unless they're already looking at something—or someone—better.”

Gods, please stop talking.

Hermione focused hard on her toast, pulling at the crust with unnecessary precision. “Lavender…”

“And?” Lavender pressed, eyes gleaming. “Did he kiss you?”

The question landed like a physical thing, knocking the breath from her. Hermione’s fingers stilled, her heart giving a painful, traitorous thud.

Draco’s thumb on her pulse. The soft, teasing rasp of his voice— I’ll be listening.

She swallowed hard. “No,” she said quietly, her voice barely carrying over the hum of the Hall.

Lavender groaned loudly, flopping back against the bench like Hermione had just told her the world was ending. “You’re joking. Not even a kiss? After all that?”

Hermione’s cheeks burned as she fidgeted with her napkin. “I don’t think he’d want to.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them, and immediately, she regretted it.

Lavender bolted upright, all amusement suddenly gone. “What did you just say?” She stared at Hermione, as if she’d grown a second head. “You don’t think he’d want to? Hermione, don’t be ridiculous. He’s paying for dinners, walking you back, ignoring other girls—what more do you need?”

Hermione’s fingers clenched around the napkin, a flicker of frustration sparking in her chest. “It’s not that simple,” she said, her voice firmer now.

Lavender tilted her head, studying her, something unreadable passing through her gaze. Then—very softly—she said, “You like him.”

Hermione stilled.

Deny it. Say something else.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came. Nothing at all.

Lavender’s grin widened, all teeth and triumph. “Oh, Merlin, you do. You like him. And not just because he’s all dark and brooding and ‘look at me, I’m mysterious.’”

Hermione exhaled shakily, her shoulders sinking. The fight had already left her. “Yes,” she admitted finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I probably like him more than he likes me.”

Lavender blinked. For once, she seemed caught off guard.

“Hermione,” she said slowly, “you’re braver than I thought. I mean… Malfoy? After everything? He’s so…”

“Intense,” Hermione finished, lifting her chin slightly. “Yes, I know.”

“Intense is one word for it.” Lavender muttered, “Still. You’re brave. I don’t think I could do it.”

Hermione’s gaze flickered toward the Slytherin table—before she could stop herself, before she could think better of it. Draco was sitting there, posture deceptively relaxed, one arm slung lazily over the back of the bench. Theo was still speaking to him, but Draco wasn’t listening.

His silver eyes locked onto hers the moment she looked.

A shock of heat tore through her.

Pansy sat beside him, nails digging into the table, glaring. But Hermione barely noticed.

Draco’s gaze held her in place, a silent pull she couldn’t break, even if she wanted to. Stop staring, she scolded herself. Quickly, she dropped her eyes back to her plate, heat crawling up her neck.

Lavender caught the glance and gasped. “Oh Merlin. He’s looking at you, isn’t he?”

“Lavender, please—”

“He is. He totally is!” Lavender clutched Hermione’s arm in excitement. “Hermione, you’re doomed. You can’t compete with that level of smolder. You’re lucky you haven’t melted into a puddle already.”

Hermione sighed, torn between amusement and absolute mortification.

“Please stop.”

Lavender’s grin only widened. “I knew it. I knew there was something going on.”

Breakfast ended sooner than Hermione would have liked, and she stood quickly, hoping to escape before Lavender could probe any further. To her relief, Lavender fell into step beside her and immediately launched into animated chatter about her upcoming date with Ron.

Hermione latched onto the subject, nodding and humming in the right places as they made their way through the castle. She focused on Lavender’s words, her plans for her outfit, her excitement—anything to keep her mind from wandering.

It worked, right up until she reached the Potions classroom.

Draco sat at their usual table in the back, fingers drumming against the wood in an uneven rhythm. His brows were furrowed, his expression unreadable, but the tension radiating off of him was unmistakable. His grip on his quill was tight, his knuckles pale. To anyone else, he looked composed. But she knew better.

A lump formed in her throat.

Straightening her shoulders, she stepped inside, her footfalls hesitant as she wove between the desks. He’s probably just focused on his studies. Maybe he didn’t even hear what I said to Lavender. Maybe he doesn’t care.

Except she knew that wasn’t true.

She could feel his presence as she neared their desk, a gravitational pull that made the space between them feel charged, suffocating. 

Still, he didn’t look up.

She felt sick. 

Instead, he stared blankly at the open page of his textbook, the line of his jaw sharp, his shoulders impossibly tense. 

Oh, Merlin. He had heard.

She hesitated before sliding into the seat beside him, her movements cautious, careful, as though the wrong step might trigger an explosion. Her notes felt flimsy in her hands as she set them down, arranging them without purpose, trying to ignore the way her pulse pounded in her ears.

What was he thinking?

Did he think she was pathetic?

Did he think she was vain for mentioning that he ignored the waitress—like she’d been fishing for validation, desperate to be noticed?

Did he regret hearing it at all?

Her stomach twisted itself into knots. It hadn’t even been that big of a confession. Not really. She had just admitted that she wanted him to kiss her. That she thought she liked him more than he liked her. 

…Oh god.

It was so much worse seeing it laid out like that in her head. She squeezed her eyes shut for half a second, a desperate attempt to chase away the sharp edge of embarrassment clawing at her chest.

Was that why he wasn’t looking at her?

Was he embarrassed by her?

Did he think she was ridiculous?

And then, in a voice so low it was barely a whisper, he said her name.

"Granger."

She stiffened, heart leaping up into her throat, nerves twisting so violently she felt like she might be sick. She chanced a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, breath catching at the sharp set of his profile, the way his hand flexed against the desk as though he were fighting some invisible urge.

Say something. Say something.

But before she could respond, Professor Slughorn’s booming voice filled the room, jolting her back to reality. 

She swallowed hard, forcing her eyes forward, quill in hand, as Slughorn launched into a rambling lecture on advanced potion theory.

The words blurred together. Her hand moved automatically, scribbling notes mechanically, but she barely processed a single thing.

Because Draco said nothing else.

And his silence pressed against her like a weight on her back—heavy, insistent, inescapable.

Her chest tightened, her mind racing through every possible reaction, every possible conclusion.

Did he hate that she’d admitted it?

Did he regret everything?

Was this the part where he pulled away?

Her hand trembled as she scratched out another line of barely legible notes.

She wanted to shake him. Say something. Tell me I didn’t just make a fool of myself. Tell me you—

Tell me you don’t hate me for wanting you.

The thought stabbed through her like a blade.

She clenched her jaw, willing herself to keep it together, to not spiral any further. But each second that passed in suffocating silence chipped away at her composure, leaving her insides raw and her vision blurred with the sting of unshed tears.

By the time Slughorn finally dismissed them, her chest felt too tight, her pulse hammering in her throat. She grabbed her things in a rush, her movements clumsy, uncoordinated, desperate to escape.

She didn’t dare look at Draco.

She couldn’t.

Not when she was so close to shattering entirely.

Her hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor, sharp and frantic as she wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand. 

Breathe. Just breathe. 

But her thoughts wouldn’t stop spiraling, Draco’s voice—her name—looped like a cruel melody she couldn’t silence.

He’s mad at me.

The thought lodged itself deep in her chest.

He must be. Why else had he been so tense, so silent, so unreadable? 

I shouldn’t have said anything to Lavender.

Her breath came too fast, too shallow, as she turned the corner, her vision blurring.

I embarrassed him. I embarrassed myself. I—

A hand caught her wrist.

Firm. Cool. Startlingly gentle.

Before she could react, she was pulled into an empty classroom. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing them inside.

Draco stood in front of her, his silver eyes burning, his chest rising and falling as though he’d chased her here.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her heart slamming against her ribs.

“Malfoy?” Her voice wavered, unsteady. “What are you—”

“Why,” he interrupted, his voice sharp and dangerous, “do you think you like me more than I like you?”

Hermione’s mind went blank.

He took a step closer, and instinctively, she backed up.

Another step.

Her spine met the edge of a desk.

Her pulse pounded as she gripped the wood behind her, her fingers curling against the cool, smooth surface.

He wasn’t touching her—not quite—but the space between them had shrunk to nothing.

His hands came up, palms braced against the desk on either side of her hips, caging her in.

“Well?” he murmured.

“I—” Her voice failed her.

His breath ghosted against her cheek, a shiver skated down her spine.

She swallowed hard. “Aside from the obvious?”

His head tilted, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s the ‘obvious,’ Granger?”

Her throat was dry. She licked her lips, heat blooming in her cheeks as she dropped her gaze.

“I’m… ordinary,” she admitted. The word tasted bitter, like saying it aloud made it real.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, with a sharp inhale, his hands found her waist and before she could process what was happening, he lifted her onto the desk.

She gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance, her knees brushing against his thighs.

Draco stepped between her legs, closing the space between them completely.

His fingers curled at her waist, holding her there, his grip possessive.

“Ordinary?” he echoed, his voice rough with disbelief.

She couldn’t breathe.

His fingers skated up her sides, slow and reverent, tracing the shape of her ribcage.

“You’re anything but ordinary,” he murmured.

His thumb tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

“Do you even realize,” he murmured, his voice like smoke curling in her veins, “how mesmerizing you are?”

Her breath caught as his thumb traced a slow, achingly delicate line along her jaw. “Your freckles,” he murmured, his gaze flickering over her skin, tracing the path his fingers followed. “They’re like stars.”

“Stars?” she whispered.

His lips twitched faintly, as though her question amused him. “I spent most of my childhood staring at constellations. Memorizing their names.”

His fingers slid higher, ghosting over the curve of her cheekbone.

“But then…”

His touch skimmed the bridge of her nose, his thumb pausing at the corner of her mouth.

“Then you came into my world, and suddenly,” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, “they became meaningless.”

Her breath hitched, her world shrinking to the space between them—the heavy air, his voice, the impossible pull of his body just inches from hers. His eyes burned into her, looking at her as if she were something precious.

Something his.

“And your hair…” he continued softly, reaching up to tangle his fingers into the wild tendrils of her hair, twisting the unruly strands around his knuckles, as if they fascinated him, as if they belonged to him. He exhaled slowly, the warmth of it ghosting over her jaw.

"It’s impossible,” he murmured, half in frustration, half in reverence. “Wild and stubborn and…” His grip tightened slightly, a faint tug at her scalp that sent a heat blooming in her chest. “Just like you.”

Her fingers dug into the wood of the desk, white-knuckled and desperate for something to keep her grounded. But there was no grounding herself when he was touching her like this, talking to her like this. 

No escaping the slow, unbearable heat pooling between her thighs, pulling her tight, winding her up like she was moments from unraveling.

Draco’s hand slipped from her hair, his fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path down her cheek until his thumb brushed against her lower lip.

Hermione’s breath stuttered.

His eyes darkened as he watched her reaction, his thumb dragging just slightly against the plush of her lip before pulling away. Her lips tingled from the absence of him, from the restraint it took for her not to chase after his touch.

“And your scent,” he murmured.

His thumb hovered, inches from her mouth. Not touching, but close enough that she could still feel the ghost of his touch.

“Vanilla and cinnamon,” he said, his expression turning tight.

A slow shiver traced its way down Hermione’s spine at the quiet, intimate admission.

Like he’d thought about it before. Like it was something that plagued him.

His hand flexed, fingers curling into a tight fist before he exhaled sharply, dropping it to his side.

“It’s a drug, Hermione,” he whispered. His voice was strained, like the words had been dragged out of him against his will. His eyes flickered to hers, bright with something barely contained.

“You’re a drug.”

Her fingers shot out, curling into the front of his shirt. She clung to him, desperate, drowning in the weight of it all. Of him.

Draco’s breath left him in a low, guttural groan.

The sound vibrated through her, sending a sharp thrill straight through her bones. Her head tilted back on instinct, her throat bared, her body moving before her mind could stop it.

His thumb drifted to the hollow of her throat, brushing over her pulse—the rapid, unsteady thrum of it beneath his touch. Lingering. Taking measure.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like,” he murmured suddenly, his voice tight, strained, barely human, “to hear the thoughts of other boys—other men—thinking about you?”

Her heart stumbled, faltered, then pounded violently against her ribs.

She stared up at him, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to process the furious heat in his gaze.

“It makes me want to rip their throats out,” he said, voice low and venomous. “They have no right to think about you like that,” he growled. His fingers tightened infinitesimally at her throat—not enough to hurt, but enough that she felt it.

Felt the control he was holding onto by a thread.

The possessiveness in his voice should have made her uneasy. It should have sent her scrambling.

But it didn’t.

Instead, something sharp and electric ignited beneath her skin, thrumming through her like a live wire.

She swallowed against his palm, his fingers pressing into her jaw as he tracked the motion, his breath unsteady.

And then, before she could stop herself—

“I still like you more,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I’d never leave you.”

His breath hitched, and for the first time since he’d pulled her into this room, she saw something fragile flicker across his face.

“You think that means you care more?” he whispered. 

“Yes,” she breathed.

Draco leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

The rasp of his breath sent her reeling, her grip tightening on his shirt to keep herself from falling.

“No, Hermione,” he whispered, voice hoarse and frayed. “It means I care more. Because I’d end this—us—if it meant keeping you safe.”

Her fingers trembled against his chest, clutching, clinging, desperate to keep him there.

Us.

"Do you… do you like me?"

She barely recognized her own voice—soft, breathless, full of too much hope.

He exhaled sharply, something like a bitter laugh leaving his lips. His head dipped, forehead almost resting against hers. “Isn’t it obvious?” he whispered.

Her heart skipped violently, her pulse roaring in her ears. She stared up at him, searching his face. His gaze dropped to her lips.

Lingered.

The air between them tightened, humming with the unbearable weight of almost, and for a fleeting, agonizing moment, she thought he might kiss her.

She wanted him to.

Gods, she wanted him to.

Her fingers twitched, aching to pull him closer, to feel his mouth against hers, to—

He sucked in a sharp breath, his jaw clenching, his entire body locking down.

And then, with a shuddering exhale, he pulled back.

The moment shattered.

“We’ll be late for Defense,” he said.

She blinked as his hands fell away from her with reluctant slowness. He stepped back, putting space between them that felt cavernous despite the small classroom.

He offered his hand to help her off the desk, and she took it wordlessly, her skin buzzing where their palms met. His fingers brushed against the hem of her skirt as she slid down, the touch so fleeting yet scorching that her knees threatened to buckle.

He didn’t say anything else. Just turned, his posture composed once more as he strode toward the door, leaving Hermione standing there, her body trembling and her mind spinning.

Her heart was still pounding as she followed him into the corridor, her fingers curling around the edge of her bag to steady herself.

Is he trying to drive me crazy? She wondered, her heart pounding. 

Either way, the ache between her thighs and the memory of his lips against her skin were going to haunt her for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

The next class passed in a haze of heat and distraction, the air thick and buzzing, every second stretched impossibly thin.

Hermione barely remembered how she got there.

She had been drowning in the overwhelming weight of everything—Lavender’s relentless questioning, Draco’s suffocating silence, the awful, gnawing fear that she had said too much. That she had embarrassed herself. That she had embarrassed him.

And then—then he had gone and completely ruined her.

Had backed her into that desk, held her there with his hands, his words, those gods damned eyes, and shattered every last piece of logic she had left.

He had whispered things that had sent heat straight to her core. 

He had touched her like he wanted to memorize her. 

Had spoken like he already had.

And now she was supposed to just sit beside him in class and act like he hadn’t just turned her whole world upside down.

It was laughable.

She moved through the motions of existence but none of it felt real. Her body was still too aware, her nerves too raw. Every brush of fabric against her skin, every flick of her own fingers, only reminded her of his hands.

His touch lingered like a ghost—his thumb dragging across her lip, the press of his palm at her throat, the impossible restraint in the way he had held her.

The way he had looked at her lips.

The way he had almost—

She needed to clear her head. 

But how could she, when he was right beside her?

Draco moved like a force of nature—calm and composed—but beneath it, she knew better.

She could still feel the heat of his frustration from earlier, the way he had reigned himself in with sheer force of will, like he was seconds away from breaking and hated himself for it. And yet, as he strode toward his usual seat, sliding effortlessly into place, he looked as unbothered as ever.

Meanwhile, she could barely hold her quill.

She sank into the seat beside him, fingers tightening around the desk, desperate for an anchor. Professor Montgomery droned on about defensive wards, but the words slipped through her mind, meaningless.

She couldn’t focus when all she could think about was the feel of him.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the lecture, the sound of students shifting in their seats, the scratch of quills against parchment. She couldn’t focus, couldn’t think—

And then, she felt it.

A hand—cool and large—sliding beneath the desk, settling heavy against her thigh.

Her entire body locked up.

Her knuckles whitened around her quill, the ink bleeding into the parchment in an unsteady line as the world around her narrowed to a singular, unbearable point of contact.

Draco. 

Or more specifically, his hand covering her thigh. 

Her breath caught.

Her gaze snapped to his face, searching for any sign that he was doing this on purpose, that he was watching her unravel beneath his touch. But he didn’t look at her.

His silver eyes remained fixed ahead, impossibly composed, his left hand still moving as he wrote with his quill, his strokes even and practiced as though nothing at all was happening beneath the desk.

Her pulse throbbed, her thighs tensing instinctively, but it only made the press of his hand more pronounced. His fingers flexed slightly, shifting against her skin, and she felt the deliberate brush of his thumb tracing small, torturous circles just above her knee.

She swallowed hard as his fingers toyed idly with the hem of her skirt, teasing the fabric higher inch by maddening inch. The shift was barely anything, just the whisper of fabric against her thigh, but it sent a sharp jolt of anticipation racing through her.

Oh, Merlin.

She bit down on her lip, fighting against the urge to squirm. To shift. To do something to break the unbearable feeling winding her tighter and tighter.

But then, just as she thought she might survive this, his fingers skimmed bare skin.

A soft, barely-there caress. Cool fingertips brushing against the heat of her inner thigh.

Her grip tightened around her quill, white-knuckled and desperate, but she was slipping, falling into the sensation of him. The press of his hand. The slow drag of his thumb. The maddening way he kept writing—writing!—with his other hand like nothing at all was happening beneath the desk.

Like he wasn’t ruining her.

Her grip on her quill faltered. The ink smeared across her fingers as it tumbled from her grasp, hitting the desk with a loud clatter.

Ink splattered across her parchment.

Several heads turned.

Across the aisle, Theo was watching. 

His smirk was slow, knowing, his gaze flicking downward—toward Draco’s hand, hidden beneath the desk—and then back up again, gleaming with amusement. 

Hermione’s entire face burned.

Her fingers fumbled as she reached for the quill, hands unsteady, mind reeling. She had to—she needed to—

Draco leaned in.

His breath ghosted over her ear, warm and insufferable, his voice nothing but a sinful murmur.

"Careful, Granger,” he drawled, his fingers flexing slightly against her thigh. "You’re making a mess.”

A pulse of heat shot through her, so sudden, so visceral, that she clenched her thighs tighter, her nails digging into the desk’s edge.

Oh, no.

Her body had betrayed her completely, slick arousal dampening the cotton of her knickers, soaking through, spreading.

Her thighs squeezed together on instinct, trapping his hand between them.

His fingers twitched, his palm flattening, his pinky ghosting higher, higher, his thumb rubbing slow, lazy circles into the soft flesh of her thigh.

Her breath broke.

Her body clenched.

She wasn’t just letting this happen anymore—she was holding him there.

Draco exhaled, low and shaky, his fingers digging in, his grip possessive, like he was staking a claim on her, like he was relishing the fact that she hadn’t pushed him away.

And then—he inhaled.

A slow, deliberate breath.

His nostrils flared.

His silver eyes flicked to hers—sharp, hungry, pupils blown wide.

Shit.

Her breath caught, heat lashing up her spine in a violent rush. 

He knew. 

He could smell it. Smell her.

The realization sent another wave of heat curling through her stomach, hot and mortifying and devastatingly unfair.

He wasn’t playing fair.

She should shove his hand away. Should shout at him. Should storm out of the classroom. Should do something.

But she didn’t. Couldn’t.

Because despite the humiliation, despite the sheer audacity of Draco sitting beside her and touching her like this, her body liked it.

She liked it.

She could feel herself teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something reckless, something irrevocable—

And then as suddenly as it began, class ended.

She shot up so fast that her knee collided with the desk, sending her inkpot toppling over, a flood of black liquid spilling across the wood.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, scrambling for her wand, but her hands were shaking.

Draco moved faster. With a flick of his wrist, the mess vanished—as effortless as his touch had been minutes ago, as effortless as his ability to unravel her.

“Always so clumsy,” he murmured, his voice smooth, teasing, but beneath it—something else.

Something darker. Hungrier.

Her head snapped up, glare primed, but the moment their eyes locked, she faltered. His gaze was heavy, searching, a quiet storm lingering in the silver depths. His fingers flexed at his sides, as if fighting the urge to reach for her again.

She opened her mouth—to demand an explanation, to curse him, to beg for more—but then—

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, ‘Mione?”

She tensed, whipping around just in time to see Ron barreling toward her, his face red with anger.

“You were—” His hands curled into fists at his sides, voice thick with accusation. “You were sitting next to him.”

Hermione’s irritation flared instantly. “And?”

“And?” Ron repeated, incredulous. “It’s Malfoy!”

She crossed her arms, her anger spiking hot and sharp. “It’s none of your business, Ron.”

“The hell it isn’t!” Ron took another step forward, his arm jerking like he meant to grab her—

And then Draco was in front of her.

He stepped between them so fast it was like he’d materialized out of thin air, his tall frame blocking Hermione entirely.

“If you ever think about touching her again,” Draco said, his voice low, smooth as a blade and twice as dangerous, “you’ll lose that hand.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

The entire classroom went still.

Ron’s face blanched.

The weight of Draco’s promise pressed into the space between them, thick and stifling, brimming with quiet, deadly certainty. The air crackled, electric and suffocating, as the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Ginny surged forward, grabbing Ron’s arm, eyes flashing. “Ron, leave it,” she ordered. “You’re making a scene.”

Harry appeared next, his grip firm as he clamped a hand on Ron’s shoulder. “Come on,” he muttered, gaze flicking to Draco with wary caution. “Let’s go.”

Ron’s glare didn’t waver, but after a long, seething moment—he let them pull him back.

Tension lingered, coiling thick in the air.

Then—Theo’s voice, lazily amused, cutting through the silence like a blade laced in honey.

“Overprotective much?”

Hermione flinched, turning to see him sauntering closer, a wicked smirk dancing on his lips. He clapped Draco on the shoulder, eyes alight with mischief.

“You’re really going all in, aren’t you, mate?”

Draco shot him a sharp look, a silent warning, but Theo just chuckled, clearly reveling in the moment. His attention flicked to Hermione, his smirk widening. “Didn’t realize you were so popular, Granger.”

Hermione barely heard him. The words felt distant, muffled beneath the steady, deafening pulse pounding in her ears. Her gaze remained fixed on Draco—on the rigid lines of his shoulders, the tension still coiled tight in his frame, the way his silver eyes had yet to soften.

He had stepped in front of her.

Again.

His voice had been a blade—razor-sharp, quiet, laced with something dark and unforgiving. And the way the room had stopped, the way Ron had hesitated—Merlin.

She swallowed hard, her breath still uneven, her body still too warm, too restless.

It shouldn’t have made her stomach tighten. It shouldn’t have made heat crawl up her spine, shouldn’t have sent that thrilling, forbidden shiver straight to her core.

And yet…

Draco finally turned back to her, Theo already strolling away with a lazy wave over his shoulder. The sharp edges of Draco’s expression softened slightly as his gaze dropped to her, but the intensity remained.

She needed to say something. Anything.

But words failed her.

Draco exhaled through his nose, as if coming to some silent conclusion, then murmured, “Let’s go.”

She hesitated. “Are you—”

“Alright?” he finished for her, tilting his head slightly. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. “I’m fine.” His voice dipped lower. “Are you?”

No.

Absolutely not.

Her breath hitched, still not used to the weight of his focus. She nodded quickly, though her pulse betrayed her, hammering erratically in her throat.

Draco studied her for a beat longer, like he didn’t quite believe her. Then, slowly, his fingers settled at the small of her back.

The touch was light, barely there, but it consumed her. His palm pressed just enough to guide her forward, his touch neither hesitant nor forceful.

Claiming. Reassuring.

She let him lead her toward the door, her feet moving on instinct, though her mind spiraled into chaos.

The hum of the classroom faded behind them, swallowed by the steady murmur of the hallway. Students passed in waves of robes and chatter, but she barely noticed. Her senses were locked on the hand at her back, the way his fingers flexed against her sweater like he needed more.

She darted a glance at him.

His face was composed, his gaze forward, but his jaw was tight, his brows faintly drawn—like something inside him hadn’t quite settled.

Before she could stop herself, she spoke. “Malfoy…”

He slowed just slightly, the weight of his stare landing on her.

“Yes?”

Her throat suddenly felt too tight. She didn’t know what she wanted to say.

Thank you? Why did you do that? How do you have this much power over me?

Instead, she settled on the only thing she could manage. “You didn’t have to…”

His gaze darkened. “Don’t finish that sentence,” he said, voice low and firm. “I did have to.”

Her lips parted, confusion flaring in her chest, but he didn’t give her a chance to argue. His gaze dropped, skimming her face like he was memorizing her—the pink flush on her cheeks, the way her curls framed her features, the faint crease of her brow.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he murmured.

“Get what?” she breathed.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he just lifted his hand to her face. His knuckles skimmed her cheekbone in a touch so soft, so fleeting, it sent her stomach into freefall.

Stars, she thought hazily. Constellations.

The pads of his fingers traced her freckles, reverent and achingly tender.

The world around them vanished. The distant footsteps of passing students, the hushed conversations—gone.

There was only his hand, his touch, the searing heat beneath her skin.

And then—just as suddenly—he pulled away.

Draco turned, his composure snapping back into place like a mask. “Come on, Granger,” he murmured, his voice perfectly steady. “Lunch awaits.”

She blinked, her heart slamming against her ribs, her breath coming in short, uneven pulls.

She lifted a hand to her cheek, fingers ghosting over where his touch had lingered.

He drives me insane.

~ * ~

The Great Hall hummed with its usual midday energy—clanking silverware, bursts of laughter, the dull roar of overlapping conversations. Sunlight fought through the overcast sky, scattering weak golden streaks across the stone floor. But for Hermione, it all felt like background noise, distant and insignificant compared to the steady thrumming beneath her skin.

She sat perched on the windowsill, her back resting against the cool stone. The chill sank through her sweater, grounding her, though her thoughts felt anything but settled. 

Draco leaned beside her, close enough that she could feel the absence of warmth, the unnatural coolness that clung to him like mist—an eerie contrast to the heat of her own skin. The cold draft from the glass barely registered against it, his presence a sharper, more precise chill that prickled against her awareness.

He was at ease, long legs stretched out in front of him, one arm lazily draped over his knee. The light softened the sharper angles of his face, brushing faint silver into his pale lashes and catching in his hair like a halo.

She turned an apple over in her hands, her fingers brushing against its smooth, glossy green skin. She picked idly at the stem, but her movements were absent minded. Her awareness lingered instead on Draco’s gaze, heavy and intense, as though he were studying her while the rest of the world faded to insignificance. 

It sent a ripple through her, a shiver that traveled from her chest to her fingertips, where the apple nearly slipped from her grasp.

Get a hold of yourself.

Around them, whispers curled like smoke, lingering in the air longer than they should.

A few stray glances slid their way—some curious, others accusing. Ron’s glare, in particular, was a steady presence at the Gryffindor table, like a curse she couldn’t shake. Hermione’s eyes caught his for only a moment before she turned away, her shoulders tightening.

Lavender sat beside him, her arms crossed, her expression carefully schooled into disinterest. But Hermione saw the hurt there, lurking beneath the surface.

Then there was Pansy.

Her gaze was cutting, dark eyes narrowed like a blade aimed straight at Hermione’s throat. A sneer ghosted her lips, but there was something deeper beneath it—something more venomous.

Hermione frowned, unsettled by the weight of it.

She knew Pansy had always been close to Draco—had clung to him in a way that had always seemed undeniable. The thought struck somewhere deep, somewhere she wasn’t prepared to acknowledge. Heat flushed through her, her grip tightening around the apple.

Jealousy.

She swallowed hard, as if she could shove the feeling down with it.

Before she could spiral further, Draco’s voice cut through the tension, smooth and unhurried.

“So,” he murmured, “are you really skipping the Yule Ball for London, or was that just an excuse to get out of it?”

She blinked. The question threw her for a moment, her fingers stilling against the fruit. “I wasn’t avoiding it,” she said carefully. “I just… don’t feel like going.”

Draco hummed as he leaned back slightly, arching a brow as if considering his next words.

Then his smirk appeared. Slow. Knowing. A challenge wrapped in arrogance.

“Why ever not, Granger?” His voice dipped lower, teasing. “Don’t you adore dancing?”

Hermione shot him a glare, though it was softened by the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Very funny, Malfoy,” she said dryly.

Something flickered across his expression—an unspoken thought or perhaps a private amusement. “Spend the weekend with me instead.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide as she turned toward him, certain she had misheard. “What?”

“You heard me,” he murmured, his gaze steady. “Let me plan something for that weekend. No dancing. I promise.”

She stared at him, caught between disbelief and the uncomfortable fluttering in her chest. “What do you have in mind?” she asked warily.

His smirk deepened, and he tilted his head just enough to make it feel like a secret. “You’ll find out,” he replied smoothly, offering nothing more.

She rolled her eyes, though it was impossible to ignore the heat creeping into her cheeks. She looked away quickly, biting her lip in an effort to suppress the smile threatening to break free.

Her gaze drifted over him briefly, lingering on the plate beside him—untouched, as always.

The memory of their nighttime walk—his confession—rose unbidden in her mind. A question slipped past her lips before she could second-guess it.

“What’s your favorite animal to hunt?”

Draco stilled.

His relaxed posture went taut, his hand curling faintly into a fist against his thigh. It was so subtle, she might’ve missed it if she hadn’t been watching him so closely.

He didn’t answer at first. His eyes, which had been lazily tracking the room moments ago, now locked onto her with a slow, predatory shift that sent goosebumps skittering up her spine.

“Wolves,” he said finally, his voice dropping an octave. “I like the challenge of a pack.”

Her chest tightened, though the discomfort wasn’t from fear. It was the way he said it, each word thick with a kind of confidence that made her shiver.

She imagined him in the wild, his movements fluid, predatory—a shadow weaving through the trees, unseen until it was too late. His silver eyes glowing under the moonlight. The idea was both unsettling and… intoxicating.

“Wolves are dangerous,” she murmured, barely trusting her voice to hold steady. “Be careful.”

Draco’s brow lifted, genuine surprise flickering across his face before his lips curled into a quiet, almost affectionate laugh. It curled around her, warm and unexpected, softening the razor edges of his usual arrogance. Her pulse stumbled, utterly transfixed by the shift in him—how, for a fleeting moment, the carefully placed walls around him cracked, and he looked younger, lighter.

“Careful?” he repeated, his amusement unmistakable “You’re worried about me?”

“Yes,” she admitted, her answer immediate. She lifted her chin, refusing to let him laugh this away. “You’re not invincible, Malfoy.”

The humor bled from his expression, but something else flared in its place. His eyes held hers, steady and searching, as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning behind her words.

He leaned closer.

“I’m better than they are,” he murmured. “Trust me.”

Her stomach tightened at the absolute certainty in his tone. He wasn’t boasting. He wasn’t showing off. He was simply stating a fact.

And, Merlin help her, it was unbelievably hot.

A new thought itched at the back of her mind, rising before she could stop it.

“…Could I ever watch you hunt?”

The words left her lips, quiet, barely above a whisper, but the shift in Draco was immediate.

His smirk vanished, replaced by something far more intense—his gaze sharpening, the grey in his eyes darkening like a storm gathering over the sea. The air between them thickened, and Hermione forgot to breathe as he leaned in, his face so close she could see flecks of blue hidden in his irises.

“No.” The word came out flat, final, like the slam of a door.

“Why not?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She wasn’t sure what answer she expected, but the look he gave her in response made her stomach drop.

His gaze flicked over her face, lingering briefly on her lips before settling at her throat.

“Because,” he said, voice rough, almost guttural, “I don’t know if I’d be able to control myself.”

Heat blossomed under her skin, licking up her spine, curling low in her belly. Her pulse jumped, the air between them suddenly suffocating—heavy.

Her thighs pressed together.

Slowly—without thinking—she bit her lip.

His gaze tracked the motion with razor-sharp focus. His lips parted slightly, a muscle jumping in his jaw. The air between them went thick and heavy, charged like a storm just before the first crack of lightning.

She couldn’t look away.

Her eyes dipped, dragging over the sharp lines of his mouth, the way his lips pressed together like he was holding something back. 

Draco inhaled sharply through his nose—a tight, uneven breath.

“You’re trouble, you know that?”

Her stomach flipped, the words sinking into her like teeth against bare skin, like fingers wrapping around her wrist and pulling her closer.

The smirk that curled at his mouth was slow—but his eyes betrayed him. Darkened. Wanting. Dangerous.

Her pulse hammered, her breath shallower than it should be. She tried to speak, to say anything—to ask him why he wouldn’t just kiss her already—but her brain was nothing but white noise.

Before she could gather herself, a sharp scrape of a bench against stone shattered the moment.

Pansy.

She was glaring daggers at them from across the hall, her expression twisted in irritation, fingers digging into the table like she might snap it in half.

The sharp twist in Hermione’s stomach caught her off guard.

She turned back to Draco, her voice quieter now. “I don’t think Pansy likes me.”

Draco blinked. “What?”

“She glares at me all the time,” Hermione continued, shifting on the windowsill. “Like she’s furious I’m even near you.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand along his jaw, looking vaguely irritated. “Pansy can be … difficult, but it’s not about you.”

She hesitated. “Because of your history?” she asked, her cheeks warming slightly. “You and Pansy were—”

“We weren’t,” he cut in smoothly, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle. “Granger, we never dated.”

She frowned, thrown off balance. “But there were rumors—”

“Rumors aren’t facts.” He shrugged, completely unconcerned. “She’s a friend. That’s all.”

“Then why does she look at me like she wants to hex me into oblivion?”

He hesitated, the humor fading from his expression as he considered her. “It’s because she’s worried,” he admitted finally. “About you knowing.”

She straightened, shaking her head firmly. “I would never tell anyone.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe. “I know,” he said. “I trust you.”

The quiet admission settled between them like a physical thing, anchoring her in place. Those words—so simple yet raw—made something bloom in her chest. She swallowed hard, nodding.

The clock tower chimed in the distance, breaking the moment.

Draco pushed off the windowsill. “Come on,” he said, stepping closer. His hand found her back, his fingers brushing lightly against her sweater as he guided her to her feet. 

She followed, pulse pounding, the sound of the Great Hall fading beneath the storm in her chest.

His hand stayed at the small of her back longer than necessary. And she felt it—felt every inch of his touch, the unspoken promise behind it.

Like a claiming—warm, possessive, and impossible to ignore.

Chapter Text

The castle lay in near silence, the corridors stretching ahead in shadow and torchlight, their footsteps the only sound disturbing the hush of late fall. The cold crept through the stone walls, sharp as a blade, but it wasn’t the chill that had Hermione hugging her arms to herself. It was him.

Draco walked beside her, his presence a steady weight in the quiet. The torches cast flickering gold over his pale hair, highlighting the sharp edges of his profile, the slant of his mouth. 

The Fat Lady’s portrait loomed ahead, marking the end of their walk, and Hermione found herself slowing. She didn’t want the moment to end just yet.

They stopped just before the entrance. Draco turned toward her, his hands sliding into the pockets of his robes. 

Her fingers fidgeted at the hem of her scarf, desperate for something to hold onto. 

Say something, she willed herself. Anything to make him stay just a little longer.

Slowly, his hand lifted. She stilled, her breath hitching as his fingertips tucked a loose curl behind her ear. His touch featherlight, lingering just long enough to make her skin prickle with heat.

His fingers grazed her cheek on the way down, and she swallowed hard, staring at him as the words she wanted to say stuck in her throat.

“Goodnight, Granger,” he murmured, his voice rough silk.

She parted her lips, grasping for something, but all that came out was a barely-there, “Night.”

He lingered for a beat longer, his eyes lingering on her face, her lips. Then, just as smoothly as he had arrived, he turned, disappearing down the corridor, his steps fluid and silent.

She watched him go. The cold crept into her bones, but she barely felt it, her skin still buzzing from his touch. Her hand lifted, pressing against the place on her cheek where his fingers had brushed, like she could capture the feeling and hold it just a little longer.

The portrait beside her cleared its throat.

“Password?” The Fat Lady prompted, her voice dry with impatience.

“Oh—right. Crocus Petals,” Hermione said quickly, shaking herself from her trance.

The portrait swung open, revealing the dim glow of the common room.

Ginny was waiting.

Perched on the arm of the sofa, she kicked her legs idly, flipping through Witch Weekly with an air of exaggerated boredom. But the second Hermione stepped inside, she snapped the magazine shut and tossed it onto the floor.

“Well? ” she demanded, her eyes gleaming.

Hermione froze mid-step. “Well, what?” she asked, feigning confusion as she unwound her scarf with unnecessary care.

Ginny snorted, crossing her arms. “Oh, come off it, Hermione. Malfoy just walked you back. Again. And you’re standing there looking like someone plucked you straight out of a romance novel. So, I ask again—what’s going on with you two?”

Heat flared up Hermione’s neck, her fingers fumbling as she dropped her scarf onto the sofa. “Nothing’s going on,” she said far too quickly.

Ginny gave her a flat look. “Hermione.”

She sighed.

“I was in Defense,” Ginny reminded her. “You two sat closer than most people do when they’re snogging in broom closets. And don’t even try to deny how red you got when his hand mysteriously disappeared under the table.”

Hermione gaped, her cheeks catching fire. “He didn’t—he wasn’t—”

“Malfoy hexing Ron with his eyes was terrifyingly hot, by the way.”

Hermione groaned and collapsed onto the sofa, burying her face in her hands. “You are absolutely incorrigible.”

“And you’re avoiding the question,” Ginny shot back, poking her in the knee. “Did he ask you out? Was dinner a date?”

Hermione peeked out between her fingers, cheeks still burning. “I… think so?”

Ginny squealed, clapping her hands together. “Finally! I knew it. You’ve been mooning over him for weeks.”

“I have not.”

Ginny arched a brow.

Hermione groaned, pressing her face into a throw pillow.

Ginny smirked. “So… what did you two do? And don’t try to tell me you just talked about Ancient Runes all night.”

Hermione bit her lip. She thought about telling Ginny what had happened in Hogsmeade, about how Draco had saved her, how he’d fought for her. But something held her back. It felt too personal, too raw to share just yet.

“We just talked,” she said finally, though her voice felt distant.

Ginny groaned. “Talked? Hermione, you went on a date with Draco Malfoy—the same Draco Malfoy who oozes sex every time he so much as breathes —and all you did was talk?”

Hermione covered her face again. “It’s not that simple. He’s… complicated.”

Ginny flopped back against the cushions, sighing dramatically. “Not simple? If I were you, I would’ve jumped his bones already.”

“Ginny!”

“What? I’m right! The man practically growls when someone so much as looks at you. It’s unbearably hot.”

Hermione let out a strangled noise of protest, but Ginny only cackled. “You’re just too proper to admit how badly you want him.”

Hermione groaned, flopping onto her back.

Ginny nudged her with her foot. “Come on, admit it. You’re the one blushing every time he’s around.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“It’s a gift.” Then, softer, “But really, Hermione… are you happy?”

She blinked. The question caught her off guard. Her thoughts tangled, caught between uncertainty and the warmth still lingering in her chest.

She thought of the way Draco looked at her. The way he touched her—careful, restrained, like he was afraid of what might happen if he lost control.

She exhaled, a small, almost reluctant smile curling at her lips.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “I think I am.”

Ginny’s grin turned wicked. “Good. Because if he doesn’t kiss you soon, I’m staging an intervention.”

“Gin!”

Ginny cackled. “Speaking of which…” Her smirk stretched wide. “Do you really think I didn’t notice how red you were this morning? I know a wet dream when I see one.”

Hermione froze.

Ginny gasped, gleeful. “It was about him, wasn’t it?”

“I’m going to bed!” She shrieked, leaping up from the sofa so quickly she nearly knocked her bag over. She grabbed it, cheeks flaming, and all but bolted for the stairs.

Ginny fell into the cushions, laughing so hard she nearly slid off the sofa. “Sweet dreams!” she called after her. “Tell Malfoy I said hello!”

Hermione slammed the dormitory door behind her, her face burning, her pulse racing. She flung herself onto her bed, yanked the curtains shut, and pressed her face into the pillow.

As she lay there, her thoughts spiraled—Draco’s eyes, his voice, his touch. The ache deepened, lingering in ways she couldn’t quite ignore. Ginny might be impossible, but she wasn’t wrong.

It’s not that simple, Hermione thought with a sigh, her heart racing as she drifted into a restless sleep.

~ * ~

The next morning unfolded like a routine Hermione had unknowingly grown fond of.

Draco was waiting for her at the portrait hole, leaning lazily against the stone wall like he had all the time in the world. His uniform was perfectly unrumpled, his tie slightly loosened in a way that looked deliberate rather than careless. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, eyes locking onto hers instantly.

"Granger." 

"Malfoy," she returned, trying—failing—to sound as unaffected as he did.

They fell into step together, moving through the castle with a familiarity that should have felt strange, but didn’t. Their arms brushed now and then, causing her nerves to buzz sporadically.

Their conversation was light, the ease between them building in a way she didn’t dare examine too closely. 

By the time they reached the Great Hall, her composure was hanging by a thread, but breakfast was uneventful—if she didn’t count the smug looks Ginny sent her way from the table. Hermione tried to ignore it, focusing instead on Draco beside her as he picked at his plate with his usual disinterest.

He let out a long sigh, pushing his plate away and rolling his shoulders. “Potions next,” he muttered, flicking her a glance as they stood. “Excited, Granger? Your favorite subject.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I do actually enjoy learning, Malfoy.”

“I know,” he teased, his smirk tilting just enough to send a dangerous ripple through her stomach. “It’s one of your more endearing traits.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, though she couldn’t quite stop the corner of her mouth from twitching. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Good.” His gaze flicked over her, unreadable for a moment before he added, “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

Her stomach dipped in a way that had nothing to do with the winding staircase they descended.

To distract herself, she cleared her throat. “I’ve actually been considering pursuing a Potions Mastery after Hogwarts,” she admitted, casting him a sidelong glance.

Draco’s brow arched, the shift in conversation catching his interest. “Yeah?”

She nodded, suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny. “I mean, I haven’t made any final decisions yet, but… I enjoy the complexity of it. And I’m good at it.”

Draco made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “You are,” he admitted. Then, after a beat, his smirk turned knowing. “Though not as good as me.”

She shot him a glare. “I was going to say—” she huffed, crossing her arms, “—that I was actually surprised you haven’t been pursuing one as well.”

Draco’s smirk faltered, his head tilting slightly. “Oh?”

She nodded. “You always scored higher than me in Potions.” She sighed, dramatic and exaggerated. “It used to infuriate me, you know. I thought it was favoritism. Snape favoring his godson.”

Draco let out a low chuckle. “Admit it, you hated it.”

“I did hate it,” she confirmed with a mock scowl. “Because I thought I was the best. But then I realized—” she cast him a sidelong glance, voice softer now, “—you’re actually just that good.”

Draco went quiet for a moment, his smirk slipping into something closer to a real smile. “Snape taught me a lot,” he admitted, his voice lower. “It was… important to him.”

Hermione felt something tighten in her chest. There was a weight in his tone that she didn’t often hear. She didn’t press, but she held his gaze, letting him know she understood.

Then, just as quickly, he smirked again, shaking off the heaviness in the air. “You know, I always suspected you secretly admired me.”

Hermione scoffed, shoving her elbow lightly against his. “You’re insufferable.”

Draco caught her wrist before she could pull away, his fingers wrapping around her arm as he tugged her in just enough to unbalance her.

"Granger," he said, voice mock-serious, "I just managed to get you to admit I’m better than you in Potions. I can’t risk you using those bony elbows of yours to retaliate. I need to limit your range of impact."

She blinked, off-kilter at the sudden closeness.

“I do not have bony elbows,” she shot back, heat creeping up her neck.

Draco tilted his head, considering. Then, smirking, he loosened his grip and stepped back. “Debatable.”

Hermione exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, feeling far too warm for a November morning.

Their banter carried them easily down the final corridor—until they stepped into the Potions classroom.

Professor Slughorn’s booming voice greeted them before they’d even properly entered.

“Amortentia!” he declared, spreading his arms wide as if revealing hidden treasure. The cauldron at the front of the room gleamed with its signature iridescence, wisps of steam curling into the air. “The most powerful love potion in existence! Today, you and your partners will attempt to brew your own.”

Hermione’s stomach plummeted.

Beside her, Draco went unnaturally still. She didn’t need to look to know his jaw was probably strained. 

When she did risk a glance, their eyes met—silver crashing into amber—and for a fleeting second, something flashed there. Something sharp, unguarded.

Unease. Want. Recognition.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t have to.

They fell into rhythm like they always did—too in sync, too aware of each other. Every measured movement, every carefully portioned ingredient, a study in restraint. Hermione’s fingers trembled as she ground rose thorns into a fine powder, her pulse hammering with a force she could feel in her teeth.

The potion swirled to life in their cauldron, the telltale pearlescent sheen curling to life. Steam drifted lazily upward, and her breath hitched as the first faint traces of the scent reached her. 

It was him.

Clean, woodsy air after a rainstorm, fresh parchment, warm fabric wrapped tightly around her, something sharp and minty and entirely Draco. Her knees nearly buckled, and she had to grip the edge of the table to steady herself.

She knew exactly what Amortentia was supposed to do, but nothing could have prepared her for this.

Beside her, Draco exhaled sharply.

She turned, drawn to the sound against her will, and her stomach clenched at the sight of him. His fingers were white-knuckled around the table’s edge, his pupils blown wide, his chest rising and falling with controlled slowness.

Then he reached for a vial at the same time she did.

Their fingers brushed.

Hermione’s breath hitched. A jolt shot up her arm, hot and electric, sinking straight into her bones.

Draco didn’t pull away. Didn’t move.

His thumb traced the side of her hand, a barely-there touch, but it sent heat rippling through her. 

Her heartbeat pounded so violently she thought he might hear it.

“Granger.”

His voice destroyed her.

“I…” She tried to speak, but her voice failed. Her lips were dry, her mouth useless.

The steam curled thicker, wrapping around them, drowning them in something too heady, too consuming. The scent of him twined through her senses, tangled in her lungs, made her pulse a frantic, needy thing.

Draco’s throat bobbed, and he let out a tight breath.

“Focus,” he muttered. But it wasn’t an order. It was a plea.

She was trying. She really was.

But every time he moved, every shift of his body beside hers, her nerves sparked anew.

Every inhale, her thoughts darkened.

Every glance he cast her way, her skin flushed hotter.

Her body was betraying her, pulse frantic, heat pooling low, liquid and unbearable. She squeezed her thighs together and wanted to die when she felt how sensitive she was, how her traitorous body was responding to the simple press of his voice, the weight of his gaze.

She had to get out.

Now.

“I need—” she choked out, her voice foreign to her own ears. “I need to go.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

Didn’t care if anyone saw.

She grabbed her wand and fled, nearly toppling her stool in the process.

The air felt like ice against her overheated skin as she entered the empty dungeon corridor. She sucked in a breath, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

Her feet carried her without thought, muscles stiff, trembling, until she shoved into the nearest bathroom, throwing the door shut behind her with a loud bang.

Her hands gripped the sink, white-knuckled.

She didn’t need to look in the mirror to know what she’d see.

Wide, dazed eyes. Cheeks pink, lips parted, chest rising and falling far too fast. Her hair was a mess, curls frizzy and wild, like someone had been tugging at them.

Her skin burned—not just from the heat of the classroom, but from him. The way he’d looked at her. Like she was something to be devoured.

A shudder wracked her spine.

She turned on the tap, water rushing into the sink. Cold. She needed cold.

She splashed it onto her face, droplets clinging to her flushed skin, but it did nothing to quell the ache inside her.

Her traitorous mind conjured the memory of his fingers, the way they’d dragged over her skin. How easy it would be for him to—

A creak shattered the fragile silence.

She spun around, her breath catching as Draco stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them into the small, dimly lit space.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there as his eyes slowly raked over her, drinking in every inch—her flushed cheeks, the unsteady rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers still gripped the sink like she might collapse if she let go.

And fuck, he looked just as wrecked.

His fists clenched at his sides, like he was holding himself back. But his control was splintering—she could see it in the way his throat bobbed, the strain in his jaw, the faint tremor in his hands.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was raw.

“I tried to walk away.” A confession, barely more than a rasp. “But you’re all I can think about.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut, stealing the breath from her lungs.

Draco exhaled hard, dragging a shaking hand through his hair. “That fucking potion…” He shook his head. His eyes burned into hers, sharp and hungry. “It smelled like you.”

Oh.

Her voice came out breathless, nearly pleading. “It smelled like you for me.”

In an instant, he was in front of her, bracketing her against the sink, his hands planted on either side. Not touching, but so close her skin burned.

Her breath hitched as his lips hovered near her ear.

“You drive me insane, Granger.” 

His breath tickled her throat as his head dipped lower, the tip of his nose grazing the sensitive skin just beneath her jaw. She shuddered, her pulse thrumming wildly beneath his mouth.

Her hands moved on their own, clutching his shirt, pulling him closer.

A low, guttural groan rumbled through his chest, vibrating against her. His hands moved—one sliding to her hip, the other pressing against the small of her back, dragging her flush against him.

She gasped, the shock of their bodies meeting setting her nerves alight. His body was solid stone, every muscle taut beneath his uniform. The hand on her hip gripped tighter, his thumb brushing the bare skin just above her waistband, teasing, taking.

And then his mouth was on her neck.

He kissed the delicate skin near her pulse, his lips hot and insistent, his teeth grazing just enough to make her whimper.

Her head fell back against the mirror, eyes fluttering shut, thighs clenching involuntarily.

Draco growled.

His hands slid under her blouse, rough palms skimming the curve of her waist, fingertips ghosting higher—higher—until they cupped her breasts through her bra, squeezing firmly.

Hermione gasped, her back arching into his touch, her nipples pebbling beneath the fabric.

“Fuck,” he muttered against her throat, his voice strained. “You’re… addictive.”

His thumbs rolled over her peaked nipples, teasing through the fabric, sending sharp sparks of pleasure through her.

She was trembling. Dripping.

She needed more.

Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging, and he let out a wrecked sound—half growl, half moan—as his hips pressed into hers.

Oh, Gods.

He was hard.

Thick and straining against his trousers, pressing against her stomach.

She whined, her head spinning, drowning in the scent of him, the feel of him, the overwhelming, unbearable need clawing at her insides.

“Draco.”

His name slipped from her lips, soft and desperate.

His head snapped up, eyes blown wide, chest heaving.

His lips hovered just above hers, so close, teasing, taunting.

But he didn’t close the distance.

Didn’t kiss her.

Instead, his fingers tightened on her hips.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice cracked. “Hermione… tell me to stop.”

No.

Her lips parted, but nothing came.

Her silence was his undoing.

With a growl, he lifted her onto the sink, spreading her legs, stepping between them.

Her skirt bunched at her hips, his hands gripping her thighs, his thumbs stroking circles against her sensitive skin.

She was so wet, her knickers damp and clinging to her, and he had to know. Had to feel.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in, nipping at her skin, his teeth skimming just below her pulse.

Her heart thundered against her ribs, the sound roaring in her ears. She felt the faintest pressure of his teeth, the sharp edge just grazing her skin, and a surge of heat shot through her, leaving her trembling.

But then he stopped.

He pulled back abruptly, his breaths ragged and uneven. 

His hands dropped away from her as if her touch had burned him, and he spun on his heel, turning his back to her so quickly it startled her. His shoulders were taut, trembling, and he raked his hands through his hair, the motion agitated and frantic.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice raw and broken. His fingers dug into his scalp as though he were trying to ground himself. His head bowed, hiding his face from her view, his body curling inward like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. “I almost…”

She sat frozen on the edge of the sink, gripping the porcelain so hard her knuckles ached. Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, her chest rising and falling in time with the unrelenting pound of her pulse.

Her thighs clenched, slick and aching, the remnants of desire twisting low in her belly, tightening around a need that hadn’t been fulfilled.

“Draco…” she whispered, the syllables slipping out soft and trembling, barely audible over the thick, suffocating silence between them.

His shoulders stiffened at the sound of his name, his hands falling to his sides before clenching into fists. He didn’t turn back. “Don’t,” he said.

She swallowed hard, her throat raw. 

Don’t what? Don’t say your name? Don’t break the silence? Don’t admit that I want you so badly I can barely breathe?

Her lips parted, but hesitation caught the words in her throat. She watched helplessly as his hand twitched, then raked roughly through his hair again.

“Draco…” she tried again, softer, but it only seemed to fray his control further.

His shoulders hunched slightly—as if the sound of his name on her tongue physically hurt him. His fingers curled tighter, the tension in his frame vibrating with something dangerous, fragile.

Then, suddenly, he moved.

Fast and desperate he strode for the door, his steps clipped, almost frantic, his head still bowed. His face never turned back to her.

The door clicked shut behind him, the sound slicing through the thick silence like a blade.

A shaky exhale shuddered past her lips.

Slowly, she turned to the mirror.

The girl staring back at her was unrecognizable.

Her blouse was rumpled, one side of the collar askew, the top few buttons undone where his hands had wandered. Her skirt was still bunched high on her thighs, her stockings slightly crooked, her skin flushed, her lips parted.

She looked utterly exposed.

Her own reflection made her stomach clench—not with regret, but with something deeper, something irreversible.

Because despite everything, she wanted more.

Sliding off the sink, she adjusted her skirt, hands still unsteady, and moved to straighten her blouse.

Her knees wobbled slightly as she took a step forward, her breath catching when she reached for the handle. The ache in her core, the ghost of his hands, the memory of his hard-on pressing against her, thick and hot, sent another wave of heat pulsing through her.

She sucked in a slow, steadying breath.

As she stepped back into the corridor, she realized one thing with startling clarity: she was entirely, irreparably lost to him. And despite the chaos of it all, she wasn’t sure she cared.

Chapter Text

Hermione entered the Defense classroom with her pulse still unsteady, her body still buzzing from the remnants of Draco’s touch. The room felt impossibly cold compared to the inferno she’d just escaped, the air pressing against her skin like ice, a sharp contrast to the heat still coiled deep in her belly. She tugged her robes tighter around herself, her fingers twitching as she slid into her usual seat, her mind unmoored, restless.

Her eyes flicked to the doorway, searching.

Where was he?

She set her bag down, moving through the motions of unpacking her things—quill, parchment, textbook—her hands mechanical, but her focus was elsewhere. Waiting. Watching. With each minute that passed, the unease inside her spread, seeping through her limbs, curling into her ribcage.

Was he avoiding her now?

The thought hurt.

Professor Montgomery’s voice cut through the hum of students, signaling the start of the lesson. She forced herself upright, forcing air into her lungs, forcing focus. It didn’t matter. She had spent years perfecting the art of self-discipline, of compartmentalizing distractions, of choosing logic over impulse.

And yet—

Her fingers clenched around her quill, her script uneven as she scrawled notes onto the parchment. The words blurred together, meaningless, lost in the whirlwind of memory pulling her under.

Draco’s breath at her throat.
His fingers digging into her thighs.
His hard length pressing against her, thick and long.
The groan he’d swallowed when she’d gasped his name.

Her thighs pressed together, a slow, unbearable ache building between them. Heat flared in her cheeks, and she forced herself to take deep, even breaths, but it was no use.

No one had ever touched her like that before. No one had ever left her so wrecked, wanting, desperate. She had spent so long prioritizing everything else—her education, her responsibilities, her rational mind—that she had never let herself feel this. Now that she had, she couldn’t put it back.

A sharp wave of a hand jerked her back to the present.

“Earth to Hermione!”

She blinked, startled. Ginny’s face swam into focus, her eyes dancing with amusement. Around them, the rest of the class was filing out. Had she really been that lost?

She flushed, hurriedly gathering her things.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I was… distracted.”

Ginny smirked, falling into step beside her as they exited the classroom. “What’s got you so out of it?”

Hermione’s cheeks burned hotter. “It’s… complicated.”

Ginny’s smirk widened. “Oh, I love complicated.” She nudged Hermione with her elbow. “Spill.”

Hermione hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek, before exhaling a slow, steadying breath. Maybe saying it aloud would help.

So she told Ginny everything.

About Potions class, the Amortentia, the overwhelming scent of Draco that had wrapped around her like smoke and sin and hunger. About the way he had tensed beside her, the way his voice had turned raw when he whispered her name. And then—the bathroom.

The heat, the urgency, the near-violent need in the way he had touched her. The way he had pulled back at the last second, like he was afraid of himself.

Ginny’s sharp shriek of excitement made Hermione jump, her heart nearly slamming through her ribs.

“HE DID WHAT?!”

Heads turned.

Hermione seized her arm, dragging her to the side of the corridor.

“Keep your voice down!” she hissed, mortified.

Ginny clamped a hand over her mouth, though her wide eyes still sparkled with glee. After a moment, she lowered her hand, voice dropping to an exaggerated whisper. “Okay, okay. But you can’t just drop that and expect me to stay calm. So… did he kiss you?”

The sharp sting of disappointment flared in Hermione’s chest. She shook her head.

“No,” she admitted. “He didn’t.”

Ginny groaned dramatically, throwing her hands up. “Well, that settles it. You’re going to have to make the first move.”

She faltered, her feet stuttering slightly against the stone floor. The idea of initiating something with Draco, of closing that unbearable, electric space between them—it made her breath hitch, her hands tremble.

“I don’t know if I can,” she admitted. “What if he doesn’t want me to?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. If he didn’t want you, he wouldn’t have cornered you in the bathroom like that. Trust me, he’s into you. But he’s an idiot, and you’re an idiot, so you’re going to have to give him a push.”

Hermione didn’t respond, her thoughts too tangled to unravel. Her gaze swept the Great Hall as they entered, searching instinctively for a familiar head of white-blond hair. Her chest tightened when she didn’t see him among the Slytherins. 

Where is he?

She lingered near the Gryffindor table, unsure of where to sit, until Ginny nudged her lightly.

“Looks like you’ve got an invitation,” she teased, nodding toward Theo Nott, who was grinning at Hermione from the Slytherin table. He waved her over casually, his expression equal parts wicked and amused.

Hermione hesitated. Her feet felt rooted to the spot, but Ginny gave her a gentle push. “Go on,” she encouraged.

With a deep breath, she made her way to the Slytherin table. The chatter around her seemed to quiet as she approached, her steps tentative. Theo gestured to the seat beside him, and she slid in, acutely aware of the daggers being thrown her way.

“Granger,” Theo greeted smoothly, leaning back with a smirk.

She swallowed, her eyes flicking to the empty space beside them, the place Draco normally occupied. His absence sat heavy in her chest, her fingers twitching in her lap.

“Do you know where Draco is?” she asked, unable to mask the hint of worry in her tone.

Theo’s smirk deepened. “He had a sudden urge to go hunt,” he said lightly, his voice dipping into something more pointed. “Went off with Blaise and Pansy.”

“When will he be back?” she asked, her voice tight.

Theo’s eyes narrowed slightly, gleaming with something sharp and knowing.

“Soon, I imagine,” he mused. Then, as if he couldn’t resist, he leaned in. “Funny, though. He hunted earlier this week. Makes you wonder why he needed to go again so soon.”

Hermione’s stomach flipped.

Theo’s smirk sharpened. “Maybe someone’s been… tempting him.”

She turned away quickly, her heart hammering against her ribs. Before she could muster a response, the atmosphere in the Great Hall shifted. A slow, palpable tension rolled through the room, raising the hairs at the back of her neck. It was an awareness she couldn’t explain, a pull that drew her gaze toward the entrance.

Draco had returned.

He strode into the hall, Blaise and Pansy flanking him, his movements unhurried but commanding. There was a relaxed smirk playing on his lips, something amused lingering between him and Blaise as they spoke, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Then—Pansy saw her.

The conversation between the Slytherins shifted instantly.

Pansy stilled, her sharp eyes locking onto Hermione. The serenity on her face vanished, replaced by something hard, seething.

She muttered something to Blaise and Draco before turning on her heel and stalking away.

Draco’s brow furrowed before his eyes found Hermione.

His gaze darkened, a storm brewing in his expression as he took in the sight of her sitting next to Theo. Hermione’s blush deepened under his scrutiny, her heart pounding against her ribcage.

Theo, ever the opportunist, slung an arm casually over her shoulders. “Isn’t that interesting,” he said lightly, leaning in just enough to make her flush hotter. His voice dropped to a teasing whisper. “Draco looks like he’s ready to tear someone’s head off. I wonder why?”

Draco was already moving.

His long strides cut through the hall, his presence magnetic, unrelenting.

By the time Hermione could breathe again, he was standing in front of them, his expression a quiet storm.

“Move over.” 

Theo chuckled, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips as he withdrew his arm and slid down the bench. “All yours, mate.”

Draco took the seat beside her, his thigh pressing firmly against hers.

Her pulse stuttered. The frustration that had been simmering all day spilled over.

She turned to him, voice sharper than she intended. “Where did you go after Potions?”

His jaw tensed.

“I had to leave,” he said curtly.

“That’s not an answer,” she shot back, the emotions she’d been suppressing spilling over. “You can’t just disappear without telling me anything.”

His gaze snapped to hers, and for a moment, his defenses wavered. His silver eyes softened, guilt flickering across his face before he masked it with frustration. 

“I left because I had to,” he ground out. “It wasn’t a choice.”

Her lips parted, her anger mingling with confusion. “You can’t keep doing this,” she said, her tone softer but still firm. “I’m not asking for every detail, but I need to know—”

“You think I wanted to?” he asked, voice rough, strained. “You think I wanted to leave you there like that?”

She swallowed hard.

The tension between them felt unbearable, suffocating.

Her gaze flickered to the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his fingers dug into the wood, the storm that hadn’t left his face since he walked in.

Something in her cracked.

“Next time,” she said softly, her voice barely above a breath, “just tell me. Please.”

After a long pause, he exhaled slowly, nodding once. “Alright,” he murmured, his voice quiet but resolute. “Next time.”

~ * ~

The rest of the day dragged, every hour stretching painfully under the weight of stolen glances and unspoken words. Draco was there—always there—a near-constant presence that set her nerves alight. But he kept his distance since Potions, maintaining just enough space to leave her aching for more.

When he passed her parchment, his fingers would graze hers—fleeting, barely there—only to jerk away. He leaned over her shoulder in class to inspect her notes, and the ghost of his breath against her skin made it impossible to focus. Every time their eyes met, something dark flickered behind his, something hungry, something he refused to act on.

By the time their last class ended, Hermione felt like a live wire, thrumming with too much energy, too much want. She needed to get away—to breathe, to think, to force her body back under control. 

The library was the obvious choice, its quiet corners and towering bookshelves a safe haven where she could lose herself in ink and parchment.

She settled into her usual table near the back, spreading out her notes, forcing herself to focus. 

The sharp sound of someone clearing their throat jolted her.

Hermione looked up, startled, to find Ron standing at the edge of her table, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expression a mixture of awkwardness and something heavier.

She straightened. “Ron.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “What are you doing here?”

He shifted, scuffing his shoe against the stone floor. “I wanted to talk to you.” His tone was uncharacteristically serious. “About… about how I’ve been acting.”

Surprise flickered through her. She hadn’t expected this—not so soon.

“Oh.”

Ron sighed, dragging a hand through his hair before blowing out a breath. “Look, I know I’ve been a right git lately.” He hesitated, then clenched his jaw and pushed forward. “Seeing you and Malfoy… it’s thrown me. I mean, it’s Malfoy, Hermione. And you’re…” He gestured vaguely, as if the rest of the sentence was too obvious to say aloud. “Well, you.”

Her patience thinned. “Ron—”

He held up a hand. “Just—let me finish.”

She exhaled sharply but nodded.

“I’m not saying you can’t handle yourself.” He looked uncomfortable admitting it, shifting his weight like standing still was physically painful. “I know you can. It’s just… are you two…” He hesitated. “You know. Dating?”

Hermione’s heart thudded, a single, deliberate beat. She could have softened it, could have hedged or downplayed, but instead, she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and said the truth.

“Yes. We are.”

Ron’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, she braced herself for the outburst—for anger, for an explosion of frustration. But it didn’t come.

Instead, he let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “I don’t like it. I don’t trust him.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not your decision to make.”

“I know.” His shoulders sagged slightly, the fight draining from him, but something uneasy settled in its place. “But, ‘Mione—” He swallowed hard, then shook his head again. “The way he looks at you…” His voice lowered, his expression darkening. “It’s not normal.”

A prickle of irritation crawled down her spine. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Ron.”

He ignored her, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “He looks at you like…” He swallowed thickly, searching for the words. “Like you’re something to eat.”

A startled laugh burst out of her before she could stop it. “That’s ridiculous.”

He frowned, clearly unamused. “I’m serious. There’s something about him that doesn’t sit right with me.”

"Well, it’s not your business," she said firmly, standing and gathering her things. "I appreciate the apology, Ron, but I don’t need your approval."

Her tone softened just slightly as she met his blue eyes. "I’ll see you later."

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and walked briskly out of the library, her cheeks flushed with frustration.

The cool air of the corridor offered a small reprieve, but her irritation still simmered under her skin. She inhaled deeply, willing herself to focus on the rhythmic sound of her footsteps rather than the heat still prickling along her spine. 

She was so focused on calming herself that she nearly missed the familiar figure leaning casually against the wall, his pale hair shining in the dim light.

"Malfoy," she breathed, stopping mid-step.

He pushed off the wall with an easy grace, falling into step beside her as she resumed walking. “Thought I’d find you here,” he said, his voice low and smooth.

She swallowed, forcing herself to keep walking. "Were you waiting for me?"

His lips curved at the edges. "Maybe."

They walked in silence for a few moments, the quiet broken only by the soft echoes of their footsteps. But curiosity gnawed at her, and she finally glanced up at him. “Where did you go hunting today?”

His smirk faltered. A flicker of something darker crossed his face.

"The Forest," he said simply. "It’s convenient. Familiar."

"How often do you need to… hunt?"

His gaze flicked to hers, and this time, there was no smirk, only something raw lurking beneath the surface. His voice was low when he answered. "Once a week." A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, "Usually."

His silver eyes caught hers again, the intensity of it sending a jolt through her veins. "Lately, though…"

She quickly looked away, her thoughts spinning.

The Gryffindor portrait loomed before them, marking the threshold between his world and hers.

She hesitated, lingering at the entrance, her heart slamming against her ribs. This was her chance to do what Ginny had suggested. To bridge the gap between friends and finally become… more.

But before she could find the courage, Draco spoke.

"Granger."

Her breath hitched at the way he said it, the intimate cadence of his voice sending a shiver down her spine. She looked up, startled by the intensity in his eyes. 

They traced the curve of her lips, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her breath hitched when he leaned in.

She barely breathed, her body coiling in anticipation as his face drew closer.

Slowly, his hand came up, fingers threading into her hair, twisting gently at the base of her skull. The sensation sent a pulse of heat through her, her body tipping instinctively into the touch. He tilted her head slightly, his breath warm against her skin as his mouth pressed into her cheek.

His fingers tightened in her hair, holding her in place as his lips lingered—breathing her in, exhaling against her before pulling back just enough to meet her eyes.

Her breath shuddered out, skin tingling where his mouth had been, body still trapped in the moment as his thumb brushed the nape of her neck once, before he stepped back.

"Goodnight, Granger."

And then he turned, striding away, leaving her standing in the dim corridor, trembling, flushed, wanting.

Her fingers lifted, brushing over the burning imprint his lips had left on her cheek. She exhaled shakily, biting her lip, her body still betraying her—still aching for him.

Draco Malfoy was utterly infuriating, absolutely intoxicating, and surely on the verge of completely ruining her.

And Merlin help her, she was going to let him.

Chapter Text

December crept into Hogwarts with a biting chill that seemed to seep into Hermione’s very bones.

Despite the festive garlands strung along the halls, the shimmering enchanted snowflakes hovering above their heads, Hermione felt no warmth from the season. The world outside was adorned in celebration, but inside her, there was only an unbearable, growing ache.

The tension with Draco had become an unspoken thing, thick as storm clouds before a downpour, coiling tighter with every lingering glance, every brush of his fingers against hers. It lived in the spaces between them, filling the silence, stretching every shared moment into something taut and trembling.

They had settled into a routine—meals together, hours spent studying in the library, his nightly ritual of walking her to Gryffindor Tower.

Yet, it wasn’t enough.

Not when his presence set her skin alight. Not when his touch—fleeting, restrained—left her breathless. Not when he kissed her cheek each night with a softness that made her burn.

She wanted more. Needed more.

Ginny, as always, had no patience for her agony.

“For Merlin’s sake, Hermione,” she groaned one evening, draped across the common room sofa like a lounging cat. “Just kiss him already. Honestly, you’re beautiful, you’re brilliant—it would be a shame to see you die of sexual frustration.”

Hermione groaned, covering her face with both hands. “I can’t just—what if he doesn’t want me like that?”

Ginny snorted so loudly Hermione peeked between her fingers.

“Hermione, he looks at you like he’s about to spontaneously combust every time you’re in the same room. Trust me, he wants you.”

"It’s not that simple."

“It is,” Ginny huffed. “You just have to—ugh, you know what? If you don’t make the first move soon, I might do it for you.”

Hermione shot her a glare.

Theo wasn’t much better. Arithmancy had become a battlefield of insufferable teasing.

One afternoon, as she attempted (tried and failed) to focus on her notes, Theo sauntered over with all the arrogance of someone who knew far too much.

“You’re looking a little… tense, Granger,” he drawled, lounging against her desk with an easy smirk. “Something—or someone—on your mind?”

“Go away, Theo,” she muttered, gripping her quill so tightly it nearly snapped.

“Just saying,” he added, voice full of mock innocence. “You’ve got options for stress relief, you know. Pretty sure one of them is brooding and blonde.”

Her quill snapped.

She hurled the broken halves at him. They bounced harmlessly off his sleeve as he cackled and strolled away, utterly unrepentant.

By Friday evening, Hermione was frayed at the edges. Snapping at friends, short-tempered in class, restless in her own skin.

And it all boiled over in the library.

She sat at the farthest table, surrounded by books she wasn’t reading, parchment that remained blank. The flickering candlelight cast restless shadows across the pages, but her mind refused to settle.

She couldn’t understand it.

Why hadn’t he made a move?

He felt it too—she knew he did.

She saw it in the way his fingers lingered too long, the way his eyes darkened when they were alone. But he wouldn’t move, wouldn’t break the distance between them.

And it was killing her.

A frustrated tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

She wiped at it furiously, but the moment had already betrayed her.

A chair scraped against the floor.

Her head snapped up.

Draco.

He sat down across from her, his silver eyes scanning her face, his expression shifting from casual amusement to something more intense, more watchful.

“Granger,” he murmured.

She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, trying to pull herself together.

“Oh,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t see you there.”

He didn’t look away.

Slowly, he reached across the table, brushing his fingers against hers—just a whisper of contact, warm and steady.

And that was it.

That small, quiet touch unraveled her.

Her breath hitched. Her throat tightened.

And the tears came.

Not sobs—nothing dramatic or noisy. Just silent, unbidden tears spilling over her lashes, betraying the mess inside her.

In a blink, Draco was crouching beside her. His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb sweeping away the damp trail of her tears with a gentleness that made her chest ache.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice low and urgent.

She shook her head quickly, mortified.

“I—I don’t know,” she admitted, a small, helpless laugh escaping her. “I think I’m just… emotional. Probably about to start my period or something.”

She winced the moment the confession left her lips. Why did I say that? She expected a smirk, an awkward cough, some half-hearted joke to break the tension.

But Draco didn’t flinch.

His thumb stilled against her cheek, his silver eyes sharpening with something dark. The flickering candlelight caught on his features, painting his expression in shifting shadows—his lips parted slightly, his breath slow, measured, like he was battling the urge to say something more.

“Is there anything I can do?” 

She shook her head, trying to compose herself. “No. I’ll be fine. I’m just being silly.”

Draco’s gaze flickered over her face, taking in her damp lashes, the pink flush staining her cheeks, the way her lips trembled slightly.

“You’re not silly,” he murmured, leaning in to place a kiss on her cheek.

Her breath hitched as his lips moved to capture her tears, ghosting along her skin.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve, a silent plea for something, anything—more, maybe, or simply for him to stay close.

When he pulled back, his voice was a rasp, deep and quiet. “I hate seeing you like this.”

She exhaled shakily, unable to look away. His pupils were blown wide, his expression raw, exposed.

“I’m just overwhelmed,” she whispered. “You know how I can get around exams.”

Draco searched her face, his fingers tightening slightly in her hair. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her properly.

But then he inhaled sharply, pulling back just enough to murmur, “Maybe I can cheer you up.”

She blinked. “How?”

His lips twitched at the corners, something soft, intimate, just for her. “How about I take you out this weekend? Somewhere special.”

The suggestion startled her. Her heart skipped, hope blooming in her chest so quickly it almost hurt.

“A date?” she asked, her voice barely above a breath, uncertain.

Draco’s smile widened—rare, real, breathtaking. “A date,” he confirmed.

She let out a breathless laugh, her lips curving despite the remnants of tears on her cheeks. “I’d love that.”

Draco hummed, his thumb brushing one last time along her cheek before he let his hand drop.

And for the first time in weeks, Hermione felt like she could finally breathe.

~ * ~

Saturday morning arrived with a quiet kind of thrill curling through her chest, one that had her waking before the rest of the dormitory, sunlight streaming through the frost-laced windows, casting golden streaks across her bed. It was impossible to ignore the warmth pooling in her stomach, anticipation thrumming in her veins like a spell freshly cast. 

Today wasn’t just any day—it was the day of her date with Draco Malfoy.

The thought alone sent a flush creeping up her neck.

She hadn’t even finished stretching when a familiar redhead materialized at the foot of her bed, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, two steaming mugs of coffee in hand. Ginny’s hair was a wild mess, her pajamas rumpled, but the energy radiating off her was unmistakable.

“Morning,” Ginny sing-songed, handing over one of the mugs. “Big day ahead, huh?”

Hermione took the coffee, fingers curling around the warmth, trying—and failing—to suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “I suppose,” she said lightly, though her voice betrayed her.

Ginny arched a brow, unimpressed. “Oh, come on! Don’t play coy with me. You’re positively glowing, Hermione. Glowing.” She plopped down beside her, eyes gleaming. “Now, up! We’ve got work to do.”

Hermione huffed a laugh, setting her coffee on the nightstand as Ginny practically dragged her out of bed. “Draco said to dress warm and comfortable,” she offered as her friend threw open her wardrobe, rifling through neatly folded jumpers and scarves with the efficiency of a woman on a mission.

“Well, of course he did,” Ginny scoffed, plucking a mustard-yellow sweater from its hanger before wrinkling her nose and tossing it aside. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t look irresistible while following his little instructions.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but let Ginny work, watching as she curated an outfit with all the precision of a seasoned stylist.

Dark-wash jeans that hugged her curves in all the right places. Leather boots lined with soft fleece. A tailored wool coat in a deep forest green. And beneath it, a cream blouse with delicate lace detailing at the cuffs and collar—just enough to hint at something softer underneath.

Ginny stepped back, admiring her work. “Practical yet devastatingly attractive,” she declared, hands on her hips. “You’re welcome.”

Hermione snorted, but the warmth in her cheeks betrayed her.

Then came hair and makeup.

Ginny’s deft fingers worked through her curls, taming them just enough while letting them cascade freely, framing her face in soft curls. She was quick but skilled, transforming Hermione’s usual look into something effortlessly polished.

Minimal makeup. Just a sweep of mascara, a dusting of blush, a shimmery gloss that made her lips look… inviting. 

Ginny grinned triumphantly. “Hermione Granger,” she said, voice mock-serious, “if Malfoy doesn’t fall to his knees when he sees you, I will personally hex him.”

Hermione laughed, cheeks burning. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m not wrong,” Ginny quipped, looping her arm through Hermione’s, steering her toward the dormitory door.

Just as they reached the portrait hole, Ginny leaned in with a wicked glint in her eyes.

“Oh, and one more thing—you’re not allowed back here tonight unless you kiss him.”

She stumbled, nearly tripping over her own feet. “Ginny!”

“I’m serious!” she sing-songed, grinning. “The tension is unbearable. For the sake of all of Gryffindor, make a move.”

Before Hermione could form a protest, she stepped through the portrait hole—and immediately forgot how to breathe.

Draco was waiting.

He was dressed in all black as usual, but something about him today was... arresting. 

His coat, tailored to perfection, hugged the lean cut of his frame, his scarf draped effortlessly around his neck. The platinum strands of his hair caught the soft morning light, making him look almost ethereal, otherworldly.

She swallowed hard, her foot catching on the edge of the portrait hole.

A small, startled yelp escaped her lips as she stumbled—but before she could fall, he was there, catching her effortlessly.

His fingers curled around her arm, cool and steady, holding her upright like she weighed nothing.

“Careful, Granger,” he said, smirking as he helped her straighten. His silver eyes danced with amusement, but there was a warmth there too, a softness that made her heart skip.

From behind her, Ginny barely stifled a laugh. “Have fun, you two,” she called over her shoulder before disappearing back into the common room, leaving them alone.

But Hermione barely registered it.

Because Draco was still looking at her.

His eyes swept over her slowly, his pupils widening ever so slightly. His smirk faded, replaced by something that made her breath catch.

“You're beautiful.”

Hermione’s cheeks flamed. “Thank you,” she managed. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

His smirk returned, curling at the edges, teasing but pleased. “Shall we?”

He offered his arm, the gesture as effortless as it was old-fashioned.

She looped her arm through his, the tightness in her shoulders relaxing as they stepped into the crisp morning air. The chill bit at her cheeks, but Draco’s presence beside her kept the cold at bay.

“Where are we going?” she asked, tilting her head up at him.

His smirk deepened.

“You’ll see.”

Chapter Text

“Absolutely not.”

Hermione’s voice was sharp, resolute, but the effect was somewhat dampened by the way she took an instinctive step back, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stood on the snow-dusted path just beyond the castle grounds, boots sinking slightly into the frost-covered earth, her breath curling in the cold air.

Her wide eyes flicked between Draco and the broomstick he held with an infuriating level of ease—like he hadn’t just suggested something entirely unreasonable.

He tilted his head, silver-grey eyes alight with amusement, his grip on the broom lazy, spinning it idly between his fingers as though he had all the time in the world. “It’s the only way to get there,” he said, his tone unbearably casual.

Her jaw tightened. She planted her feet firmly, her boots crunching against the snow. “I’m not flying anywhere. Not on that… thing. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

Draco’s brow quirked, his lips twitching at the edges. “It’s a broom, Granger. It doesn’t bite.”

Her glare could have set the broom ablaze on the spot. “No.”

He laughed then. A low, rich sound that echoed off the frost-covered trees and wrapped around her like warm velvet. 

Hermione bristled. 

“You can trust me,” he said smoothly, his voice dipping slightly, his gaze softer now—dangerously persuasive.

She shook her head, determined. “This has nothing to do with trust. This is about plummeting to my death.”

Draco stepped closer. His smirk deepened, his posture relaxed, his entire demeanor maddeningly composed. “Granger, I’ve survived Death Eaters, a psychotic Dark Lord, and Finnigan’s bloody exploding cauldrons. I think I can manage keeping you on a broomstick.”

Her lips twitched. Damn him.

And then, just as she was about to argue again, he tilted his head. His smirk softened into something gentler—boyish, disarming, and utterly effective.

“Please?”

The word was quiet and breathy, slipping through the icy morning air like a spell, wrapping around her like a tether. The sincerity in his voice knocked the wind from her sails, and she cursed the way her stomach flipped, the way her resolve faltered, the way he looked at her like that.

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Fine! But you have to promise to go slow. And I mean it, Draco. Slow.”

His grin was immediate, victorious and more than a little wicked. “I’ll go slow,” he promised, the suggestive lilt in his tone sending heat straight to her cheeks. “At least… for now.”

She huffed, turning away sharply. “Merlin, I regret this already.”

Draco chuckled.

He mounted first, moving with that effortless grace that had always infuriated her. His body settled comfortably, his hands gripping the broom with the confidence of someone who had been flying since childhood.

Hermione stared as he extended his hand to her, dreading what she was about to do.

She exhaled, steeling herself, and swung a leg over, settling in awkwardly in front of him.

And then she made the mistake of noticing exactly how close they were.

Draco’s chest pressed against her back, his arms caging her in, one hand resting lightly on the handle beside hers, the other just barely grazing her hip. His body was cool against hers and she felt every shift, every movement, every breath.

She went rigid.

“Comfortable?” he murmured near her ear, his breath brushing against the sensitive skin of her cheek.

“Not remotely.” Her fingers clamped around the broomstick, knuckles turning white.

He chuckled, the sound reverberating against her spine. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

“Relax, Granger,” he murmured, his voice dipping into that low, sinfully smooth register that always made her stomach flutter. “We’ll go slow.”

The broom lifted off the ground, the movement smooth and seamless. She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the handle like her life depended on it.

“You’re really going to keep your eyes closed the entire time?” Draco whispered, amusement threading through his voice.

“Yes,” she bit out.

He hummed, his breath warm against her ear. “Shame. You’re missing quite the view.”

For what felt like an eternity, she endured the unbearable proximity.

Every shift of Draco’s body against hers sent heat curling deep in her belly. His arm tightened slightly around her waist, adjusting their balance, and she swore he did it on purpose.

By the time they finally began their descent, she was wound so tight with frustration and something else entirely that she could barely think.

Her heart pounded as they landed, her boots crunching against the snow. She cracked her eyes open, blinking against the brightness—and her irritation melted away.

They were atop a mountainside, the Scottish Highlands stretching endlessly before them. The rugged terrain was blanketed in white, untouched snow, the air crisp and biting, but ahead—

A clearing.

Nestled between the trees, surrounded by towering pines, was a meadow that shouldn’t exist, filled with wildflowers and void of snow.

An explosion of violets, blues, and pinks standing in vivid defiance of winter’s grasp. The air here was warm, balmy, a stark contrast to the cold beyond the tree line.

Hermione dismounted on shaky legs, her breath catching as she took in the sight. Draco’s hands steadied her, his fingers brushing against the curve of her hips before reluctantly releasing her.

She took a step forward, awestruck. Magic hummed in the air, wrapping around her like a soft embrace. The chill from the flight was gone, replaced by something impossibly gentle.

Her throat tightened. “How…?”

Draco shrugged, his lips quirking into a small smile. “A few warming charms. Some growth charms for the flowers.” His voice softened. “I thought you might like it.”

Something deep inside her cracked.

She turned to him, chest tight, emotions threatening to spill over.

Without thinking, she shrugged off her coat, letting the warmth of the meadow settle over her.

She inhaled deeply—the scent of wildflowers and crisp mountain air mingling, wrapping around her like a dream.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered.

She wandered deeper into the clearing, her fingers skimming the petals of the wildflowers, their delicate softness surreal against her skin. The contrast was startling—the warmth of this enchanted meadow holding its ground against the frigid winter beyond its borders. She let her fingertips linger on a bloom, as if by touching it, she could anchor herself in the strange, beautiful reality of this moment.

At the edge of the clearing, Draco hovered, his silhouette framed by the icy expanse of the Highlands. Snow caught the morning light behind him, the frost-dusted world glittering like shards of broken glass, but it was his expression that held her still. His eyes, so often sharp, guarded, had softened into something else entirely. Something achingly human.

She offered him a small smile, her hand extending instinctively toward him in a silent invitation.

He hesitated, fingers flexing at his sides, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, slowly, he stepped forward.

His boots crunched against the snow, each movement deliberate, calculated, as though crossing into this space with her was a choice—a dangerous, irreversible choice. The moment his foot breached the warmth of the meadow, something in him shifted. The tension in his shoulders eased, the edges of his features softening as the chill melted from his skin.

With a casual flick of his wand, a blanket unfurled in the center of the clearing, a feast appearing in its place. A charcuterie board laden with cured meats and fine cheeses, freshly baked bread, glistening fruit, and a bottle of deep red wine with two crystal glasses.

Hermione blinked, momentarily speechless. “You… thought of everything.”

A smirk tugged at his lips, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—a rare, unguarded glimpse of nervousness. “Figured if I was going to lure you to a secret meadow, I should at least make it worth your while.”

She laughed, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly, chasing away the tightness in her chest. She sank onto the blanket beside him, reaching for a piece of bread as he poured the wine, the quiet between them filled with the soft clink of glass against glass.

As she ate, she found herself stealing glances at him. The way his long fingers broke apart the bread for her with effortless grace, how the sunlight filtering through the trees kissed the sharp angles of his face, casting highlights across his platinum hair. The ease of it, the quiet comfort of being near him like this, was almost too much.

Draco, for all his usual confidence, was careful with his words, too measured, too restrained. Every movement, every glance, every lingering touch felt like an exercise in self-control.

And maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the weeks of unbearable tension, but Hermione suddenly found herself tired of waiting.

She set her glass down, her fingers brushing against his in the process. He looked up, the contact sending a jolt of awareness through them both.

Before he could speak, she shifted onto her knees.

His entire body went still.

Her pulse pounded as she crawled forward, closing the space between them.

Draco’s eyes darkened, tracking her intently, his hand tightening around his wine glass before he set it aside. 

Then, with a steadying breath, she swung her leg over his lap, straddling him.

A sharp inhale left his lips. His hands twitched near her thighs, hovering, unsure.

Her breath mingled with his, the charged space between them narrowing to nothing.

“Granger…” His voice was low and strained, his restraint evident in the tightness of his jaw. “What are you doing?”

She swallowed hard, her fingers hesitating on his shoulders. The chill of him seeped through his coat, the firm planes of his chest beneath her palms setting her nerves alight. “I… I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Draco exhaled harshly, his pupils blown wide. His hands rose again, palms skimming the curve of her waist before retreating, curling into fists against the blanket.

The war in his expression was agonizing.

She leaned in slowly, her lips a breath away from his. “I just—”

But before she could finish the sentence, before she could close the impossible gap between them, he was gone.

A rush of displaced air, cold and sudden, left her gasping.

Her body lurched forward, unbalanced, palms catching against the blanket as her hair fell around her face. The weight of his absence hit her all at once, a hollow ache settling deep in her chest.

“Draco?” she called, her voice uneven, trembling.

Her wide, startled gaze darted to the edge of the clearing.

There he stood, shrouded in shadow, his back to the golden warmth of the meadow. His chest heaved, shoulders rising and falling in ragged breaths as though he had just fought a battle—and lost.

His silver eyes lifted to hers, but they were different now. Darker, swirling with something inhuman, something primal. Shadows crept into his irises, curling into the silver like storm clouds choking the moon. “Do you have any idea how dangerous I am?”

Then, before she could answer, his hands shot out—gripping the thick trunk of the tree beside him.

The deep groan of wood splintering filled the clearing.

Hermione’s breath hitched, her entire body tensing as she watched the ancient tree tremble beneath his grasp, its thick bark cracking under the force of his fingers. The ground beneath it shifted as if even the roots were trying to escape him.

And then, with barely any effort, he pushed.

The tree gave way. It tipped backward in slow motion, like the fall of a titan, before crashing to the ground with an earth-shaking finality. Snow flurried into the air, momentarily obscuring his figure in a cloud of white.

Hermione couldn’t breathe.

She’d known he was strong—known he was something more than just a wizard. But seeing it, witnessing the raw, unfiltered display of power, sent a rush of something visceral through her. 

Awe. Fear. 

Desire.

He turned back to her slowly, the storm in his gaze retreating, but the damage had already been done.

She hadn’t realized she’d been gripping the blanket until she felt the sting of her own nails digging into her palms.

His face shifted as he took her in—her wide eyes, her parted lips, the way she held herself so still, as if movement might shatter the moment between them. A flicker of something wretched passed through his expression.

And then he was in front of her.

Faster than thought, faster than instinct, Draco closed the space between them, falling to his knees before her. His hands hovered near her arms but didn’t touch, like he didn’t trust himself to. His breath was uneven, his voice tight with desperation.

“Hermione,” he murmured, his tone rough. “I would never hurt you. You have to know that.”

She did.

Merlin help her, she did.

Her lips parted, but the words stuck in her throat. The heat of him, the presence of him, was overwhelming—so close, too close, not close enough.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered.

Draco inhaled sharply, his eyes searching hers. “You should be.”

She reached for him.

The second her fingers brushed his jaw, something inside him cracked. A soft, broken sound escaped him—a breath, a surrender. He exhaled shakily, and then, as if drawn by a force stronger than both of them, he pressed his forehead against hers.

His hands finally found her, cupping her face with aching reverence, his thumbs sweeping over her cheeks, tracing the curve of her jaw. His touch was unbearably gentle, a stark contrast to the power that had just shaken the ground beneath them.

“I’m everything you should run from,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over her lips.

Hermione shuddered, her pulse a wild staccato against his palms. “I’m not running.”

His eyes flickered with something tormented, something undone. “Then what are you afraid of?”

The truth spilled from her before she could stop it. “That you’re going to leave me.”

For a long moment, Draco simply stared at her, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and something devastatingly raw. Then, slowly, he exhaled, his grip tightening just enough to anchor her.

“That’s exactly why I should leave,” he murmured, though his fingers remained tangled in her curls.

A sharp pain lanced through her chest. “Why?” she demanded, her voice stronger now despite the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “Why would you say that?”

His expression twisted, his jaw clenching as if the words pained him. “Because you deserve better.”

She shook her head, her hands sliding up to his wrists, holding him to her. “Don’t say that.”

His gaze softened, his resolve fracturing. He swallowed hard, his breath unsteady as his fingers flexed against her skin. And then, so quietly she almost didn’t hear it—

“Don’t worry,” he admitted, his tone raw with vulnerability. “I’m too selfish to let you go.”

Her breath caught at his confession, relief flooding her even as his words sent her heart into a tailspin. But the reprieve was brief.

“Don’t mistake that for safety,” he warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I’m still dangerous, Hermione. To you more than anyone.”

She barely had time to process his words before his grip on her shifted—his fingers threading deeper into her curls, his thumbs pressing lightly against her jaw. They were so close, their breaths mingling in the charged space between them, his silver eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her pulse stutter.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because everything about you makes me lose control.”

His hands trembled against her skin, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in closer, their foreheads nearly touching.

“Your scent…” he murmured, the words a rasp against her lips. “It’s intoxicating. Like nothing I’ve ever encountered before.”

A shiver rolled down her spine. She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around his wrists. “Is that… common?” she asked, hesitant.

A bitter laugh escaped him, sharp and humorless. “No,” he said, his voice rough with self-loathing. “It’s rare. Blaise experienced it once. Someone whose scent was… different.”

Curiosity flickered beneath the tension, threading through the need pressing in on her. “What happened to that person?”

Draco’s entire body went rigid. “You don’t want to know,” he said flatly.

The cold finality in his voice sent a chill skittering across her skin. A silent warning. A truth too dark to voice.

Her heart pounded, but she didn’t waver. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

His sharp inhale was audible. The storm in his gaze flickered, the battle raging beneath the surface—between instinct and restraint, hunger and devotion. Slowly, painfully, he loosened his grip on her, his hands sliding to cradle her face instead, reverence bleeding into his touch.

“You’re right,” he whispered, his voice steadier now, grounded in something absolute. “I would die before I ever hurt you.”

Chapter Text

Draco’s confession settled between them like a live wire, crackling with an energy that sent Hermione’s pulse stuttering. The air in the clearing thickened, pressing against her skin, making it difficult to breathe, to think. His hands still cradled her face, his grip firm yet tender, as though he were afraid she might slip through his fingers if he let go. 

She wasn’t going anywhere.

Her hands trembled against his wrists, her fingertips skimming the fine tendons there, feeling the steady, thrumming pulse beneath his skin. His restraint was a fragile thing, stretched thin, threatening to snap.

And then, he spoke.

“The first time I caught your scent,” he murmured, voice raw, “was at the Manor.”

Her breath stilled.

He swallowed hard, silver eyes flickering with something dark, something haunted.

“It was the moment they dragged you in,” he continued, voice hoarse, like he’d swallowed something sharp and jagged. “I was standing there, pretending I didn’t know who you were. Pretending I didn’t care. But all I could think about was you and how good you smelled.”

Her stomach twisted, a sharp pain unfurling deep in her ribs, and yet she couldn’t look away.

“My entire body reacted before my mind could catch up. I could feel it in my teeth, in my blood. My instincts were screaming to—to protect you. To get you out of there.”

Her fingers clenched against his wrists, nails pressing into skin.

“But I couldn’t,” he rasped, his voice almost breaking. “I had to stand there and watch. Watch while they dragged you across the floor. Watch while my aunt—” His voice caught, his breath coming sharper. “Do you know why I stopped her?”

She remembered it all too vividly. Bellatrix’s laughter. The wand slashing through the air. Draco stepping in, stopping her, spinning a web of excuses—Potter needed to be alive, they shouldn’t waste time. At the time, Hermione had thought it was fear, that Draco had been looking for any way to stall.

“I told myself I was being strategic,” he rasped. “That it was for my mother’s sake, for survival. But that was a fucking lie.” His fingers tightened in her hair, pulling her just a fraction closer. “I stopped her because I couldn’t bear it. ”

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath, her head spinning.

“When she turned on me instead, I welcomed it.” He exhaled shakily. “I wanted it. Because as long as it was me, it wasn’t you.”

Her stomach twisted.

“And then,” he whispered, his voice nearly breaking, “I heard you. ” His hands trembled in her hair, his breath shuddering. “I heard you begging her to stop. Begging her to hurt you instead.” His jaw clenched, a flicker of rage flashing across his face. “And I hated it. I hated you for it.”

Hermione flinched, but he only pulled her closer.

“Not because I blamed you,” he rasped, his silver eyes burning. “But because I knew you meant it. And it made me furious. With you. With myself. With every fucking choice that led to that moment.”

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes.

“Then Potter and Weasley finally got you out and I swear, Hermione—” His voice cracked, his forehead dropping against hers, his breath shallow, erratic. “I felt like I could breathe again.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. That night—the screams, the fear, the endless terror—it had lived inside her for so long, festering, consuming her from the inside out. And all this time, he had been carrying it too.

She forced herself to look at him, to see him. And there, in his eyes—ruined and fractured but still fiercely, beautifully alive—she saw a truth deeper than words.

“After you left, after you escaped,” he continued, “I realized what I had done. What it meant. That I’d chosen you.”

A single tear slipped down her cheek. Draco caught it with his thumb, his gaze tracking its path like it was something sacred.

“I was sure I was dead,” he admitted. “That my aunt would kill me. That the Dark Lord would kill me. I was fine with it. I’d gladly die having finally made my own choice. But then…” He exhaled, his expression shifting, something like disbelief flickering across his face. “Then my mother Obliviated Bella.”

Hermione’s breath hitched. “What?”

“She took her memories,” Draco murmured, his voice unsteady. “Wiped them clean of me protecting you.” He let out a bitter laugh. “She knew it wouldn’t matter in the end. That my aunt was already doomed. But it was enough to give me a chance.”

Hermione shook her head, struggling to wrap her mind around it. “And Voldemort?”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “He tortured all of us for losing Potter of course.” A muscle in his cheek twitched, his voice low, lethal. “But he outright killed Bella.”

A sharp inhale rattled through her ribs.

“She had already failed him too many times,” he murmured. “He was just waiting for an excuse.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and unbearable as her mind raced with everything he had just told her.

“Then you walked into the Great Hall on the first day back.”

Hermione flushed, the memory of that day burning bright. She’d noticed the way he looked at her, the way his gaze had locked onto hers with a quiet, unsettling intensity. She had thought it was resentment. She had never been so wrong.

“And your smell hit me all over again.” His voice was strained, frayed at the edges. “Stronger. More intoxicating. I nearly lost control right there.”

Her chest tightened, her breaths coming shallow and quick. “Draco…”

His fingers flexed against her cheeks before sliding back into her hair, tangling at the nape of her neck. 

“But it wasn’t just your scent,” he continued. “It was you. Your fucking brilliance. Your fire.” His head dipped slightly, his lips ghosting just over hers, not quite touching, just enough to steal the air between them. “The way you look at me like I’m not a monster.”

She swallowed, her pulse hammering beneath her skin.

“And every time I saw Weasley or McLaggen sniffing around you, thinking they had the right to be near you—” His grip on her hair tightened, just enough to send a delicious shiver down her spine. His eyes darkened to steel. “I wanted to rip them apart.”

The admission sent heat flooding low in her. A pulse of something dangerous, something thrilling, throbbed between her thighs.

“And then in Potions,” he rasped, his voice nearly breaking, “when Seamus’ cauldron exploded…” He exhaled sharply, his fingers trembling against her skin. “I didn’t think. I moved. And all I could think was—not her. Anyone but her.”

The memory was visceral, searing through her with an intensity that nearly knocked her breath from her lungs. She remembered the way he had grabbed her, yanking her from the blast, shielding her with his own body. 

“After that,” he admitted, his voice a whisper, “I couldn’t hide it anymore. Blaise, Theo, Pansy… they knew. They saw the way I looked at you. The way I feel about you.”

Her breath hitched. “And what way is that?”

His grip on her tightened just slightly. His next words were spoken so quietly, so reverently, they nearly undid her.

“Like you’re mine.”

A sharp inhale slipped past her lips, her fingers digging into his wrists, her entire body aching with something unbearable.

She could feel it—his control splintering at the edges, the barely restrained hunger in his body, in the way his breath turned uneven against her lips.

“In the bathroom,” he murmured, his voice thick with need, “after we brewed the Amortentia… I almost lost control.”

Her skin prickled with heat at the memory.

“What if…” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her lips brushing against his with every trembling syllable, “What if I want you to lose control?”

“Hermione.” Her name was a warning, a plea, a prayer.

She shook her head, her hands sliding from his wrists up his forearms, feeling the tension there, the barely contained strength beneath his skin. “I want you,” she admitted, her voice trembling but resolute. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

He let out a harsh exhale, like he’d been punched in the gut. His grip on her hair tightened, his other hand sliding down to her waist, fingers digging into her ribs.

“Hermione,” he rasped again. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

But she did.

Her fingers curled around his wrists, holding him to her, keeping him close. “I do,” she whispered. “Draco, please.”

A shudder ran through him, his breaths coming rough and uneven, ghosting against her lips, and for a moment, he stayed there—hovering, hesitating, fighting himself.

Then, finally, he broke.

His lips crashed into hers, the force of it stealing her breath, knocking the world off its axis. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate, a collision of mouths and heat and teeth, like he had been starving for this. His hands slid to her jaw, fingers tangling in her hair as he tipped her head back, deepening the kiss, his body pressing closer, enveloping her in him.

A whimper escaped her throat, her fingers digging into his arms, his shoulders, trying to pull him closer. She was drowning in him, lost in the scent of cedar and mint, in the coolness of his lips against her fevered skin, in the press of his chest, solid and unyielding, against her softer curves.

Draco groaned against her mouth, the sound low and reverberating through her bones. His grip on her tightened as if he was afraid she might slip away, his hands mapping her waist, her ribs, the dip of her spine. And then his fingers were beneath her blouse, sliding up the bare skin of her sides, his touch cool and firm, sending a sharp, electric thrill up her spine.

She gasped, arching into him, and he took advantage of the moment, his tongue sweeping against hers, coaxing, claiming, ruining her. Her mind was gone, lost in sensation, in the way he tasted, in the feel of him—hard and hungry and utterly consuming.

His teeth caught her bottom lip, tugging, sending a jolt of heat straight through her core. She whimpered, and Draco growled in response, his control snapping as he guided her down onto the blanket.

Her back met the soft fabric, and then he was above her, his body pressing her into the earth, into him. He caged her in, one forearm braced beside her head, the other still gripping her waist. 

She should be nervous. She should be terrified of the way his body completely covered hers, of the way he radiated pure strength and power, his restraint barely hanging on by a thread. But she wasn’t.

She wasn’t afraid of him.

She wanted him.

Desperately.

Her fingers tangled in the fabric of his coat before sliding up to his collar, then into his hair, tugging hard. He groaned at the contact, his hips pressing down, rolling against hers in a slow, deliberate grind.

Her breath hitched, her body reacting, her thighs tightening instinctively around his. Oh. A delicious friction sparked through her, an unfamiliar yet undeniable heat coiling low in her belly.

“Draco—”

He cursed under his breath, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. His silver eyes were darker than she’d ever seen, molten with something sharp, something dangerously close to worship. His thumb brushed her cheekbone, down the curve of her jaw, then traced her swollen lips, soft and unsteady.

“Hermione,” he murmured, his breath hot against her lips. “Tell me if this is too much.”

She barely recognized her own voice when she answered. “It’s not enough.”

The words came without thought, an ache, a plea, a confession and a challenge all at once.

He stilled, his fingers flexing against her skin, his breath catching as if she had just undone him. Then, slowly—deliberately—his lips curled into a smirk, sharp and wicked, though the tenderness in his gaze betrayed his affection.

“Careful what you ask for, Granger,” he murmured, his tone a velvety rasp, dark with promise.

And then his mouth was on hers again.

His lips were ravenous—all heat and teeth and tongue, demanding and consuming, like he wanted to carve himself into her, to leave her trembling and breathless and his. His hands moved over her, sliding down her sides, his grip firm and knowing as he molded her against him.

Then—he shifted.

His thigh pressed firmly between her legs, the solid muscle pressing exactly where she needed it, and she choked on a gasp.

Oh. Oh.

A sharp, devastating pulse of heat shot through her, her body clenching in response. Instinct had her moving—chasing the friction, arching into him, pressing herself harder against his thigh.

Draco groaned, his forehead falling to her shoulder, his breath hot against her skin. “Fuck.”

The way he said it—wrecked and struggling—made the fire in her belly burn even hotter.

His hands slid lower, guiding her hips, slow and deliberate. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice like smoke, thick and indulgent. “Take what you need. Use me.”

Hermione moaned, her thighs trembling at the sheer filth of his words.

Her movements were shy at first—tentative little rolls of her hips, testing, learning. But Merlin, it felt so good. The steady, delicious friction of his thigh rubbing against her core sent shockwaves through her body, pleasure coiling tight, hotter with every slow grind.

Draco groaned again, low and approving, his grip tightening. “Just like that, love.”

A whimper caught in her throat. Love. He called me love.

She clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the lean muscles of his back, struggling to keep herself grounded as sensation built higher, sharper.

But it was too much, too overwhelming, too good.

“I—I don’t know if I can—”

Draco’s hand came up to her jaw, tilting her face so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. His pupils were blown, the silver nearly consumed by his desire.

“You can,” he whispered, his voice rough with praise, wrecked with want. He kissed her softly, barely more than a breath. “I’ve got you. Just let go.”

A needy, broken sound left her throat.

Draco’s hands tightened on her hips, urging her into another slow, delicious grind. “Feel how wet you are?” he murmured against her lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this, rubbing against me, using me.”

Her breath hitched. Merlin, she could. She was drenched, slick against the rough fabric of his trousers, soaking through her knickers like some desperate, wanting thing. The realization sent a fresh wave of heat flooding through her, and she whined, hips rocking instinctively against his thigh.

“Draco—”

His thigh pressed harder, the pressure perfect, and she cried out, her head falling back against the blanket.

Draco groaned, dragging his mouth along the exposed curve of her throat, his tongue tracing the delicate skin.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he murmured, his teeth scraping gently at her pulse point. “Taking what you need so well.”

His praise sent another sharp pulse of pleasure through her.

Her thighs clenched tighter around his leg, her movements growing desperate—small, breathless gasps escaping her as she chased the building pleasure, the heat curling lower, tighter, impossibly close—

“You’re right there, aren’t you?” He rasped, voice thick with pride, adoration, possession.

Her nails dug into his back, her whole body locking up—

And then—

She broke.

Pleasure crashed through her in shattering, pulsing waves, her entire body arching as she came undone in his arms. A helpless, strangled moan tore from her lips as she soaked through her knickers, grinding through the aftershocks, her body trembling, lost to the overwhelming bliss of it.

Draco groaned into her throat, his hands gripping her tight, holding her together as she shuddered against him.

“Fuck, love,” he rasped, his voice thick, his body shaking. “That was— fuck.”

She was still quivering when he nuzzled into the curve of her neck, his breath ragged, his lips trailing soft, tender kisses along her overheated skin.

He kissed her slowly, as if worshiping the body that had just come apart in his arms.

“You’re all I think about,” he murmured against her throat, his voice raw, his fingers tangling in her curls.

Hermione’s breath was still uneven, her heart pounding, her limbs boneless in the aftermath of her release.

She swallowed thickly, her hands still clutching at him, keeping him close.

“Then don’t stop.”

Chapter Text

The sky burned with the last remnants of daylight, streaked in molten golds and dusky violets, the colors bleeding into each other like spilled ink. The air was crisp, the kind of cold that kissed her skin and left the tips of her ears tingling, but Hermione barely felt it—not with Draco pressed against her, anchoring her amidst the vast openness of the sky.

This time, when they flew, she kept her eyes open.

The Scottish Highlands stretched endlessly below them, a breathtaking expanse of rolling hills and snow-covered peaks bathed in twilight. The world felt infinite from up here, untouched, like something out of a dream. And maybe it was—because she still couldn't believe what had happened back in the clearing.

Her thighs tightened instinctively around the broom from the memory of him. Of his hands, his mouth, the way he had coaxed her into pleasure until she had shattered apart against him. 

Heat bloomed in her chest, creeping up her throat and settling high in her cheeks. The aftershocks still tingled through her limbs, leaving her restless, dazed, unsure what to do with this new awareness of her own body—of his.

Draco shifted behind her, his arms firm around her waist, his chin barely brushing her shoulder. She knew he could feel the way her body tensed, knew he could hear the quickened rhythm of her pulse beneath her skin.

She hoped he couldn’t still smell the evidence of what they had done.

Each time he exhaled, the warmth of his breath ghosted against the shell of her ear, sending shivers racing down her spine. He was too close—or maybe not close enough.

Her fingers curled into the wood of the broomstick as if it might keep her steady.

Then, as if sensing her thoughts, Draco pressed the gentlest of kisses to her cheek.

She startled, her breath catching. It wasn’t a kiss meant to tease, nor one meant to deepen the tension still somehow simmering between them. It was soft, unhurried—like he just wanted to. Like he couldn’t help himself.

And that was almost worse.

Her body betrayed her instantly, her muscles going slack as she unconsciously leaned back into his chest.

Draco hummed low in approval, the sound a dark vibration against her spine.

“Enjoying yourself?” His voice was smooth, smug, laced with amusement.

She forced herself to clear her throat, attempting to recover some semblance of dignity. “Maybe,” she admitted, her tone airy. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

His chuckle was positively sinful. “Too late for that, Granger.”

Before she could form a retort, he kissed her again—this time, slower, just beneath her ear. Lingering.

A quiet, helpless noise escaped the back of her throat, and she hated the way he felt it, the way she knew he did, because his arms tightened around her waist just a little more.

She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way her body throbbed at the nearness of him.

“Eyes on the sky,” she muttered, hoping her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

Draco smirked against her skin. “Always,” he murmured, but his lips brushed her jaw again anyway, lingering for one more stolen second before he pulled away.

She inhaled sharply, steadying herself against the chill air whipping around them. She could not let him reduce her to a puddle every time he opened his mouth.

After a long silence, she forced herself to speak. “Tell me,” she asked, loud enough to carry over the wind. “About when it happened. When you… turned.”

Draco’s arms tensed around her, his fingers flexing where they rested just above her hips. His sigh was soft but weighted, his chin tilting slightly, as if the memory sat heavy on his shoulders.

“It started slow,” he murmured, his voice quiet. “A hunger for something I couldn’t name. A sharpness to everything—light, sound, scent. And then, all at once, the pain came. The hunger. The fangs.” A pause. “It was excruciating.”

She turned her head slightly toward him, watching him out of the corner of her eye. His profile was shadowed in the fading light, his expression unreadable.

“Your fangs,” she murmured. “I’ve never seen them.”

A humorless huff left his lips. “That’s because they only come out when I’m hunting… or when I lose control.”

His voice dropped, dark and laced with something dangerous.

“And I’ve been trying very hard not to lose control around you.”

A thrill shot through her, equal parts exhilarating and unnerving.

She shouldn’t want to test him.

But she did.

Oh, she did.

She bit her lip, her pulse hammering, but she managed a teasing, breathless reply. “You’re doing an impressive job, then.”

Draco leaned in, his nose brushing against the curve of her jaw, his lips so close she could feel the warmth of them. His voice was a quiet warning.

“Don’t test me, love.”

She shivered, her grip on the broom tightening as she worked to steady her breathing—trying to focus on the distant horizon rather than the way Draco’s lips had just brushed her skin, or how the warmth of his endearment had settled into her bones, deep and inescapable. 

She swallowed, forcing her thoughts into calmer waters, though the rapid thrum of her pulse told a different story.

After a pause, she asked, “How many others are there at Hogwarts? Like you?”

Draco straightened slightly behind her, the shift subtle but noticeable. His arms were still wrapped securely around her waist, but the easy teasing from moments ago bled into something more thoughtful, more guarded.

“Other than Theo, Blaise, and Pansy?” His voice was low, contemplative. “No one else. Not that I know of. It’s usually easy to tell.”

Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”

He exhaled, tilting his head slightly. “There’s a… scent to us. Not something humans can pick up, but we can recognize our own. It’s faint, but distinct. If there were any others at Hogwarts, I’d know.”

Hermione absorbed that, but then a thought struck her, sudden and jarring.

“Those attacks,” she murmured, shifting slightly in his hold. “The ones in Hogsmeade earlier in the year… You told me before that you thought a vampire was responsible. Did you ever figure out who?”

Draco hesitated. She felt the way his fingers flexed against her waist before he finally answered.

“Most likely spawn,” he admitted, the word tight, reluctant. “That’s what we think, at least.”

“Spawn?” she echoed, the unfamiliar term tasting foreign on her tongue.

Draco sighed, adjusting his grip on the broom. “Failed transformations,” he explained. “Half-formed, mindless predators. Decayed. Monstrous. They don’t last long, but while they do, they’re a fucking nightmare.”

Hermione shivered at the imagery his words conjured.

“You mean—” she swallowed, trying to wrap her head around the concept. “Not every person who turns survives the process?”

His jaw tensed against the side of her head. “Not if done incorrectly.”

The stark truth of it settled like a weight in her stomach.

She thought of everything she had read about vampires in the library weeks ago—so little of it mentioned species differentiation, let alone spawn. The idea that there was an entire facet of their kind that had been left out of academic texts was infuriating.

Hermione had always known the Wizarding world was selective in the histories it told. But this? The existence of failed vampires—something that posed such an obvious threat—was never discussed.

She turned her head slightly toward him, studying his profile in the fading light. “Why don’t we know more about them? About the differences between you and… them?”

His mouth pressed into a thin line. “Because most people who turn into vampires come from bloodlines that know how to keep their secrets.” His voice darkened. “And because spawn are… difficult to catch.”

Her thoughts spun rapidly, the academic in her unable to ignore the gaps in research, the unanswered questions. If this kind of knowledge wasn’t accessible, it meant the Ministry wasn’t prioritizing it.

Which meant… someone needed to change that.

Maybe if she worked in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she could change things. She could push for better research, for more understanding. She could make sure people like Draco—like Theo and Blaise and Pansy—weren’t just whispered about in dark corners, treated like bloodthirsty monsters.

Maybe I should apply to the Ministry after all.

Draco must have sensed the shift in her thoughts because his grip tightened, his breath hot against her ear. “You alright?”

She exhaled, nodding slightly. “Just thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, rolling her eyes. “I didn’t realize how much we don’t know about your kind. About what makes a true vampire different from… spawn. It’s absurd, how little research there is.”

Draco hummed, nuzzling his nose against her temple. “You going to fix that, Granger?”

She bit her lip, considering. “Maybe.”

His chuckle was low, amused. “You can use me for research anytime you like.”

Her cheeks burned, but she didn’t take the bait, lifting her chin. “I might just take you up on that, Malfoy.”

A pause. Then, quieter, closer: “I’d like that.”

A shiver ran through her.

She turned her attention back to the fading horizon, but her thoughts remained tangled with him, with everything he had told her.

He had been protecting her from the moment he had first realized what she meant to him. And now, as she leaned back into him, felt his warmth surrounding her, the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing grounding her—

She realized she wanted to protect him just as much.

~ * ~

The descent onto the Hogwarts grounds was smoother than she had anticipated, but as soon as her boots met the frost-kissed earth, her knees wobbled, the exhilaration of flight catching up to her all at once. 

Before she could even think about steadying herself, Draco was there, his hands firm at her waist, grounding her with his touch.

“You’re all right,” he murmured, his sharp eyes scanning her face with a mix of amusement and something softer, something that made her pulse quicken. His voice, warm and low, carried a hint of smugness that was entirely too deserved. “Although, you’d think after today, you’d trust my flying abilities.”

She let out a breathy huff, brushing her windswept curls from her face. “You, I trust,” she admitted, her voice still slightly unsteady. “It’s the broom I have issues with.”

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, the sound of his chuckle reverberating through her like a physical thing. “Noted,” he said, but his hands didn’t leave her waist right away. Instead, his fingers flexed subtly, like he was debating whether or not to pull her closer.

He didn’t, and she tried to squash the disappointment over it.

The castle loomed ahead, its windows glowing with golden light, standing stark against the deep navy sky. The evening air was crisp, biting at her exposed skin, but Draco’s presence beside her made the chill an afterthought. He reached for her hand without hesitation, threading his fingers through hers with practiced ease, like he had been doing it for years.

The weight of the day settled between them, not in a heavy way, but in a way that made her keenly aware of how much had changed. Something between them had shifted—irrevocably.

And yet, despite the dizzying newness of it all, she felt… calm. 

Like she was where she belonged.

A thought slipped through her mind before she could stop it, and without thinking, she let the words fall from her lips.

“I’ve never had a boyfriend before.”

The confession hung between them like a wisp of fog in the winter air, and immediately, heat rushed to her cheeks. 

Merlin, why did I just say that?  

She kept her gaze fixed on the ground, cursing herself for her own lack of impulse control. There were a thousand ways she could have worded it—if she needed to say it at all. Now, she wanted nothing more than to bury herself in the snow and pretend it had never left her mouth.

Draco slowed beside her, and for a second, an irrational part of her feared he might laugh.

But when he spoke, his voice was low, certain. “Good.”

Her head snapped up, startled by the possessiveness laced in that single word. She searched his face, expecting a smirk, some teasing remark to follow—but he was entirely serious. There was no arrogance in his expression, just a quiet, unwavering satisfaction, like something had settled deep within him.

A strange warmth unfurled in her chest, curling low in her stomach.

Without another word, he tightened his grip on her hand and continued walking, as if the matter was already settled. And in some strange, unspoken way, maybe it was.

The castle doors swung open with a gust of warmth, the sounds of distant chatter filling the grand entrance hall. She half-expected him to release her hand in the presence of others, but he didn’t. If anything, his fingers curled tighter around hers.

They walked past the more crowded corridors, slipping through the shadows where the candlelight flickered softer, where the castle’s ancient stone felt quieter. Then, without warning, his hand tugged at hers, and before she could react, she was being pulled into a dim alcove beneath an archway.

She barely had time to gasp before her back met cool stone, her hand flying to his chest to steady herself. “What—”

But Draco wasn’t looking at her. He was looking up.

She followed his gaze, and her breath hitched.

A sprig of mistletoe hung above them, swaying gently, as if it had been waiting for them.

Her pulse stuttered. She knew Hogwarts had enchanted mistletoe scattered throughout the castle this time of year, but surely this hadn’t been coincidence.

Her gaze snapped back to him, suspicion sparking. “Draco,” she said slowly. “Did you—?”

“Would it matter if I did?” 

She opened her mouth, ready to call him out, but then he tilted his head slightly, his expression softening into something quieter. The playfulness in his smirk melted away, leaving only sincerity in its wake.

“Hermione,” he murmured, his voice dipping into something rich and velvety. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my girlfriend?”

Her breath caught. Her brain scrambled to process his words, to process the fact that Draco Malfoy had just asked her that.

Her heart swelled, her chest tightening with something too big to contain. 

“Yes,” she whispered, smiling. “Yes, I will.”

Draco exhaled, something like triumph flashing through his expression before he cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing along the curve of her cheek.

Then, he kissed her.

It was softer than the kiss in the clearing, slower. And she melted into it, her fingers twisting into the fabric of his coat, letting him pull her flush against his body.

His arm slid around her waist, drawing her impossibly closer, and she felt the strength in him simmering beneath his cold exterior.

When they finally parted, her lips tingled, her breath uneven. She opened her eyes to find him watching her intently, his eyes heavy-lidded, almost dazed. A stray curl had fallen into her face, and he reached up, tucking it behind her ear with careful fingers.

“I like making you blush,” he murmured.

As if on queue, her cheeks burned. 

She bit her lip, trying to suppress the helpless smile tugging at her mouth. “I’m sure you do.”

His chuckle was quiet, sinful. He slipped his hand from her cheek, resting it lightly at her waist as he guided her back into the corridor. As they neared the turn toward Gryffindor Tower, she hesitated, tugging on his hand.

She looked down, then back up at him.

“I don’t want to go back yet,” she admitted, her voice small, unsure.

“Oh?” he drawled.

A slow, wicked smile unfurled across his lips.

“Good,” he murmured, stepping closer, fingers tracing the inside of her wrist. “Because I wasn’t planning on letting you.”

Chapter Text

They stopped in front of an unremarkable stretch of wall, and her breath caught as recognition dawned. 

The Room of Requirement. 

A mixture of nostalgia and unease curled in her chest. The last time she had stood before this door, it had been during the war, desperation and fear thick in the air. And now, here she was, standing beside Draco Malfoy, feeling something entirely different—something equally dangerous but for an entirely different reason.

He let go of her hand and paced deliberately in front of the wall, his expression focused, intent. The stone shimmered, shifting like liquid metal before solidifying into a grand wooden door. With a small flourish, he pushed it open and gestured for her to step inside.

She crossed the threshold, breath catching as the room revealed itself. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls, their dark wood shelves heavy with ancient tomes and leather-bound volumes. A fireplace flickered at the far end, its glow stretching long shadows across the Persian rug beneath their feet. Candles perched in wrought-iron sconces cast pools of warm light, their soft flicker breathing life into the space.

A deep, velvet-upholstered couch sprawled before the fire, its cushions plush and inviting. Scattered armchairs, rich in mahogany and tufted leather, sat in quiet invitation, their high backs perfect for curling into with a book—or something far more indulgent. The scent of aged parchment, spiced wood, and faint, lingering smoke from the fire wrapped around her like a secret.

She turned in a slow circle, the heat of the flames licking at her skin. “It’s…” Her voice faltered as she took in every detail. “It’s perfect.”

Behind her, Draco let out a pleased hum. “Of course it is. I thought of it.”

She turned, arching a brow, fighting the smile tugging at her lips. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dipping lower, “you’re still here.”

Her breath hitched.

The space between them crackled, charged with a need that neither of them pretended to ignore. His fingers brushed hers, just the lightest touch, but it sent a shockwave through her system, igniting every nerve ending in its wake.

“Granger,” he murmured, his voice dark velvet, “there’s mistletoe in here too, you know.”

She blinked, startled, before tilting her chin up, scanning the ceiling. Sure enough, a small sprig of green swayed just above them. When she looked back at Draco, he was watching her, his eyes gleaming, lips curling into something wicked.

“Is that so?” she whispered, pulse hammering.

He moved closer, his hand lifting to trace the curve of her jaw, his fingers cool against the heat blooming beneath her skin. 

“Would I lie to you?”

Her breath barely made it past her lips before he was kissing her.

His lips moved against hers with aching care, coaxing rather than demanding, drawing her in until she had no choice but to melt into him.

Her fingers fisted in his coat, gripping, pulling, needing. The cool wool beneath her hands a stark contrast to the fire curling low inside her. His hands slid from her face to the nape of her neck, threading through her curls, tilting her head so he could take her deeper.

Her knees wobbled as he stepped back, guiding her with him, never breaking the kiss. His movements were fluid, controlled, as though he'd played this moment out in his mind a thousand times before.

The edge of the couch hit the back of his legs, and he sank down, dragging her with him.

She gasped as she landed astride him, thighs bracketing his hips.

And— oh.

The shift sent a bolt of liquid heat straight between her legs, right to the place where she could feel him, solid and unyielding beneath her.

He groaned into her mouth, hands tightening on her waist, fingers flexing against the curve of her hips, his thumbs dragging over the bare skin exposed by the ride-up of her blouse.

She was drowning in him.

His scent—dark, intoxicating, threaded with something primal—filled her lungs, left her dizzy.

The kiss deepened, his tongue stroking against hers, slow and sinful, teasing her with a control that made her want to snap it.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her thighs tightening around him, desperate to get closer, to press deeper, to—

She moved before she could stop herself.

A slow, instinctive roll of her hips against his.

A desperate chase for relief.

Draco tore his mouth from hers.

"Fuck, Granger—"

His breath was ragged, his hands flexing against her waist, his control unraveling before her eyes.

His lips found her neck, dragging over the delicate skin beneath her ear, his tongue flicking against the pulse that pounded just for him.

She shuddered, tilting her head back, baring her throat.

His teeth grazed her skin, a scrape of danger, a hint of control slipping, and she clenched around nothing, her nails biting into his scalp as she struggled to hold on.

Then his hands were moving—slow, unhurried, certain.

He worked the buttons of her blouse, knuckles brushing against heated skin as he parted the fabric, revealing inch after inch after inch. Until the last button slipped free and she sat bare before him.

Her breath hitched as she remembered she hadn't worn a bra. A careless decision that now felt bold. 

Draco's breath audibly caught.

His silver eyes darkened, his pupils dilating as he stared.

"Beautiful."

A rush of heat flooded her cheeks.

She moved on instinct—to cover herself, to shield, to hide—

But he caught her wrists.

"Don’t." His fingers traced the delicate bones of her wrists, his grip firm but careful. "Let me look at you."

Her heart thundered, her skin flaming, but—she obeyed.

Exposed. Vulnerable.

Burning alive beneath his stare.

His hands skimmed her ribs, his touch featherlight, exploring, learning, mapping.

Then his mouth was on her.

She gasped as his lips brushed over her collarbone, then lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the valley between her breasts.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, her hips shifting restlessly in his lap.

His tongue dragged over her peaked nipple, teasing, flicking, taunting.

She arched, a strangled moan spilling from her lips, the sound breaking between them.

Draco groaned, his fingers tightening at her waist, holding her steady as she writhed against him.

His mouth suctioned around her nipple, a wicked pull, hot and wet and unbearably slow.

She nearly sobbed.

Her thighs trembled, the ache between them unbearable, desperate for more.

Draco knew.

She could feel it in the way he held her down, in the way he dragged his teeth against her sensitive flesh, savoring every reaction like it was the first time, the only time, the last time.

Her breath hitched, her fingers tightening in his hair as she felt his teeth graze the stiffened peak, a teasing scrape that sent fire licking down her spine.

"Draco—"

His name spilled from her lips, barely a whisper, barely a prayer, and gods—

She needed more.

Her hips rolled forward, grinding down against the hard length of him, her clit catching against the ridge of his belt buckle, sharp and delicious. A shockwave of pleasure lashed through her, so sudden, so visceral, she gasped.

Draco ripped his mouth from her breast with a wrecked growl, his forehead dropping to her sternum as he sucked in a ragged breath, his body taut beneath her, a bowstring drawn too tight.

"Not so fast love," he gritted out, his fingers digging into her hips, holding her still, restraining her.

She whimpered, thighs trembling, need clawing at her insides.

"Draco—" her voice was raw. "I need you."

His entire body stiffened beneath her.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then, slowly, he exhaled—a long, unsteady breath—before flipping them.

She let out a startled gasp as her back hit the couch, the room spinning, his weight settling over her, between her legs, against her—

Oh, Merlin.

He loomed above her, kneeling between her parted thighs, hands firm on her legs, gaze molten silver.

The sight of him like that—kneeling, looking at her like she was something to be devoured—sent a violent pulse of arousal crashing through her.

She clenched, thighs twitching, heat pooling low and unbearable.

But something in her hesitated. A flicker of uncertainty.

Draco noticed instantly.

His hands stilled on her hips, his sharp gaze flicking to her face.

"What's wrong?" 

She swallowed, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. "I’ve just… I’ve never been touched before," she admitted, barely more than a whisper. "Not… there."

She dropped her eyes, embarrassment curling through her.

But Draco wouldn’t let her hide.

His fingers tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his stare.

"Look at me." His voice was gentle, but firm, a tether in the dark. "We can go slow."

The rough pad of his thumb brushed along her jaw, a stroke so reverent, so utterly at odds with the hunger in his eyes.

"Let me take care of you."

Her breath hitched, and she nodded, heart hammering against her ribs as his fingers found the waistband of her jeans.

Slowly, he slid the fabric down the curve of her hips, his knuckles grazing her bare skin as he worked the material past her thighs. 

When he pulled away, his gaze swept over her, taking her in inch by inch, as if committing her to memory.

From her parted lips, to the delicate slope of her throat, past the half-open blouse that barely concealed the weight of her bare breasts—

Until his gaze landed on the scrap of soaked fabric clinging between her thighs.

A sharp inhale.

"Fuck, Hermione."

His hands found her thighs, his thumbs brushing slow, rhythmic circles against the sensitive skin. The small motion sent shivers through her grounding her even as it set her nerves ablaze.

"You're stunning."

She fought the instinct to shrink away, to cover herself, but the way he was looking at her—like she was something holy, something untouchable yet undeniably his —had her pulse thrumming beneath her skin.

He carefully guided her back against the couch. The nervousness tangled in her belly coiled tighter, warring against the aching, desperate pulse between her thighs.

She was bare, her blouse slipping from her shoulders, her breasts exposed to his ravenous gaze, and yet she had never felt safer.

He hovered over her, his presence all-consuming, as his eyes mapped every dip, every curve of her body.

Then his lips were on hers again. Urgent and claiming.

She clung to him, fingers fisting in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, pulling him closer, deeper, needing him to consume her. She arched into him, her body moving instinctively, desperate to close every last gap of space between them.

The ache was unbearable, the insistent pulse between her legs growing sharper, more demanding with each slow, torturous roll of her hips against his.

She could feel him, the hard, rigid press of him against her core, separated only by thin, torturous layers of fabric.

Draco groaned into her mouth, his hands shooting to her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding her still.

"Slow down, love," he rasped, his forehead pressing against hers as he fought for control. His breath was hot and uneven, ragged against her lips. "You'll ruin me."

Ruin him?

A whimper of frustration broke from her, the need inside her clawing higher, sharp and relentless.

"Draco—"

His name left her in a shaky, breathless plea, and finally he moved.

His hand shifted, trailing down her torso, his palm skimming the plane of her stomach, his fingers tracing soft, maddening patterns that made her shudder beneath him.

The gentleness of it made her heart stutter. He could be rough. He could be ruthless. She had seen his strength in the clearing. But here, with her, he was taking his time—learning her, savoring her.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he murmured, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her underwear, hesitating.

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words through the burning anticipation, so instead, she nodded frantically, her breath catching as his fingers dipped lower.

Draco watched her carefully, silver eyes sharp, devouring every reaction, every trembling breath.

The first brush of his fingertips through her folds had her head falling back against the couch, a strangled gasp escaping her throat.

He groaned low in his throat as he dropped his head to the crook of her neck, his breathing ragged. 

“Fuck —” he murmured, his voice thick and awed. "You're so wet for me."

Her cheeks burned as his fingers slid over her again, teasing, spreading her wetness, making her writhe beneath him.

When his thumb found her clit, pressing in slow, devastating circles, she gasped sharply, her hips jerking of their own accord, chasing the feeling.

His breath hitched against her neck. "Is this okay?" he whispered against her jaw, his lips skimming the flushed heat of her skin.

She nodded frantically, thighs trembling, hips rolling into his hand on instinct.

"Yes… yes, it’s perfect."

He groaned, his lips curling in a dark, pleased smirk as he rubbed slow, steady circles against her swollen clit.

The pace was agonizing—too much and not enough all at once.

And then he pressed harder, his thumb flicking over her in a way that had her keening, back arching, thighs clenching around his hand.

"That’s it," he panted, his voice dark, coaxing. "That’s my girl."

She gasped, the words twisting inside her, stealing the breath from her lungs.

Then, his fingers dipped lower, slipping through her to tease at her entrance.

The moment he pressed against her, just barely inside, a strangled cry broke from her lips.

Embarrassment surged through her, and her hands flew instinctively to cover her face.

Draco’s free hand caught hers, pulling them away, pinning them above her head.

"Don’t hide from me, Hermione," he growled. "Tell me how you feel."

Her lips parted, her voice breaking as she whispered, "G-good."

His smirk deepened, dark satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear.

"I bet I can make you feel even better."

Then, with aching slowness, he slid one finger inside her.

She arched violently, her mouth parting in a sharp, unrestrained cry.

"Oh, god—"

Draco cursed under his breath, his forehead pressing against her collarbone, his body shuddering against hers.

"Fuck, you’re tight," he groaned, his breath ragged, control hanging by a thread.

His pace quickened, his finger curling, stretching, working her open, the slick sound of her arousal filling the air, obscene and intoxicating.

Her eyes squeezed shut, overwhelmed, drowning in the pleasure as her body tightened around his finger, every muscle locking in anticipation.

"Look at me."

Her lashes fluttered open, locking onto his eyes—dark, wild, utterly consumed by her.

The sight of him watching her like this—his lips parted, his pupils blown, his hair tousled—stole what little breath she had left. 

A second finger pushed inside, stretching her further, filling her, and—

The pleasure ripped through her, sudden and relentless, her back bowing as she sobbed his name, clinging to him, falling apart under his hand.

Draco groaned, his lips brushing her temple, whispering soft, filthy praise.

"That’s it. Just like that. My perfect girl."

She shuddered, chest heaving, limbs trembling, as pleasure continued to pulse through her in slow, molten waves.

His fingers stayed inside her, working her through every last tremor, dragging out every aftershock, keeping her grounded in the haze.

"You’re incredible," he whispered, his lips pressing over her fluttering pulse, as he slowly pulled his fingers from her.

She sagged against the couch, boneless, ruined, utterly undone.

Pleasure hummed beneath her skin, a slow, languid warmth curling through her limbs.

Draco still hovered over her, his breath coming just as unsteadily, his eyes dark in the dim glow of the fire. 

She reached up on instinct, her fingers finding his face, brushing along the sharp cut of his cheekbone, down to the faint roughness of his jaw. 

He was cool beneath her touch, his body always running just a little colder than hers, but she swore she could feel the heat pulsing beneath his skin, simmering just beneath the surface.

He let her guide him down, their foreheads brushing before she tilted her chin, catching his mouth with hers. 

The kiss was slow, unhurried—a contrast to the desperate, consuming urgency of before. His lips moved against hers with exquisite tenderness, each touch an unspoken reassurance, a silent promise that he wasn’t going anywhere. 

She melted into it, letting herself savor the moment, the warmth of his mouth, the way he tasted like something dark and familiar, something she wanted to drown in. His hand slid up her side, his fingers barely brushing the underside of her breast before moving higher, stroking the curve of her shoulder, up her throat, finally cupping her jaw as he deepened the kiss.

She sighed into his mouth, boneless, ruined, utterly his.

The fire inside her had settled, banked to a slow-burning ember rather than the wild, crackling heat of before, but it still smoldered, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for him to stoke it back to life.

Eventually, Draco exhaled softly against her lips, his body shifting as he eased her against him. His arm slipped around her waist, pulling her into his chest, tucking her into the space beneath his chin. 

She went willingly, curling into him, burying herself in his scent.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a golden glow over the room, but all she could focus on was the steady, grounding weight of him wrapped around her, the way his fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns along her spine.

"You're shaking," he murmured, his voice hushed in the quiet. 

His hand moved up her back, tracing soothing circles, as though he could settle whatever unsteadiness still lingered inside her.

She let out a breathy laugh, her words muffled against his skin. "I think my body is still catching up."

She felt him smirk, the curve of his lips brushing against her temple. 

"I’ll take that as a compliment."

She tilted her head back, searching his face, drinking him in—the way his eyes had softened, how the sharp edges of him had dulled into something unguarded.

Something that felt like hers.

The sight sent warmth blooming in her chest, and without thinking, she reached up again, her fingers tracing the slope of his jaw, the line of his cheek. 

She wanted to memorize this moment, wanted to etch the weight of it into her bones, so she wouldn’t forget the way he looked at her like this—like she was something precious, something irreplaceable.

"Thank you," she whispered.

The words were small, but they carried a weight she hadn’t expected. She wasn’t just thanking him for what he had done to her body—though that had been exquisite.

She was thanking him for the way he had touched her without breaking her. For the way he had made her feel seen, wanted, safe.

His brow furrowed slightly, as if the idea of her gratitude confused him. 

But his lips softened, and after a beat, he dipped his head, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He lingered there, breathing her in, letting his lips rest against her skin.

"Always," he murmured.

The word settled deep inside her, curling around something fragile, something she hadn’t even realized she’d been afraid of.

The fire flickered in the hearth, its warmth stretching over them, wrapping them in the quiet, golden stillness of the moment. She felt the exhaustion creeping in now, pressing behind her eyes, pulling at her limbs. The weight of the day, of everything they had done, of everything she had felt—it all came crashing down at once, leaving her bone-tired but content.

She shifted slightly, her head resting against Draco’s chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

She didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to leave.

"Stay,” she murmured, the word slipping out before she could second-guess it.

He stilled beneath her, his fingers pausing where they had been stroking slow circles along her back.

For a long moment, he didn’t answer.

Hermione held her breath, suddenly terrified she was asking for too much.

But then his arm tightened around her, pulling her impossibly closer, pressing her into the solid warmth of him.

"I'm not going anywhere."

The conviction in his voice settled something deep inside her, quieting the nervous flutter in her chest.

She let out a soft sigh, letting herself fully relax, allowing the last remnants of tension to drain from her body.

Just as she was about to succumb to sleep, his voice brushed against her skin, a faint murmur just on the edge of her consciousness.

"You're safe with me. You'll always be safe with me."

Chapter Text

Hermione drifted between wakefulness and dreams, lulled by the steady rhythm of Draco’s fingers tracing idle patterns against her bare back. Soft, languid strokes, barely there, yet each one sent a shiver skimming along her spine. She was warm, cocooned in the safety of his body, the solid weight of his arm resting low on her waist, anchoring her against him.

Her cheek pressed to his chest, the rise and fall of his breaths a steady, calming force against the quiet crackle of the fire. The room smelled of him—clean, dark, something inherently Draco. A scent she could drown in.

And then it hit her.

The memory of the night before surged through her, visceral and consuming—his hands on her skin, his mouth on her breasts, the way he had coaxed her apart with reverent, wicked precision. Heat bloomed in her chest, licking at her throat, embarrassment clashing violently with the lingering warmth between her thighs.

Oh, God.

Her body stiffened instinctively, a soft gasp slipping past her lips before she could stop it.

Draco’s fingers stilled.

“You’re overthinking.”

The lazy rasp of his voice, low and thick with sleep, sent a fresh jolt of awareness through her. Her stomach flipped as she tilted her head up, only to find his eyes already open, watching her with an insufferable glint of amusement.

Her heart stuttered.

“Hi,” she whispered, unsure, self-conscious.

His smirk softened at the edges, his gaze tracing her face with something quieter, something almost fond. He lifted a hand, thumb skimming over her bottom lip before tilting her chin up, and then his mouth was on hers—soft, warm, a kiss meant to remind her that the night before hadn’t been a dream. 

Hadn’t been a mistake.

She melted into it, the nervous tension in her limbs unraveling, but then reality crashed in like a tidal wave.

Shit. Ginny.

She tore her lips from his, pushing upright so quickly she nearly tumbled off the couch. “Oh, Merlin—what time is it? Ginny’s probably wondering where I am!”

Draco groaned, flopping back against the cushions like she had personally offended him.

His lack of urgency did nothing to quell her panic. She scrambled to sit up fully, her hands flying to her blouse—still unbuttoned, exposing far too much skin. The realization sent a fresh wave of heat to her face, her fingers fumbling to fasten the buttons in a desperate attempt to salvage her dignity.

Heart hammering, she darted a glance around the dimly lit room, scanning for the dark denim of her jeans, but there was no sign of them.

A slow, familiar drawl broke through her frantic thoughts.

“Looking for these?”

She turned to find him sitting up now, one long arm draped casually over the back of the couch, her jeans dangling lazily from his other hand. His hair was deliciously mussed, his shirt wrinkled and undone at the collar, his expression nothing short of sinful.

He looked every bit the trouble he was.

“Draco,” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest in a weak attempt at modesty. “Give those back.”

His smirk deepened, all slow, smug satisfaction. “Not sure I feel inclined to, Granger.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He tilted his head, as if contemplating. “What’s in it for me?”

“Ugh, you are impossible,” she snapped, reaching for them.

But the second her fingers brushed denim, he moved. His free hand caught her wrist and in one seamless motion, he tugged her forward.

A surprised gasp escaped her as she lost her balance, tipping forward—only for his arms to wrap around her waist, guiding her effortlessly into his lap.

Her hands landed on his chest, the hard plane of muscle beneath her palms sending a jolt of awareness through her. She barely had time to react before his grip tightened, holding her in place, flush against him.

“Much better,” he murmured.

Hermione’s breath caught.

His lips were so close, his silver eyes flickering between her own and her mouth, his grip steady but patient.

“Draco,” she started, but whatever reprimand she intended to say withered in her throat as he leaned in, his nose brushing along the sensitive curve of her throat, his lips grazing her skin with a featherlight touch that sent shivers racing down her spine.

Her heart thundered in her chest, and without thinking, she blurted—

“Do you want a taste?”

His entire body locked beneath her, muscles going rigid as his breath caught sharply against her skin. The sudden shift in energy—from teasing to something dangerous, something primal—sent a bolt of anticipation through her.

She swallowed hard, the weight of her own words crashing over her.

“I mean,” she stammered, her voice breathless and frantic, “if you needed it, or wanted it—I wouldn’t mind, you know, if you—”

“Hermione.”

She swallowed. “I just—”

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

His voice was soft, layered with something final.

One hand lifted to cup her cheek, his thumb sweeping over the heat of her blush. “I’m more than satisfied.”

A breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding escaped her, but there was something nagging at her, something unresolved.

“But… if you wanted to drink my blood—”

“No.”

She blinked, startled by the sheer force of his refusal. “But I trust—”

“It’s not about trust.”

The words came fast, his tone dark, edged with something raw, something almost… pained.

His silver eyes bore into hers, unrelenting. “It’s about control. I might have it now, but the second I taste your blood…” He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening, his fingers flexing against her waist like he was barely holding himself together. “I don’t know if I could stop.”

Her lips parted, a protest forming on her tongue, but the weight of his words—of what he was admitting—made her hesitate. The raw honesty in his voice, the way his fingers flexed against her waist as if trying to ground himself, made her heart ache.

She swallowed, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt. “You seem to have very good control,” she murmured, her face burning as the words left her.

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, the vibration settling deep in her bones. "That’s different," he admitted.

Then, quieter, more thoughtful—"Even then, I worried I might..." He trailed off, his eyes flickering away for the briefest second before they locked back onto hers. "It’s mind over matter. That’s all."

Her breath hitched. Because she understood what he wasn’t saying.

Every moment between them had been a test of restraint—his hands bracing against her hips when she moved, his jaw going tight when she made a sound, the way he kissed her like he was unraveling thread by thread but terrified of the last one giving way.

He had been holding back.

And now she wondered just how much.

She wet her lips, pulse hammering. “But you’re used to me now? My… smell I mean.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, hesitation curling at the edges.

“It’s like building a tolerance,” he admitted, voice low "Your scent doesn’t hit me like it used to. I’m… acclimated, I guess."

She blinked, absorbing his words. 

“So,” she ventured carefully, “if you weren’t around me as much…?”

His expression darkened, shadows flickering in the depths of his gaze. "It’d be harder," he admitted, his voice like gravel. "A lot harder. If I spend too many days away from you, it would be like starting all over again.”

Something in his tone tugged at her, something raw and vulnerable that she had never heard from him before. The thought curled around her, whispered something reckless.

We could just spend every day together.

The thought sent heat rushing to her face, and she quickly averted her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flush creeping up her neck.

But Draco always noticed.

His fingers slid from her waist to her hair, twirling a curl absently, his gaze moving over her face, lingering on her lips, before dropping to the tender curve of her throat.

A slow, sharp smirk cut across his lips, lazy and smug, as his thumb brushed lightly over the spot where her pulse thrummed. 

She barely had time to register the touch before he murmured, "Now everyone will know you’re mine."

A sharp bolt of awareness shot through her, her breath catching as her fingers flew to her neck. Her skin was tender, slightly sore—and the realization crashed into her all at once.

Oh, Merlin.

"Draco!" she gasped, scandalized. "You didn’t—"

His smirk only deepened, utterly unrepentant. "Oh, I did." He leaned back slightly, eyes gleaming, his grip still firm on her waist. "And it’s perfect."

Her fingers skimmed over the faint sting, her mind already reeling from Ginny’s inevitable reaction, from the teasing, the knowing looks, the inescapable smirks.

She groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I’m going to kill you."

He laughed—a low, rich sound that sent shivers trailing down her spine. “Don’t act like you don’t like it,” he drawled, his fingers finding her wrists, gently prying her hands away.

She opened her mouth, ready to argue, ready to tell him off properly, but—damn him, he wasn’t wrong.

Beneath her embarrassment, beneath the heat in her cheeks, there was something else.

A quiet thrill.

A strange, possessive pride.

He marked me.

And as the thought settled, another took shape beside it—sharp, insistent, impossible to ignore.

Why should I be the only one marked?

The realization came swift and sure, something fierce and unfamiliar stirring inside her. 

She wanted everyone to know he was hers too.

Before she could talk herself out of it, before logic could intervene, she shifted, leaning forward.

Draco instantly tensed beneath her, his entire body going still, taut as a bowstring. His grip on her hips tightened, fingers flexing against her skin.

"Granger," he said, low and warning.

She ignored it.

Her breath ghosted over the sharp cut of his jaw, a deliberate, slow brush of air.

His hands twitched.

“What are you doing?”

Her lips found the edge of his jawline, soft at first, teasing. His skin was cool, the sharp planes of his face giving way to the faintest stubble.

His breath hitched, sharp and barely restrained. 

Encouraged, she let her mouth trail lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the column of his throat.

He groaned a deep, guttural sound that sent a spark of satisfaction rushing through her.

“Hermione—”

Something hot and reckless unspooled inside her. She wanted to hear more of his sounds, wanted to unravel him the way he unraveled her.

She let her teeth graze his skin.

Draco let out a low, shuddering curse, his head tipping back slightly.

Her confidence soared.

She pressed a firmer, lingering kiss just beneath his jaw, lips parting, tongue flicking over his pulse before she sucked, slow and deliberate.

His breath came harder now, his chest rising and falling beneath her like he was barely holding himself together.

She sucked harder, nipping at his skin.

A dark, bruising mark bloomed beneath her lips, and something primal inside her purred in satisfaction.

Draco made a wrecked sound, a mixture of a groan and something dangerously close to a growl, his fingers digging into her waist.

She pulled back slightly, admiring her work, a smirk curling at the edges of her lips before she looked up at him.

“There,” she murmured, voice rich with satisfaction. ‘Now we’re even.”

But her victory was short-lived.

Draco wasn’t smirking. He didn’t tease, didn’t retaliate with some wicked remark meant to fluster her. He didn’t move at all.

His chest rose and fell too fast, too sharp.

His eyes—once dark and molten with desire—bled into something unnatural. A deep, eerie red.

The shift was sudden, startling. Her breath caught in her throat.

His pupils were blown wide. His lips parted slightly, and behind them—fangs.

A shiver crawled up her spine at the first sight of them.

“Draco?” she whispered, pulse hammering.

The grip at her waist flexed, fingers tightening. 

With trembling fingers she raised her hand. Maybe she could reach him, calm him, remind him who he was. But before her fingers could brush his cheek, his eyes snapped shut, and his voice lashed out.

“Stop. Don’t move.”

She froze instantly, her breath strangled in her throat.

She’d never heard him like this before—so pained, so raw, so close to something she didn’t understand.

The seconds stretched unbearably long, filled only with the sound of his deep, measured inhales—his effort to pull himself back from the brink.

When he finally opened his eyes, the red had receded, his fangs gone.

But it had left its mark.

He looked destroyed.

His eyes were shadowed now, weighed down by something thick and heavy. Regret. Shame. Self-loathing carved deep into every tense line of his face.

And then, a single, quiet sentence that hurt more than any rejection ever could.

“We should go.”

She flinched.

She parted her lips, tried to bridge the distance already stretching between them, tried to find a way back to the warmth they had just shared.

“Draco—”

“Not now, Granger.”

He slid her off his lap, his touch careful but distant. Then he stood—his body rigid, his fingers raking through his already-mussed hair in a jagged, frustrated movement.

She scrambled to her feet, reaching for her jeans with shaking hands, her mind spinning. Questions clawed at her, fears she couldn’t put into words.

Had she gone too far? Had she ruined this fragile thing between them before it had even fully begun?

She bit her lip, staring at his back as he straightened his clothes. He looked tense, wound too tight, as though he wanted to be anywhere but here.

The thought stung more than it should have.

Still, she tried again. “Draco—”

He didn’t turn. Didn’t look at her. Didn’t offer anything, not even the ghost of a smile.

Just reached for the door and muttered, “I’ll walk you back.”

The words were flat, devoid of the warmth and teasing she’d grown used to. It was like a wall had slammed down between them, shutting her out completely. 

She followed him silently, her chest aching with the weight of his sudden distance.

Chapter Text

The walk back to Gryffindor Tower was thick with silence, heavy and unrelenting, pressing down on Hermione’s chest like a weight she couldn’t shake. The corridors were dark and empty, the usual warmth of Hogwarts swallowed by the late hour.

Draco walked ahead of her, his shoulders stiff, hands buried deep in his pockets. Every step between them felt like a chasm widening, an invisible barrier forming where there had been none before.

She bit her lip, staring at his back, her mind a storm of tangled thoughts.

Did he hate her now?

Was this his way of retreating, of creating the distance she had feared since the beginning?

Her throat tightened. He hadn’t spoken since they left the Room of Requirement, hadn’t so much as looked at her. It was as if he was locking himself away, closing off the part of him she had just started to reach.

A sharp sting pricked at her eyes, and she blinked rapidly, willing the tears away. She wouldn’t cry. Not now.

But the harder she tried, the harder it became to hold everything in. The hurt. The confusion. The fear that maybe—just maybe—he regretted everything.

A soft sniffle escaped before she could stop it.

He stopped mid-stride.

The suddenness of it caught her off guard, and before she could stop, she walked straight into his back. A sharp breath, the solid strength of him, the dizzying scent of cedar and mint— then he turned, and before she could retreat, his arms were around her.

The barrier between them shattered.

A choked sob slipped past her lips, the floodgates opening as she buried her face against his chest. The smell of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the firm press of his body against her—it was too much and not enough all at once.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to—”

“Shh.”

His voice was low and soothing, the quiet command settling into her bones like an anchor. One of his hands splayed against her back, moving in slow, comforting circles, while the other curled around the nape of her neck, his fingers threading gently into her curls.

“Hermione, please stop.”

The gentleness in his tone undid her completely. Her shoulders shook as more tears spilled, her sobs muffled against the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His patience never wavered, his arms anchoring her until the storm of emotions subsided, leaving only the faint remnants of her sniffles.

When the worst of it passed, he pulled back slightly, his hands still moving in soothing circles on her back. He looked down at her, the grey of his eyes clouded with concern. She hastily wiped at her cheeks, the weight of her apology still heavy on her lips. 

“Draco, I—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted. “Don’t apologize, Granger. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

She swallowed hard. “But—”

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” he admitted, his voice filled with regret. “I shouldn’t have lost my composure like that.” He exhaled sharply, like the words tasted bitter in his mouth. “I should have been better.”

A silence stretched between them—not empty, but filled with the things neither of them knew how to say.

Then, he spoke again, and the words gutted her.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

The floor might as well have crumbled beneath her. The sting of his words sliced through her, sharp and unexpected, knocking the breath from her lungs.

No.

No.

She wouldn’t let him run from this. From her.

Her hands balled into fists, her heart hammering. “You don’t get to decide that,” she snapped, her voice fierce, shaking but unyielding.

Draco’s brows knit together, his lips parting as if to argue, but she didn’t give him the chance.

“I’m in this,” she pressed on, stepping closer, challenging him, demanding he see her. “I know it’s hard for you. I’ll try harder—I’ll do whatever it takes to make this easier for you. But you don’t get to shut me out just because you’re scared.” Her voice wavered, but the fire in her chest burned too hot to stop now.

She lifted her chin, eyes flashing.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me.”

The words landed between them, ringing in the empty corridor.

Draco’s breath came sharp and uneven. His jaw flexed, his fingers twitching at his sides.

And then, like a dam breaking, something in him softened, cracked, gave way. 

He stepped forward, closing the space between them, his hands lifting to cup her face. His thumbs brushed away the remnants of her tears, his touch impossibly gentle, as if she might slip away if he wasn’t careful.

“I’ll stay,” he whispered. A vow, soft and steady. “I’ll stay.”

A sharp breath of relief left her, and she melted into him, her arms curling around his waist, pulling him in as if she could hold him together the way he had done for her.

They stayed like that, clinging to each other, breathing in the same space, the weight of the night settling into something quieter.

When he finally pulled back, his fingers tangled with hers, his grip warm, solid.

Neither of them spoke as they walked the last stretch to her dorm. They didn’t need to.

But when they reached the portrait hole, she hesitated.

Her fingers curled tighter around his.

She turned to him, her voice barely above a whisper. “Promise me you won’t leave.”

Draco’s lips quirked, something wry and bitter lurking behind the small smile. “I don’t think I even could,” he admitted, the quiet honesty in his voice sending a shiver through her.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was enough, and her heart swelled as she rose onto her toes, brushing her lips against his in a kiss so soft, so lingering, it made her chest ache.

His breath hitched—just slightly—but then he kissed her back, his lips molding to hers, slow and unhurried, like he was trying to memorize the taste of her.

She clung to him, fingers curling into his robes, a silent plea, a quiet need to keep him here just a little longer.

Draco pulled away first, pressing one last kiss to her forehead. A quiet promise.

“Goodnight, Granger.”

And then, with one last lingering glance, he turned and disappeared down the corridor.

She stood there for a long moment, her fingers brushing absently over her lips, trying to hold onto the feeling of him—of his warmth, his touch, his presence.

A pang of longing ached deep in her chest.

She wanted to run after him, to pull him into another kiss, another moment, another promise that would keep him from disappearing into the shadows. But she didn’t.

Instead, she forced herself to move.

The Fat Lady eyed her knowingly as she approached, a brow raised as if she had seen everything. Hermione swallowed thickly, murmured the password, and slipped inside.

The common room was bathed in the soft, dying glow of the embers in the hearth, flickering light stretching across the familiar space in lazy golden ribbons. 

Her limbs felt leaden as she climbed the stairs to her dormitory, exhaustion pressing heavy on her shoulders, but her mind was alive with too much.

The door creaked softly as she slipped inside. The steady rise and fall of her roommates’ breathing filled the quiet, their sleep deep, undisturbed. Relief swept through her at the sight of Ginny turned away, curled into herself beneath her blankets. No questions. Not tonight.

She wasn’t ready to speak this aloud. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Because how could she even begin to explain it?

How could she explain the feeling of Draco’s hands on her, gripping her like she was something sacred? How could she describe the way his breath had hitched when he kissed her, like she was the thing unraveling him instead of the other way around?

And how could she admit that when she had seen his fangs, when she had watched the hunger flash hot and uncontrolled behind his crimson eyes, she hadn’t felt fear but something else entirely?

She slipped into bed, pulling the blankets tight around her, trying to anchor herself in warmth, in stillness. But her body refused to settle. Every nerve still felt stretched thin, frayed at the edges, burned by the intensity of it all.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.

Draco, looking at her like she was something impossible and devastating and his undoing all at once.

Draco—tense, controlled, fighting himself like he was his own enemy.

Draco, pulling away.

Her throat tightened, her fingers curling into the sheets.

He was terrified of himself. Of what he might do. Of what one slip of control could mean.

She wasn’t foolish. She wasn’t naïve. She knew what he was, what he was capable of. She had seen the sharp glint of his fangs, had felt the way his entire body had gone rigid beneath her touch, had heard the way his voice cracked when he told her to stop.

She had seen his pain, his struggle, his war with himself.

And she wasn’t leaving.

No matter how tightly he tried to shut her out, no matter how much he thought he had to protect her from himself—she wasn’t leaving.

The thought rooted itself deep, curling warm and unshakable in her chest.

She pressed her cheek against her pillow, inhaled a slow, unsteady breath, and let her exhaustion pull her under.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

Not when the weight of the night still clung to her skin. Not when her pulse still hummed with the memory of his touch, his lips, his hands. But eventually, the edges of her thoughts blurred, her mind tugged between the heat of what had passed and the storm of what was to come.

And as she drifted into restless sleep, the last thing she saw was Draco’s eyes—bright, tormented, desperate.

Chapter Text

She stirred awake, the remnants of her dream clinging to her like threads of silk. Red eyes and the phantom touch of Draco’s hands lingered in her mind, stirring a deep, inexplicable ache in her chest.

She exhaled sharply, rolling onto her back as light filtered through the curtains of her four-poster bed. She barely had a moment to process her emotions before something rustled beneath her cheek. Frowning, she pushed herself up, blinking sleep from her eyes as she spotted a folded piece of parchment resting on her pillow.

Her heart leapt as she unfolded it, smoothing her fingers over the familiar, elegant script.

Granger,

I won’t be in the castle today. Blaise and I are going hunting—it’s long overdue. Don’t do anything reckless while I’m gone, and try to keep yourself out of trouble.

Be safe.

D. M.

She traced the ink, rereading it twice, a quiet smile tugging at her lips despite the unease curling in her chest.

He had come here—into her dormitory, into Gryffindor Tower—while she slept. The thought sent a shiver down her spine. How had he gotten inside? 

Then another thought struck. He was hunting.

She swallowed hard, gripping the parchment tighter as an unwelcome flicker of worry gnawed at her resolve. 

What if something went wrong? What if he didn’t come back? What if—

Stop.

She shut her eyes, willing herself to trust him. Draco was careful, disciplined to a fault. He could take care of himself. And Blaise would be there.

Letting out a slow breath, she clutched the note to her chest, grounding herself in the fact that he had left it for her at all—that he had wanted her to know, to reassure her.

The memories of last night surged again, unbidden. His hands. His mouth. Heat bloomed across her skin. She bit her lip, shaking her head as if she could physically dislodge the thoughts.

A sharp yank at her bed curtains made her yelp, heart leaping into her throat.

Ginny stood there, arms crossed, a slow, knowing smirk creeping across her face. Oh, no.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she drawled, plopping down onto the edge of Hermione’s bed.

Hermione scrambled to tuck Draco’s note beneath her pillow, cheeks burning. Ginny caught the movement, her smirk widening, but to Hermione’s relief, she didn’t comment.

“Spill,” Ginny demanded, eyes glinting with mischief.

Hermione blinked, feigning innocence. “Spill what?”

Ginny scoffed. “Oh, don’t even try. You’ve got the look.”

“The look?” Hermione repeated, stalling.

“The look of someone who’s been thoroughly snogged,” Ginny teased, propping herself up on her elbow. “Come on, don’t hold out on me. Was he any good?”

“Gin!” Hermione groaned, dragging the blanket over her head.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Ginny quipped, yanking the blanket down just enough to reveal Hermione’s burning face.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. Now tell me everything.”

She hesitated, heat crawling up her neck as she peeked out from behind her fingers. “…We did more than kiss.”

Ginny’s eyes went wide, her mouth falling open in exaggerated shock. “You didn’t.”

“We didn’t,” she rushed to clarify. “I mean, we didn’t have sex.”

“But?” Ginny pressed, waggling her brows.

Hermione swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper. “…But he touched me.”

Ginny gasped, clutching Hermione’s arm. “ Touched you, touched you?”

She nodded, face turning scarlet.

“And? ” Ginny demanded, practically vibrating. “Did he make you—?”

“Yes,” Hermione blurted, cutting her off.

Ginny squealed, throwing herself back onto the bed. “Well, well, Hermione Granger,” she crowed, shaking her head with mock disbelief. “Who knew you had it in you? And with Malfoy, of all people. I bet he has a wicked mouth.”

Hermione groaned, pressing her hands to her face. “I am begging you to stop.”

Ginny cackled, undeterred. “I’ll take that as another yes.”

Despite herself, Hermione bit back a smile. Ginny’s relentless teasing made her feel lighter, grounding her when her thoughts had begun to spiral again.

But her friend wasn’t done. Ginny’s gaze suddenly sharpened, her expression shifting from amused to scandalized. “Wait a second,” she said, sitting up abruptly. “What’s that?”

Hermione froze. “What’s what?”

“That,” Ginny said, pointing at Hermione’s neck. “Is that a—Hermione, is that a hickey ?”

Panic shot through her. She scrambled for the nearest sweater, but Ginny was faster.

“Oh, you are so in trouble,” she gasped, grabbing Hermione’s wrist before she could hide it. “You let Draco Malfoy give you a hickey?”

Hermione hesitated, cheeks flaming. Then, almost defiantly, she muttered, “He has one too.”

Ginny shrieked, flopping onto her back with laughter. “Hermione Jean Granger, I cannot believe you!” She clutched her stomach, breathless with glee. “You gave Malfoy a hickey?”

Hermione groaned, wishing for the earth to swallow her whole. “Stop.”

“I refuse,” Ginny said, wiping at her eyes. “This is officially my favorite thing that has ever happened.”

Hermione buried her face in her hands. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” Ginny said smugly. Then, after a beat, she propped herself up on her elbows, eyes gleaming. “So… how long before we’re planning the wedding?”

Hermione threw a pillow at her.

~ * ~

Later that day, Hermione sat in the Quidditch stands, bundled against the cold, the roar of the Gryffindor crowd swelling around her as Lavender leapt to her feet, cheering wildly for Ron’s latest maneuver. 

Hermione clapped politely, her smile faint and distracted as she watched her best friends zoom through the sky, weaving between the opposing team’s players with practiced ease.

Her mind, however, was elsewhere.

The game blurred into a whirl of crimson and gold as her gaze drifted toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The tops of the trees swayed in the winter breeze, stark against the pale grey sky. 

Her fingers curled instinctively around the parchment tucked in her pocket—Draco’s note. Her thumb traced the edges of the folded paper, the texture grounding her in the present.

Was he in there now?  

Stalking silently through the dense underbrush with Blaise, his sharp senses attuned to every sound and movement. She tried to picture him: his pale skin almost blending with the snow-dappled forest floor, crimson eyes sharp and focused, his movements predatory yet elegant.

A flicker of unease curled in her chest as she remembered the way his fangs had glinted in the firelight, how the red in his eyes had burned bright with barely restrained hunger. 

But the unease wasn’t for herself—it was for him.

Would he come back?

Despite the reassurance in his note, despite the promise he’d made last night, the nagging thought gnawed at her. 

What if he changes his mind? 

It wouldn’t be unreasonable for him to decide that the risks outweighed the rewards, that she wasn’t worth the effort or danger. She shook her head, frustrated with her own insecurities, but the tight grip of her fingers on the note betrayed her need for the reassurance it provided.

“Hermione, did you see that?” Lavender exclaimed, her voice pulling Hermione abruptly back to the present.

She blinked, her eyes snapping to her friend’s flushed face. Lavender’s bright blue eyes sparkled with excitement. “Ron’s on fire today!” she said, her voice bubbling with pride.

“Yes,” Hermione said quickly, her lips curving into a faint smile. “He’s doing great.” She clapped again for good measure, though her enthusiasm felt muted in comparison. 

Fortunately, Lavender was too focused on the game to notice Hermione’s distraction, turning back to cheer loudly as Harry dove for the snitch.

Hermione’s gaze drifted once more toward the forest, her chest tightening with longing and worry. 

Wherever you are, she thought, be safe.

The match ended in a crescendo of cheers and applause, Gryffindor’s victory sparking an eruption of celebration in the stands. 

The crowd surged toward the exit, spilling out onto the grounds in a wash of red and gold. She followed Lavender through the throng of students, the rush of voices and laughter around her feeling strangely distant.

They made their way toward the team’s dressing room, where Harry, Ron, and Ginny emerged, still beaming from their win. Ginny’s hair was windswept, her face flushed from the cold, and she grinned as she spotted them.

“Three Broomsticks?” Harry suggested, slinging an arm around Ginny’s shoulders. His green eyes still gleamed with adrenaline. “We’ve earned it.”

Ginny grinned, already tugging off her Quidditch gloves. “Definitely.”

Lavender was a blur of blonde and bouncing energy as she rushed toward Ron, practically flinging herself into his arms the moment he emerged from the changing room. “Ron, that was amazing !” she gushed, looping her arms around his neck. 

Ron grinned, his ears turning pink. “Yeah, well, had to keep them on their toes.”

Lavender giggled, pressing up on her toes to kiss him. 

Ginny, standing beside Hermione, gagged and muttered under her breath, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” 

Then, she turned to Hermione, eyes pleading. “Come with us. Please. If I have to watch those two snog all afternoon, I might Avada myself.”

Hermione hesitated, the memory of her last visit to Hogsmeade flitting through her mind. The near-attack, the moment Draco had appeared out of nowhere to save her—it felt like a lifetime ago, yet the memory was vivid, raw. 

She glanced around. It was broad daylight now, and she’d be with her friends. Surely it would be safe enough.

“All right,” she relented, sighing. “I’ll come.”

Ginny grinned in triumph. “Good. We can suffer together.”

As they set off toward the village, the crisp winter air nipping at their cheeks, Ron slowed his pace to match hers. Lavender walked ahead with Ginny and Harry, chatting animatedly about the match.

Hermione glanced at him, noting the way he rubbed the back of his neck—a nervous habit. 

“How’ve you been?” he asked after a beat of silence.

The question caught her off guard. “I’m… good,” she answered carefully. “And you?”

He shrugged. “Good. Lavender and I—things are, you know, good.”

She offered him a genuine smile. “I’m happy for you, Ron.”

Something in his face relaxed at that, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Thanks,” he murmured, then glanced ahead at Ginny and Lavender. “And, uh… you and Malfoy?”

She stiffened slightly, unsure where he was going with this. “We’re together,” she said, watching him closely. “And… I’m happy.”

Ron was silent for a beat before he let out a breath. “Yeah. Okay.” He nodded as if solidifying the thought in his own head. “As long as he’s good to you.”

“He is,” Hermione said, softer now, watching his face for signs of disapproval.

Ron met her gaze for a long moment, then gave her a small, lopsided smile. “All right.”

Something loosened in Hermione’s chest.

The Three Broomsticks was packed with students escaping the cold, the scent of butterbeer and roasting nuts thick in the air. They managed to snag a booth near the fireplace, where Hermione slipped into the seat beside Ginny, while the boys offered to fetch drinks.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Ginny turned to Hermione with an impish glint in her eyes. “So,” she drawled, “about the Yule Ball… Are you sure you don’t want to go? You do have a certain blond Slytherin who would look obscenely good in dress robes.”

Hermione flushed, fingers toying with the hem of her sleeve. “He actually asked me to do something else that weekend,” she admitted.

Ginny’s brows shot up. “Really? What?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, biting her lip. “He said it’s a surprise.”

Lavender gasped, clasping Hermione’s arm. “Oh, that’s so romantic. A surprise date?”

Ginny groaned. “Bloody typical. Of course Malfoy’s out here being all mysterious and swoon-worthy.”

She blushed, shaking her head, but before she could reply, Harry and Ron returned, mugs of hot butterbeer in hand. 

As soon as Harry set one in front of her, he arched a brow. “What were you three whispering about?”

Ginny grinned. “Oh, you know, just Hermione skipping the Yule Ball to spend the night with Malfoy.”

Harry choked on his drink. 

Hermione groaned, shooting Ginny a glare. “That is not what I said.”

Harry wiped his mouth, recovering. “So you and Malfoy are… serious?”

Hermione met his gaze, unwavering. “Yes,” she said simply. “We’re dating.”

Harry studied her for a long moment before finally nodding. “Well, as long as he’s treating you right, I’m happy for you.” Then, he smirked. “But if he does screw up, I wouldn’t mind turning him back into a ferret.”

Ron made a noncommittal grunt and took a long drink from his mug.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Hermione can handle her own battles, thanks.”

Lavender, however, sighed dreamily. “I think it’s romantic. A forbidden love, it’s like something straight out of a novel.”

Hermione flushed, sipping her butterbeer to avoid responding. If only Lavender knew how right she was. 

She would never change Draco. Not for anything. But sometimes, she wished things were simpler. That there weren’t so many hurdles between them. That he didn’t have to fight against the thing he feared inside himself. That he trusted himself the way she trusted him.

If he did—would he be here tonight? Would he be beside her, his arm slung around her shoulders, making smug comments and dry quips that made her friends laugh? Would he be leaning in close, his breath warm against her ear, murmuring things that sent shivers down her spine?

The thought settled in her chest, heavy and aching.

As Ginny launched into a story about the twins’ latest creation, Hermione leaned back, letting the warmth of the fire and the conversation settle over her.

The others laughed, the mood light and unburdened, but she only half-listened, her focus splintering as a prickle ran up the back of her neck, the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

She stilled mid-lift of her butterbeer, breath catching in her throat. Slowly, her gaze drifted toward the window, where the frost clung to the glass in delicate, feathery patterns. Beyond it, the sky was an ink-stained expanse, the last streaks of sunset swallowed by the creeping night.

For a moment—just a flicker, barely more than a blink—she saw it.

A pair of glowing red eyes.

Her fingers tensed around the handle of her mug. The next breath she took was sharp and shallow, her pulse knocking against her ribs. But when she blinked, the glow was gone, replaced by nothing but the darkness beyond the glass.

Had she imagined it?

“Hermione?”

Ginny’s voice cut through the fog of her thoughts. She turned, finding her friend watching her with a small frown, curiosity and concern flickering in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Ginny asked, leaning in.

Hermione forced her shoulders to relax, shaking her head as if she could physically dispel the unease curling in her stomach. Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing there.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, setting down her butterbeer, though she suddenly had no desire to finish it. “I just… think we should head back to the castle.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed slightly before a knowing smirk curled her lips. “You just miss Malfoy, don’t you?”

Hermione’s face ignited. “I just want to study,” she muttered.

Ginny outright laughed. “Right. Studying. That’s what we’re calling it now.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the teasing was welcome, distracting enough to pull her from her thoughts—if only for a moment. The group finished their drinks, stepping out into the cold a few minutes later, the icy wind biting at their exposed skin.

As they walked back toward the castle, the chill seeped into Hermione’s bones, turning her earlier unease into something heavier. Her eyes flickered toward the shadows lining their path, the darkness seeming deeper than usual, the thin branches overhead shifting in the wind like reaching hands.

It’s just the winter air, she told herself. Just the night playing tricks.

Still, she picked up her pace.

By the time they crossed through the castle gates, the familiar glow of Hogwarts’ candle-lit corridors wrapped around her like a protective barrier, the hum of warmth sinking into her skin. The lingering tension in her shoulders loosened.

She parted ways with her friends at the stairwell. 

Ginny, Harry, Lavender and Ron were still giddy from the butterbeer and the victory, their laughter echoing down the corridor as they made their way toward Gryffindor Tower. Hermione, however, turned in the opposite direction.

She wasn’t ready for sleep.

The library welcomed her with its quiet solitude, the scent of parchment and ink settling around her like an old friend. She exhaled slowly, the tension draining from her muscles as she claimed a table nestled between towering shelves.

Pulling out her parchment and quill, she turned her focus to something tangible. 

Vampires.

She had spent weeks piecing together fragments of information Draco had given her, but there were still gaps. 

She had assumed, naively, that the library would hold the answers she sought. But as she flipped through tome after tome, frustration curled in her gut.

There was so little.

Most books barely dedicated more than a few pages to vampires, and what was there was frustratingly vague. A rare species. Widely regarded as solitary and secretive by wizarding kind. The Ministry chooses to let them live so long as they do not cause trouble.

But what trouble?

As far as Hermione could tell, there had never been any recorded incidents. No wars. No uprisings. No attacks severe enough to warrant Ministry involvement. 

It was as though vampires had simply existed in the shadows, tolerated yet distrusted, their history left deliberately unwritten.

She scowled, flipping through A Compendium of Dark Creatures. The pages were old, stiff beneath her fingers, and yet, even in a text dedicated to classifying magical beings, the information was frustratingly sparse.

"True vampires are born of a blood curse, though knowledge of this affliction remains scarce. It is known that the transformation is not induced by a bite, as is commonly believed, but by an inherited affliction passed through bloodlines. However, cases of spontaneous transformation have been observed in rare instances where the afflicted perished and revived under unknown circumstances."

She paused, rereading the passage, her quill hovering over her own notes.

"Spawn are the result of failed transformations."

What happened to those who did survive the transformation? Did they still end up as spawn eventually or did they become vampires like Draco?

She reached for another book, quickly scanning the index before flipping to the relevant sections. More of the same. Rare. Feared. Tolerated. Few known covens.

Nothing about their history.

Nothing about why the Ministry let them live but refused to acknowledge them.

She sat back, exhaling sharply, her fingers smudged with ink as she pressed them to her temple.

Why was there nothing ?

It wasn’t just frustrating—it was deliberate. Information this scarce, this purposefully omitted, meant someone had ensured it was that way.

She gnawed at her lip, staring at the notes she had compiled. They were a messy web of half-truths and missing links, and it only left her with more questions.

Who had decided vampires were untrustworthy? Who had written these accounts? Who had ensured they remained nothing more than whispers in the margins of history?

And more importantly—what did Draco know that wasn’t in these books?

The candle beside her flickered, the wax pooling at its base. She hadn’t realized how much time had passed, how late it had grown.

With a quiet sigh, she closed her notebook, fingers smoothing over the ink-stained parchment before tucking it safely into her bag. With a flick of her wand, the scattered books lifted off the table, floating in neat succession back onto the shelves. 

Her mind drifted as she stepped into the dim corridor.

Red eyes in the dark.

Had she really seen them? Or had it been a trick of the light, a phantom conjured by her own anxieties?

She exhaled slowly, steadying herself, telling herself she was being ridiculous. The forest beyond Hogsmeade was vast. She had only caught a glimpse, a fleeting moment. It could have been anything.

But still.

Something unsettled her, a whisper of doubt curling in the back of her mind.

She needed to ask Draco.

Not just about what she’d seen tonight—but about all of it. About the things she hadn’t found in books, the truths hidden behind the Ministry’s carefully worded neutrality, the parts of his existence that she had only just begun to understand.

She wanted to know.

She wanted to understand him.

The thought settled inside her, firm and unshakable, guiding her steps as she climbed the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower.

Chapter Text

Hermione jolted upright in bed, her breath coming fast, heart hammering against her ribs. The remnants of her nightmare clung to her, thick and suffocating, the images still vivid—shadowed trees closing in, the gleam of red eyes in the dark. The sensation of being watched, hunted, lingered, leaving her skin clammy with unease.

She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead, willing herself to calm, to shake it off. But her pulse refused to slow. Her body remained tense, the fear stubbornly rooted beneath her skin.

Her fingers curled instinctively around the fabric draped over her—thick, expensive wool, softened by wear.

Draco’s coat.

She exhaled shakily, clutching it tighter. She had pulled it over herself in sleep, as she so often did. The weight of it, the faint scent of cedar and mint, usually kept her grounded. A poor substitute for his arms, but enough to lull her into sleep when her thoughts refused to quiet.

But not tonight.

Tonight, even his coat wasn’t enough. She missed him. The real him.

A shiver ran down her spine. She needed air. A distraction. Something to shake the lingering dread coiling in her stomach.

Pushing the blankets back, she reached for the bed curtains, parting them—

A shadow loomed just beyond the folds of fabric.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her stomach dropping, her heart seizing in her chest. The fear from her nightmare crashed over her anew, her body reacting before her mind could catch up—she stiffened, ready to bolt, to scream—

Then the figure shifted, moonlight spilling over sharp cheekbones, over platinum hair kissed silver by the night.

Draco.

The terror in her veins gave way to warm relief.

He sat perched on the windowsill, draped in shadows, his posture deceptively relaxed. His fingers tapped an idle rhythm against the stone, but there was something taut about the way he held himself, something wound tight beneath the surface.

Her breath left her in a shaky exhale. “Draco?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the night beyond the glass, distant, unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, cutting through the silence like a blade.

“What did you dream about?”

She swallowed, unable to answer. The sight of him here, in her room, while the dream still clung to her like frost—it was too much.

Finally, he turned to face her. His silver eyes, sharpened by the moonlight, dragged over her in a slow, deliberate study. Her curls were mussed from sleep, her skin flushed, her bare legs peeking from beneath the hem of her pajama shorts. But it wasn’t the way his gaze lingered there that stole the breath from her lungs.

It was the way his eyes softened—just slightly—when they landed on his coat, still tangled in her sheets, gripped between her fingers.

He didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t smirk, didn’t tease. But she saw it—the shift in his expression, the way something in him went quiet.

A strange mix of embarrassment and something softer curled in her stomach. If he knew she slept with it most nights, that she buried her face in the collar when sleep eluded her, that his scent had become the thing she sought when her mind refused to quiet—

She dropped her gaze. Swallowed hard. “I…” She faltered, feeling stripped bare under his scrutiny.

His head tilted slightly, his lips curling at the edges in that maddening way of his—half amusement, half something darker.

“How did you get in here?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended, seizing on the question to steady herself.

Draco rose in one fluid motion. “The window.” He nodded toward the open pane behind him.

Her gaze flickered to it, then back to him, disbelief warring with exasperation. “The window?” she echoed, incredulous. “Do you do this often?”

He leaned lazily against her bedpost, his smirk deepening. “Yes.”

Her heart lurched. “Since when?”

“Since the start of term.” His voice was casual, but his gaze was anything but. It pinned her in place, waiting, watching.

She inhaled sharply, the realization settling over her in a wave of something both thrilling and unsettling. “You’ve been sneaking into my room for months ?”

The smirk softened, something almost guilty slipping into his expression. “I couldn’t stay away,” he admitted.

The words sent a shiver down her spine. She should have been unnerved, but instead, warmth curled in her stomach, treacherous and undeniable.

“What do you want, Draco?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes darkened, the teasing edge vanishing as he stepped closer, his fingers brushing a stray curl from her face. “I think you already know what I want.”

Her breath caught, the slow drag of his thumb along her jaw igniting something deep and molten in her veins.

He tilted her chin up, his touch featherlight but commanding. His thumb traced her bottom lip, tugging it down slightly, parting her mouth just enough that her breath shuddered. Her pulse thundered, her body betraying her even as her mind scrambled for logic.

“Draco…” she whispered, her voice trembling between his name and the heavy silence around them.

He didn’t speak. Just watched her, his thumb lingering at her lip before he pulled away, the loss of contact leaving her aching.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he placed his hands on her shoulders and guided her back against the mattress. The bed dipped as he climbed in after her, the strength of his body settling over hers sending a fresh wave of heat through her limbs.

With a flick of his wrist, the curtains around her bed snapped shut, followed by a wandless silencing spell, enclosing them in the intimate dark. The flickering glow of the moon seeped through the fabric, casting shifting shadows over their bodies.

Her heart pounded as he leaned over her, his scent filling the space between them, making her dizzy. 

“I missed you today,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost pained, like the words had been ripped from his throat.

I missed you too, she thought, but before she could voice the words his lips were on hers, searing and desperate. He kissed her like a man deprived, drinking her in, his breath mingling with hers in frantic, heated exchanges. 

His hands fisted the thin fabric of her sleep shirt, bunching it at her sides as his body covered hers completely, his weight pressing her into the mattress.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, dragging him down. “Draco,” she gasped against his lips, but he didn’t let her finish. 

He groaned into her mouth, the sound vibrating through her as his lips moved to her neck, his kisses turning fevered.

“I hate being away from you,” he confessed between kisses, his voice hoarse, each word a punctuated declaration against her skin.

His hands trembled against her sides, his breath coming in ragged pants as he traced hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat, sucking at the pulse pounding beneath her skin.

She gasped as his tongue flicked over the bruised mark he’d left on her yesterday. He groaned in satisfaction, tracing the love bite with his lips before scraping his teeth lightly over the sensitive skin.

She arched beneath him, heat pooling low in her belly.

“So pretty,” he muttered darkly, his voice thick with possessive hunger.

A whimper caught in her throat. 

Merlin, how did he do this to her? How did he strip her of reason with just a look, a touch, a word?

Her entire body burned. The ache inside her twisted tighter, unbearable in its intensity. She needed more. 

His hands slid under her sleep shirt, cold and worshipping, skimming her stomach, up her ribs, mapping the lines of her body like he had never touched her before—like he was learning her all over again.

“So soft,” he murmured, almost in awe, his thumbs dragging teasing circles over her skin.

Her breath hitched as his palms cupped her breasts, his fingers skimming over her nipples in light, experimental strokes. She whimpered, the sensation sending pleasure curling through her.

He groaned against her collarbone. “You make the best sounds,” he praised, his lips dragging lower, lower—until his mouth replaced his hands.

She barely had time to process the shift before she felt the wet heat of his tongue circling a sensitive peak. A strangled moan escaped her as he sucked gently, his teeth grazing the hardened bud just enough to make her jolt.

Her hands flew to his shoulders, her nails digging into his back as she writhed beneath him. The pressure of his body, the insistent way his mouth worshipped her—it was overwhelming, intoxicating.

“Draco,” she gasped, her voice trembling, pleading.

His hands trailed lower, gripping her hips, guiding her against him. His thigh pressed between hers, the delicious friction sending sparks of pleasure through her, and she instinctively rocked against it.

Draco’s head snapped up, his silver eyes dark and unfocused. His grip on her tightened. “Merlin, Hermione,” he groaned, his voice wrecked.

She whimpered again, desperate, needy, her body moving against his of its own accord. The feeling of him—hard, unyielding, completely surrounding her—had her toes curling, her skin burning with want.

“Tell me,” he murmured against her jaw, his lips brushing her ear, his fingers sliding down her stomach. “Tell me what you want.”

She swallowed hard, her breath stuttering as she lifted her hips, chasing his touch.

“You,” she whispered. “Always you.”

A shudder wracked through him at her words, his restraint unraveling as his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of her shorts.

“Good,” he muttered darkly, his mouth capturing hers in another consuming kiss. “I’ve been dying to touch you all day.”

His fingers ghosted over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, a teasing, torturous touch that sent shivers through her. 

Her breath hitched as his fingers inched toward her center, the anticipation unraveling her. She clenched the sheets beneath her, her pulse thundering in her ears.

When he finally reached the edge of her underwear, his fingers brushing over the damp fabric, she let out a sharp inhale, the sensation sending a jolt of need straight through her.

Draco’s breathing was ragged, his exhale shaking as he murmured, “You’re soaked.” 

Her cheeks burned at the words, but before embarrassment could creep in, he hooked his fingers around the fabric and tugged it aside, exposing her to the cool air. She let out a quiet gasp at the contrast, her thighs clenching around him involuntarily.

Draco groaned, his fingers sliding through her wetness, parting her, teasing her. She trembled at the touch, her entire body tensing, aching.

“Gods, Granger,” he muttered, his voice frayed with want. “You feel fucking incredible.”

His fingers traced slow circles over her, barely skimming where she needed him most. She let out a strangled whimper, hips jerking against his hand. 

“How does that feel?” His voice was silk, smooth and knowing.

She was already too far gone to be embarrassed by the desperation in her response. Her words came out breathless, breaking apart before they even reached him. “Good… so good.”

His smirk returned, satisfaction curling at the edges of it, but his eyes burned. “Are you ready for more?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her whole body tightening with anticipation. “Please.”

He exhaled harshly, as his fingers dipped lower, pressing against her entrance, teasing at the edge. He watched her face as he pushed inside, the slow stretch making her body arch into him, her breath catching on a quiet gasp.

He groaned at the sound, his forehead pressing against hers. “ Fuck,” he breathed. 

His fingers curled, stroking her in slow, deep movements, each press dragging fire through her veins. Her lashes fluttered, her body tightening around him as she gripped his shoulders, holding onto him as the sensation built.

He tilted his head, his gaze heavy-lidded as it flicked down to where his fingers disappeared into her. His lips parted slightly, his breath uneven, pupils blown wide with hunger.

“You look incredible right now,” he murmured, reaching up with his free hand to brush a stray curl from her forehead, knuckles dragging lightly down the side of her face, unbearably gentle in contrast to the heat between them.

Then his thumb found her clit.

A soft, teasing flick.

Hermione gasped, her hips jerking as a wave of pleasure surged through her.

Draco smirked, and did it again. Slow, torturous circles, in perfect tandem with the rhythm of his fingers inside her.

It was too much. Not enough. Too much.

Her nails dug into his arms, her body trembling, her hips moving instinctively, chasing the friction, seeking more.

“Taking me so well,” he muttered against her throat, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her skin. His tongue flicked out, tasting the heat there, followed by a slow drag of his teeth. 

Marking her.

The coil inside her twisted, the tension unbearable, pulling tight, tighter—

“Granger.” His voice was rough, demanding, pulling her back from the edge just enough to make her look at him. His silver eyes burned into hers, dark and consuming, holding her there, anchoring her to him.

It undid her.

Her orgasm crashed over her in sharp, breathless waves, tearing her apart from the inside out. Her body tensed, back bowing as pleasure surged through her, her cry swallowed by his lips as he kissed her through it, murmuring low, filthy praise against her mouth.

“Fuck, love—” His fingers didn’t stop, coaxing her through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor until she sagged against the mattress, utterly wrecked.

When he finally withdrew, his fingers slick and slow as they left her, she let out a small, involuntary whine.

Draco groaned at the sound, his eyes dragging over her—half wild, half reverent, looking like he wanted to devour her whole. His expression was torn between pride and something else, something raw and unspoken.

“Good girl,” he murmured, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her lips, the words melting into her mouth, rich and satisfied. “You’re so good.”

Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, the remnants of pleasure still pulsing through her in slow, hazy waves. 

She felt boneless, utterly pliant in Draco’s arms as he rolled onto his side, pulling her flush against him. His grip was firm, possessive, his arms wrapping around her waist like he had no intention of letting her go.

She let herself sink into him, her head resting against his chest, where the quiet, steady thrum of his heartbeat filled her ears. His breath fanned warm against her temple, slow, controlled, but there was an edge to it. His body felt impossibly solid, anchoring her in ways she hadn’t realized she needed.

Without a word, he reached for the coat she had been sleeping with—his coat, the one he had draped over her shoulders that night in Hogsmeade, the night he had saved her. He pulled it up and wrapped it around her now, tucking the thick fabric over her shoulders, encasing her in the lingering scent of cedar and mint, of him.

She sucked in a sharp breath, flustered. The weight of it, the scent, the intimacy of being wrapped in something that was his—it did something to her. She didn’t even have to look up to know he was watching her, that small, knowing smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

He liked it. Liked seeing her draped in it.

Her fingers curled into the fabric. She liked it too.

The moment settled between them, warm and silent, until her gaze flickered downward—and she saw it.

The unmistakable bulge straining against his trousers.

Oh.

Heat rushed to her cheeks, a slow burn spreading down her throat, across her chest. He was hard. 

Because of her.  

The realization sent a sharp pulse of something heady and aching through her, igniting a spark of need that begged to be satisfied.

Draco had spent the night unraveling her, reducing her to nothing but sensation, but he—he had gotten nothing in return. That wasn’t fair. She wanted to touch him too, to learn how to touch him, how to make him fall apart the way he had done to her. Even if she didn’t know what she was doing, she wanted to.

Slowly, tentatively, she reached for him.

The moment her fingers brushed against the fabric of his trousers, Draco stopped her. His hand closed over hers, fast, firm, immobilizing.

A growl rumbled from deep in his chest, low and warning, sending a shiver down her spine.

Her breath caught. She tilted her head up, meeting his gaze.

His eyes burned. “No, Granger.”

Frustration curled in her chest. "That’s not fair," she whispered, barely above a breath.

He exhaled sharply, amusement flickering across his face despite the tightness in his jaw. “Fairness isn’t my strong suit, love,” he murmured, his fingers skimming along the line of her jaw, tilting her chin up just enough for him to steal a slow, lazy kiss.

She sighed into it, but her mind refused to let go of the weight of his rejection. As the kiss broke, silence stretched between them, and doubts began to creep in like shadows at the edge of her consciousness.

Maybe he doesn’t want me to touch him like that.

The thought unsettled her.

Draco was still holding her, still touching her, but the longer she sat with it, the more self-consciousness took root. 

Is it because I don’t know what I’m doing? Because I wouldn’t be any good at it?

She swallowed, heat rising to her face, and before she could stop herself, she stiffened slightly.

Draco noticed immediately.

His fingers stilled where they had been tracing slow patterns over her shoulder. Then, gently but firmly, he grasped her chin between his fingers, tilting her face toward his. “What’s going on in that brilliant head of yours?”

She forced a small, dismissive shake of her head. “It’s nothing.”

His eyes narrowed, unimpressed. “Granger,” he drawled, “don’t insult me.”

Her stomach twisted. She hesitated, gnawing at the inside of her cheek before sighing. There was no getting past him.

“It’s silly,” she admitted, voice small.

His brow arched expectantly.

She exhaled, staring at the space between them. “I just—” She hesitated, then forced the words out. “I thought maybe it was because… I’m inexperienced.”

His head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable. “What are you talking about?” 

She swallowed hard. “You’re obviously… experienced, and I’m not. I’ve never… I don’t know how to touch you. And I thought maybe that’s why you wouldn’t let me.”

The words felt raw, exposed.

Draco was silent.

Then—to her absolute horror—he laughed.

Not a small chuckle. A deep, genuine laugh, his head tipping back, silver eyes flashing with pure amusement.

Hermione froze. Humiliation flooded her. 

“You bastard, ” she hissed, shoving at his chest.

But Draco moved too fast.

One moment he was laughing—the next, he was on top of her, pressing her into the mattress, trapping her beneath the solid weight of his body.

She gasped, hands flying to his chest, uncertain whether she meant to push him away or pull him closer.

“Hermione,” he said, her name slowly, each syllable carrying the weight of something deep inside him. His hands braced on either side of her head, his body pressing into hers, engulfing her entirely.

“The reason I won’t let you touch me isn’t because of your inexperience.” He whispered. “It’s because if you do—” he exhaled sharply, his muscles flexing as if physically restraining himself “—I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop myself.”

Her breath stalled.

He was still holding back.

The realization settled in her chest, something fierce and wild curling behind her ribs.

“What if I don’t want you to stop?” she whispered, voice trembling but certain. “What if I…” Her fingers curled against his shoulders, pulse roaring. “What if I want you to be my first?”

A sharp inhale punched from his lungs. His grip on the sheets tightened, knuckles paling against the fabric.

His eyes searched hers, wild and conflicted.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he rasped. “I don’t know if I can give you that without—”

“I trust you,” she said, clear and unwavering.

His entire body tensed. A muscle ticked in his jaw, his breath coming in short, uneven pulls.

For a moment, she thought he might break.

Hoped he would.

But then—he exhaled slowly, resolve hardening behind his gaze.

“We’ll discuss that later,” he muttered, voice laced with restraint. “When you’re not still coming down from an orgasm.”

Her breath caught, her face heating at his implication. 

“That’s not—”

Draco silenced her in the most effective way possible.

His mouth crashed against hers, swallowing her words before they could take shape, before she could argue, before she could remind him that he was the one being unfair. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was consuming, deliberate—a kiss meant to unmake her, to strip away her indignation and replace it with something far more dangerous.

And Merlin help her, it worked.

The world around them dimmed, narrowed down to the press of his lips, the strength of his body caging her beneath him. Frustration unraveled into something softer, something liquid and molten, pooling low in her stomach as his fingers curled possessively into her hair.

By the time he pulled back, they were both breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together, his breath warm against her lips.

A slow, lazy smirk ghosted across his face. “How was your day?”

She blinked. What?

Her brain struggled to catch up, the abrupt shift nearly giving her whiplash.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. 

Oh, you absolute—  

He was changing the subject. Deflecting. And he was doing it in the most maddeningly casual way possible.

A flicker of amusement curved her lips despite herself. Fine. If he wanted to play it that way, she would indulge him.

“For someone so smug, you’re awfully transparent,” she murmured, tracing slow, absentminded circles against his chest.

Draco hummed, noncommittal, his fingers toying with the hem of his coat draped around her shoulders.

Still, she let herself sink into the moment, if only for a little longer. “My day was fine,” she said eventually, mirroring his nonchalance. “I went to the Quidditch match, then Hogsmeade.”

At the mention of Hogsmeade, Draco’s entire demeanor shifted.

His body stiffened above her, his arms tightening around her waist. His jaw clenched, and the atmosphere between them grew heavy, the lightheartedness evaporating like mist.

“You went to Hogsmeade?” he asked, his voice eerily quiet.

She hesitated, suddenly hyperaware of the storm brewing beneath his carefully measured calm. “Yes,” she answered, voice careful, steady. “With Gin, Lavender, and the boys. It was perfectly fine — ”

“It’s not fine,” he cut in, his voice low and unyielding. His grip on her tightened, as if the mere thought of her going to Hogsmeade was intolerable. “It’s not safe, Hermione. I don’t want you leaving the castle without me.”

Her breath stuttered.

The words should have irritated her. They did irritate her. The sheer audacity of him, dictating where she could go, who she could be with—it should have sparked an argument.

But instead, something unsettlingly warm bloomed in her chest.

Because it wasn’t just possessiveness. He was worried about her.

Still, she bristled, folding her arms against his chest. “That’s absurd,” she said, though her voice wavered at the edges. “I can take care of myself, Draco.”

His jaw ticked. “Not against this.”

Against what?

Her frustration dimmed, giving way to concern. His expression was different now—not just tense, not just frustrated. But haunted.

She swallowed, shifting under him slightly. “Draco,” she said slowly, her brows furrowing. “What do you mean? What aren’t you telling me?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw, his fingers flexing against her before sliding up to cradle the back of her head, his touch instinctively grounding.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

The weight of his silence settled over her like a heavy shroud, pressing into her bones, into her skin, into every breath she took.

Then, finally, he exhaled—a slow, shuddering breath.

“I need to tell you something,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

A chill slithered down her spine, her body instinctively tensing against his.

Her mind flickered back to the dream, to Hogsmeade—to the way she had felt a prickle at the back of her neck, the fleeting glimpse of crimson through the frost-streaked glass.

She had told herself it was nothing. A trick of the light. A product of her overactive mind.

But looking at him now—at the rigid set of his shoulders, the tight coil of his muscles beneath his shirt, his silver eyes shadowed with something dark—she couldn’t lie to herself anymore.

Something was wrong.

And whatever he was about to say—whatever truth sat heavy on his tongue, waiting to be released—she had the terrible, bone-deep certainty that once she heard it, there would be no going back.

Chapter Text

Draco’s eyes gleamed in the low light, silver catching in the slant of moonlight filtering through the gaps in her bed curtains. He was watching her, his expression unreadable, as his fingers traced along her jaw in slow, absent patterns—so delicate it sent a shiver down her spine. 

Despite the tenderness of his touch, the air between them felt weighted, thick with unspoken things. It pressed against her ribs, coiling around her lungs, making each breath feel shallow and uneven.

She swallowed, pushing past the tension constricting her throat. “Draco,” she whispered, voice unsteady. “What is it?”

His fingers lingered against her skin for a moment longer before he exhaled and pulled away. The loss of contact left a strange sort of ache in its place.

She watched as he shifted, pushing himself up to lean against the headboard, his movements slow and deliberate. The moonlight sharpened the angles of his face, casting deep shadows beneath his eyes. 

Her heart clenched. He looked... tired.

A thread of unease curled through her chest, winding tighter as she sat up with him, the air cool against her skin as Draco’s coat slipped further from her shoulders. She pulled it back up, fingers curling into the worn wool as she wrapped it around her, seeking comfort, but even that did little to settle the feeling creeping through her.

“Draco,” she tried again, firmer now. “Tell me.”

His hand flexed against his thigh.

“When we go hunting,” he began, “it’s not just about feeding.”

A chill skated down the back of her neck, every nerve in her body suddenly on high alert.

“What does that mean?” she asked slowly.

Draco turned his head slightly, just enough to look at her, his face impassive, his eyes too controlled.

“We’ve been hunting spawn.”

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. 

The word echoed in her head, crashing over her in slow, crushing waves. She stared at him, struggling to reconcile the casual way he said it with the weight of what it meant.

“You—” Her voice caught, her pulse hammering at her temples. “Are you serious?”

He nodded, his expression grim. 

“They’re getting bolder,” he continued. “More aggressive. We’ve come across more of them in the forest than ever before.”

She felt sick.

Her fingers clenched around the fabric of his coat, breath coming shallow and fast. 

“How long?”

“Since Hogsmeade.”

Her chest went tight as images of that night came flashing back—the drunken wizards, their hands grasping at her, the sharp bite of fear—Draco tearing through them like a force of nature, eyes glowing silver, voice a quiet, lethal promise.

“That was months ago.”

“I know.”

“And you’re just telling me this now?” Her voice shook, anger and fear colliding in her chest.

He flinched.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he admitted.

She let out a sharp breath, barely resisting the urge to shove the coat off her shoulders, to push away the comfort of him.

“You didn’t want to scare me?” she repeated, voice rising, disbelief and anger colliding in her chest. “You’ve been putting yourself in danger for months, and you never thought to tell me?”

His jaw tensed.

“No.”

She could have screamed.

“‘No?’” she echoed, seething. “You’re telling me you’ve kept this from me for months, and all you have to say is ‘no’?”

His eyes snapped to hers, steel-edged. “I do when it keeps you safe.”

A bitter laugh ripped from her throat. “Keeping me safe?” She shook her head, fury boiling beneath her skin. “How is keeping me in the dark supposed to keep me safe?”

His jaw ticked. “Because you’d do exactly this.”

She froze, pulse hammering.

His voice dipped lower, rough with something close to desperation. “You’d throw yourself into it. Try to fix it. Try to fight.” His gaze locked onto hers, silver burning against amber. “Even though you shouldn’t have to. Even though you’ve already given enough—fought enough—for a lifetime.”

Her breath hitched, the words cutting through her like a blade.

She should have softened at that—should have.

But the anger still simmered, hot and unrelenting beneath her skin, tangled with the cold weight of horror settling deep in her bones.

“You told me you thought the attacks in Hogsmeade were spawn,” she said, voice trembling at the edges, “but you didn’t tell me you knew for certain. You didn’t tell me that you have been—” She cut herself off, inhaling sharply. “You lied to me.”

He flinched, running a hand through his hair, but he didn’t deny it. 

 “I thought it was just spawn,” he said tightly. “A few of them, slipping through unnoticed. They’re not hard to deal with, not for us.”

Her spine tingled with unease. “But?” she prompted.

His lips pressed into a thin line.

“But, the attacks were too neat,” he said. “Spawn don’t stop at one or two attacks. They don’t stop at all.”

A cold weight settled in her stomach.

He paused, exhaling slowly. When he spoke again, his voice was tight, laced with something dark. 

“We think someone is controlling them.”

Her breath stalled, the words sinking into her like ice.

“There haven’t been any more attacks in Hogsmeade, but people are disappearing.” His jaw tightened. “In the surrounding villages. Too many to be a coincidence.”

The horror of it pressed against her, creeping into her bones, sinking its claws into the space between her ribs. Her mind turned, thoughts spinning, piecing together the fragments of his confession even as fear curled tighter in her chest.

“You think someone’s making them,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Draco inclined his head, the movement slow.

Then, another thought clawed its way forward, one more horrifying than anything he’d told her so far.

“You think someone’s making an army.”

Draco exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. 

The weight of his silence was answer enough.

“I’ve been trying to stay ahead of it,” he said finally, his voice low, rough around the edges. “After the attacks in Hogsmeade, I wrote to my mother. Asked her to send me books from the manor’s library. Our collection has texts on vampires dating back centuries.”

Despite the cold knot of fear twisting inside her, Hermione’s mind immediately latched onto the detail. “Your library must be extraordinary,” she murmured, awe slipping into her voice even in the gravity of the moment.

Draco’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, the ghost of amusement flickering behind his eyes. “Of course you’d focus on that,” he said dryly.

Heat crept up her neck, but she lifted her chin. “It’s relevant,” she insisted, her voice defensive. “Did you find anything useful?”

The smirk faded. Frustration hardened his features. “No,” he said tersely. “Not a bloody thing.”

Her anger wavered at the helpless edge in his voice, the weight of what he had been carrying alone pressing into her ribs. She reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “We’ll figure it out,” she said softly. “Together.”

Draco’s fingers tensed beneath hers, his jaw tightening. A muscle ticked in his cheek.

“No,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “You’re not getting involved in this. It’s too dangerous.”

Her brows furrowed. “And what makes you think I’m going to sit back and let you handle it alone?” she challenged. “You know me better than that.”

His eyes darkened, unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might fight her on it, but then he exhaled, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, voice laced with exhaustion. “Stubborn as hell.”

Her lips twitched, but there was no real humor in it. “So I’ve been told.”

She hesitated, searching his face, searching for anything that might tell her what he wasn’t saying. Her fingers curled tighter around his. “Do you know who’s behind this?” she asked, quiet but unrelenting.

“No.” His voice was clipped, frustrated.

Her stomach twisted. 

“Then we need to tell the Ministry,” she said, urgency pushing the words out before she could second-guess herself. “Kingsley would want to know about this.”

He tensed, his expression unreadable, but she saw it—the flicker of hesitation, the wariness in his eyes.

“Draco,” she pressed, “this isn’t just some secret you and Blaise and Theo can keep between yourselves. If someone is building an army of vampire spawn, we don’t have the luxury of handling this alone.”

His jaw clenched. He exhaled slowly, as if steadying himself, and she could see the wheels turning in his mind—calculating, weighing, debating.

Finally, he nodded. “Fine,” he said, his voice low, reluctant. “You can send a letter to Kingsley.”

Relief surged through her, but it was tempered by the weight of everything that still loomed over them. “Good,” she said, leveling him with a look. “Because I was going to do it anyway.”

Draco huffed, shaking his head. “Of course you were.”

She didn’t smile, too caught in the heaviness of the moment. “This is serious, Draco.”

“I know.” His voice was quiet but resolute. “But I need you to be smart about this.”

Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Before she could react, Draco moved.

In one swift motion, his hands settled on her waist, and he pulled her forward, drawing her into his lap with effortless ease.

Her breath hitched, her hands flying to his chest, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. 

“Draco!” she protested, voice high-pitched and flustered. “What are you—?”

“Ensuring I have your undivided attention,” he cut in, his smirk returning, though his tone remained steady, intent. “Because I need you to promise me something.”

She narrowed her eyes, trying to ignore the warmth of his hands on her hips, the way her body molded against his, the way her breath came just a little too fast.

“What?” she asked cautiously.

His fingers flexed, tightening just slightly at her waist. “Stay in the castle,” he said, the teasing edge gone from his voice, replaced by something heavier. “Don’t go looking for trouble, Hermione. Let me handle the spawn.”

Her lips parted, indignation sparking in her chest, but before she could argue, he raised a hand, cutting her off. “And,” he added, smirk returning just faintly, “I’ll bring you the books my mother sent. You can devour them to your heart’s content.”

Her irritation wavered, a reluctant flicker of excitement sparking in her eyes. She tilted her head, studying him. “You’ll let me read them?” she asked, voice laced with curiosity and disbelief.

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, his lips grazing the line of her jaw as he murmured, “You and your books…”

“I— I just think they might be helpful,” she stammered, words slightly breathless as she tried to focus on the conversation rather than the way his mouth moved against her pulse.

He pulled back, his fingers tracing her jaw, his expression turning solemn. The weight in his eyes made her breath hitch.

“Hermione,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost hesitant. His grip on her tightened, as if anchoring her in place, his breath unsteady against her skin. “I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you.”

Her chest ached.

The words pressed into her like a brand, like a vow.

She reached up, her palm cupping the side of his face. “I’ll be fine,” she assured him, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. “You’re here. We’ll figure this out. Together.”

He studied her intently, searching her eyes, searching for something—maybe proof that she meant it. Maybe something to hold onto.

After a long moment, he sighed, his shoulders easing, just slightly.

Then he kissed her.

His lips moved against hers with a deliberateness that made her dizzy, like he was trying to tell her something he didn’t have the words for. She melted into him, her fingers threading into his hair, her body pressing closer, surrendering to the moment.

When the kiss finally broke, he lingered, his forehead pressing lightly against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them.

“You drive me mad,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her skin, trailing over her cheek, the edge of her jaw.

She barely had time to react before he was kissing her again—not on the lips this time, but everywhere else. 

Along her temple, in her hair, down the curve of her neck. Soft, lingering presses of his mouth, like he was trying to kiss away the weight of their conversation.

Her heart twisted, the depth of her feelings pressing into her ribs.

His hands were so careful as he guided her back against the mattress, as though she were something fragile, something breakable. He pulled the blankets up over her, tucking them around her with a tenderness that made her throat tighten.

Then he was curling behind her, his chest firm against her back, his fingers splayed protectively over her stomach. 

She felt the press of his lips against her shoulder, another against the curve of her neck, a quiet sigh escaping her lips as exhaustion finally began to pull at her.

His breath was warm against her skin as he nuzzled into her, his voice quiet when he finally spoke.

“Sleep,” he murmured, a command wrapped in something softer, something gentler. A promise.

She swallowed, her eyes fluttering shut, the steady weight of his body anchoring her, holding her together

And for the first time since their conversation, the fear ebbed—just a little.

Because he was here.

And no matter what came next—they would face it together.

Chapter Text

The soft morning light filtered through the thin cracks in the bed curtains, seeping into the quiet cocoon surrounding her. Hermione stirred, her mind surfacing from sleep in slow, drowsy waves, her body reluctant to follow. A familiar weight wrapped around her shoulders, warm and grounding, the scent of cedar and worn wool curling into her senses.

Draco’s coat.

She had been sleeping with it for weeks, grasping at it in the dead of night when she tossed and turned, when the echoes of her nightmares left her restless. It had become something of a ritual—the heavy wool draped over her, the lingering scent of him anchoring her to the present, to something steady. 

Something safe.

But today, something was different.

Her fingers flexed, expecting the rough weave beneath them, but instead, her touch met something smoother, firmer. The steady rise and fall of breath filled the space around her, lulling, warm.

Draco.

Her stomach dipped, warmth curling through her chest as realization settled. Even better than his coat.

She let herself sink into him, a slow, contented smile curling at her lips before she could stop it. She inhaled deeply, breathing him in—not just the lingering scent on wool, but him, real and solid and here.

The haze in her mind lifted just enough for memories of the night before to resurface.

The vampire spawn. The disappearances. The possibility of someone building an army. The weight Draco had been carrying alone. The way his exhaustion had shown in the set of his jaw, in the shadows under his eyes. 

It should have felt heavier, more suffocating. But lying here, wrapped in Draco, safe in the castle, it all felt distant—like something she would have to face eventually, but not in this moment.

Right now, she just wanted to be here. With him.

She nuzzled in closer, her cheek pressing more firmly against his chest, savoring the steady rise and fall of his breath, the solid feel of him beneath her.

A low chuckle rumbled against her cheek, vibrating through her in a way that sent a pleasant shiver down her spine.

“Comfortable, Granger?”

His voice was thick with sleep, rough-edged and teasing.

Her eyes fluttered open, silver filling her vision—bright even in the dim morning light. His fingers brushed her face, tucking away a stray curl with a touch so gentle it made her stomach flutter.

She hummed softly, still drowsy, her body heavy with sleep. “Draco,” she mumbled, his name falling from her lips like an instinct.

His smirk softened, something vulnerable flickering in the depths of his gaze.

Then, in a breath, it vanished—replaced by something darker, something unmistakably hungry.

“What’s got you so cozy this morning?” His voice dipped, rich and slow, a sinful purr that sent heat licking down her spine. His thumb traced absently over her cheek, his gaze dropping to her lips before flicking back up, teasing. “Are you feeling satisfied after last night?”

Her breath hitched.

The words sent a rush of heat straight between her legs, her body betraying her before she could even think to stop it.

Images flashed behind her eyes—his fingers, deep inside her, stretching, stroking, pressing against that perfect spot that had her falling apart around him. His voice, low and coaxing against her ear, telling her how good she felt, how perfect she was, how much he loved feeling her come undone for him.

Her thighs clenched instinctively.

Draco’s smirk widened, silver flashing with something dark and knowing. “That’s a rather telling blush, love.”

“You’re impossible,” she breathed, shoving at his chest, but there was no force behind it, not really.

He only laughed, the sound warm and effortless, before moving—quick and fluid—rolling her onto her back and caging her beneath him. 

“I love it when you blush,” he murmured, his voice dark with satisfaction. He dipped his head, lips ghosting over her neck, a barely-there brush that made her shiver. 

“If I could, I’d spend all day making you blush like this.”

Her breath stuttered.

Her fingers found his hair without thinking, threading through the silky strands, pulling him closer.

A soft moan slipped from her lips as his teeth scraped lightly over her pulse, the sensation sending a sharp, electric jolt straight down her spine, settling low in her abdomen. His mouth traced a slow, torturous path down the column of her throat, his tongue flicking out to taste, to soothe, before his lips latched onto the curve of her collarbone, sucking lightly. The heat of it sent a spark of fire straight between her legs, the dull, throbbing ache settling there growing more insistent, more consuming.

She arched beneath him, instinctively seeking friction, the press of his body against hers only making it worse. Her hips tilted, chasing relief, chasing him, and a low, satisfied sound rumbled from Draco’s chest as his hands slid beneath her shirt, fingers grazing along the soft skin of her stomach, teasing their way up.

Her breath caught, her pulse hammering, as his thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts—light, feather-soft touches that had her squirming beneath him, her skin burning for more.

“Draco,” she gasped, not even sure what she was asking for, only knowing that she needed more—needed him.

“I know, love,” he murmured against her skin, his lips still tracing slow, open-mouthed kisses across her collarbone, over the swell of her shoulder.

He shifted above her, the press of his hips sinking heavier into hers, pinning her down. His fingers flexed against her ribs, dragging higher, teasing, but never quite giving her what she wanted, what she needed. His mouth found the spot just below her ear, nipping lightly, making her whole body jolt beneath him.

She barely noticed the faint creak of a bed across the room.

It was distant, a whisper of sound against the roar of blood in her ears, against the way Draco’s hands were setting her skin alight, against the aching wetness gathering between her thighs.

But then—

Footsteps.

Soft, careful, getting closer.

Reality crashed over her like ice water.

Hermione froze, her fingers tightening in his hair, her entire body locking beneath him. “Someone’s awake,” she whispered, her voice sharp, urgent, but breathless, betraying just how lost she’d been a moment before.

Draco hummed against her skin, utterly unbothered, his lips still pressed to her collarbone. “So?” he murmured, his voice a slow drawl, his mouth moving against her in lazy, unhurried kisses, as if they weren’t about to be discovered.

“So?” she hissed, her heart slamming against her ribs. “They can’t see you here!”

He finally lifted his head slightly, raising a single brow, expression infuriatingly smug, as if to say, And why not?

She gaped at him, incredulous.

With a slow, exaggerated sigh, he finally pushed himself up, sliding off her with maddening ease, and leaned lazily against the headboard. His expression was far too relaxed—utterly unfazed by the fact that they were seconds away from being discovered.

Meanwhile, Hermione was scrambling, yanking the covers over him, her movements frantic as she tried to conceal the very large, very male body currently lounging in her bed like he belonged there.

“You’re ridiculously tall,” she muttered under her breath, pulling the duvet higher.

Draco stretched his arms above his head, the movement shifting the sheets lower. “You didn’t seem to mind earlier,” he said smoothly. His gaze flicked over her, slow and knowing. “In fact, I think you rather like it.”

Her glare was swift and scalding. “Hush,” she snapped, her voice a frantic whisper as she tried to bury him beneath the sheets.

“Hermione?” Ginny’s voice called from across the room, muffled but distinct. “Are you awake?”

Her heart stopped, then thundered in her chest as she threw a frantic glare at Draco. He only smirked wider, shifting beneath the covers as though daring her to explain his presence. 

His rebellious fingers snaked out of the sheets, finding her thigh to trail lazily along her skin.

She swatted at his hand, her glare sharp with warning.

“Yeah!” she called, her voice pitched far higher than she intended. Wincing, she cleared her throat and tried again, forcing herself to sound casual. “I’m awake.”

There was a pause, then Ginny’s voice, edged with suspicion. “What’s wrong?”

Draco’s hand was back, this time tracing slow, idle patterns on the inside of her thigh, just barely dipping beneath the hem of her shorts. Hermione slapped at it again, mouthing Stop it! as she threw the curtain aside just enough to stick her head out. Her cheeks burned so hot she was sure they were giving her away.

Ginny stood by her bed, leaning casually against the post, her sharp gaze sweeping over Hermione. Her smirk widened as her eyes narrowed on her flushed face and mussed hair.

“You look flustered,” Ginny teased, the glint in her eyes unmistakable. “Another wet dream about Malfoy?”

Hermione’s stomach dropped, her embarrassment skyrocketing.

A choked noise escaped her throat. “Ginny!”

Ginny only laughed, bright and unbothered. “Relax, I’m just teasing. Unless…” Her smirk turned devilish, her words trailing off suggestively.

Hermione felt all the blood in her body rush to her face. She had to get out of this conversation, immediately.

“I’m fine,” she rushed out, her voice laced with pure, undiluted desperation. She forced a brittle, too-wide smile onto her face. “Really. I just woke up.”

Ginny arched a brow, unconvinced, but shrugged. “Are you coming to breakfast?”

She shook her head quickly. “Later,” she mumbled, ducking back behind the curtain before Ginny could pry further.

“Suit yourself,” Ginny called over her shoulder as she left, though her knowing chuckle lingered in the air long after the door clicked shut.

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and let go of the curtains. She stared at them for a long moment, willing herself to calm down. But her reprieve was short-lived. 

Behind her, she could feel Draco’s presence, the weight of his gaze.

“Well,” he drawled, voice dripping with amusement. “That was enlightening.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, too mortified to turn around. “Not a word, Malfoy,” she muttered, her voice muffled as she buried her face in her hands.

She heard the sheets rustle, felt him shift closer behind her, his breath suddenly against the curve of her neck.

“Malfoy, again, is it?” His voice was lazy, teasing, like her embarrassment was the most entertaining thing he’d encountered all morning.

She stiffened as his fingers traced along her sides, slow and torturous, teasing their way under her shirt before she could think to stop him.

“You know,” he murmured, his tone dipping lower, more sinful, “if you’re having dreams about me, I don’t think you should be calling me by my last name.”

She let out a strangled sound, part mortified, part exhilarated, her pulse thudding as Draco’s hands smoothed higher. “Malfoy,” she tried again, weakly, but whatever reprimand she’d intended unraveled the moment his thumbs skimmed just beneath her breasts.

Her breath hitched.

He smirked against her skin, his lips finding the spot beneath her ear.

“No?” he mused, his voice thick with amusement. “Still ‘Malfoy’?”

His fingers brushed higher teasing the undersides of her breasts, circling but never quite touching where she needed him most. She shuddered, her body arching into his hands, craving the contact he was purposefully denying her.

“Come on, love,” he coaxed, his lips tracing a path down to her collarbone, his tongue flicking out to taste her skin. “You know I love it when you say my name.”

His voice alone was enough to make her throb. It sent something dark and needy curling deep inside her, each syllable rolling over her skin like silk, weaving into the heat already simmering beneath the surface.

Her hands fisted in the sheets, another strangled sound catching in her throat.

“Hmm. Maybe I should remind you how much you like saying it,” he murmured, his smirk pressing into her skin.

His lips grazed the edge of her jaw, the scrape of teeth following as his fingers finally— finally —slid up and rolled her nipples between his fingertips.

She whimpered, the sound betraying her, and Draco groaned against her skin.

“Fuck, I love that,” he breathed, pressing closer, letting her feel the hard line of his arousal against her back. “Love knowing I can do this to you. Just my voice, my hands—” His palms flexed, rolling her nipples between his fingers, teasing, kneading. “You don’t even need me inside you to fall apart for me, do you?”

She gasped, heat crashing over her in waves, her thighs pressing together instinctively, trying in vain to find any kind of relief.

“Are you wet, love?” His voice was all silk and sin, a taunt wrapped in velvet. “I can feel the way you’re squirming.”

She let out a shaky breath, her head tipping back onto his shoulder.

He groaned again, low and ruined, like her surrender was unraveling him just as much. His mouth pressed against the curve of her neck, his tongue tracing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin.

“Merlin, I love touching you” he murmured, his hands tightening on her breasts, thumbs sweeping over her nipples in slow circles.

She was barely coherent now, trembling against him, each roll of his fingers sending another hot wave of arousal straight between her legs.

“Say it,” he ordered, voice rough, his control slipping. He rocked against her just slightly, just enough to make her whimper again.

The sound sent a shudder through him.

She bit her lip, still clinging stubbornly to the last fraying edges of her pride, despite the desperate, pulsing ache making it near impossible to think.

Draco hummed in amusement, his smirk evident even as his tongue flicked against the fresh mark he’d left on her neck. “Always so stubborn.”

Then his fingers tugged sharply at her nipple, and pleasure shot straight through her like lightning.

She yelped. “Draco!”

The smirk he pressed into her skin was victorious.

“Good girl,” he purred, his voice low, approving, dripping with pleasure. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Then, just as suddenly, he withdrew his hands, leaving her breathless and trembling, her body still thrumming from the lingering echoes of his touch.

She twisted, glaring at him through the haze of arousal still clouding her mind. 

He leaned back against the pillows, utterly smug, but she noticed the way his chest moved faster than usual, the way his pupils were dark and dilated, his composure thinner than he wanted her to believe.

That made something wicked flare in her, the brief thought of turning the tables flashing through her mind.

“We’re going to be late,” he said casually, as though he wasn’t still catching his breath.

She blinked, her mind struggling to catch up. “What?” she asked, her voice airy, unfocused.

He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Unless you’d rather stay here?” 

For a split second, she almost said yes.

Then he chuckled, shaking his head. “I never thought I’d see the day Hermione Granger considered skipping class.”

That snapped her out of it.

Frustrated—in more ways than one—she huffed and threw the covers off, climbing out of bed with as much dignity as she could muster. She was relieved to see that Lavender and Parvati had already left for the day, sparing her further embarrassment.

Her body still thrummed with residual arousal, her nipples sensitive from Draco’s persistent teasing, an ache lingering between her legs that left her restless, unsatisfied. 

Draco stretched lazily, unhurried as he stood, leaning against her bedpost with the effortless grace he always carried. His eyes tracked her every movement, slow and confident, his smirk unmistakable as he watched her.

She rifled through her belongings, muttering under her breath. 

“Not nearly as good-looking as he thinks he is,” she grumbled, pulling out a neatly folded blouse.

Draco arched an eyebrow, clearly amused but choosing not to interrupt. Instead, he shifted slightly, relaxing into the post, arms crossed, utterly content to observe. She could feel the weight of his attention, the way it lingered, as if he were memorizing every inch of her.

Still muttering, she reached for the hem of her sleep shirt, lifting it over her head in a single motion. The cool air kissed her skin, sending another shiver down her spine, making her already tight nipples pebble even further.

Then she froze.

Draco’s gaze had gone heavy-lidded, all amusement vanishing, replaced by something darker, hungrier. His smirk softened into parted lips, his pupils blown wide, his expression utterly unguarded. The sight of him looking at her like that—like she was something sacred—sent a pulse of need straight to her core.

“Please,” he drawled. “Don’t stop on my account.”

She swallowed hard, something inside her twisting, clenching. 

He made her feel desired in a way that left her dizzy. A thrill surged through her, sharp and electric, chasing away her hesitation.

She let the shirt drop to the floor, standing bare before him, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. She should have felt self-conscious, vulnerable, but under his gaze? She felt powerful.

He straightened, the lazy posture slipping away. His hands flexed at his sides as he took a step forward, his eyes dragging over every inch of exposed skin. 

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his own breathing a fraction uneven now.

She reached for the waistband of her sleep shorts, shoving them down and stepping out of them with the same quiet confidence, her arousal damp against her thighs. But when her fingers hooked beneath the hem of her underwear, Draco’s voice stopped her.

“Let me.”

His voice was edged with something almost desperate.

Before she could fully process it, he was there—two long strides and then he was dropping to his knees, silver eyes burning, hands hovering at her hips like he was waiting for permission to touch something forbidden.

Hermione’s breath stuttered. 

His face was so close to her stomach, his breath hot against her skin, and she swore she could feel his unsteady exhale when she nodded, barely aware of herself doing it.

Draco’s hands finally found her, his fingers curling around the delicate waistband, pulling the fabric down in an agonizingly slow descent. His palms dragged over her hips, his knuckles brushing the sides of her thighs, and her skin burned under the feather-soft contact. 

Every inch of her felt hypersensitive, every nerve alive beneath his touch.

When the fabric pooled at her feet, she stepped out, completely bare. 

Completely his to ruin.

Draco let out a shaky exhale.

His gaze dropped between her legs, and the raw, unfiltered hunger on his face sent a fresh rush of slick pooling between her thighs. His lips parted, a soft, choked noise escaping before he caught himself.

“Fuck,” he rasped. 

She whimpered at the sound of it, her pulse thrumming wildly as she watched him drink her in, looking at her like she was something he’d starve without. 

She was trembling, not from nerves anymore, but from the way his eyes devoured her, from the way his fingers dug into her hips, holding her still.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, his breath warm against her stomach. 

His lips found the soft skin just below her navel, pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss there, and her stomach tensed in response. His hands slid up her sides, mapping every curve, steadying her as her knees nearly gave out.

“Draco,” she whispered, her fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer.

His answering growl sent shivers rippling through her.

His mouth worked lower, leaving a trail of slow, wet kisses along the planes of her stomach, each one sending another sharp pulse of need straight between her legs.

Her thighs clenched together, desperate for relief, and he saw it—his hands flexing, his grip tightening.

“So wet,” he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction.

She let out a soft noise, her body leaning into his hands, into his mouth, into him.

“You like this, don’t you?” He licked a stripe up her hip bone, teeth scraping gently over the sensitive skin. “Me on my knees for you. Tasting you. Knowing I’m the only one who gets to touch you like this.”

Her breath caught. The ache between her legs was unbearable now, throbbing, pulsing, demanding relief.

“Draco,” she gasped, her voice unraveling, pleading.

He groaned at the sound of it. “That’s it,” he purred, his hands sliding higher, fingers ghosting underneath her breasts. “Say my name again.”

“Draco,” her fingers tightened in his hair, a clear demand. 

He obeyed with a growl.

He pressed a deep, wet kiss to the inside of her thigh, tongue flicking against heated skin. She gasped, her knees buckling, but his grip was strong, unyielding, keeping her steady.

Then he tilted his head, his breath hot against her core, his mouth so fucking close, and she swore she felt his smirk when he murmured, “Can I taste you love?”

She whined, her nails scraping against his scalp, tugging.

Draco growled, the vibration shooting through her. “Say it,” he coaxed, pressing another slow, deliberate kiss just above where she needed him most. “Tell me what you want.”

She opened her mouth, ready to beg, to give him whatever the fuck he wanted if he’d just—

A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment.

Hermione froze.

Draco did not.

His lips found her clit, kissing her once, slow and purposeful, like a promise.

Her entire body jerked, her breath choking in her throat. “Draco,” she hissed, hands fisting in his hair, pulling him back.

But his mouth stayed pressed to her, his tongue flicking out just enough to make her clamp a hand over her mouth, muffling the whine that nearly slipped free.

“‘Mione?” Ron’s voice called from the other side of the door, filled with concern. “You weren’t at breakfast. Are you okay?”

Panic rocketed through her.

Draco growled against her.

Her eyes flew wide, her heart slamming in her chest. She tugged harder at his hair, her silent plea desperate. 

Draco looked up at her, his silver eyes sharp and dark with frustration. For a moment, she thought he might ignore the interruption entirely. But then he let out a low, dangerous exhale and pressed one last lingering kiss to her inner thigh before finally pulling back.

“I’m going to kill him,” he muttered darkly.

Her head spun, her entire body still humming with arousal, her mind barely able to function. “Don’t,” she mouthed, wide-eyed.

“‘Mione?” Ron called again, louder. “Is someone in there with you?”

Draco’s entire body stiffened. His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he growled under his breath, rising smoothly to his feet, moving toward the door as though fully prepared to hex Ron through it.

She panicked.

“Draco, no!” she whisper-hissed, pressing her hands to his chest. He barely budged, muscles taut with suppressed frustration, his breathing still uneven.

“Hermione?” Ron’s tone turned suspicious.

Thinking fast, she turned toward the door. “No!” she called, her voice far too high-pitched. She cleared her throat, trying to will her mind back into working order. “I—I’m fine! Just… not feeling well. Can you leave me alone, please?”

A long silence stretched through the room. Then—finally—Ron exhaled, begrudging. “Alright,” he said, still skeptical. “But if you need anything, let me know.”

His footsteps receded.

She sagged immediately, her forehead pressing against Draco’s chest as she let out a long, shaky breath.

His arms wrapped around her, steadying her, but she felt the tension radiating off of him, the way he was seething at being denied her.

She pulled back, breathless, trembling, still aching for him, and glared up at him. "What were you thinking?" she whispered furiously, though her voice betrayed her. It was meant to sound sharp, biting—but all it carried was the raw frustration clawing at her chest, the unbearable need still throbbing between her thighs.

Draco wasn’t listening. His gaze devoured her—still naked, still flushed, still desperate.

Heat licked down her spine at the way he looked at her, like he wanted to drag her back into bed and ruin her properly, like he was starving, and she was the only thing that could sate him.

Her irritation faltered. She crossed her arms over her chest, as if that would somehow shield her from the weight of his stare, from the intensity simmering in his silver eyes. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” she muttered, her cheeks flaming.

Draco’s lips curled, his hands slipping to her hips, pulling her closer. “Like what?” he asked. “Like I could spend hours between your legs and still not have enough?”

Her breath caught, a sharp pulse of arousal sparking low in her belly. She clenched her thighs together, refusing to let him see the effect he had on her.

With more restraint than she thought she had left, she shoved away from him and began gathering her clothes, her fingers trembling as she dressed.

She was still too hot, too wet, too sensitive. Every brush of fabric against her skin was a cruel reminder of how close she had been, how easily he had unraveled her with just his mouth, his hands, his words.

Behind her, Draco groaned audibly.

“Don’t,” she snapped, yanking her blouse over her head, her nipples still hard, still aching. She felt the heat of his gaze like a caress, knew he was watching every move, every sign that she was still affected. But she ignored him, focusing on fastening the buttons of her skirt, pretending she was still mad—pretending she wasn’t a second away from marching back over and straddling him.

When she finally turned to face him, ready to head for the mirror, Draco was watching her like a predator. But the usual mischief in his expression was absent, replaced by something else. Something far more dangerous.

Something serious.

The weight of it made her falter. "What?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

His features softened, but the heat in his gaze never faded. “Nothing,” he murmured.

She frowned, unconvinced, but let it go. She turned to the mirror, attempting to fix the wild mess of curls he’d tangled his fingers through last night. 

As she worked, she glanced at Draco through the reflection, watching the way he leaned against her bedpost, arms crossed, looking effortlessly composed.

How the hell did he do that?

While she was still reeling, still throbbing, still ruined from what he’d done to her, Draco Malfoy stood there like he was unaffected. Like he wasn’t still hard beneath his trousers, like his pupils weren’t blown wide, like his breath wasn’t just a fraction too fast.

Her stomach flipped, the brief urge to test just how composed he really was flashing through her mind.

She forced herself to focus. “Are you planning to go back to your room to change before class?” she asked instead.

He shook his head. “I won’t be in our first classes today.”

She turned, brow furrowed. "Why?"

He stepped closer, the space between them growing smaller, her body still attuned to his, still craving him.

“I have to hunt,” he said simply. “Being around you has made me... hungry.”

Her breath hitched, her cheeks flaming red.

She swallowed hard. “Where are you going?”

Draco’s hand found her cheek, tilting her face up to his, his thumb tracing over her skin. “Not the Forbidden Forest,” he reassured, his voice steady, soothing. “You have my word.”

Her eyes searched his, still uncertain. “Are you going alone?”

He hesitated—just for a moment. Then, a nod. “I’ll bring Blaise, if that makes you feel better.”

It did. A little.

She bit her lip, still looking at him warily. He sighed, then swooped in, capturing her lips in a slow, lingering kiss that made her knees weak all over again.

He pulled back, but his touch remained—his fingers on her cheek, his other hand curling around her waist, his breath still mingling with hers.

“I’ll miss you.” It was quiet, soft, completely earnest.

She exhaled shakily, her pulse jumping in her throat. She didn’t even try to fight the words that spilled from her lips. “I’ll miss you too.”

Draco’s smile was slow and wicked, but there was something else behind it this time—something real. He stepped back, heading toward the window.

Her stomach twisted. “Draco,” she warned, voice sharp with suspicion.

He shot her a playful wink, smirking.

“Don’t you dare—”

And then he was gone.

Hermione let out a strangled shriek, rushing to the window, heart slamming against her ribs. She leaned out, searching, but he was already gone—nothing but a whisper of movement, a shadow lost in the morning air.

She clutched the windowsill, her mind racing, frustration and longing warring in her chest.

She inhaled deeply, dragging in the cool morning air, willing herself to calm down, to forget the heat of his mouth, the weight of his body, the sound of his voice when he growled against her skin.

“I really don’t know enough about vampires,” she muttered under her breath, running a hand through her curls.

With one last glance at the empty window, she grabbed her bag and headed for class—still aching, still distracted, and absolutely certain she wasn’t going to retain a single word of today’s lessons.

Chapter Text

The day began unremarkably enough.

Despite the lingering heat of the morning spent with Draco, Hogwarts pulled her back into its relentless rhythm, the mundane routine grinding forward with startling efficiency. Classes, hallways, faces—everything moved, predictable and unchanging, as if she weren’t slowly unraveling by the second. 

Because why had she let him go hunting?

She couldn’t focus on anything but that thought as the day dragged by, each second away from Draco only worsening the feeling of dread creeping through her blood.

Potions was a dull monotony, even more so now that she'd abandoned the idea of a Mastery in the subject. It was just another tedious review of antidotes she had brewed a hundred times before—nothing new, nothing challenging, nothing to anchor her. Slughorn's voice droned, a low hum, and her quill scratched absently over parchment. Words blurred, ink smudging under her fingertips. She wrote and wrote, but nothing took hold. Her mind was a wheel spinning on ice, stuck, slipping.

Spawn.

The word curled in her thoughts, black and ink-heavy. The growing boldness, the disappearances—too precise, too deliberate to be coincidence. Draco thought it was part of something bigger. So did she.

Her grip on the quill tightened. Ink bled into the parchment, a spreading blot, like a wound opening beneath her hands.

Defense wasn’t any better.

Montgomery assigned another lifeless reading on common hexes, but Hermione barely made it past the first paragraph before the words turned to static. Her vision blurred, the text swimming. Her thoughts had already twisted ahead, a tangle of barbed wires, leaping from possibility to possibility, each one sharper, more suffocating than the last.

A resurgence of dark forces. Another war.

The idea pressed against her ribs, constricting, suffocating. Her lungs hitched, her chest heavy with the weight of what-ifs. They had barely survived the last war. The scars had yet to fade, the world still patching itself back together with trembling hands. And if the spawn were moving in organized patterns, if someone was directing them—

She swallowed hard.

She didn’t know if the Wizarding World could survive another war so soon.

If she could survive another one.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, grounding herself in the action, in the task. She needed something to hold on to, something tangible, something real. She needed to fight against the helplessness curling into her bones.

Kingsley. Yes. She would write to him. She had to. 

She would tell him what she knew so far. Ask if he had heard whispers of anything— anything —that hinted at an uprising, at something dark rising beneath the surface. Maybe even mention her interest in a Ministry position after graduation. Plans. Logic. Action.

But as she pressed her quill to the parchment, her thoughts refused to cooperate.

Her writing was disjointed, sentences unfinished, her mind fractured between concern for the world and something far more immediate.

Draco.

He was out there right now. Hunting.

She hadn’t stopped him.

She should have.

Gods, why hadn't she stopped him?

She hadn’t been thinking straight—not after the way he had touched her, wrecked her, left her body shaking and her mind fogged. She should have stopped him. Should have made him stay.

She should never have let him go.

Even knowing that Blaise was with him did little to ease the fear coiling in her gut. The spawn were hunting, too. And what if they were waiting? What if they were more organized than he thought? What if—

By the time lunch rolled around, she was nearly sick with it.

Her stomach churned, bile licking at the back of her throat. Food was the last thing on her mind. She barely heard Ginny as she slid into her usual seat, her eyes already sweeping the room. Her pulse pounded, every beat a hammer blow.

No Draco.

Her breath hitched, ribs refusing to expand. She searched again, scanning the familiar faces. Pansy sat primly, listening intently as Daphne Greengrass whispered something in her ear. Blaise was there, lounging with a book, perfectly fine—which meant—

Where the hell was Draco?

Her stomach twisted, nausea rising, sharp and relentless.

Even Ginny’s teasing couldn’t pull her from her spiraling thoughts.

“Well, look who it is,” she said, nudging Hermione’s arm. “Someone was suspiciously red this morning. Care to share what— or who —has been keeping you so busy that you skipped breakfast?”

Hermione barely heard her. Her pulse roared in her ears, her hands trembling as she clenched them into fists beneath the table.

“And isn’t it interesting that Malfoy wasn’t at breakfast either?” Ginny added, her tone all too pleased. “Anything you’d like to share? ”

Had her chest always felt this tight? No, that was new. Unnatural. Like her ribs were iron bars, squeezing inward, crushing. Her lungs scraped against the constriction, desperate and shallow. She couldn’t draw a full breath—the air seemed thinner, warped. The Great Hall blurred, its torchlight smearing into hazy gold and shadow. Too loud. Too close. The walls inched inward, brick by brick.

Something had happened to him. She knew it.

What if the spawn had ambushed him? What if he was bleeding out right now, alone, in some darkened forest? What if he never came back?

Oh, god.

Her hands dug into the edge of the table, wood biting into bone. Her fingers burned, prickling with pins and needles, but she couldn’t let go. Couldn’t move. Her lungs stalled, a broken bellows, every gulp of air shredding against a barrier she couldn’t see. The world pulsed—dark, darker, a closing fist.

“Hermione?”

Ginny’s teasing was gone, replaced by alarm.

She reached out, and Hermione thought she might have touched her arm, but she couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel anything.

Her body was shutting down, her lungs had forgotten how to work. 

Breathe.

Breathe, damn it!

But her chest refused.

Ginny’s voice sharpened with urgency. “Hermione, look at me. What’s wrong? Just breathe, okay? In and out.”

But she couldn’t.

Draco. The spawn. The disappearances. The war. 

Another war.

Another war.

The world tilted.

Draco. She couldn’t lose him, not after—not after she had just found him. He couldn’t—if he— oh god.

Why couldn’t she breathe!?

Tears pricked at her eyes as she clutched her chest, helpless against the mounting panic.

The walls of the Great Hall stretched and bent at the edges of her sight, the noise of hundreds of students warping into something distant, something detached, like she was slipping into a vacuum.

A scent cut through her panic, sharp and familiar.

Mint. Cedar. Parchment.

Cold hands cupped her face, firm, grounding, real.

A voice, low and urgent. “Come back to me, Hermione.”

She gasped, her lungs finally dragging in air, sharp and ragged. Her vision tunneled, her surroundings still warped, but one thing came into focus.

Silver eyes.

Draco.

He was here.

Relief hit her so hard her body sagged forward. A choked, broken sound left her throat as she reached for him blindly, fisting his shirt, needing proof, needing something to anchor her.

His arms locked around her, steady and unshaken, the only thing keeping her upright.

“I’m here,” he murmured, voice rough at the edges. “I’ve got you.”

She shuddered, her breath evening out, the tension slowly, slowly unwinding from her limbs. He smelled right, felt right, solid. Not a memory. Not a hallucination. Real. Here.

She didn’t care who was watching.

Didn’t care what they thought.

She held onto him, grounding herself in the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his fingers traced slow, soothing circles against her spine.

Only when the world felt stable again did she finally pull back, blinking up at him, scanning his face. She needed to see him, needed proof.

Her hands ghosted over his arms, his chest, the search automatic, bordering on compulsive. Her fingertips brushed against muscle and bone, the thrum of life beneath skin. No blood. No wounds. No signs of the horror she had imagined. 

“Why were you late?” 

His gaze softened, though his brows remained furrowed with concern. “Theo wanted to come with me instead,” he muttered, exasperation bleeding into his tone. “He likes to take his time. Threw us off schedule.”

Theo. Of course. She tried to smile, felt the stretch of it, a fragile, shaky thing that wobbled at the edges. “That sounds like Theo,” she murmured, her voice thin.

But Draco didn’t smile.

His eyes moved over her, a sweep of sharp, surgical attention, lingering on the tremor still vibrating through her fingers. His worry was a living thing, heavy in the air between them, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something.

But before he could, Ginny’s voice sliced through the fragile quiet.

“Hermione? Are you okay?”

The world snapped back into focus, harsh and bright. Hermione turned her head, the movement sluggish, like waking from a dream. She had forgotten they weren’t alone. That they were still in the Great Hall, still surrounded by too many eyes, too much noise.

Ginny was watching with a mixture of concern and something like surprise, her eyes darting between them, noting every inch of closeness, every display of Draco’s unwavering care.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, but the words wavered, a thin thread ready to snap. She forced her shoulders to straighten, forced her hands to uncurl from Draco’s shirt, the ghost of her grip still imprinted on the fabric.

Ginny’s eyes still watched them carefully. 

“You scared me there for a second,” she said, her voice a low murmur, but the momentary vulnerability passed, her gaze cutting to Draco, and just as quickly, her teasing mask slipped back into place.

“And Malfoy, sitting at the Gryffindor table? Now that’s a sight I never thought I’d see.”

Draco’s eyes dragged reluctantly from Hermione to meet Ginny’s amused stare. “Don’t get used to it.”

Ginny grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. You’re almost starting to fit in. Feel free to stop by anytime.”

His lips twisted into a smirk, but the edge was dull, lacking its usual bite. His attention returned to Hermione, his hands offering a gentle, reassuring squeeze on her arms. The gesture sent a warmth spreading through her chest, a small flicker of light against the shadows still crowding her mind.

He nudged a plate closer to her, the worry in his silver eyes unmasked and raw. “Try to eat something,” he murmured, his voice pitched low, meant only for her.

She nodded, but the motion felt disconnected, like watching someone else do it. Her fingers fumbled as they reached for a piece of toast. The bread was dry, crumbling at the edges, and it took more effort than she cared to admit to lift it to her mouth. She chewed slowly, the movement mechanical, her eyes fixed on the plate in front of her, willing her body to comply.

Draco’s gaze never left her. She felt it, a steady, unwavering weight, as if he could will strength into her by proximity alone. His brows pulled tight, his breaths measured, controlled, like he feared one wrong move might shatter her completely.

The toast tasted like sand in her mouth. She swallowed, but it lodged painfully in her dry throat, and she placed the bread back on the plate, her appetite evaporating.

Draco reached for a glass of pumpkin juice. He pressed it into her hands, his cool fingers brushing against her skin. “Drink.”

She sighed but took a small sip, the cool liquid soothing the rawness in her throat. 

The weight of his care wrapped around her, a blanket against the chill still clawing at her bones. She offered him a small, fragile smile, an attempt to ease the tension strung tight in his shoulders—to show him she was trying, that she would be okay.

As long as he was with her.

But the moment cracked open, jagged and brutal.

“What the hell is Malfoy doing at our table?”

Ron's voice sliced through the air, shattering the fragile calm Draco had managed to build for her.

She flinched, the sound an echo of too many arguments, too many battles.

Draco’s body tensed against her, his fingers pressing more firmly into her back, steadying her. 

Hermione’s grip on the edge of the table faltered. She felt the world tilt slightly, the exhaustion pulling at her like an undertow. She opened her mouth, a soft, desperate exhale escaping—barely a sound, more a wish, a plea for Ron to leave it. Just leave it—

But Draco spoke first.

“Not now, Weasley.”

His voice was steel, cold and sharp, and she felt it through the press of his fingers against her back. 

Ron's face turned an alarming shade of red. His fists clenched at his sides. “What—you don’t get to tell me what to—”

“Piss off, Ron,” Ginny interjected, her voice slicing through his sputtering rage. She leaned back in her seat, arms crossed over her chest, her expression bored but her brown eyes sharp. “I’ve had enough of your attitude lately. Just leave them alone.”

Ron gaped at his sister, his indignation deflating in the face of her stare. Lavender hovered awkwardly at his side, her wide eyes darting between Ginny and Hermione. She tugged gently on Ron’s arm, her voice a strained whisper. “Come on, Ron.”

With a huff, he stomped away, his footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet. Lavender trailed after him, her expression an apology Hermione was too tired to accept.

Silence settled around them for a moment before Ginny shrugged, her expression softening as she looked back at Hermione.

“What?” she said nonchalantly, catching both Hermione and Draco’s surprised stares. “I’ve had enough of his nonsense. Honestly, he’s been unbearable lately.”

Draco’s lips curled into a smirk, a small, weary thing that barely reached his eyes. “Remind me not to get on your bad side,” he murmured.

Ginny arched a brow, her expression sharpening with a playful edge. “As long as Hermione’s happy, you’re safe.”

His smirk softened, a whisper of sincerity threading through his tone. “Noted.”

Hermione managed a weak smile as she leaned into Draco’s side. He shifted to accommodate her, his arm wrapping around her waist, his fingers brushing the curve of her hip in soft circles.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked, his voice a whisper against her ear.

She nodded, her throat too tight to speak. The world felt too big, the walls of the Great Hall still pressing in. She needed out—needed quiet. Needed him.

Draco stood, the motion smooth and unhurried, and helped her to her feet, his hands gentle as he steadied her when she swayed.

She turned to Ginny. “Thank you.”

Ginny waved them off, her expression shifting into something softer and less teasing. “Go, get some rest.” She shot Draco a look that was more command than request. “And Malfoy—take care of her.”

“Always.”

Always. The word wrapped around her, a promise woven into skin and bone. She let it settle, let it take root, hoping it would hold.

He guided her out of the Great Hall, his pace slow, every step matched to hers. She rested her hand in the crook of his arm, her fingers brushing against the cool fabric of his shirt. She could feel the strength beneath, the solid, unshakable presence of him, and it helped.

But as they moved through the arched doorway, Hermione couldn’t shake the prickling awareness of eyes on them.

Pansy’s glare was a sharp, icy thing, her expression twisted in a way that made Hermione’s skin crawl. Not far from her, Theo’s expression was filled with guilt. His eyes dropped to the table when they caught on Hermione, his shoulders hunched, his entire frame folding in on itself.

Hermione sighed quietly, choosing to focus on Draco instead of the stares.

Chapter Text

The Room of Requirement had manifested as a sanctuary—soft, oversized armchairs, blankets draped over a plush couch, and a hearth that whispered warmth into the walls. Firelight cast amber shadows, slow and rhythmic, as if the room itself were breathing. But the comfort felt thin, a skin stretched over a hollow ache.

Hermione sat curled into Draco’s chest, her ear pressed against the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Her fingers traced slow circles over the soft weave of his shirt, her movements absent, mechanical. The beat beneath her cheek was the only thing keeping her tethered. It was steady, solid—proof he was here. Proof he was safe.

But how long would it last?

She bit down on the thought, hard, but it bled through anyway. The day had wrecked her. The panic attack. The looming threat of another war. The spawn. It felt like the world was a glass ornament, delicate and ready to shatter if she so much as breathed wrong.

And Draco—who had been out hunting, who had been late, who could have been hurt or worse—he was the core of her fear. It coiled around her ribs, squeezing until every breath hurt.

“Granger.” His voice pulled her out of the dark, low and gentle. “Are you going to tell me why you had a panic attack today?”

Her body went taut, the question prying her open. Vulnerability scraped at her throat, making each breath feel like swallowing glass. She wanted to tell him, but the truth felt too raw, too sharp.

Finally, she exhaled. “I was worried about you.”

His hand, which had been combing through her curls, stilled. “Why?”

She pulled back slightly, enough to see his face. The firelight etched soft lines along his cheekbones, caught in the silver of his eyes. 

Those eyes—windows to too many secrets, too many burdens. 

She wanted to crawl into them.

“You were late,” she said, voice wavering. “And with everything going on—the spawn—I couldn’t stop thinking about something happening to you.” Her words rushed out, tangled and frayed. “I just… I couldn’t stop.”

Understanding softened his expression. 

He took her hand in his, his thumb tracing the fine bones of her knuckles with a tenderness that made her chest ache. “Have you had one before?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “During the war. It’s… been a while.”

His lips pressed together, guilt pooling in the shadows of his expression. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, her lips twitching into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s not your fault. But…” She hesitated, the next words scraping against the back of her throat. 

“I don’t want you hunting anymore.”

Draco’s body tightened beneath her, the ease of his hold turning to stone. “Hermione, you know I have to. It’s—”

“No.” She cut him off, the force of her own voice surprising her. Her hands tightened around his, her knuckles white. “You don’t. You don’t have to keep putting yourself in danger. There’s another way.”

His jaw tightened, the muscle there jumping beneath his skin. “And what way is that?”

She hesitated, the weight of her next words pressing down on her. But there was no room for caution anymore—not when fear had hollowed her out so completely. 

“Drink from me.”

His reaction was immediate. His body recoiled, his fingers untangling from hers as if burned. “No,” he said, his voice a rough scrape against the quiet. “Absolutely not.”

“Draco, please.” Her voice cracked, emotion splintering through the cracks. “I can’t keep worrying about you like this. If you drank from me, you wouldn’t have to hunt. You’d be safer.”

“No.”

She turned her face away, tears burning at her eyes.

He sighed. “Hermione,” he started, cupping her face, his palms cool against her heated skin, forcing her to look at him. “I’m fine. I don’t need to drink from you, and I’m not going to. It’s not up for discussion.”

Her resolve crumbled, tears slipping free and carving hot paths down her cheeks. “I’m so scared for you,” she whispered. “I can’t… I can’t lose you.”

The fight drained out of him. His expression crumpled, guilt and helplessness rippling across his features. He pulled her against him, his arms wrapping around her in a hold that was both protective and desperate. His hand moved in slow circles along her back, the rhythm as steady as his breathing. 

“You’re not going to lose me,” he murmured against her hair, his breath a soft warmth against her temple. “I promise.”

But the words didn’t reach her, not fully. Promises were fragile things, easily shattered. Fear remained, an iron band around her chest. 

She pulled away, the motion abrupt, her limbs stiff as she stood.

“I want to read the books your mother sent,” she said, the words clipped, hollow. Her fingers dashed away the remnants of her tears, each swipe a violent refusal of weakness.

Draco blinked, the sudden shift pulling him off balance. “Now?” His disbelief threaded through the space between them.

“Yes.” She began to pace in front of the fire. Her movements were frenetic, driven by the need to do something, anything, to smother the sense of helplessness clawing its way through her veins. 

“If we’re going to figure out what’s happening with the spawn, I need more information. I want to spend the rest of the day here with you, reading.”

He exhaled, a quiet resignation. Rising to his feet, he raked a hand through his hair, the gesture rumpling the careful lines of it. “Alright.” His lips tugged into a ghost of a smirk, though the worry never left his eyes. “Bossy, aren’t you?”

Her mouth twitched, a fragile attempt at a smile. “Just go.”

He stepped close, brushing a soft kiss against her cheek. “I’ll be back soon.”

She only nodded, watching as he slipped through the door, his absence leaving a sharp, cold ache behind.

The room felt wrong without him.

She resumed pacing, her thoughts a relentless tide. She hated this—hated feeling cornered, powerless. 

An idea sparked, sharp and dangerous. It flared to life, pushing through the fog of her mind, weaving itself into something solid. Reckless, yes, but maybe the only way to force his hand, to make him see reason.

Her gaze landed on a small stack of parchment on the table. The firelight cast a golden edge to the crisp sheets, and a plan solidified.

If he wouldn’t listen, then she would make him.

~ * ~

The room felt colder in Draco’s absence. The fire burned in the hearth, but its warmth never reached her skin. She sat at the small table, one leg bouncing beneath it, fingers gripping her quill too tightly as she stared at the parchment in front of her. 

Her thoughts spiraled in the silence.

She couldn’t go through another day worrying about him. He needed to see what she already knew—that he didn’t have to hunt, didn’t have to keep risking himself.

Not when he had her. 

The tiny cut on her finger stung as she flexed her hand, the small droplet of blood still bright against her pale skin. It wasn’t much, just a shallow wound from the edge of the parchment. But it would be enough.

It had to be.

The door creaked open behind her.

Her breath caught, but she didn’t turn. She forced her muscles to relax, forced her body to still, flattening her foot against the floor to stop its bouncing. She needed to look in control, needed him to see certainty in her when she finally faced him.

The soft thud of books landing on the table made her twitch.

“You’re hard at work already?” Draco’s voice curled around her, soft, teasing, close enough that his breath brushed her cheek. He leaned in, the movement instinctual, lips ghosting toward her skin, about to kiss her—

Then he stilled.

The shift in him was immediate. His entire body went rigid behind her, a line of tension drawn tight.

She felt the way his fingers clenched the back of her chair, knuckles gone white. Felt the slow, deliberate inhale against her hair. Felt the sharp, quiet hitch in his breath that betrayed him.

Slowly, Hermione followed his gaze, her pulse a frantic flutter beneath her skin.

His eyes were fixed on her hand. On the small cut on the tip of her finger.

She could hear his breathing pick up, his chest rising and falling in uneven pulls against her back. 

“What the hell have you done?” 

His voice was raw, edged in something barely restrained, cracking on the last syllable.

Hermione turned slowly, bracing herself.

Her eyes met his, and her pulse stumbled. His usual silver gaze was fading, slowly swallowed by a faint red tint that rimmed his pupils. She watched it spread, a creeping bleed of crimson, each pulse a reminder of what he was. What he could do.

Draco staggered back as she stood. 

“Draco… I trust you,” she said, her voice steady despite her pounding chest. 

He flinched. His breath hitched, his jaw locking as he turned away. The muscles in his throat worked, his shoulders rising and falling with every ragged inhale.

She took a step forward, reaching for him.

“Draco, please. You won’t hurt me.”

“Stop, Hermione.”

The words came out strained, as if dragged from him, torn between warning and plea.

She ignored him. Stepped closer. 

She was close enough to feel a chill radiating off his skin, close enough to see the tremor in his hands, the way they flexed at his sides like he was fighting the urge to grab her.

His eyes met hers. Red. Fully red now, hunger swallowing the silver whole. His fangs caught the low light, sharp enough to cut, to pierce.

He was beautiful.

And breaking.

She lifted her hand, the shallow cut still fresh, the blood barely more than a stain against her skin—but it was enough. Enough to shake him, enough to push him past the edge of his control.

“I trust you,” she repeated, closing the distance.

He inhaled sharply, his eyes snapping to hers—wild and burning. 

“You shouldn’t.”

The words hit like a lash, but she barely had time to process them before his hands were on her.

A gasp tore from her throat as her back hit the wall. 

Draco crowded her, pressing her against the cold stone. One hand locked at her waist, holding her still. The other curled around her wrist, bringing her hand up between them.

His breath skittered over her skin, the air between them electric, fragile.

She could feel the battle happening inside him, feel the way his fingers twitched at her hip like he wanted to pull her closer, like he wanted to shove her away. The way his breathing had turned shallow, unsteady, rough against her skin.

All she had to do was push him further.

She pressed her hips into his, pushing herself against him, arching into the space between them. 

“Please,” she whispered.

A sound tore from him, raw and desperate, and his head dipped, his eyes falling closed as if he could block out the temptation, as if he could shut down the pull. His lips brushed over the cut once, a barely-there touch that made her whole body go still, and he shuddered.

“Stop me,” he breathed, begging. 

But his fingers dug into her. Holding her there. 

“Hermione, please.” A rasp. “Please stop me.”

She wouldn’t. Couldn't.

She needed him to see. To understand.

That he could have this. 

That she was his. 

Her fingers curled against his shirt, pulling him closer.

“No.”

Draco’s breath shattered. A sharp inhale, a rough, broken sound—then he snapped.

His hands clamped around her wrist, yanking her forward, and then his mouth was on her cut, sealing over it, sucking deep.

Hermione arched, a sharp, helpless gasp tearing from her throat.

Oh—

The first sweep of his tongue over the cut was sharp and searing, like fire licked across her skin. A slow, deliberate stroke that sent a jolt of something dark and dangerous shooting up her arm.

Her thighs clenched. 

Her pulse pounded in her ears, dizzy, breathless.

Draco moaned into her skin, sucking deep, hungry and desperate, his hips rolling forward, grinding into her as though he had no control over it.

Hermione felt him, thick and solid beneath his trousers, pressing right against her stomach, and her breath hitched, a shudder racing down her spine.

He was so hard.

Her knees nearly buckled.

“Draco,” she gasped, a helpless, trembling sound.

He groaned again, louder, like he was in pain.

Then the world blurred.

A rush of air, the sharp pull of gravity, and suddenly she was on the couch, straddling him, her legs spread wide over his lap, her skirt hitched up over her thighs.

She barely had time to process the shift, the strength of him, before he was pulling her down against him, making her feel every inch of his cock against her soaked center.

His grip on her tightened, his hands locking her hips in place, like he couldn't let go.

Then his mouth was back on her hand, his lips closing over the wound again, sucking.

Her vision blurred.

Her body reacted on instinct, pressing down into his lap, grinding against him, chasing the hot, pulsing friction, the devastating, unbearable heat pooling in her belly.

Draco's hips jerked up into hers, a deep, helpless thrust, and a ragged moan spilled from her lips.

He was panting, his breath ragged, his shoulders heaving, as if drunk off her. Blood stained his lips, slick and obscene, and Hermione had never seen anything so terrifyingly beautiful in her life.

He looked wicked, filthy, something dark and sinful made to ruin her.

And she wanted it.

She wanted him. More than anything.

Draco’s free hand shoved under her skirt, fingers pressing against the damp lace of her underwear. He growled, the sound rough and possessive, his fingers dragging through the slick heat of her cunt, teasing.

“Fuck, Granger,” he choked out.

He pulled back from her finger with a wet pop, dragging his tongue over the wound one last time before looking up at her.

His eyes glowed crimson, blood still glistening on his lips. His hair wild. His chest heaving. His cock pressing thick and heavy beneath her.

“You taste…” He swallowed, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips, his hands shaking on her hips. “ Fuck —Hermione, you taste unreal.”

She whimpered, her body twisting with arousal, her heart stuttering in her chest.

His fangs grazed her palm, a deliberate warning. 

She trembled in anticipation.

“Please,” she whispered.

Draco’s face twisted, torn between agony and worship, between hunger and devotion.

And then—he bit.

The sharp sting barely registered before a wave of heat crashed over her.

Her head fell back. And she shattered.

A sharp, breathless moan tore from her lips as she came, the sensation violent and overwhelming, an electric pulse spreading from the bite through every inch of her.

She barely registered Draco’s choked, startled moan, the way his own body jerked against her, how he shuddered, how his cock twitched beneath her.

“Oh—fuck— Hermione —”

His fingers plunged into her without warning, thick and deep, thrusting into her soaked heat.

She cried out, thighs clenching around him, walls gripping him tight as she came again, her body unraveling beneath him.

Draco let out a desperate noise, his hand clenching against her thigh, his hips rutting up into hers, helpless, wild, shaking.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned.

Hermione’s whole body pulsed, the aftershocks spilling through her, wave after endless, uncontrollable wave.

In a flash, he flipped them.

She barely had time to breathe before she was pinned beneath him, trapped between the hard press of his body and the cushions beneath her, his heat sinking into her skin, branding her.

Her legs fell open on instinct, welcoming him, aching for him, body still pulsing, still throbbing from the two orgasms he’d just torn from her.

And fuck, she could feel him.

The thick, aching weight of his cock grinding against her slick cunt, her underwear still shoved to the side, nothing keeping him from just—

A whimper slipped out, needy and raw.

She arched, offering herself up, desperate, needing—needing—

“Fuck—” Draco groaned, his hips jerking against her, his breath ragged, shaking.

His mouth crashed into hers, a messy, hungry kiss, his tongue licking into her mouth, letting her taste the mix of her blood, his hunger.

His hands wouldn’t stop moving—gripping her hips, her waist, her breasts, anywhere he could reach, as if he needed to map her, to memorize every inch of her before he lost his mind completely.

“Need you—fuck—always need you—”

His mouth dragged down her throat, his tongue lapping at her skin, his teeth grazing her pulse, lingering.

His fingers trembled as they fought with his belt, yanking it open, his hips grinding against her in rough, uncontrolled thrusts, his cock slipping against the wet heat of her slit, teasing her entrance, so close, so close—

Hermione whined, gasped, her thighs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into his back, trying to pull him closer.

“I—fuck—Hermione, I—”

He rolled his hips, grinding the thick head of his cock against her, just barely catching at her entrance, making them both shudder.

“Draco,” she pleaded, her fingers clutching at his shoulders, at his back, at his hair, anything to keep him close.

He groaned, deep and guttural, his body struggling, shaking, right at the edge of losing himself.

"Please," she whispered.

She was ready, already soaked, already open, body soft and pliant, begging him to take her.

Draco sucked in a sharp, wrecked breath.

“Fuck—fuck—I—”

His grip tightened on her waist, his chest heaving, his cock throbbing, his mouth hovering over hers, breathless, torn.

Then—he was gone.

One second, he was about to fuck her, about to fill her, claim her, sink into her—

The next, he was across the room, his back to her, hands fisted in his hair, entire body shaking with ragged, uneven breaths.

Hermione gasped, dazed, throbbing, her cunt still pulsing with need.

She could have screamed in frustration.

Her body felt bereft, left open and wanting, every inch of her still aching for him.

“Draco?” she whispered, her voice hoarse, her lungs barely working.

She propped herself up on her elbows, her thighs still spread, her skirt bunched high around her hips, her underwear still shoved to the side, exposing her.

She wanted to go to him. Wanted to wrap her arms around him, pull him back, drag him back to where he belonged—between her thighs, inside her, ruining her completely.

Her body still hummed with need, his venom still coursing through her, making everything sharper.

Why had he stopped?

They were so close, she had been ready, she had wanted him so badly—

The ache was unbearable. The pulse of it deep and low and maddening.

A small, helpless whimper escaped her lips, her thighs pressing together instinctively, seeking something, anything to dull the throbbing heat between them.

The sound broke the silence—and she barely realized what she was doing until her fingers drifted down, sliding over her own slickness, trembling with want.

Draco spun around.

His breath hitched, his entire body jerking at the sight of her, sprawled across the couch, needy and desperate, her fingers between her thighs.

His expression was wrecked. Not just furious—devastated.

His hands twitched at his sides, his fingers flexing as if he were about to tear something apart.

He groaned as his eyes flicked over her, his eyes squeezing shut as if he couldn’t bear to look at her.

“Fuck—”

He was back in front of her in an instant—dropping to his knees before she could even take another breath. His hands found her thighs, jerking her forward, spreading her open. 

She gasped, arching up into his touch, her body completely at his mercy.

His lips brushed against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, hot, open-mouthed kisses, slow and punishing.

“Drive me mad, Granger,” he muttered against her skin, his mouth a mix of kisses and frustration, of anger and reverence.

“You—I can’t even think when you’re around.”

He kissed higher, closer to where she really wanted him, his breath warm against her center, his nose brushing the damp lace of her underwear.

She shuddered.

His tongue flicked out, teasing the crease of her thigh, his lips soft but his grip bruising.

“I should leave you like this,” he rasped, his voice shaking, angry.

But his hands were already at her waist, pulling at her knickers, ripping them off of her. His lips were on her a second later. Mouth sealed over her clit. 

She cried out, hands flying to his hair, clutching him.

Oh— oh —

His tongue traced a slow, decadent line from her slick entrance to her clit—unhurried and devastating, like he meant to memorize her with his mouth.

She choked on a sob.

Draco groaned into her, his hands bruising her thighs, holding her still, holding her open.

"Fuck— fuck, how does your cunt taste better than your blood?"

Hermione whimpered, broken.

He devoured her. Licked into her, sucked at her, spread her apart with his fingers and licked inside her like he was starving.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her body arched off the couch, his name falling from her lips, a breathless, gasping moan.

His tongue dragged down, teasing her entrance before pushing inside, licking into her like he was trying to drown himself in her.

His groans were constant, filthy, vibrating against her over and over and over.

“Never—” he growled, his tongue flicking hard over her clit, his fingers pushing inside her, curling, filling her.

“Never getting enough of this.”

He sucked harder.

She shattered, choking on his name as her orgasm tore through her with no warning.

Draco groaned, deep and guttural, grinding against the couch like he was in pain.

His fingers pushed deeper, his tongue still working her over, drawing out the pleasure, not letting her come down.

It felt like he was losing himself in it, in her, in the way she melted for him, fell apart for him.

Then—he tore himself away.

He pressed one last, lingering, filthy kiss to her clit.

And then—he was gone.

Panting, flushed, his lips soaked from her, his hands shaking.

He staggered to his feet, dragging a hand down his face, through his hair, looking like he’d just gone through hell.

He turned away, bracing himself against the doorframe.

“Draco,” she whispered, weak, still pulsing from what he’d done.

He shook his head.

“What you did,” he rasped, voice shaking, “crossed a line, Hermione.”

Hermione’s stomach churned.

“I—”

“No,” he snapped.

His eyes dropped to her, still sprawled out, still open, still dripping from him.

He swallowed hard.

“I need—” He closed his eyes, exhaled, clenched his jaw.

“I need space.”

He turned and left, the heavy door slamming behind him.

Chapter Text

Hermione yanked her underwear back into place, her fingers fumbling, clumsy with the aftershocks of pleasure still coursing through her. Cold reality slammed into her, shoving aside the heady, wrecked haze Draco had left in his wake.

His touch still lingered—a phantom warmth where his hands had been, where his mouth had lingered. But now, it was slipping away, fading into nothing.

She stood on shaky legs, pressing a hand to her chest, as if she could physically hold herself together.

What have I done?

The thought looped, relentless, each repetition coiling tighter around her ribs.

She had crossed a line.

Draco’s voice, raw with frustration. The way he had ripped himself away from her. The look in his eyes, torn between desperation and betrayal.

She had pushed him too far.

And yet—even now, even through the shame, she couldn’t fully regret it.

Because he hadn’t hurt her.

Not even when his self-control had cracked, when his breath had gone ragged and his eyes had burned red. Even then, even lost, he had stopped. 

Her feet moved on instinct, carrying her to the door. She wrenched it open, stepping into the corridor, barely noticing the sting of cold air on her flushed skin. She didn’t care how she looked—her curls tangled from his hands, her clothes rumpled, her pulse still thrumming from pleasure, from panic, from need.

None of it mattered.

She had to find him.

She moved quickly, her steps uneven, her body still weak from the wreckage he’d left behind. But her mind wouldn’t quiet, wouldn’t stop spiraling.

What if he doesn’t forgive me?

The fear clawed deeper. She had forced him past his limits, forced him to lose control—and yet a terrible, greedy part of her wanted it to happen again.

Gods, what was wrong with her?

The dungeon’s chill thickened as she descended, the damp air pressing in on her.

She turned a corner—and slammed straight into someone.

The impact sent her stumbling back, catching herself against the wall. “Oh! I’m so sor—”

The words caught in her throat as she looked up into the sharp, coolly unimpressed gaze of Pansy Parkinson.

Pansy’s sharp features were framed by her short, jet-black hair, the severe style only amplifying the coldness of her expression. She didn’t respond, her glare icy as she brushed past Hermione without a word.

Her patience snapped. She was in no mood for Pansy’s attitude.

“What is your problem?”

Pansy froze mid-step, her back still to Hermione. A cold, mirthless laugh echoed off the dungeon walls as she turned slowly. Her smile was sharp, more a sneer than anything else.

“You,” she said simply. “You’re my problem, Granger. Stay out of my way”

Hermione’s temper flared. The day had already been overwhelming, and Pansy’s hostility was the last thing she needed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she snapped. “What have I done to you?”

Pansy’s laughter was sharp and cutting, and in an instant, she was in Hermione’s face, their noses almost touching. “What haven’t you done?” she hissed. “You’re everywhere you shouldn’t be, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, thinking you’re helping when all you’re doing is making everything worse.”

Hermione’s hands curled into fists. “I would never put Draco—or anyone—at risk. I care about him. I—”

“Care about him?”

Pansy’s laugh came sharp and mean, like glass breaking.

“Oh, that’s rich.” She scoffed. “Is that why he came back looking like someone ripped his fucking heart out? Is that how you ‘care’?”

The breath left Hermione’s lungs like she’d been punched.

She knew Draco had been upset. Knew he had left shaken, furious—but hearing it from Pansy, hearing just how much she had hurt him—that cut deeper than anything.

Her lips parted, but before she could find the words, Pansy’s gaze flicked downward—her sharp green eyes landing on Hermione’s hand.

On the bite mark.

Pansy’s eyes narrowed, disbelief flashing across her face before it melted into something else. Something cruel.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Pansy breathed.

Hermione froze.

“Tell me you didn’t…” She let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You really are stupid, aren’t you?”

Hermione’s cheeks burned, her hand instinctively moving to cover the bite marks. “It’s not…” she started, but the words died on her lips.

“Not what?” Pansy mocked. “Not what it looks like? Oh, it’s exactly what it looks like. You think you can play these little games with him? You think you understand what you’re dealing with?” She shook her head, her green eyes glittering with something close to pity. “You’re a fool, Granger. And you’re going to get yourself—and him—killed.”

The words struck a nerve, and Hermione’s anger flared. “You don’t know anything about me,” she snapped. “I would never do anything to hurt him. I—”

“You don’t belong here,” Pansy interrupted, her voice cutting through Hermione’s protest like a blade. “You don’t belong with him. And the best thing you could do for everyone—for him, for yourself—is to walk away before you destroy everything.”

The words stung, but Hermione refused to let Pansy see her falter. Her chin lifted defiantly, her voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “I’m not walking away,” she said firmly. “I’m not leaving him.”

Pansy’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “We’ll see,” she said, her tone dripping with condescension. Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode away, her sharp footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Hermione stood frozen, her heart hammering, her body locked in place long after Pansy had disappeared. The words still rang in her ears, their edges cutting deeper than she wanted to admit.

She clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms. She would not let Pansy get to her. She would not let doubt fester. Whatever Pansy thought, whatever her motives, Hermione wasn’t walking away.

She needed to find Draco. Make things right.

Her legs moved before her mind could fully catch up, carrying her through the winding dungeon corridors. The cold stone walls loomed high around her, pressing in, the dim torchlight flickering like shadows breathing against the ceiling. The further she went, the deeper she sank into Slytherin’s world, and the more she realized how out of place she was.

But she didn’t care.

Her feet carried her toward the Slytherin dormitories, but as she reached the blank stone wall that concealed the entrance, she faltered.

Shit.

How was she supposed to get in?

She paced, her mind racing. Could she guess the password? Would the wall respond to a riddle, a spell, some hidden mechanism she hadn’t studied? Did she have time to find another Slytherin to—

The stone wall slid open with a quiet rumble, revealing a tall figure lounging in the entryway. 

Theo’s grin was immediate, slow and wolfish, his sharp features cut in flickering green light. His gaze dragged over her, taking in her flushed cheeks, her disheveled hair, her rumpled clothes.

His smirk deepened.

“Well, well.” He leaned against the doorframe, his voice silky and amused.

"Freshly fucked looks good on you, Granger."

Heat flared up her neck, but her eyes narrowed to slits.

“Not now, Theo.” She snapped. She brushed past him before he could stop her, stepping into the Slytherin common room without waiting for an invitation.

She barely took in the cold grandeur of the space before her focus snapped back to Theo.

“Where is he?”

Theo followed her inside, slow and unhurried, like a cat prowling after its prey. The green light filtering through the submerged windows cast a murky glow over the dark, polished wood and leather furniture. Shadows stretched high against the vaulted ceiling, the fireplace throwing deep golden streaks across ancient silver accents.

It was beautiful.

And intimidating.

She could feel the weight of it—the way it was designed to keep people like her out.

Theo made a show of settling onto the largest sofa, sinking into the dark leather with deliberate ease. He plucked a glass of firewhisky from the side table, swirling the amber liquid with lazy disinterest.

“You look like you could use a drink,” he mused, looking her over. “Or maybe several.”

She ignored him, her pulse spiking as she searched the room.

“Where is Draco?”

Theo’s smirk widened, but he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gestured to the empty space beside him.

“Why don’t you sit down?” His voice was all amusement, mocking hospitality. “Make yourself comfortable, Granger. You’re in Slytherin territory now—you might as well enjoy it.”

She crossed her arms, her glare sharp as glass. 

Theo sighed dramatically, setting his drink down with a soft clink.

“You’re no fun.” He leaned back, stretching his arms across the back of the sofa, his posture a picture of effortless arrogance.

Hermione’s patience was hanging by a thread, but before she could snap again, Theo’s expression shifted.

His gaze dipped—his eyes locking onto her hand.

Where the bite mark still lingered.

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

For a split second, his pupils blew wide, darkness swallowing the brown of his irises.

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

His nostrils flared, his chest rising as if he could smell it.

The blood. The venom. The way Draco had lost control.

Theo blinked hard. Shook his head. Like he was snapping himself out of something.

Then, slower, he dragged his tongue over his teeth and smirked.

“Well,” His voice was lower now, rougher, the amusement not quite reaching his eyes. “No wonder Draco can’t get enough of you.”

Hermione yanked her hand behind her back, heat burning under her skin.

“Where. Is. He?” She forced the words out between clenched teeth.

Theo watched her for a moment, like he was deciding something. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his expression smoothing into something unreadable.

“Hunting,” he said finally. “With Blaise.”

Her stomach twisted. The implication in his words clear.

Again.

Theo’s eyes flicked back to her, and there was something pointed in his gaze, something deliberate.

Hermione’s throat went dry.

She had done this. She had made him lose control, unravel. She had pushed him too far, forced him into something he wasn’t ready for. And now he was out there again, risking his safety because of her.

She opened her mouth to respond, to say something, but Theo beat her to it.

“Relax, Granger.” His tone was softer now, smoother. “He’ll be back.”

He leaned back, his smirk returning, tilting his head toward the sofa’s empty space.

“Might as well make yourself at home in the meantime.”

She hesitated, her gaze flicking to the sofa and back to Theo’s expectant expression. Her pulse drummed behind her ribs, too quick, too uneven. Everything in her screamed not to sit, to find Draco and stop wasting time—but her body was still too warm, too wrecked, too off-balance to keep pacing.

With a reluctant sigh, she sank onto the opposite end of the couch, as far from Theo as possible.

The cushions dipped beneath her weight, the leather cool against her thighs, grounding her—but barely.

Theo’s laughter was soft, almost lazy, but real. The kind of sound that belonged to someone who enjoyed watching people squirm.

From the side table, he reached for the crystal decanter of firewhisky, pouring a second glass. The rich amber liquid gleamed in the light before he slid the glass across the table toward her.

"Go on," he said smoothly. "You look like you could use it."

Hermione stared at the drink, her fingers curling reflexively against her lap. She wasn’t sure she wanted it, not when her mind was already frayed at the edges, her nerves stretched too thin.

But the scent of it—smoky, heady, laced with an underlying sweetness—curled into her senses. She reached out and took the glass, her fingers brushing the cool rim before lifting it to her lips.

The first sip burned.

Heat pooled low in her stomach, spreading slow and liquid through her veins, melting some of the ice lodged there.

For a brief, fleeting moment, the world softened.

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the fire’s lazy crackle and the faint clink of Theo’s glass against the table.

Then, without warning, he broke it.

"So," he mused, swirling his firewhisky. "What do you actually know about us?"

Her grip tightened around her glass.

"What do you mean by ‘us’?" she asked carefully, feigning ignorance.

Theo’s smirk sharpened.

"You know exactly what I mean." He tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he was half-tempted to take apart. "If you’re going to hang around us Slytherins, you’d better get better at lying. Or at least deflecting."

A flush crept up her neck, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.

"Draco told me about you," she admitted, her words tumbling out faster than she wanted. "About all of you. But I promise I won’t tell anyone. You can trust me."

Theo’s eyes flickered—not with surprise, but something more unreadable.

For a long, stretched moment, he just watched her, letting the weight of the silence coil tighter, the scrutiny press heavier. Then, at last, he let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

"Relax, Granger." He took another sip of his drink. "I’m not Pansy."

At the mention of Pansy, something curdled in Hermione’s stomach.

She frowned, staring into her drink. The tension in her shoulders coiled tighter, a dull ache settling at the base of her skull.

"Why does she hate me so much?" she muttered, more to herself than him.

"Pansy hates everyone," Theo said with a shrug, his voice too casual, too dismissive.

She shot him a pointed look.

"I find that hard to believe."

Theo sighed, staring into his firewhisky like it held the answer. For a second, something flickered across his face—something almost thoughtful.

"Alright, fine. She doesn’t hate everyone," he admitted. A pause. Then, smoothly: "But she’s… worried. About Draco. About us."

Hermione blinked, caught off guard by his candor. His honesty sank into her chest, heavier than it should have been. But before she could press further, Theo’s smirk returned, wicked as ever, his gaze gleaming with something mischievous.

"Enough about Pansy," he said, leaning forward. "Let’s play a game."

Hermione’s spine went rigid, every instinct sharpening.

"No," she said immediately, setting her glass down with finality.

Theo raised an eyebrow, unbothered.

"What if I sweeten the deal?" His grin widened. "For every shot you take, I’ll answer one of your questions. Anything you want to know."

Her eyes narrowed, caution battling with curiosity. The chance to learn more about vampires—and by extension Draco—was tantalizing. But the thought of downing multiple shots of firewhiskey made her stomach churn. She’d already had enough trouble keeping up with Theo’s sharp wit sober. 

"Sips," she said finally, lifting her chin. "Not shots. I’m not about to pass out just to get some answers."

Theo’s grin softened, like she’d just passed another test.

"Fair enough," he conceded, raising his glass. "To knowledge, then."

Hermione rolled her eyes but lifted her own glass, the weight of it suddenly feeling heavier as she took a careful sip.

"Alright," she said, setting her glass down. "Why do you think someone is creating an army of spawn?"

Theo’s smirk faltered.

The flickering firelight caught the angles of his face, throwing shadows beneath his sharp cheekbones. He stared at the liquid in his glass, swirling it slowly, thoughtfully.

"Ah, starting with the heavy questions.”

Hermione leaned forward, her elbows pressing into her knees. The air between them shifted, thickened.

Theo’s gaze flickered toward the fire, the glow turning his dark irises a warm chocolatey color.

"We’re not sure," he admitted. His voice lacked its usual teasing edge, and that unsettled her more than anything. "But it can’t be for anything good. There aren’t many of us vampires, but those that we do know of..." He paused, lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. "Well, let’s just say they don’t come from the most… benevolent of families."

Hermione’s stomach twisted.

The meaning in his words wasn’t hard to piece together.

Draco had told her—vampires were almost always from pureblood lines. And while Draco and his friends had long abandoned the idea of blood purity, that didn’t mean the rest of their kind had.

A cold shudder crawled up her spine.

"Do you have any leads?" she asked, her voice quieter now, more measured.

Theo’s dark eyes snapped back to her, sharp and knowing.

"That’s two questions." His smirk returned, but it was thinner, lacking its usual ease. "Drink, Granger."

She let out a slow breath, lifting the glass to her lips and taking another sip.

The warmth did nothing to chase away the ice curling inside her.

Theo watched her, waiting until she set the glass down before he spoke again.

"There are some pureblood circles," he started, deceptively casual, "that have started pushing for a new order. One purely for those who’ve triggered the vampire curse. They’re calling it evolution, insisting that we’re the future of wizarding kind."

Hermione’s blood went cold.

The words slammed into her, her pulse skipping, then pounding, her fingers tightening around the glass as a fresh, sickening realization set in.

Not just another war. A war led by vampires.

Powerful. Inhumanly strong. Capable of magic enhanced beyond anything she or any ordinary wizard could possibly counter.

How the hell would they win?

How would they survive?

Her throat felt tight, her lungs too small for the air she was trying to pull in. The idea of facing another war so soon after the last, of watching the world bleed itself out again—but this time against creatures who couldn’t be easily killed—it was too much.

Theo must have seen the shift in her expression because he exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

"Alright, that’s enough of that." His voice was lighter now, too deliberately smooth. He tipped his glass toward her with a lazy smirk. "Your turn to answer one of mine."

She blinked, forcing herself back to the present.

Theo was watching her, eyes still sharp but not unkind. Like he knew exactly where her thoughts had gone and wasn’t about to let her sink any deeper.

"What’s your favorite class?"

She stared at him.

"That’s it?" she blurted, her brow furrowing.

He shrugged, grin widening. "Isn’t that how the game works? You answer my question, I answer yours."

She huffed, still thrown off by the sheer normalcy of it. After everything they had just discussed, how was he able to shift so effortlessly back into something so mundane?

But that was Theo, wasn’t it?

Danger wrapped in silk. A smirk to distract you while he slipped the knife between your ribs.

"Um… Ancient Runes, I suppose," she answered, her voice tinged with suspicion.

"Predictable," Theo quipped, his grin turning playful. "Go on, Granger. Ask your next one."

She shook her head with a soft scoff. "How long do vampires live?" she asked, reaching for her glass again, hoping to push the thoughts of war far from her mind.

Theo hummed, tilting his head as he considered her. "Ah, the age-old question." His voice was light, but there was something unreadable behind his eyes. "No one really knows. Some of us only get a few decades more than you mortals. Others?" He shrugged, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Centuries. Millennia, even."

Hermione’s breath caught.

The thought hit her like a slow, creeping poison—Draco, unchanged, watching her grow old, watching time carve lines into her face while he remained the same. Her dying, him continuing on.

It wasn’t the first time the idea had crossed her mind, but now, sitting here with Theo, with the weight of his words curling around her, the reality of it settled deeper in her bones.

How long would he live after she was gone? Would he remember her as just another fleeting moment in his endless life?

She took a sip, the firewhisky’s heat spreading through her chest, but it did nothing to ease the sudden tightness in her throat.

Theo watched her carefully, his fingers tapping lightly against his glass. “Are you afraid of us?” he asked, voice softer now, quieter.

"No," she answered without hesitation. Her eyes met his, unwavering.

Something flickered across his face—approval, perhaps—before his smirk returned. "Your turn."

She hesitated. The next question was heavier on her tongue, carrying more weight than she expected. She took another sip before finally forcing it out.

"Have you ever… drank from a human?"

His smirk faltered.

"Yes," he said simply. No hesitation, no evasion. Just fact. But something in his posture shifted—a subtle tension settling into his shoulders, a shadow flickering through his eyes.

Her throat tightened. She nodded slowly, but before she could press further, his expression sharpened.

Theo leaned in slightly, his voice dipping low. "How did it feel, Granger?" The words curled around her like smoke, deliberate and knowing. "Having your blood sucked?"

A flash of heat shot through her, quick and unbidden.

Her cheeks burned instantly, the firewhisky thrumming in her veins making it harder to suppress her reaction.

It had felt— Gods, she didn’t even know how to put it into words. The sharp sting, the pull of Draco’s mouth, the way the pleasure had hit her all at once, unbearable and all-consuming.

"It was… nice," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Theo snorted, his grin widening. "I bet it was."

Her eyes snapped to his, narrowing. "What do you mean by that?"

Theo merely gestured to her glass. "Take another sip and I’ll tell you."

She rolled her eyes but obeyed, feeling the warmth settle into her limbs, loosening some of the tension but not enough to dull the way Theo was watching her—like he knew too much.

He smirked, his voice dipping lower. "Our venom has certain… effects."

Her brows furrowed. "Effects?"

"Aphrodisiac effects," he said, far too pleased with himself.

The words slammed into her.

Hermione’s fingers clenched around her glass as her stomach flipped, heat rushing to her face so fast she thought she might combust. Oh. Oh.

"That’s—no, that’s not—" But the words died on her tongue as memory slammed into her. The way her body had burned, the way the pleasure had unraveled her too fast, too intensely—like her nerves had been set alight. Like she’d been drugged.

Oh, Merlin.

"You’re joking," she tried again, but the words rang hollow.

Theo’s smirk deepened. "Am I?" His gaze flicked lazily over her, a knowing glint in his dark eyes. "I’ve got a feeling you already know how true it is."

Her mortification doubled, her throat tightening.

Oh, god. That’s why—that’s why it had felt like that. The rush, the unbearable pleasure curling inside her, the way she had—she had shattered the second Draco’s fangs sunk into her.

A low buzz built beneath her skin, mortification tangled with something else, something dangerous.

Without thinking, she downed the rest of her drink, the firewhisky burning on the way down.

Theo laughed, full and rich, reaching over to refill her glass.

"Easy there, Granger," he teased, though he poured her another drink without hesitation.

She wanted to refuse, but the weight of the day still sat heavy in her chest. Her fingers curled around the glass again, swirling the liquid without drinking.

"Why only once?" she asked, voice quieter now. "Why did you only try human blood once?"

His playful expression faltered. His smirk thinned at the edges, his gaze turning serious, distant as he leaned back.

"Drinking from a human isn’t like feeding from anything else," he said slowly. "It’s… intimate. Dangerous. If you don’t care about the person, it’s too easy to lose control. And if you do care…" He trailed off, his eyes flickering to the flames. "It’s worse."

Hermione’s stomach churned.

"Worse how?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

His lips twisted into something resembling a grimace. "Because it’s a fine line between drinking just enough and going too far." He exhaled sharply. "The one time I drank from a human was… right after I turned. I didn’t know what I was doing. I nearly killed them."

A shiver crawled down her spine.

Guilt clawed at her ribs, sharp and unrelenting.

She had tricked Draco into drinking from her. Had forced him past his limits, convinced that she was doing the right thing.

Her knuckles whitened around the glass as she avoided Theo’s gaze.

Theo took a slow sip of his drink, watching her closely.

"Why did you do it?" he asked suddenly.

Her heart stuttered.

"What?" she stammered, her mind racing. Did Draco tell him?

Theo shook his head, his smirk returning faintly. "Relax, he didn’t tell me," he said, leaning back into the sofa. "But it wasn’t hard to guess. Between your guilty look and the way Draco looked when he came back earlier… it’s obvious it wasn’t an accident."

She exhaled shakily, gripping her glass tighter as she took another sip, the warmth doing nothing to dull the self-recrimination curling in her stomach.

"I didn’t know what else to do," she admitted softly, her voice barely above the crackling fire. "I was… I am scared. Scared that Draco is going to get hurt."

Theo’s brow furrowed. 

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze steady and clouded. "Granger," he said finally, his voice quieter, heavier. "We’re not as fragile as you think."

Her head snapped up, a sharp pulse of anger cutting through her haze of firewhisky and guilt. "How often?" she demanded, leaning forward. "How often do you and Draco and Blaise run into spawn when you're out hunting?"

The shift in his expression was subtle—a flicker of something like guilt, before he reached for his drink again.

"We… encounter them," he admitted vaguely.

"How often?" she pressed, her voice rising slightly.

A slow, measured breath. Theo dragged a hand through his thick brown waves, ruffling them in frustration. "Often enough," he admitted, reluctant. "But killing spawn isn’t exactly difficult for us. Hell, sometimes it’s fun."

Fun.

The word landed in her chest like a stone.

Images flashed behind her eyes—Draco moving through the shadows, red eyes glowing, teeth bared, hands slick with blood. She thought of the sheer inhuman power he wielded, the ease with which he could break something apart. But it wasn’t the strength that unsettled her—it was the cold familiarity of it.

How many nights had he gone out there, taking apart monsters like it was sport? How many times had he faced creatures that could rip through human flesh in seconds and walked away unscathed?

How long before he wasn’t so lucky?

"I don’t want him going out there anymore." The words left her before she could stop them, and she wasn’t sure if they were a plea or a demand. Maybe both. "Not until we know what’s happening. None of you should be going."

Theo blinked, visibly caught off guard. Then, as if on instinct, his lips curved into a faint smirk, an automatic defense. "None of us?" he echoed, head tilting. "Didn’t realize you cared about me and Blaise that much."

She glared at him, heat rushing to her face, but she didn’t back down. "Of course I do." Her voice was earnest, steady, betraying the raw emotion tightening in her chest. "You’re all important to him. That makes you important to me."

The smirk faltered—just for a second.

Something flickered behind his expression, something real. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced with the easy, teasing grin he always wore. "How sweet of you," he murmured. 

She rolled her eyes, but the weight of her words lingered in the air between them.

Theo studied her for a beat longer before exhaling, tipping his drink toward her in mock approval. "Even so," he said, lighter now. "You shouldn’t have made yourself bleed. That wasn’t fair to Draco."

A hollow ache unfurled in her chest. Her shoulders slumped, and she let out a weary sigh. "I know."

She knew. And yet, if she could go back, she wasn’t sure she would have stopped herself.

Theo’s lips twitched, his amusement returning. "Though now that Draco’s had a taste of your blood, you’ll probably get your way."

Her brows pulled together. "What do you mean?"

His smirk widened, something sharp, knowing. "It’s not just humans who get affected by a bite," he said, voice dipping into something smooth and low. "For us, human blood is… well, it’s like a drug. That’s why it’s so dangerous."

A shiver ghosted down her spine.

Her mind reeled—back to the way Draco had looked at her, red-eyed and wrecked, panting like he was starving. The way he had groaned into her skin, like the taste of her was both heaven and hell.

Her fingers curled around her glass, gripping it tight. "So you're saying… it's addictive?"

Theo chuckled. "Oh, incredibly."

She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. Draco had walked away. Barely, but he had.

And yet…

Even now, she could still feel his lips, the press of his teeth, the slow, devastating pull of his mouth—

A fresh wave of heat curled beneath her skin.

She lifted her glass again, taking a quick sip to steady herself.

Theo watched her over the rim of his own drink, and then—with a grin that was far too smug for her liking—he said, "I imagine that’s not the only reason you want him to bite you again."

She choked.

A sharp, undignified cough rattled through her as the firewhisky burned all the way down.

Theo laughed, full and wicked, tipping his head back in amusement. "Merlin, Granger," he said, shaking his head. "You’re kinkier than I gave you credit for."

Her face turned scarlet.

She slammed her glass down onto the table, muttering under her breath as Theo’s laughter echoed through the room.

Chapter Text

The warmth of the fire and the lingering buzz of firewhisky coursing through her veins made Hermione feel lighter than she had in days. Sitting cross-legged on the Slytherin common room couch, the weight of the day’s events dulled under Theo’s easy company. She hadn't expected this—hadn’t expected to be here, of all places, drinking with a Slytherin she’d once considered a stranger. But Theo’s sharp wit and casual charm had disarmed her, his teasing turning into something effortless, something easy.

She giggled at one of his jokes, her body folding into itself with laughter, her head tipping back as the warmth of the room enveloped her.

Theo smirked, reclining into the cushions, dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “Merlin, Granger, you’re loud when you’re drunk,” he teased, a lazy grin pulling at his lips.

She straightened, trying and failing to compose herself as a hiccup escaped. “I am not loud,” she protested, though her slurred words betrayed her. “You’re just a terrible influence.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied smoothly, finishing the last of his drink. His movements were fluid, but not quite as precise as usual—he was tipsy too.

Still grinning, Hermione reached for her own glass, but her fingers missed their mark entirely and the glass tipped, spilling its contents across the dark wood.

“Oh no!”

Theo burst into laughter, shaking his head. “You’re a disaster, Granger.”

“I can clean it up!” she insisted, dropping to her knees. She snatched a napkin from the table and dabbed at the spill with little coordination, her hands clumsy with drink.

“You’re even clumsier when you’re drunk,” Theo mused, kneeling beside her. His smirk was insufferably smug as he grabbed another napkin. “I knew you Gryffindors were messy drunks.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, the movement childish, but she couldn’t help it. Laughter bubbled up in her chest again, warm and unguarded. “You’re not exactly helping, you know. You’re the reason I’m drunk in the first place!”

“Ah, but I’m also helping you clean up, so it balances out.” 

She rolled her eyes, still smiling, still caught in the lingering haze of firewhisky and warmth and—

The common room door opened with a rumble.

The sound was soft, but it cut through her, sharpening the edges of her dazed thoughts like a knife. Her body stiffened, an instinct she barely registered, as she turned her head toward the entrance, still crouched on the floor, her hand frozen mid-motion.

Draco and Blaise stepped inside, their voices low. The dim corridor light framed them in shadows, as Draco moved forward, his eyes caught the firelight, burning in the gloom like molten steel. He took in the scene—her on the floor, Theo beside her, the spill between them— and his entire body went rigid.

Something in his expression shifted. 

Hermione’s drunken mind lagged behind, latching onto him with blurry fascination. The sharp lines of his face, the way his hair was just slightly out of place, the hunger that still lingered around him, raw and unspent.

Merlin, he looked good.

His jaw tightened as his gaze landed on Theo, still kneeling beside her, a damp napkin in hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” Draco’s voice was low and edged, dangerous in a way that sent a ripple of awareness down her spine.

Theo didn’t so much as flinch. He looked up lazily, all amusement and unbothered confidence. “Helping her clean up,” he said, words slightly slurred. “Calm down, mate.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, his agitation palpable. Before she could fully process the interaction, she moved to stand, suddenly desperate to fix this, to close the distance between them, to—

Woah. 

The room tilted sharply.

“Careful!” Theo reached for her, but Draco was faster.

In a blur of movement, he was by her side, his arm wrapping firmly around her waist to steady her. His hand splayed against her back, his grip firm but infinitely careful.

Her breath caught as she tilted her head up, his storm-grey eyes burning into hers.

“Are you alright?” 

She giggled. 

“I might’ve had a little too much to drink,” she admitted, her words dragging slightly as she leaned into him.

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, hands flexing against her waist. 

“A little too much,” he muttered, shooting Theo a glare before looking back down at her. “How much have you had?”

Before she could answer, another voice broke through the tension.

“Hello, Granger.”

Blaise.

He sank into one of the leather armchairs by the fire, movements elegant and unhurried, as if this entire interaction was a mildly amusing scene in a play he was watching.

Hermione blinked at him, her gaze shifting from Draco’s concerned face to Blaise’s composed one. “Hi,” she said brightly, voice cheerful and slightly breathless from Draco’s touch.

Blaise’s mouth curved, his eyes gleaming with curiosity as he leaned back in his chair. “Enjoying Slytherin hospitality, I see.”

Draco’s hand tightened on Hermione’s waist and she turned back to him, the last traces of her laughter fading into a soft hum. The warmth of his touch, the steady weight of him against her, felt unreasonably good. 

She tilted her head, studying him as he looked her over, his brows furrowed. He was checking for injuries, she realized, his careful gaze scanning her as if she might fall apart at any moment.

“You look so handsome when you’re worried,” she blurted, the thought spilling out before she could stop it.

The room fell silent for a beat. Then Theo erupted.

His bark of laughter was unrestrained, delighted, his head falling back as he clutched his stomach. Even Blaise let out a low chuckle, the sound rich and knowing, his dark eyes glinting with amusement.

Draco remained frozen, his eyes widening slightly as a faint flush crept up his neck. “How much did you drink?” He asked, his voice tight.

Hermione giggled.

“Enough to —” She hiccuped, cutting herself off with another giggle. She reached up, her fingers brushing over his jaw before patting his cheek.

He felt warm under her touch.

“You’re blushing,” she whispered in awe, her fingertips lingering, fascinated by the heat under his skin.

Draco muttered something under his breath, his hand shifting to her arm as he steadied her once again. “We’re leaving,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument.

Theo, still grinning like the devil himself, raised a brow. “Taking her to bed already?” he drawled.

Draco’s jaw clenched, the pink on his cheeks deepening. “That’s not—” He cut himself off, his glare snapping to Theo. “Shut up.”

Hermione pouted, her lips curving downward in exaggerated disappointment. “Why not?”

Theo burst into laughter again, the sound sharp and delighted, as if Christmas had come early. “Yeah, Draco, why not?” he taunted.

Draco shot him a look so lethal that even Blaise shifted slightly, his easy amusement taking on a more watchful edge.

Hermione tilted her head, her firewhisky-clouded mind trying to piece together what had just happened.

Was Draco… flustered?

Her drunken courage flared. She leaned into him, her cheek pressing against his chest, his shirt soft beneath her flushed skin.

Draco went rigid. His hand tightened slightly as she nuzzled against him.

“I should take you to bed,” he muttered, his voice low.

“Oh, she definitely looks like she wants to be in bed,” Theo cackled.

“Theo,” Blaise said quietly, his voice even, unbothered—but lined with something firm. “Stop talking.”

Theo raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning like the absolute menace he was.

Hermione barely noticed. Her head was spinning, not from the firewhisky, but from Draco. The heat of him. The steady press of his fingers.

He felt safe.

She buried her face against him, her lips brushing against the fabric of his shirt as she mumbled, “Theo is a bad influence.”

“That’s fair,” Theo said easily, already pouring himself another drink. He tilted the bottle toward them in invitation. “You two should stay. The night’s just getting interesting.”

Hermione shook her head, her curls brushing against Draco’s chest. 

“I want to go to bed,” she murmured.

Draco exhaled slowly before tightening his arm around her and guiding her toward the door. They were halfway to the entrance when Hermione suddenly stopped.

Draco looked down, his brow furrowing. “What is it?”

She swayed slightly, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes.

“I want to stay with you.” 

“Hermione,” he started, his voice low, wary.

“Please.”

She curled her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her grounded. Her eyes shone, a quiet vulnerability in them, something deeper than drunken insistence.

She wanted him.

Not just tonight. Not just because of the firewhisky.

Draco let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping in reluctant defeat.

“Alright,” he murmured.

Behind them, Theo whistled.

“Well, well. Look who’s whipped.”

Hermione turned her head just enough to glare at him, her cheeks flushed.

“Shut up, Theo,” she muttered, though the words lost their bite with their drunken slur.

Theo’s laughter rang out, joined by a quieter, knowing chuckle from Blaise.

Draco ignored them, his focus entirely on her as he led her through the dim corridor.

The Slytherin dorms were quiet, cloaked in shadow. The air felt different here—cooler, heavier, older. Draco’s side of the room was unsurprisingly neat, the dark green canopy of his bed casting shadows like a private sanctuary.

He guided her toward it, hands steady, voice gentler now. 

“Sit,” he murmured.

She did, barely noticing the give of the mattress beneath her. Her body felt too warm, too restless, the lingering buzz of firewhisky tangling with something heavier—something she couldn’t drink away.

“I’ll get you some water,” he murmured before disappearing into the adjoining bathroom. The soft rush of running water filled the room, a quiet, steady backdrop to the storm spiraling in her chest.

Left alone, the alcohol’s comforting haze began to dissipate, leaving behind only the sharp edge of guilt.

The day came crashing back into her.

Draco had been so angry when he left her in the Room of Requirement, and she had been too desperate to stop him. Too caught up in her own desire to see the way she had pushed him past his limit.

Her stomach twisted, her fingers curling into the blanket beneath her as the memories surged—the way he had shuddered against her, the way he had groaned into her skin, his teeth pressing deep, his body trembling with need.

And she had wanted it. Wanted all of it.

Her breath hitched, shame mixing with something else—something she wasn’t ready to name.

What if he hated her now?

She could live with him holding himself back, could endure the aching, unfulfilled hunger between them, the way he kissed her like he was always about to ruin her but never followed through.

But she couldn’t live with him hating her.

Couldn’t bear the thought of him pulling away forever.

Tears burned at the edges of her vision before she could stop them, a hot, tight pressure in her throat. By the time Draco returned, a glass of water in hand, her fingers were pressed against her face, her shoulders trembling under the weight of it all.

“Hermione.”

He set the glass down on the nightstand and crouched in front of her, his hands reaching out, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before gently pulling hers away from her face.

“What’s wrong?”

His touch was cool and solid, and the moment his fingers brushed her skin, the dam inside her cracked.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling as fresh tears slipped down her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have…” She swallowed hard, shame curling low in her stomach. “I shouldn’t have made myself bleed. It was selfish and stupid, and I feel terrible about it.” Her breath caught. “I’m so sorry. Just…” Her voice broke. “Just please don’t hate me.”

Draco’s expression cracked, and in an instant, his hands were on her cheeks, cupping them gently, his thumbs brushing away the dampness of her tears.

“Hermione,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost pained. “I don’t hate you.”

“You don’t?” she whispered, her wide, teary eyes searching his face, desperate for confirmation.

His exhale was slow, controlled. His fingers didn’t leave her skin.

“I don’t,” he said firmly. But then his expression flickered, his grip tightening just slightly. “But you can’t ever do that again. Do you understand me?”

She hesitated, guilt and resolve warring within her.

Finally, she nodded. “I understand.”

Draco studied her for a long moment, his pale eyes flickering with something heavy before his hands slowly dropped from her face. His fingers lingered at the curve of her jaw before he pulled away, his touch ghosting over her skin like a farewell.

His hands settled on her knees instead, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“I’m sorry too,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Hermione’s breath caught.

“For leaving like that,” he continued. “I needed to—I needed to get away before I lost myself.”

Her heart clenched. She reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing over his knuckles where they rested against her knee. “Draco, you didn’t…”

He lifted his head, his eyes burning with something raw and dangerous.

“I nearly did,” he admitted, his voice low and broken. “I nearly—” His hands curled into fists. “Merlin, Granger, I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”

Hermione’s skin flushed, heat rising beneath her collar as the memory slammed into her. The way he had pressed her into the couch, the way his hands had gripped her, how her thighs had wrapped around him, begging him to finally lay claim to her.

Her mouth went dry, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.

“I wanted it,” she confessed. 

Draco’s breath hitched.

“I want you.”

“Hermione,” he began, voice rough. “We can’t.”

“Why not?” 

His exhale was shaky, his gaze dropping to where his hands rested on her thighs.

“Because I’m afraid,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Her breath hitched.

“I’m afraid that if I let myself…” He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “Let go, even for a moment—” He lifted his head, his eyes glittering with an emotion she couldn’t name. “I might hurt you.”

Her heart clenched.

He lowered his gaze, as if ashamed.

“That’s why I’ve only been touching you,” he continued. “I can’t let myself get carried away. I can’t risk losing myself in you.”

She reached up, her fingers trembling slightly as she cupped his jaw, tilting his face back toward hers.

“Draco,” she whispered. “You’re stronger than you think.”

His eyes searched hers, something pained and longing flickering behind them. For a moment, she thought he might argue. But then—he exhaled, his head dipping slightly, leaning into her touch like he couldn’t help himself.

“You make it so bloody difficult to stay away,” he muttered, a faint smirk pulling at his lips despite the strain in his face.

“Then don’t stay away.”

Draco’s fingers twitched against her legs, his pupils blown wide, his expression a war. Then, slowly, he exhaled, shaking his head as though trying to clear something dangerous from his mind. Without a word, he leaned closer, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to her forehead.

"Let's get you to bed.” 

He knelt at her feet, deft fingers moving to untie her shoes, working with the same controlled precision he applied to everything.

Hermione watched him, entranced.

His touch was careful, removing her shoes one by one. She should have felt ridiculous, letting him do this, but the intimacy of it sent a slow, deliberate flutter through her belly.

Something reckless took hold.

She promised she wouldn’t push him again, but this was different. She needed him. And he needed to see that he could trust himself with this. 

Her fingers moved without thought, trailing over the buttons of her blouse, undoing them one by one. Cool air kissed her flushed skin as she shrugged the fabric off, her bare chest exposed to the flickering light. The heat of alcohol made her bold, made her aching for his touch again, for him to forget himself the way he had before.

Her fingers ghosted to the waistband of her skirt, but a sharp inhale of breath froze her.

Draco had gone utterly still.

His hand, resting lightly on her foot, had stopped mid-motion, his fingers slack. But his eyes— oh, gods, his eyes —were locked on her breasts. His lips parted, a faint tremor working its way through his body as he stared at her. 

He looked like he had forgotten how to breathe.

Desire twisted low in her stomach.

She loved the way he looked at her—like he was on the verge of ruin, on the verge of tearing her apart and putting her back together again.

She wanted more.

Her hands dragged slowly up her body, teasing over the curves of her waist before cupping her breasts. She arched slightly, rolling her nipples between her fingers, teasing herself—teasing him. A soft, breathless moan slipped past her lips, the pleasure of her own touch heightened by his ravenous stare.

The sound broke something in him.

In a desperate blur of motion, Draco surged forward, pushing her back onto the bed.

She gasped, breath catching as his weight pressed her into the mattress. His hands framed her face, fingers threading into her curls as his mouth crashed against hers.

His body caged her in, his strength, his scent, his everything surrounding her, smothering her in a way that made her head spin.

She sighed against his lips, her hands fisting into his shirt, yanking him closer, always closer, until there was nothing left between them but the unbearable friction of his body against hers.

"You're not fair," he rasped against her lips.

A sharp, electric shudder ran through her as his knee nudged between her legs, spreading them wider as his thigh pressed against her core, right where she was already throbbing for him. 

She gasped—the sound sinful and needy. Draco groaned in response, his lips dragging over her jaw, down the column of her throat. His teeth scraped against the sensitive skin of her pulse point, a teasing echo of the bite she so desperately ached for.

Her fingers found his hair, tangling into the soft strands, pulling him closer, keeping him there.

"Please," she whispered, breathless.

Draco swore under his breath, a ragged sound, before his lips found her ear, capturing her lobe between his teeth. He bit down just enough to make her whimper, just enough to make her grind against his thigh harder, needing more, soaking through the thin fabric between them.

The pressure was delicious, addictive, unbearable.

It still wasn’t enough.

With a burst of determination, she pushed against his shoulders, flipping them, rolling on top of him.

Draco made a startled sound, his silver eyes blown and dark, his lips parted in something between a growl and a plea.

Before he could say anything, she was already moving.

She hooked her fingers into her underwear and slid them down her legs, letting them drop to the sheets.

Draco sucked in a sharp breath, his hands twitching at his sides.

"Hermione—" 

She silenced him by straddling him, widening her thighs and pressing her bare, wet heat against the rigid length still trapped in his trousers

A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat, his head slamming back against the pillows as his hands snapped to her hips, digging in hard.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” His fingers flexed against her skin, struggling to still her, struggling to breathe.

A slow, wicked heat curled through her, knowing how much she was undoing him. She leaned down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sharp edge of his jaw, letting her tongue flick over the rapid pulse at his throat.

His cock twitched beneath her, pulsing against her core, and the feeling sent a bolt of heat through her so intense she could barely breathe.

She pulled back just enough to look at him.

Draco’s chest was rising and falling unevenly, his eyes dark and wild, his hands clenching at her hips as if he didn’t trust himself not to flip her over and lose himself in her completely.

She rolled her hips against him, slicking his cock through the fabric, teasing him, taunting him, offering herself up like a sacrifice.

His breath hitched, his hips jerking up into her involuntarily. A low, guttural moan spilled from his lips, his control hanging by a thread.

“Been thinking about you all day,” he gritted out, his fingers flexing against her hips, his cock twitching beneath her.

A shiver raced down her spine.

“Yeah?” she whispered, nipping at his throat, dragging her teeth over his skin like he’d done to her so many times before.

His hands clenched into fists against her skin. “You have no fucking idea.”

She moaned softly at his words, her hips moving faster, rubbing herself over him, relishing the way he trembled beneath her, the way his breath came in shallow, fractured bursts as he watched her come apart on top of him.

“Fuck, Hermione—”

With a sudden, fluid movement, Draco lunged forward, sitting up and sealing his mouth over hers. She gasped, her fingers curling into his hair, her thighs tightening around his waist as his hands grabbed her hips, anchoring her against him as he ground up, hard and sure, sending a bolt of white-hot pleasure racing through her.

A whimper spilled from her lips, swallowed instantly by his bruising, desperate kiss.

His hands left her waist, one moving up, up, up, until he was cupping her breast, his thumb flicking over her nipple. She arched into his touch, needing more, needing everything.

“So perfect,” he murmured against her lips. His other hand splayed over her lower back, pressing her flush against him. “Gods, I can’t—” He kissed her again, sloppy and starved. “I can’t get enough of you.”

Her head spun, the heat between them cresting into something unbearable.

Draco’s hands shifted, cradling her face, his thumbs brushing along her cheekbones. His storm-dark eyes held hers, something almost vulnerable beneath the wreckage of his hunger.

“Hermione,” he whispered, his voice thick, his chest rising and falling erratically.

Her breath caught. But before he could say more, his hips rolled up into hers, the hard length of him pressing exactly where she needed him most.

She gasped, arching into him, her nails digging into his shoulders.

“ Yes— ” The word left her in a breathless moan.

He groaned, his entire body trembling beneath her. “Fuck, love—” He captured her lips again, deeper this time, his hips grinding into hers, creating a maddening, perfect friction that had her toes curling, thighs shaking.

“Draco—” 

A harsh, wrecked sound escaped him, and with a sudden twist, he tipped her sideways, rolling her beneath him, pressing her into the soft sheets.

Her skirt bunched around her waist, her thighs spreading wider, her soaked core completely exposed as he slotted himself between her legs.

His hand slid lower, pushing her knee up, spreading her further open for him, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thigh. His other hand threaded through her hair, tugging her head back, giving him more access as his mouth found her throat, leaving bruises she knew she’d still feel tomorrow.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

Hermione gasped, her nails dragging down his back.

“I need—” Draco cut himself off with a ragged groan, his hips jerking into hers, a sharp, instinctual movement that made her cry out. “Gods, I need you, Hermione.”

She was trembling beneath him, the weight of his body, the heat of his skin pressing into her, making her throb with want. Her hands moved on instinct, desperate, needy, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. “Please,” she whispered, her fingers shaking with urgency, her voice barely more than a breath.

He muttered a low curse, his muscles tensing as he yanked his shirt off in one swift movement.

Merlin, he was beautiful.

His pale skin glowed faintly in the dim light, the sharp lines of his shoulders, the tight cut of his stomach, the way the shadows caught against his ribs, the faint scars that carved over his skin—all of it made her ache.

And then—he was back on her.

His hands, his mouth—everywhere at once. His tongue flicked over her nipple, a jolt of pure heat spearing through her, making her arch into him, her fingers burying into his hair.

His hand slid down, fingertips dragging over her stomach, a slow, torturous descent. When he finally brushed against her, sliding through her drenched, swollen folds, he let out a harsh groan.

“Fuck—” His voice broke, his fingers stroking through her wetness. 

She gasped as he slipped a finger inside her, her back arching off the bed, pleasure tearing through her.

“Draco—”

He swallowed his name, his mouth crushing against hers, tongue tangling, devouring, claiming as his finger curled inside her, stroking her in deep, slow, devastating movements.

“More,” she begged, her voice desperately high.

He pushed a second finger inside her with a groan, her walls stretching, fluttering around him, welcoming him in. The stretch made her gasp, pleasure sparking down her spine.

“That’s it, love, take it,” he growled, his thumb rolling over her clit, fingers twisting, pressing deeper, curling just right.

She was climbing, teetering, spiraling, but there was one thing she wanted more than anything.

More than his fingers.

Summoning what little coordination she had left, Hermione’s hand slipped between them, seeking him, needing him.

The moment she cupped him, Draco’s rhythm stuttered, his entire body jerking, his fingers stilling inside her.

“Hermione—” 

His hand shot down to grab her wrist, and for a brief, terrifying second, she thought he was going to stop her. That he was going to pull away again.

Did he not want—

But then—his fingers wrapped around hers, guiding her, holding her palm flat against his length, pressing her tighter against him. His expression twisted with pleasure, his body tensing, his hips grinding into her palm, rubbing himself against her touch.

He looked ruined, undone, wrecked—and all because of her.

It made something dark and powerful unfurl in her chest.

She squeezed him tentatively, dragging her palm up and down, teasing the shape of him through his trousers, watching the way his breath hitched, the way his head tipped back, the way his entire body trembled.

“Fuck, Granger, I—”

Then suddenly—he pulled her hand away, his grip tight on her wrist as he let out a shaky exhale, like stopping her physically pained him. His gaze met hers, dark and wild, before he shifted between her legs again, pressing himself against her soaked, swollen core.

And then—his fingers were inside her again, deep, perfect, filling.

A sharp, broken moan tore from her lips.

Draco crushed his mouth to hers, swallowing the sound, grinding his cock against her clit in perfect rhythm with his fingers.

“Oh, gods—” She gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders, holding onto him.

His pace quickened, his fingers thrusting into her deeper, sharper, hitting that spot that made her entire body tense, tighten, teeter on the edge of oblivion.

“That’s it, love,” he murmured, his lips dragging down her throat, his voice thick and desperate. “Come for me—fuck, I want to feel you—”

The coil inside her snapped.

A choked, helpless cry ripped from her throat, her entire body seizing, waves of pleasure rolling through her, her walls fluttering around his fingers.

Draco groaned against her throat, his own body trembling, rutting against her with desperate, erratic thrusts, his cock pulsing against her.

Then, he stilled, a low, guttural moan spilling from his lips. His entire body jerked as warmth spread between them, soaking through the fabric of his trousers, mingling with her own slick.

The sensation sent another shiver of pleasure rolling through her, her thighs clenching around him as the aftershocks ripped through her.

For a long moment, the room was silent except for their panting breaths.

When she opened her eyes, Draco was still above her, his head tipped back, his chest rising and falling in heavy, unsteady movements.

And then she saw them.

His fangs.

Draco’s voice broke the silence, shaky and filled with something close to shame.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered, not meeting her gaze. “I shouldn’t have…”

“Shh,” she whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek, tilting his face toward her as she watched his fangs retract. Her touch stilled him, and his eyes opened, red and glowing faintly.

She ran her thumb over his cheekbone, soft, reassuring. “You’re not allowed to pull away from me again.”

Draco’s eyes widened, the crimson rapidly fading.

“Hermione…” he began, but his voice trailed off, and a low, almost disbelieving laugh escaped him. He pressed his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her lips.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

She smiled, tilting her head to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

“I hope not,” she murmured against his lips.

Draco let out another quiet, breathless laugh before his expression shifted, his silver eyes flickering downward.

His gaze locked onto the mess between them, his face flushing as a low, mortified groan rumbled from his chest.

“Merlin, I just came in my pants.”

Hermione giggled.

“I liked it,” she admitted, her cheeks burning as she glanced away shyly.

Draco’s lips twitched into a smirk, but there was something softer there, too, something tender.

His hand cupped her face, brushing his thumb over her cheek before he leaned in again, kissing her slower this time. Deeper. 

When he pulled back, he sighed, pushing himself off the bed.

“I need to change,” he muttered, running a hand through his tousled hair.

He grabbed a pair of pajama pants from his trunk and tossed one of his shirts to her.

“Here. Put this on.”

She caught it, the fabric soft between her fingers, and her heart fluttered at the casual intimacy of the gesture. She watched as he disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving her alone with the wreckage of what had just happened.

Her body still buzzed, a slow, sweet aftershock rolling through her limbs, but it wasn’t just from her own pleasure. It was from his.

He had let himself go. Finally.

Even if he had still been holding back, still been careful, still hadn’t given her everything, he had let himself feel with her. Had let himself come apart beneath her touch, lose himself in her, find pleasure with her. That alone had felt intoxicating.

She wanted more.

It had been so easy to push him there, to draw those ragged, desperate sounds from his lips, to feel him grind into her palm, gasping her name like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. The way he had jerked against her, trembling and panting in the aftermath, his release spilling against her skin—she loved it. 

She could see herself becoming addicted to it. To him.

She ran her fingers absently over the fabric of his shirt before pulling it over her head. It swallowed her whole, the sleeves hanging loose, the hem brushing mid-thigh. 

Would he let himself go like that again?

Gods, she hoped so.

The bathroom door creaked open.

Her gaze snapped up—and her breath stalled.

Draco stepped out, wearing only black pajama bottoms slung low on his hips. The dim light of the room played across his pale, toned torso, highlighting the faint lines of muscle that shifted with each of his movements. 

Her mouth went dry.

Merlin, how could he still look so effortlessly perfect? The firewhisky-induced haze had mostly worn off, but it did nothing to dull the hunger that simmered in her chest. She was shocked at her own reaction—how, after everything they had just done, the simple sight of him could still make her want him all over again.

He caught her staring, his lips quirking into a faint smirk as his gaze swept over her in return. When he reached the bed, he dropped down next to her, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her against his chest. 

She couldn’t help but melt into him.

His breath ghosted against her temple, lips brushing her hairline, his voice low and teasing. “You look good in my clothes.”

Her cheeks flushed, but she couldn’t stop the small, satisfied smile that tugged at her lips.

“You think so?”

Draco hummed, his fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns along her back.

“Mhm.” His grip tightened, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You should wear them more often.”

She laughed quietly, the sound muffled against his chest.

They stayed like that, wrapped in each other, the world outside his dormitory fading away. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear was calming, and as her eyes fluttered shut, she felt a spark of hope.

Maybe he was starting to trust himself more around her. Maybe this was the beginning of something steady—something they could build together, even with all the uncertainties that surrounded them.

Draco tightened his arm around her as if sensing her thoughts, his lips brushing her forehead in a silent promise. She sighed contentedly, her body sinking deeper into the safety of his embrace.

“Goodnight, Draco.”

“Goodnight, Granger.”

Chapter Text

Hermione stirred awake to the scent of Draco. He was everywhere, embedded in the sheets, clinging to her skin, curling in the air around her—cedarwood and mint, something cool and sharp yet undeniably warm.

She let herself sink into it, inhaling deeply, her body stretching beneath the soft covers. She ached in the most delicious way, a slow, lazy pull of pleasure curling through her limbs, the ghost of his touch still imprinted on her skin. She wanted to stay like this forever—wrapped in the aftermath of him, in the lingering heat of last night.

Her fingers instinctively reached for him, seeking the solid strength of his body beside her. But instead, she found only cool, empty sheets.

Her eyes fluttered open, sleep-blurred and slow, a frown forming as she ran her hand over the space where he should be.

The curtains were still drawn, softening the dim light in the room, but something about the emptiness beside her left her feeling unmoored. She pushed herself up on one elbow, her fingers brushing the fabric of the bed hangings, and gently pulled them aside.

The room was still and quiet, orderly save for the way his trunk was slightly ajar, a neatly folded oxford shirt draped lazily over its edge. But no Draco.

The steady hum of water from the adjoining bathroom drew her attention.

She flushed instantly, her sleep-fogged mind turning treacherous in an instant. She couldn’t stop the images that flooded her—Draco, naked and dripping wet, steam curling over his sharp collarbones, water trailing in slow, lazy rivulets down his stomach, over the deep V of his hips, lower—

Oh, bloody hell.

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to exhale, to banish the thought before she went completely mad.

Last night had already left her wanting, left her so hopelessly restless, and now her mind was determined to torture her.

Before she could sink deeper into dangerous thoughts, the hallway door creaked open.

Theo strolled in, his movements slow and unbothered, a knowing smirk already in place. His sharp gaze swept the room before landing on her—her wild curls, on the way she was still tangled in Draco’s sheets, on the oversized shirt swallowing her whole.

Hermione’s cheeks burned immediately as she sat up straighter, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Don't start," she snapped before he could say a word.

Theo’s grin widened like he’d just won a bet.

"Morning, Granger," he drawled, strolling toward his desk, gathering his books. "Sleep well?"

Her mouth opened—then shut.

Theo laughed, a low, teasing sound, and Hermione wanted to die.

"I hope it was worth it," he added, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "Blaise and I had to sleep in the common room, you know."

"Oh, Theo, I didn’t mean to—"

The soft click of the bathroom door opening cut her off.

“Don’t let Theo guilt-trip you,” Draco’s voice came, edged with dry amusement. “He would’ve passed out on the couch anyway with how much he had to drink.”

Hermione’s gaze snapped to him.

And— Merlin —every thought in her head short-circuited.

It was sinful, how good he looked wet. 

Draco leaned casually against the doorway, wearing only a towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water clinging to his skin, trailing down his chest, over the sharp lines of his stomach, disappearing beneath the towel.

Her mouth went dry.

A deep, helpless heat pooled low in her belly, her body remembering the way those muscles had felt beneath her hands, the way he had trembled against her, desperate and moaning.

Theo snorted, clearly unfazed by Draco’s lack of clothing. “You’re probably right,” he said breezily, grabbing the last of his things. But as he turned toward the door, he cast Hermione one last look, his smirk sharp.

“Young love,” he quipped, sighing dramatically.

Her stomach flipped.

Draco shot him a murderous glare, but Theo just winked and slipped out, closing the door behind him. 

Silence.

Draco cleared his throat, shifting slightly, the faintest hint of pink coloring his cheeks. His gaze dragged over her, softening as he took her in—still wrapped in his shirt, still sitting in his bed, still looking at him like he was a Greek God.

"You look good in my bed," he murmured. "In fact, I think I only want to see you in it from now on.”

Something in her chest squeezed painfully.

She ducked her head, biting back a smile, warmth curling through her as she pushed the covers off, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She stood, tugging the hem of his shirt down, suddenly aware of how very little she was wearing beneath it.

“I should… shower. And change,” she mumbled, gesturing vaguely toward the bathroom.

She stepped forward, but before she could take more than a single step, Draco’s hand caught her wrist.

“Wait,” he said softly, pulling her gently back toward him. His free hand cupped her face, his thumb brushing over her cheek. 

Before she could respond, his lips were on hers—firm, demanding, and achingly tender.

A shudder rolled through her as she melted into him, pressing closer, clutching at him, her fingers sliding up over his damp chest, tracing over the hard planes of muscle, his scars, the drops of water still clinging to him.

He groaned against her mouth, his grip tightening slightly, his towel riding lower on his hips as she shifted against him, chasing the warmth of his touch.

When they broke apart, she was breathless, her head spinning.

"It’s not fair how good-looking you are," she blurted before she could stop herself.

Draco chuckled.

“You’re one to talk,” he murmured, pressing a final, lingering kiss to her forehead before letting her go.

“Go on, Granger. Shower. We’ve got class.”

She nodded, her cheeks still flushed as she slipped past him and into the bathroom, the warmth of his lingering touch burning against her skin. As she stepped under the warm spray of the shower, Theo’s parting words echoed in her head.

Young love.

Her chest tightened, her breath coming short as realization slammed into her all at once, devastating in its simplicity.

She was in love with him.

Hopelessly. Irrevocably. Stupidly in love with Draco Malfoy.

The thought sent a jolt through her, leaving her breathless, dizzy, almost unsteady on her feet. She leaned against the shower wall to ground herself, fingers pressing hard against the cool tiles.

If someone had told her four months ago that she would be standing in Draco Malfoy’s shower, skin still flushed from his touch, aching for him in ways she couldn’t name, she would have laughed in their face.

And yet, here she was.

Not just craving him, not just wanting him—but needing him. Like air, like magic, like something vital inside her would stop working if he wasn’t there.

How had this happened?

She stepped out of the shower, trying to trace the path that had led her here, but it was impossible. Somewhere between his sharp wit and unexpected kindness, between the way he made her feel wanted, cherished, seen—she had fallen.

And Merlin, she had fallen hard.

A shaky exhale left her lips as she dried herself off. The realization should terrify her. It should have sent her into a spiral of doubt, of panic. But instead—she felt whole. Like something inside her had finally settled, like the missing piece of a puzzle had clicked into place.

But did he feel the same?

He had to.

… Didn’t he?

She replayed the night in her mind—the way he had touched her like she was something sacred, the desperation in his voice when he lost himself against her, the way his body had trembled in her hands.

But doubt gnawed at her, sharp and insidious. What if this was different for him? What if this was just… something less? A thing to be indulged in but never truly kept.

She sucked in a slow breath, willing the thought away. No.

He was hers.

And she was his.

The evidence was all over her skin.

She turned to the mirror, the glass still fogged slightly from the heat of the shower. She wiped a hand across it, revealing her reflection—same familiar brown eyes, same spattering of freckles, but there was something different now.

Something flushed and raw in the way her skin glowed.

Her lips parted slightly, her fingers ghosting over her neck. Hickeys bloomed across her skin, dark and bruised, the edges tinged in a deep purple that sent a fresh rush of heat spiraling low in her stomach.

His mark was everywhere.

A slow, shuddering exhale left her lips as she trailed her fingers lower, brushing over the places where his hands had gripped her, where his mouth had claimed her. 

She traced a particularly dark hickey just below her collarbone, pressing lightly. A faint tenderness bloomed beneath her touch, sending a tremor through her body.

I never want to be without this.

The thought rose unbidden, bold and dangerous, curling in her mind like fire. She wanted his marks. She wanted him.

Forever.

Her gaze drifted to her palm, to the faint silvery scar left behind from his bite. It had healed too quickly.

She wanted more.

She wanted his bites to map her body. To leave a trail of possession, something only he could give her.

Her pulse fluttered wildly as she imagined it—his mouth, his teeth, sinking into her neck, her wrists, her thighs. The image was too much, too consuming, too right.

A sharp pang of longing tore through her, so visceral she had to brace herself against the counter.

Gods. What was he doing to her?

A knock of reality snapped her back. She had things to do, classes, responsibilities. Plus, there was still the whole issue with the spawn. She couldn’t stay here, lost in the haze of wanting him.

She forced herself to move, turning to grab her clothes—only to find them missing.

With dawning realization, she remembered: her clothes were still outside, scattered across Draco’s floor.

For a fleeting second, she considered calling out to him, asking him to bring them to her. It would be simple, logical. Practical.

But then she imagined it.

Imagined his hungry eyes sweeping over her, his lips parting slightly as he realized she was standing there, damp and flushed, wrapped in nothing but a towel.

Her breath hitched.

She loved the way he looked at her. Loved the way his gaze made her feel like the only person in the world.

A slow, reckless heat coiled in her stomach.

Her fingers tightened on the knot of her towel, ensuring it was secure before she squared her shoulders. She took one last glance at herself in the mirror. Her skin still glowed, flushed from the shower and the impossible, aching need that hadn’t dulled.

She allowed herself a small smile, pushing away her insecurities. 

You look good, she told herself. 

Then, with a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped out into Draco’s room. 

The shift in temperature was immediate. A cool draft raised goosebumps along her bare arms and legs, her exposed skin suddenly hyperaware of just how little was covering her. Her eyes flickered toward the floor, toward where her clothes should have been, but before she could move, low voices near the door caught her attention.

She froze.

Draco and Blaise stood there, deep in conversation.

Draco leaned casually against the doorframe, still wearing only a towel. His broad shoulders were relaxed, but there was something in the way he held himself—something tense, as if he were barely tolerating whatever was being said. Blaise, ever composed, gestured slightly as he spoke, his voice too low for her to make out the words.

A sharp instinct to retreat, to slip back into the safety of the bathroom clawed at her. She took a half-step backward.

The wood creaked.

Both men turned toward her.

Blaise’s dark eyes widened for a fraction of a second before his gaze snapped downward, the sharp line of his jaw tightening. An unmistakable blush deepening against his dark skin.

But Draco—

Draco didn’t look away.

His eyes latched onto her, dark and burning.

He straightened slowly, his body going still in a way that sent a shiver of awareness down her spine.

“Out.”

Without so much as a ‘bye’, Blaise turned on his heel, slipping out the door in one fluid movement.

The door clicked shut, leaving Hermione and Draco alone in the sudden quiet. He was still staring at her. His gaze crawled over her, searing in its intensity, a heat that locked her in place, made her skin prickle under his scrutiny.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of her towel.

“I—” Her voice came out small and breathless. She swallowed hard, forcing words past the lump in her throat. “I didn’t know anyone else was here.”

Draco said nothing as he stalked toward her. 

She felt him before he even touched her, felt the tension thrumming in his muscles, the energy crackling between them like a live wire.

He stopped just in front of her, towering over her smaller frame.

His gaze dropped to her neck, and his fingers followed, grazing just above her collarbone, tracing the bruised marks he’d left there last night. Her entire body responded to his touch—breath hitching, pulse fluttering, heat blooming low in her stomach.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Mine,” he whispered, the word reverberating between them. 

Her heart slammed against her ribs, the echo of that word lodging itself deep, carving itself into her very being.

Mine.

His touch drifted lower, skimming the delicate line of her collarbone, moving with excruciating slowness toward the edge of her towel. Her heart pounded as she watched his long fingers tug at the fabric, a gasp falling from her lips as it slipped from her and pooled at her feet.

Draco’s breath hitched as his eyes swept over her, slow and consuming, drinking her in as if it were his first time seeing her naked.

The way he looked at her made her want to fall to her knees and worship him instead. 

His hands drifted to her waist, tracing the bruises and marks he had left on her. His fingers ghosted over her ribs, skimming the delicate space beneath her breasts, mapping the evidence of his claim.

A sigh escaped her, soft and shaky, barely more than breath.

“You wear them so well,” he murmured.

His other hand tilted her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

He was so close now, his presence a tangible thing, the scent of him curling around her, sinking into her bones.

Slowly, he leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a kiss that was intimate and unhurried, a stark contrast to the fiery passion of last night. She melted into it, her hands drifting to his chest, her fingers skimming over his hard muscles.

Mine, mine, mine.

The thought echoed through her, spilling into the way she kissed him, the way her tongue chased his, the way her body pressed into him, seeking more.

A soft, needy whimper slipped past her lips and Draco groaned, deepening the kiss by tangling his hands in her hair, angling her head just how he wanted it. She tugged at his hair in return, fingers lost in the silky strands. 

With a low growl, he lifted her up.

Her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, her body pressing flush against his and she flushed in embarrassment as the wetness between her thighs slicked his abdomen, her cunt rubbing against the hard planes of him. 

A strangled moan ripped from her throat at the feel of his skin against hers, and Draco let out a harsh broken curse. 

His grip on her tightened, fingers digging into her thighs as he stumbled toward the bed, his breath coming faster. The second her back hit the bed, he was on her, his mouth covering hers in a kiss that was all hunger, all need. 

Her hands tangled into his hair, pulling him impossibly closer as she arched beneath him, the hard muscles of his chest grazing her breasts, sending a fresh wave of heat spiraling low in her belly. She wanted to feel him—all of him—against her.

Draco’s hands slid down, gripping her waist, holding her still as his mouth left hers.

His lips trailed lower, dragging across her jaw, down the column of her throat. He sucked softly at the delicate skin just beneath her ear, his teeth scraping over the bruises he had left the night before.

Hermione gasped, her back arching into him.

His mouth latched onto a nipple, sucking gently, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak before kissing lower, his breath warm against her stomach, his lips ghosting over the faint imprints of his hands from last night.

She couldn’t take it.

She needed him closer.

Needed his weight pressing her down, his chest flush against hers, no space, no air, nothing between them.

“Draco,” she whispered, reaching for him, her fingers trembling as she tugged at his shoulders.

He obeyed with a sharp inhale, moving back up her body, pressing himself into hers as if he knew exactly what she needed.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her nipples grazing his chest, the sensitive peaks brushing against the ridges of his muscles, his scars. The friction sent a fresh rush of wetness pooling between her thighs, her skin burning at the contact.

His thigh slid between her legs as he lost himself in her lips again, pressing against her slick, aching core. She rolled her hips, rubbing herself against him.

It was too much and not enough.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered against her lips, his voice hoarse. “You’re soaked.”

Tentatively, her hands slid lower, brushing over his waist, reaching for the loose towel still clinging to his hips.

Draco’s hands snapped down, catching her wrists before she could pull it away. His forehead dropped to hers, his breath uneven against her lips.

“Too fast,” he whispered, his voice strained.

Hermione whined, shifting beneath him, her fingers twitching in his grasp.

“I just…” she swallowed hard, her throat tight. “I just want to see you.”

Draco let out a sharp, shaky exhale.

Her eyes searched his, pleading.

“We don’t have to do everything right now,” she whispered.

She could feel the way his fingers tightened around her wrists, holding on, barely holding himself together.

“Please.”

A flicker of red flashed in his silver irises.

Hermione held her breath, something deep and primal curling low in her belly at the sight.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling deeply, his grip on her wrists still firm.

“I don’t know if I can,” he admitted, his voice raw.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat.

“Please,” she whispered again, her lips brushing against his. “I’ll be good. I won’t touch.”

Draco groaned, a pained devastated sound, taking a deep inhale before his eyes flickered open again, silver once more.

“Alright,” he whispered.

Hermione barely had time to exhale before he released her hands and, in one fluid motion, hooked his fingers into the knot of his towel.

She watched, wide-eyed, pulse hammering, as he slowly tugged it loose.

The fabric slipped from his hips—falling away, forgotten.

Her breath left her.

Merlin.

He was—fuck.

Her eyes raked over the length of him, drinking him in, unable to stop herself.

Hard, thick, swollen—his cock bobbed prettily against his abdomen, flushed a deep pink, the head glistening with a bead of moisture. A prominent vein ran down the length, pulsing, almost throbbing. 

She had seen one before—once, years ago, hidden between the glossy pages of some abandoned Muggle magazine. But this? This was entirely different.

He was larger, and far more beautiful than she had expected.

She didn’t even realize she had been biting her lip until a low groan tore from Draco’s throat.

"Fuck, Granger," he rasped

Her gaze snapped up to his. His pupils were so dilated that his irises were nothing but thin silver rings.

"If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to lose it."

She swallowed hard, her entire body aflame. She shouldn’t be this fascinated, this desperate, but she was practically salivating over it.

Maybe… maybe he would let her touch.

Her hands itched with the need to feel him, to wrap her fingers around him, to know what that hard, flushed skin felt like beneath her touch.

Slowly, she dragged her fingers down his chest, mapping the lean muscle, tracing the faint, pale scars across his torso.

She looked up, eyes wide, a silent question hanging between them.

Can I?

Draco swore under his breath, his hips jerking forward before he could stop himself. She gasped as the movement sent the swollen head of his cock gliding up her thigh.

Oh, gods—he was so, so close to where she needed him most.

When she looked back down at him, he was even more pink, his cock twitching, glistening, desperate.

“Draco,” she whimpered, the sound high, pleading.

"Fuck," he groaned, his hands flying to her face, his mouth crushing against hers, swallowing her soft cries.

His fingers found hers, tugging her hand to his cock, wrapping it around the rigid heat of him.

Hermione moaned, the sound swallowed between their lips.

Yes.

He was so hard, so warm, the weight of him heavy in her palm. His hand covered hers, guiding her, helping her find a rhythm, dragging her hand up his length, then back down.

"Just like that," he groaned against her lips, his forehead dropping to her shoulder as she stroked him.

Her fingers tightened slightly, reveling in the way he trembled under her touch, the way he moaned.

Gods, the way he moaned.

She was obsessed.

Obsessed with how he sounded, how he felt, how he unraveled beneath her hands.

Her own body burned, every nerve hypersensitive, desperate for relief. Without thinking, she used the next pass of her hand to pull him down closer, pressing their bodies flush and arching her hips, dragging him against her slick.

Draco whimpered.

It was her new favorite sound. 

He tore his lips from her throat, his head snapping up, his eyes blown so wide they looked nearly black.

"Oh, fuck—Hermione—fuck—fuck—"

She gasped, the friction delicious, the heat of his cock pressing against the slickness of her cunt sending shivers up her spine.

She did it again, rolling her hips, rubbing herself along the thick length of him.

“Draco,” she breathed, barely able to form words.

With a desperate growl, he ripped himself from her grip.

Before she could protest, his hands grabbed her hips, hauling her up onto his lap as he positioned her thighs over his. Her back arched off the bed, her head falling back as he sat back and brought her heat closer to him. 

She looked up at him—and nearly fell apart at the sight.

He was a mess. His hair disheveled, his face flushed, his jaw slack. And, fuck. His fangs were out, his irises glowing red. 

He was so beautiful it hurt.

Still gripping her hips with one hand, he grabbed his cock with the other and started sliding himself along her folds, coating himself in her wetness.

He hissed through his teeth, his grip bruising.

"Fuck—Hermione—feel so good.”

She gasped, her thighs trembling at the feel of him. 

Their panting breaths filled the room, mixing with the obscene, slick sounds of his cock sliding against her.

“Oh, gods—Draco, I—”

Her fingers dug into his forearms, clinging to him, her body climbing higher, tighter, every slide of him pushing her closer.

He looked down, groaning as his eyes locked onto where their bodies met. She followed his gaze—and nearly lost her mind.

It was— Merlin.

It was the most obscene, gorgeous thing she’d ever seen.

His cock, thick and flushed, drenched in her slick. A primal sort of possession came over her at the sight. 

He was hers. 

Draco let out a choked noise, something between a groan and a whine.

“Hermione, I—fuck, I don’t think I can—stop, I—”

“Don’t stop,” she moaned, breathless, heels digging into the mattress as she tilted her hips up, desperate to feel more. “Please, don’t stop.”

His next rut forward was harder, messier, more frantic. The thick head of his cock caught at her entrance, dragging against the swollen, soaked flesh there, and the sensation slammed through her like a curse. Her breath caught. Her name—his voice—her body—

It broke her.

She came with a strangled cry, arching into him, her fingers curling hard around his forearms, nails biting into skin. Her body clenched and shook, every muscle pulled tight, and the rush of it hit so fast she barely had time to realize she was falling.

Above her, Draco groaned like he was in pain and dropped forward, his face pressing into her neck as he thrust once more, shallow, uncontrolled. He slid wetly against her, catching again just inside—and then he was coming too, with her name torn from his throat like a plea.

She felt it spill between them—hot and heavy and desperate—his release slicking her cunt, his hips still stuttering against hers. He kept moving, dragging himself through the mess, smearing them together with slow, messy thrusts as the aftershocks rolled through both of them.

Hermione couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

He was still on top of her, still hard, still trembling as he moved against her folds like he couldn’t stop. Her legs had gone numb from the tension, her lungs tight with the weight of it all, and still her body ached for more.

That had been… Merlin, that had been everything.

It was everything she’d imagined it would be with him—filthy and desperate and sweet in a way that made her chest ache. But if this—just grinding, just his cock sliding against her, just their bodies slipping together in the aftermath of restraint— felt like this …

Then what would it feel like when he was inside her?

The thought slammed into her, dizzying and breathless. If this was how her body came undone from the ghost of him, what would happen when there was nothing left between them? No barriers. No hesitation. Just the stretch of him filling her completely, the weight of him pressing her down as he fucked her open?

She wanted to know. Gods, she wanted it so badly it hurt.

Wanted him. Again and again and again.

Never wanted to leave this bed.

With him, the world didn’t exist. There was no threat of war. No spawn. No danger. Just his breath against her neck, his weight pressing her into the mattress, the slow slick drag of his cock as he came down from it.

She tried to look between them, dazed and aching—but he was still covering her, unmoving. Still shaking.

Her gaze flicked to the side—and that’s when she saw it.

His arm.

Bent at an odd angle, fangs buried deep in his flesh. His jaw clenched, blood trailing in slow rivulets down his forearm. His body shuddered with every ragged breath.

“Draco?” she whispered, panic flaring.

His eyes opened slowly, red still bleeding through silver. He blinked once, then twice, and with effort, pulled his mouth away from his arm.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her hands flying up to check his skin. Her fingers ghosted over the punctures, the torn muscle underneath.

He flinched.

He still wouldn't look at her. “I—I almost…” His voice cracked. “That was too close.”

Her heart clenched painfully.

He thought this had been a mistake.

“No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “You didn’t hurt me. You still controlled yourself. You stopped.”

His eyes met hers then, filled with something too jagged to name.

“I could have.” His voice was low, hollow. “You don’t understand, Hermione. You deserve someone normal. Someone who can give you this without… without making it dangerous. Someone who doesn’t lose his fucking mind every time you moan his name.”

She felt the words like a slap.

Her throat tightened. But she didn’t look away.

“I don’t want someone normal,” she said softly. “I trust you. I only want you.”

His eyes flashed as a groan spilled from his lips—low, guttural, pained.

“I’m addicted to you,” he rasped, like it was something shameful. “It’s dangerous, how much I want you. You should push me away, Granger. Before I do something—before I forget myself—”

“No.”

The word came out firm, trembling with truth.

A flicker of hurt passed through her chest at his doubt. But she buried it, rising to meet him instead, her hands framing his jaw.

“I don’t want anyone else. Do you hear me? No one else.”

And then—she pulled him down into a kiss.

He hesitated only a second before sinking into her, his lips finding hers with bruising desperation. His mouth tasted of blood—iron-rich and thick, copper curling on her tongue—and she startled.

But instead of pulling away, she moaned.

She liked it.

The taste. The weight. The strange, dark sweetness of it.

Gods, what was wrong with her?

Just weeks ago, the sight of blood made her nauseous. But now—now she could drown in the taste of it if it meant having him like this. She’d bleed for him, and lick it from his lips, and still want more.

Draco groaned into the kiss, his hands flying to her waist, holding her like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. He pulled back, breathless, eyes blazing.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, placing a kiss to her neck. Then another. And another.

“I would never hurt you.” A kiss just beneath her jaw. “I’ll always protect you.”

The words poured from him like a prayer, frantic and reverent.

Hermione didn’t speak—just ran her hands over his back, grounding him. Letting him say what he needed to say. Letting him worship her.

Because that’s what this was—worship.

His mouth moved lower, brushing over her collarbone, down the valley between her breasts. He kissed each one in turn, slowly, carefully. His lips trailed lower, over the soft swell of her stomach.

His gaze caught there.

At the mess between them.

His come, slick and pale against her skin.

He stared at it for a moment, like it rooted him to the earth.

Then—his fingers dragged through it, slow and filthy, spreading it over her belly, rubbing it into her skin with reverent care.

Hermione gasped, heat curling low again, thick and aching.

Draco groaned softly. “Fuck…”

But after another moment, he lifted his hand with a reluctant flick, vanishing the mess with a wandless Scourgify like it pained him to do so.

She felt the loss keenly.

He didn’t speak. Just kept kissing her. Over her hips, her thighs, her ribs—everywhere. Like he needed to mark every inch of her skin with his mouth. As if he could imprint safety through touch alone.

Eventually, he settled beside her again, his face pressed into the crook of her neck, breathing her in.

His body finally stilled.

Hermione held him, one hand tangled in his damp hair, the other stroking slow lines across his spine. He felt so solid like this. So real.

They lay there in silence for what felt like hours, but could only have been minutes. The sun crept higher. The castle stirred around them.

Soon, they'd have to get dressed. Pretend to be normal. Pretend not to be two people who had just come completely undone.

But for now, in this quiet, in this bed—

Hermione let herself feel it.

The weight of her love for him.

It was terrifying. How much she cared. How far she would go. What she would give. What she wouldn’t give.

But it was real. And it was hers.

And she would never take it back.

Chapter Text

Hermione walked beside Draco through the dim, winding corridors of the dungeons, their steps echoing softly over the stone floor. The air was cool, heavy with the familiar scent of damp stone and old magic, but his hand in hers made it bearable. He held her like he didn’t know how not to—fingers woven tightly between hers, his thumb tracing slow, hypnotic circles over her knuckles. The gesture was subtle, instinctive. Possessive.

It grounded her. And gods, she needed grounding.

Her body still ached from the morning—from the way he’d touched her, held her, worshipped her like she was something precious. The press of his weight, the slick drag of his body against hers, the way he’d come apart saying her name like it was the only word he’d ever learned. It was still echoing through her. He was still echoing through her.

Mine.

He’d whispered it like a truth, like a vow. And she'd felt it in her chest, felt it lock into place behind her ribs, anchoring itself there.

She was his. And he was hers. She believed that with every inch of her body. Every beat of her heart.

But even now—even walking beside him with the ghost of his touch still warm on her skin—she couldn’t stop the way her thoughts kept spiraling. Curling tight around something small and sharp that had started digging into her the moment she’d seen Blaise in the room that morning. The two of them talking in hushed tones. The flicker of tension in Draco’s shoulders. 

Dread sat heavy in her chest. 

Her fingers flexed against his. She needed to know.

“What were you and Blaise talking about earlier?” she asked, keeping her tone light. Offhand. As if the question hadn’t been festering in her chest all morning.

Draco’s thumb stilled for a fraction of a second.

Just a pause.

But she felt it.

“We were planning our next hunting trip,” he said finally.

Her fingers tightened in his. “When?” she whispered.

His reply was slow. Careful. “This afternoon.”

She blinked up at him, her throat suddenly too tight.

This afternoon.

He must’ve seen it on her face—how quickly her glow from earlier had dimmed—because his voice softened, a flicker of guilt passing over his expression.

“I know I went yesterday,” he said, “but…” He glanced away, jaw tightening. “This morning only made it worse.”

Heat bloomed in her face at the memory, but it didn’t last.

She should have known. Of course it had made it worse. She’d felt him shaking. She’d seen his fangs, the blood on his arm. She hadn’t been stupid enough to think it was gone.

But a selfish part of her had hoped—just for a little while—that the morning had given him something. Sated him. Anchored him.

Instead, it had only awakened the hunger more.

She bit the inside of her cheek, hard. Her eyes prickled.

It wasn’t fair.

She wanted to argue. Wanted to turn to him and say, You wouldn’t need to go if you just drank from me. The words hovered on the edge of her tongue, burning.

Because it was true. If he just let himself trust her—if he’d stop treating her blood like something forbidden, like a trap waiting to be sprung—then maybe he wouldn’t have to keep slipping away like this. Maybe they could find a way to meet the hunger together. To carry it together.

But she didn’t say it.

She knew he wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not even after everything they’d shared.

So instead, she swallowed the urge down and tried not to let the silence stretch into something brittle and broken between them.

“I’ll be back before dinner,” Draco said gently, as if sensing her thoughts. His thumb started stroking over her knuckles again, the motion slow and coaxing. “If you’ll eat with me, that is.”

She forced herself to nod. “Okay.”

But her voice was thin. And the smile she gave him didn’t quite reach her eyes.

They walked on, her pulse roaring louder in her ears than their footsteps. Her hand stayed in his, but the steadiness of it no longer felt like enough. She hated this part—this helpless waiting. This constant, gnawing fear that one day he wouldn’t come back. That one day, he’d lose control or be caught or pushed too far.

Every time he left, it felt like a piece of her went with him.

And she didn’t know how many more pieces she could afford to lose.

Draco hadn’t said anything for a minute, and she could feel him watching her now, like he was trying to read her expression without asking the questions he didn’t want the answers to.

Then—too casually—he said, “So, are you absolutely sure you don’t want to go to the Yule Ball?”

The question was so absurdly out of place it took her a second to process it. Hermione blinked, whipping her head toward him.

“What?” she asked, her voice sharp with disbelief.

Her frustration was already raw, her emotions crackling too close to the surface—and the sudden shift in topic made her feel like she’d missed a step in the dark.

Draco lifted a brow, giving her a half-smile like it was all terribly reasonable. “You heard me.”

She stared at him, trying to decide if he was being deliberately ridiculous or if this was some deranged attempt at distraction.

She could still feel the aftershocks of fear pressing against her ribs. He was going hunting again. Today. And now he wanted to talk about the bloody Yule Ball?

“Why are you bringing that up now?” she asked, voice tight.

He squeezed her hand, his touch gentle and steady even as his expression stayed maddeningly unreadable. “Because the plans I had for us that night… they’ve been canceled.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“Unforeseen complications,” he said, far too vaguely.

Hermione bristled. Every nerve in her body wanted to demand more—what complications, Draco? Does this have something to do with the spawn? With your next hunt? With you not trusting yourself enough to be alone with me for too long without needing to rip your own arm open again?

But before she could press, before she could be cruel, his tone shifted, softer now. Almost hesitant.

“But… if you’re up for it, I’d like to take you to the Ball.”

The words landed like a stone in still water. Hermione blinked, startled. The sudden softness in his voice tripped her, made her falter.

Her mind conjured the Great Hall glittering in frost and candlelight, the sharp sweep of gowns swirling to music. The noise, the eyes, the sheer visibility of it made her chest tighten with something akin to anxiety. But then she pictured Draco there—his hand at the small of her back, silver eyes on her alone, dressed in formal robes and looking like sin.

Oh.

“I don’t have a dress,” she said quickly, reaching for the first excuse that came to mind.

He didn’t miss a beat. “What about the one you wore in fourth year?”

She stumbled slightly, feet faltering as her head snapped toward him. “You… remember what I wore?”

He kept walking, his stride smooth and composed, but there was a tightness in his shoulders now—like he’d said too much. He glanced down at her, silver gaze steady.

“Who wouldn’t remember how good you looked that night?”

Her breath caught in her throat. Heat bloomed under her skin, crawling up her neck, blooming in her cheeks.

She remembered that night too, of course she did—the periwinkle gown, the way the fabric had shimmered under the enchanted snow, the way she’d felt almost unrecognizable, like she was stepping into someone else's life just for an evening. But she’d never imagined he had noticed. That he'd remembered.

“You’re teasing me,” she said, her voice soft and unsure.

His smirk faded, replaced by something deeper—earnest and quietly devastating.

He stopped walking.

“No,” he said. “You were the prettiest girl in Hogwarts that night.” He faced her fully now, thumb brushing the back of her hand. “You still are.”

The words hit harder than they should have. She stared at him, stunned, her throat tightening around something unspoken. How long had he seen her like this? How long had she been walking past him, never realizing he was already looking?

Her lips parted, but no words came. She felt cracked open, exposed. A thousand replies bloomed in her mind, and none made it past her lips.

“Stop overthinking, Granger,” he murmured, the edge of a smirk returning to soften the blow.

Her gaze dropped to their hands, still joined. His thumb was stroking her knuckles again, slow and steady. She swallowed.

“That dress probably doesn’t even fit anymore,” she whispered, trying to duck the weight of his words, to anchor herself back in something practical. Something safe.

He just hummed. “Then we’ll get you a new one.”

Her head snapped up. “Draco, no. You don’t have to—”

“I do,” he interrupted gently but firmly. 

She blinked at him, unsure whether to laugh or argue or cry. “We could just stay in,” she said quickly. “Skip the whole thing. Spend the night together. Quiet. Just us.”

It wasn’t just nerves about the Ball. It was everything else pressing in. The spawn. The lingering threats. The thousand quiet heartaches that came with Draco still holding himself back from her.

But his expression softened. He tilted his head, his thumb still stroking her skin.

“Granger,” he murmured, voice quiet. “I’d really like to take you.”

Something in her buckled at the softness of it. 

Maybe this was his way of apologizing for not being able to give her everything she wanted. Or maybe it was just another distraction—a shiny thing to hang between them so she wouldn’t ask what “complications” meant. But still… she couldn’t bring herself to resent it.

She reached up, brushing a bit of imaginary dust from her sleeve, pretending she needed the extra second before answering.

“I’ll go,” she said finally, her voice soft.

Draco’s whole body relaxed. His shoulders dropped, the invisible weight sliding off like a cloak. His eyes sparked with something she hadn’t seen in a while—joy, unguarded and boyish.

“Good,” he said, smirking again. This time, it reached his eyes. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“But Draco—”

“Let me,” he said, tugging gently at her hand to get them moving again. “Let me take care of you.”

And gods, it undid her. The way he said it. 

She let herself follow him, her fingers tightening in his. She knew what he was doing. She saw the distraction for what it was.

But gods, it was working.

And if pretending—for now—helped them get through the rest of the day, then she’d let herself have it. Even if the edges of her fear hadn’t dulled. Even if she still wanted to scream at him to stay. Even if her heart ached under the surface of every beat.

They were nearly at the doors of the Great Hall when Draco let out a low, amused sound—a quiet huff of laughter that curled like smoke in the air between them.

Hermione frowned, glancing up at him. “What?” 

He stopped just short of the entrance, turning to her with a familiar, infuriating smirk curling across his mouth. His eyes gleamed with that knowing glint that always made her want to hex him and kiss him.

“Ginevra,” he said, voice low and laced with mischief, “is thinking very loudly about all the reasons you didn’t sleep in your bed last night.”

She flushed instantly, heat rising up her neck like wildfire. “Oh, Merlin. She’s going to kill me. Or worse—ask questions.”

“Probably both.”

Hermione groaned, covering her face with her free hand. “I can’t deal with this today. I’m already—”

Draco’s expression shifted in a blink.

Gone was the teasing smirk. His gaze snapped over her shoulder, sharp and cold, and something in the air between them dropped ten degrees.

Hermione stilled. “What?” she asked quickly, turning to look—

But he was already kissing her. 

Without warning. Without hesitation.

Just his mouth on hers—hot, urgent, consuming.

Her startled gasp was swallowed by his mouth, her fingers clutching instinctively at his shoulders as he hauled her closer—closer still—until her toes left the floor entirely. She melted against him, wrapped in the strength of his body, the press of his chest, the iron grip of his hands around her waist. The world fell away, blurred out by the sheer ferocity of the kiss, by the way his tongue tangled with hers like he needed to mark her from the inside out.

Heat flared beneath her skin, her thoughts scattering to the corners of the universe. All she could feel was him—his breath, his hands, his hunger.

When he finally pulled away, she was panting, dazed, lips tingling from the force of it.

And then she saw the reason for it.

Cormac McLaggen, standing awkwardly a few feet away, frozen mid-step, his expression caught somewhere between shock and wounded pride. His eyes darted from Draco to Hermione and back again, and his mouth opened like he wanted to say something—but nothing came out.

Draco’s eyes were locked on Cormac, gleaming with pure, glacial fury.

“Fuck off, McLaggen,” he said coldly. “Unless you’re in the mood to test your pain tolerance.”

Cormac’s jaw snapped shut. He turned without a word and walked away with all the dignity of a kicked Kneazle.

Hermione blinked after him, her cheeks blazing. “Draco,” she hissed, turning back to him. “You can’t just do that in public!”

He raised an eyebrow, completely unrepentant. “Why not?”

Her voice dropped to a sharp whisper. “Because you just snogged me senseless in the middle of the corridor! Anyone could’ve seen. Merlin, it’s— it’s indecent.”

Draco’s smirk turned dark and deliberate. “Good.”

She stared at him, equal parts flustered and breathless. 

His hands, still firm on her waist, squeezed lightly. “Everyone should know you’re mine.”

Her breath caught.

She opened her mouth—then closed it again, because her heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear herself think. “You don’t have to prove anything,” she murmured, her hand brushing lightly against the collar of his shirt. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Draco didn’t let go.

“You don’t hear them,” he said, quieter now, but with a simmering intensity that made her chest ache. “Don’t hear the things they think about you.”

She stilled.

His fingers slid up, cradling the side of her neck, his thumb brushing just beneath her ear like he needed to ground himself. His eyes searched hers, wild with something fragile and furious.

“I can’t stand it,” he admitted. “I can’t—”

She kissed him before he could finish.

Pressed her mouth to his and poured all of it—her fear, her frustration, her love—into the kiss. Because she couldn’t tell him what she felt, not yet. Not without falling apart. But maybe this would be enough for now. Maybe this would help him understand.

When they pulled apart, Draco’s gaze was a little dazed, his lips slightly parted. She could see the edge of a smile forming, a softness creeping back into the hard lines of his face.

“I’ll let you deal with the Weaslette,” he said eventually, voice dry but amused.

Hermione sighed, dragging her fingers down his shirt. “Maybe I’ll just pretend to faint. Less painful.”

Draco chuckled, brushing his nose against hers before stepping back just enough to let her breathe again. His hand lingered in hers as they stepped into the Great Hall, his presence as commanding as ever—shoulders squared, back straight, completely unbothered by the stares they were still getting.

Just before they parted, he gave her hand one last squeeze—firm, grounding, like a promise.

Hermione held on for half a second longer, reluctant to let go.

Then, with a quiet breath, she turned toward her own table, her stomach twisting as her eyes landed on Ginny. Her friend’s wicked grin gleamed from across the room, and Hermione knew there was no escaping the interrogation to come.

Sliding onto the bench beside her, Hermione reached for the teapot like it was a lifeline. Maybe if she kept her head down, if she poured very precisely, if she focused on sugar cubes and not on the absolute mess of her morning, Ginny would—

But nope.

Her best friend cleared her throat dramatically, eyes narrowing, brows arching in theatrical delight.

Hermione exhaled slowly, bracing herself.

“Fine,” she muttered under her breath, her voice dry and flat, making an attempt at nonchalance. “Yes. I spent the night in his room.”

Ginny didn’t even blink.

Hermione took a sip of tea. “But we just slept.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed.

“What?” she asked, guarded.

Ginny said nothing. Just gave a slow, knowing smile as her gaze drifted deliberately toward Hermione’s neck.

Oh. Oh no.

Hermione’s hand flew up, covering her skin instinctively—too late. She flushed to the roots of her hair, heart pounding.

“Okay, technically we didn’t just sleep,” she hissed.

Ginny didn’t respond. Just looked entirely too pleased with herself.

“We kissed,” Hermione added, flustered. “A lot. That’s it.”

Ginny made an unconvinced noise and reached for her pumpkin juice, sipping with far too much smugness. Then she finally leaned in and murmured, “Do you want a birth control potion, or should I ask Madam Pomfrey on your behalf?”

Hermione choked on her tea.

“You’re impossible,” she hissed, dragging a napkin to her lips, trying to hide the blush climbing up her cheeks. “Also, I know how to brew that potion.”

“Of course you do,” Ginny said sweetly, eyes sparkling with malicious glee.

Hermione rolled her eyes and stared down at her plate, mortified. The air still felt like it carried the ghost of Draco’s hands, the scrape of his teeth, the weight of him pinning her down—and Ginny could probably see every damn second of it written all over her face.

She tried to breathe. Tried to shift the conversation away from the heat crawling up her neck.

“I’m going to the Yule Ball,” she said, a little too quickly.

Ginny’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

Hermione nodded. “Draco asked me.”

“Okay, yes,” Ginny said, immediately abandoning the teasing in favor of giddy enthusiasm. “What are you wearing?”

Hermione hesitated. “I don’t know yet. He said he’d… handle it.”

Ginny let out a dreamy sigh. “Merlin. Why is it the Slytherins who are always the dramatic, overachieving ones when it comes to romance?”

Hermione gave a small laugh, but her eyes had already drifted away—back to him. 

Draco was sitting beside Theo, one arm lazily draped along the back of the bench, his silver gaze still impossibly sharp even in repose. She could look at him for hours and never run out of things to notice.

But then someone stepped into her view.

A Ravenclaw girl—fifth or sixth year, maybe—tall, willowy, with flawless skin and sleek brown hair that shimmered in the light. She moved like she had just stepped off the cover of Witch Weekly, her skirt swishing just so, a folded piece of parchment clutched delicately between her fingers.

Hermione’s stomach clenched.

Who the hell was that? 

And why was she walking toward Draco?

She didn’t look lost. Her steps were purposeful. Her eyes locked on Draco like he was a target she’d been rehearsing approaching for days.

Hermione’s fingers tightened around her teacup.

The girl hesitated beside him, fiddling with the parchment. Her gaze flicked nervously to Theo—who looked bored—and then back to Draco, her lower lip catching between her teeth like she thought it made her look endearing.

Hermione’s chest burned.

Was she about to ask him out? Merlin, was that a love note?

The girl reached out. Hermione could see it coming, saw the moment her fingers stretched, saw them tap lightly on Draco’s shoulder.

And something in her snapped.

Her breath turned to ash in her lungs. Jealousy ripped through her like a whip—hot and wild and uncontainable. Her magic, already humming too close to the surface from the morning’s intimacy, surged forward without asking permission.

The parchment ignited.

A sudden hiss-crack of flame bloomed in the Ravenclaw’s hand, golden-orange and violent. The girl shrieked and flung the burning note away, stumbling back with wide eyes as it dropped to the floor and turned to ash.

Gasps rippled from nearby tables.

Hermione didn’t move.

Her teacup shook slightly in her grip. Her heartbeat roared in her ears. She could still feel it—magic sparking across her skin, drawn by a sharp cocktail of possessiveness, fury, and something primal she didn’t even have words for.

She hadn't meant to do it.

… Had she?

But the moment the girl touched him, the second she smiled like she had any right to get that close—Hermione’s body had reacted. Her magic had answered.

The girl fled with tears in her eyes.

Draco turned his head toward Hermione slowly. His expression unreadable for a beat. Then—his lips parted, the barest hint of a smirk curling at the corner. His eyes flickered with something unreadable.

Something like pride.

Next to him, Theo had started laughing—loud and unbothered, nearly choking on his pumpkin juice as he leaned back, slapping the table. His wheezing laughter unintelligible from where she sat.

Hermione’s pulse was everywhere—pounding in her throat, her fingertips, the tips of her ears.

What the hell was happening to her?

She dragged in a breath, trying to cool the heat in her chest. But it didn’t go away. Not entirely.

Next to her, Ginny let out a low whistle.

“Well, damn,” she said under her breath, sounding more delighted than shocked. “Jealous much?”

Hermione ducked her head, suddenly very interested in her toast.

“I didn’t mean to,” she mumbled, though the lie tasted sour.

Ginny smirked. “Sure you didn’t.”

Hermione bit her lip. Her magic was still fizzing under her skin. That little spark of jealousy—unwelcome and wild—was still burning in her ribs.

She wasn’t like this. Not usually. She didn’t get territorial. She didn’t—

“I think he liked it,” Ginny added casually.

Hermione’s eyes snapped back to Draco.

He was still watching her. Elbow on the table, chin in his palm, smiling like he knew exactly what she’d done and exactly why she’d done it.

And he looked like he approved.

Her pulse stuttered.

Maybe Ginny was right.

She ducked her head, trying not to smile as she murmured, “Let’s just focus on the Ball.”

Ginny grinned. “Fine. But we’re circling back to this later.”

Hermione sighed, reaching for her tea again. It was going to be a very long day.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s eyes followed Draco almost involuntarily as he slipped out of the Great Hall, his tall frame cutting clean through the morning haze of clinking cutlery and murmured conversation. He didn’t look back. Just moved with that quiet, contained intensity he always carried, like a storm wound tight beneath his skin. The doors shut behind him with barely a sound.

Her fork hovered halfway to her mouth.

Ginny was still talking, something about post-Yule Ball plans and sneaking firewhisky into the Astronomy Tower, but Hermione’s attention had long since drifted. She set her fork down, her brow knitting.

Why didn’t he say goodbye?

Her mind immediately picked through the last hour. The way he’d kissed her stupid outside the Great Hall. The way his voice had gone tight with jealousy. The way he’d looked at her after she’d burned that note with her magic, like she’d hung the stars.

He’d looked… pleased. Proud, even. So that couldn’t be it.

Still, the hollow unease in her chest wouldn’t leave. Her thoughts snagged on what-ifs and worst-case scenarios, spiraling.

Was he upset? Did she cross some unseen line?

What if he hated how possessive she’d been? What if he’d left to go hunting without telling her because he didn’t want to deal with it? What if the whole thing—the Ball, the plans, the heat of the morning—what if it had scared him off?

No. No, he wouldn’t do that.

Would he?

She pressed her lips together, her pulse thudding with the familiar twist of frustration and fear. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave. Not without telling her. He wasn’t that person. 

But then where was he?

By the time breakfast ended, her nerves were raw, her magic humming just under her skin. Ginny waved her off with a chipper goodbye, her eyes still sparkling with mischief, but Hermione barely registered it. She offered a distracted smile in return, already turning down the corridor that led to the dungeons, her feet pulling her toward Potions on pure muscle memory.

Her gaze flicked to every shadow she passed. Every corner. Her thoughts didn’t stop—just spun tighter, more tangled, a storm of anxiety.

What if he’d gone hunting earlier? What if he was angry? What if she’d embarrassed him?

She rounded a corner, her heart climbing higher into her throat, when—

A hand shot out from behind the tapestry, grabbing her wrist.

She gasped as she was pulled sideways into the wall of darkness behind the fabric, the stone cool against her back—

The scent hit her first.

Cedar. Parchment. Mint. Him.

She barely had time to exhale before his mouth was on hers.

Draco kissed her like he hadn’t seen her in weeks. Like the minutes between the Great Hall and now had hollowed him out. His lips crashed against hers with a desperate kind of precision, his tongue sweeping in to claim every inch of her mouth like it was owed to him.

Her fingers flew to his shoulders, clutching at the fabric of his robes as her back slammed gently into the stone. His body followed, pressing into hers, all muscle and hunger.

She gasped, and he swallowed it greedily, deepening the kiss until her knees trembled.

His hand cupped the back of her head, angling her just right, while his other arm wrapped tightly around her waist, pinning her to him.

Every breath was him.

When he finally pulled back, her lips were swollen, her chest heaving, her mind a blur of need and touch.

“Your little display at breakfast,” he murmured against her neck, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Drove me absolutely mad.”

His teeth grazed her pulse point, and she shivered, her fingers tightening in his robes.

“You’re not allowed to look at other girls,” she blurted, the words escaping before she could stop them, voice high and trembling with too much feeling.

Draco froze—then pulled back just enough to look at her.

“There’s only you,” he said, the words raw and immediate, like truth carved into stone. “Only ever you.”

Then his lips were on hers again—softer now, slower—but there was nothing gentle about the heat curling in her belly. Her arms slid around his shoulders, fingers threading through the back of his hair as she pulled him closer, needing more, always more.

His hands wandered lower, skimming her waist, sliding around to cup her backside. She gasped when he squeezed, the heat between them sparking as her hips instinctively pressed into his.

Draco’s mouth moved back to her neck, kissing, sucking, nipping along the curve of it like he couldn’t stop himself. He found the spot just beneath her jaw—the one that made her moan—and lingered there, his tongue flicking over her pulse.

Her head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, her eyes fluttering shut.

His hands slid higher, ghosting over the sides of her ribs, then up—up until he was cupping her breasts through her bra. His thumbs traced over her nipples, slow circles that left her panting, arching into him.

They both moaned at the contact, the sound low and shared, vibrating in the narrow space between their bodies.

“You’re mine,” he growled against her skin.

Hermione’s fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt. “Yours,” she whispered, her voice shaking with the truth of it. 

He groaned. The sound was low and rough, like it had been dragged from the depths of him. Then he lifted her in one motion, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. Her back hit the stone wall, cold against her spine, but she barely registered it as his lips found hers again, open-mouthed and frantic. 

His hands slipped under her blouse again, toying with her nipples until she was squirming, her whole body trembling with the need coiling inside her.

“Draco,” she gasped, voice high and broken.

“Fuck, love,” he panted, his lips brushing her ear. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

She felt it—his arousal pressed between them, hard and hot even through layers of clothing. The thought made her dizzy. Bold.

Her arms slid from his shoulders, her fingers fumbling with his belt. The motion made him groan, his head dropping to her shoulder.

“Granger—what—”

“You’re mine, Draco” she whispered into his neck. “As much as I’m yours.”

He let out a low, ragged breath—something between a curse and a prayer—before catching her mouth again, slower now, deeper, like the words had shifted something in him.

Her hands moved with trembling determination, undoing the clasp, tugging at the waistband of his trousers. He helped her, guiding her fingers, his own touch shaking.

When her hand slipped past the waistband of his boxers and wrapped around him—bare, hot, impossibly hard—Draco made a sound she’d never heard before. A choked moan, almost broken.

“Hermione—” he gasped, his hips jerking into her touch.

Her own breath stuttered.

He was big. Heavy and hot in her palm. The skin silky, the length of him thick and pulsing with arousal.

She swallowed hard.

“I don’t…” she started, nerves bubbling just beneath the surface. “I’ve only—once, and you—”

Draco cupped her face with both hands, forcing her to meet his eyes. His expression was torn wide open—vulnerable, awed.

“Hey,” he murmured, thumb brushing the curve of her jaw. “You’re perfect. Everything you do—just touching me like this—it’s perfect.”

Her throat tightened. She gave the smallest nod, heart hammering, then looked down at her hand, her fingers trembling slightly as she began to move. Tentative. Curious. Trying to remember the way he had guided her hand this morning before he took over.

His eyes fluttered shut. A tremor rolled through his frame.

“Just like that,” he groaned, his head falling forward to rest against hers.

Encouraged, she stroked him again, exploring, learning what made his breath catch and his hips jerk forward. Her thumb traced along the underside of the head, and he choked on a moan, his fingers tightening around her waist.

“You’re so good,” he whispered, pressing his lips into her hair. “So perfect, fuck—Hermione—”

His words hit her low and deep, and her heart thudded painfully in her chest. He was unraveling for her, only for her. And she wanted to see every inch of him undone.

“Tell me what feels good,” she whispered, pressing a trembling kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I want to make you feel good.”

Draco groaned, like the words physically pained him.

“Everything,” he rasped, eyes fluttering shut. “Everything you do feels good. So fucking good. You don’t even know.”

She smiled softly, shyly, and moved her hand again, watching his face as he shuddered, eyes fluttering closed, jaw tight with restraint.

Her own thighs clenched.

The feel of him—hot and slick, the way he twitched in her palm, the way he whispered her name like a prayer—it was intoxicating. She couldn't believe this was her doing. That this was what she could reduce him to—this shaking, trembling, gasping thing.

Then his hand slipped beneath her skirt, his fingers grazing over the lace of her knickers, pressing directly against her and she cried out, hips jerking against his hand.

“Always so wet for me,” he murmured. “Gods, you like this, don’t you? Touching me like that.”

Her face flamed, but she nodded, her voice catching. “Yes.”

He groaned. “Fuck, I’m going to come just from that look on your face.”

She pressed her lips to his neck, kissing softly as her hand moved in slow, deliberate strokes. His own fingers pushed her underwear aside, finding her with a surety that made her whole body tremble.

When his thumb circled her clit and two fingers slipped inside her, she gasped, hips rolling in a desperate rhythm. Her head dropped to his shoulder, her moans muffled against his skin. Her body felt like it was wound too tight, a coil of fire barely contained.

They moved against each other, frantic and clumsy and perfect. Her hand working him, his fingers thrusting into her, their breaths overlapping in broken gasps.

“Look at me,” he said, panting against her mouth. “Want to see you when you come.”

She lifted her gaze, and his eyes locked on hers. Silver and molten, pupils blown wide.

His thumb circled faster, and she broke with his name on her lips, her body going taut as her orgasm tore through her. 

Her walls clenched around his fingers, her thighs trembling around his waist as wave after wave crashed into her. Her hand didn’t stop—she kept stroking him, even as she came, her breath shallow, her eyes glazed with pleasure.

And then he followed.

“Fuck— Hermione,” he groaned, hips jerking into her grip. His eyes squeezed shut, a guttural moan ripping from his throat as he spilled over her hand. Hot and thick and so much.

She felt it pulse out of him, coating her palm, her fingers. And gods, she liked the feel of it. She liked that she could make him lose control like this.

She kept touching him, slower now, her fingers gliding through the mess she’d made. She didn’t mean to be teasing. Not really. But she wanted to remember this—how he felt, how he sounded, how it looked when he came for her.

Draco hissed sharply, his hips twitching with overstimulation, but he didn’t stop her. His hand gripped her hip tight, his other braced against the wall, holding himself up.

When she glanced at him, he was watching her with a look that made her knees weak.

“Hermione,” he said, voice ragged, “I swear to Merlin—if you keep doing that, we’ll never make it to Potions.”

Her fingers stilled—but she didn’t pull away. Not yet. She let her hand linger, gliding through the slick warmth, fascinated by the way it looked. How it clung to her skin. The way his eyes darkened when she brought her fingers up to her mouth and tasted the salt of him on her thumb, curious.

Draco made a sound that could only be described as a strangled prayer.

“Fuck me,” he breathed. “Your curiosity is going to be the death of me.”

She flushed, biting back a smile. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“You’re not,” he muttered, eyes dazed. “Just—fuck. Warn me next time.”

She laughed softly, dizzy with pleasure and the high of his reactions. Her whole body felt flushed with heat and endorphins and something heavier, deeper, curling low in her belly. She didn’t want to move. Didn’t want this to end.

Draco was still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling against hers. And then—she saw them.

His fangs.

Long and sharp, glinting faintly in the dim light, slipping free as his control faltered. They made him look more dangerous, more primal. But also—gods—more beautiful. Her heart skipped.

She couldn’t help but stare.

There was something deeply fascinating about them. About him. The wildness barely held in check, the flicker of vulnerability as he exhaled slowly and closed his eyes, focusing. She watched him work to pull them back, to calm his pulse. His muscles twitched once, twice—and then the fangs slowly receded, vanishing back into the line of his perfect teeth.

“I think…” he said, voice quiet, still hoarse. “I think it’s getting easier.”

Her heart swelled at that. It was such a small thing, said so casually—but she knew what it meant. What it cost him.

She reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead, her touch gentle.

“That’s good,” she whispered. “That’s really good.”

He opened his eyes, something softer there now—a flicker of pride or relief. Or maybe something closer to hope.

Then he muttered a quick spell that cleaned the mess between them. She felt the cool wash of it run over her thighs, over her hand, and shivered as the moment fell back into place around them.

With practiced care, he lowered her legs from around his waist, helping her find her footing again. His hands lingered on her hips as she smoothed her skirt, his eyes scanning her face like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“I didn’t mean to let it go that far,” he murmured, brushing her blouse into place. “But you—you make it bloody impossible to think.”

She just smiled, breathless and warm, still trembling slightly. “Good,” she said, repeating herself with a small, cheeky grin.

He huffed out a laugh, leaned down, and pressed one last kiss to her temple.

“Honestly,” he muttered as he stepped back, shaking his head while tucking his shirt back into place, “this was practically tame in comparison.”

She arched her brow. “Huh?”

He smirked, smug and slow. “Snogging you in the middle of the corridor, though? Now that was indecent.”

A bubble of laughter escaped her as she realized he was referring to earlier. “You’re ridiculous.”

He just grinned, that crooked, self-satisfied look that she was starting to realize she didn’t mind nearly as much as she pretended to.

She rolled her eyes and straightened her skirt with a soft sigh, stepping closer to the edge of the tapestry. The hallway beyond was quiet, the hum of footsteps distant. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were probably swollen. Her legs still felt like they were made of treacle.

And yet she couldn’t stop smiling.

As they stepped out of the alcove and turned toward the dungeons, Hermione tried to summon the discipline to focus on Potions, on class, on anything other than Draco’s mouth or the low, satisfied sound he made when he came undone in her hands.

She failed.

Utterly.

Her heart was still fluttering like mad in her chest, and her skin buzzed with the phantom feel of his fingers, his voice in her ear, the devoted weight of his stare. 

Ridiculous, she thought, pushing hair behind her ear. She was being absolutely ridiculous.

She’d have to ask Ginny if this was how it had felt with Harry in the beginning—this relentless pull, the way her thoughts kept orbiting him no matter how hard she tried to focus on anything else. This ache to be close, to be seen, to be known.

But even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it wasn’t the same.

It couldn’t be.

It felt too intense. Too consuming. Like it had carved out a space inside her and filled it with something bright and impossible and his.

This wasn’t just proximity, or adrenaline, or hormones.

It wasn’t just her first real relationship, or the thrill of sneaking around, or the rush of doing something she shouldn’t.

It was… more.

And maybe that made no sense. Maybe it was reckless and naive.

But she couldn’t unfeel it. Couldn’t unknow it. This strange, terrifying certainty blooming behind her ribs—that whatever this was between her and Draco was inevitable. 

Like she’d finally stumbled into something that had always been waiting for her.

And now that she had, there was no going back.

Chapter Text

The rest of the morning passed in a warm, distracted haze. Hermione knew she was supposed to be focusing (even though she had made this brew at least a dozen times before) but it was impossible to keep her mind from drifting. The heat of earlier lingered on her skin, beneath it, coiled in her stomach like a secret only the two of them knew.

Draco wasn’t helping.

His touches were constant. Soft and fleeting, almost imperceptible to anyone else. A hand grazing her hip when he reached for more ingredients. The weight of his palm at the small of her back. Fingers brushing the inside of her wrist as he passed her a stirring rod. Every contact was electric. Intimate. Maddening.

Worse, she couldn’t even pretend to be better behaved.

Her hand kept finding his without meaning to. She barely noticed she’d reached for him again until her fingers were toying with his signet ring, turning it slowly as she stirred the cauldron. The metal was smooth and cold beneath her touch and she couldn’t help but trace the lines of the crest.

She glanced at his hands—his long, elegant fingers, currently slicing ginger root with precise ease—and immediately flushed. Her mind, traitorous as ever, returned to the way those same fingers had slid inside her that morning. How confident and careful he’d been. How completely undone he’d made her feel.

She inhaled sharply and stared harder at the potion, hoping the rising steam would hide the flush now crawling down her neck.

Except that didn’t help, either.

Because she was still thinking about his hands—but this time with a different ring entirely flashing against his skin. Something simple. Permanent. A quiet promise echoed by a matching band on her own.

Her heart skipped as a scene unfolded, vivid and startling in its clarity. Their hands intertwined. A flat overflowing with books and not nearly enough shelves. Half-finished mugs of tea on the windowsill. His socks hopelessly mixed with hers in the laundry. A small child toddling barefoot across the rug, all blond curls and curious, silver eyes.

She nearly dropped her ladle.

They’d been dating for—what, two months? Not even that. He’d only just asked her to be his girlfriend, properly, less than a fortnight ago. And she was already imagining marriage? Children?

She was losing it. She was absolutely losing it.

But the thought didn’t horrify her the way it should have. If anything, it settled somewhere low and warm in her chest. Not like a fantasy exactly—more like the recognition of a possibility she hadn't dared to admit out loud.

“Granger,” Draco murmured close to her ear, low and amused, “you’re over-stirring.”

She jolted, nearly sloshing the potion onto the bench. “No, I’m not,” she said, too quickly.

He chuckled, his mouth brushing the edge of her jaw before he leaned back, resuming his chopping like nothing had happened. Like the touch of his lips hadn’t turned her brain into liquid.

She pressed her thighs together and tried, once again, to think about literally anything else. The ingredients simmering in the cauldron. The letter she still needed to send to Kingsley. The next time she’d see Draco shirtless. No. Gods. No. Not helpful.

But the moment shattered before she had the chance to anchor herself.

“Disgusting Death Eater.”

The words landed like a slap.

Hermione stiffened, the ladle slipping from her hand. Beside her, Draco went rigid. The tension snapped through his frame like a crack of lightning, his jaw locking tight.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look back.

But slowly—carefully—he reached across his body and tugged the cuff of his sleeve down.

Hermione’s eyes flicked to the motion. Her stomach turned.

She hadn’t even thought about it. Not once.

Not that morning, not even when he was bare above her, his skin pressed to hers. The mark had faded so much it was barely visible, more memory than scar. And still, it hadn’t even crossed her mind. Because when she looked at him, that wasn’t what she saw.

But now, under Ron’s sneering voice, she could just make it out beneath the fabric. A pale outline. A ghost, still haunting him.

Her breath hitched as she turned to Ron, irritation blooming fast and hot beneath her skin.

He stood at the station behind them, arms crossed, red-faced and fuming as he muttered something to Seamus under his breath—loud enough to be overheard, loud enough to cause damage. Seamus, for his part, looked vaguely horrified, eyes darting between Ron and the bubbling cauldron in front of him, refusing to meet Hermione’s gaze.

Hermione felt something inside her snap.

“What’s your problem, Ron?” she snapped, her voice sharp and cutting in a way she rarely allowed herself to be. “Honestly, what the hell is your issue?”

Ron looked away like she wasn’t worth his time.

She saw red.

He had no right. No right to sit there and pretend like she’d done something wrong. No right to act like this after everything they’d been through.

She’d thought he understood.

She’d thought, for one shining, stupid moment, that he'd accepted it. That he wanted her to be happy. She’d thought him and Lavender had settled into one another. That he’d finally found happiness and wanted her to find it in return. Hadn’t he just said a couple days ago that he was happy she was happy? 

But it had all been a lie, hadn’t it?

He was still holding on. To something that wasn’t there. To something she never agreed to give him. She felt it like betrayal—hot and unexpected. She wasn’t his. Never had been. Not like that. And the fact that he still believed she owed him something…

It made her sick.

She turned back toward Draco, who hadn’t said a word. Who was still standing stiffly beside her, gripping the edge of the workstation hard enough to make his knuckles pale.

Her chest ached.

She reached for his hand and slid her fingers into his. He didn’t move at first—just stared at the cauldron, silent—but when he felt her squeeze, he exhaled slowly. Turned toward her. 

“He’s not worth it,” she whispered.

Draco didn’t answer right away, but the line of his shoulders eased, just slightly. He gave her hand a faint squeeze back. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

She held onto it.

When class ended, she started packing her things with uncharacteristic fury. Her movements were stiff and agitated. She wanted to say something. Needed to. She wasn’t going to let Ron poison the air around them just because he couldn’t let go of a fantasy.

But before she could even take a step, Draco's arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back.

“Leave it,” he said quietly.

She turned in his grip, eyes flashing. “Why should I? He’s being a complete arse.”

“I know.” Draco’s voice was level, but his gaze was shadowed. “But I understand why he hates me.”

Her stomach twisted. “Don’t,” she said immediately, more forcefully than she meant to. “Don’t do that. You switched sides when it mattered. You saved me. None of this is your fault.”

Draco’s mouth tugged into something bitter. “That doesn’t erase what I did before.”

“It doesn’t have to,” she said fiercely. “But it also doesn’t give anyone the right to treat you like you’re still that person. Especially not him.”

She stepped closer, eyes locked to his, and slowly reached down to his forearm.

Her hand slid over the sleeve of his robe, covering the place where she knew the mark lay beneath. It was barely visible now, faded and faint, almost forgotten.

Almost.

“This doesn’t define you, Draco. Not anymore.”

She felt the breath stutter out of him more than she heard it—his body shifting beneath her palm, just slightly. Tension still clung to his posture, rigid and quiet and bracing. But he didn’t pull away.

“You hear me?” she whispered, her fingers tightening on his arm. “It doesn’t matter. Not to me.”

His gaze lifted slowly.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at her, like he was seeing something he couldn’t quite believe. Then his hand lifted, unhurried, brushing a loose curl behind her ear before settling against her cheek. His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone once before he bent forward, his lips brushing her forehead in a kiss that lingered. 

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

The words hit her low in the chest, knocking something loose. 

She blinked, throat tight. “Yes, you do,” she said, barely louder than a breath.

He didn’t argue. Just looked at her a moment longer. Then he exhaled quietly, stepped back, and took her hand—threading their fingers together without a word.

He gave her a small tug, and she followed him out into the corridor, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by stone.

But even as they walked toward Defense, Ron’s words lingered like smoke in her mind. She tried to shake it off. The coldness in his tone. The smug righteousness of it. She couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t believe, after everything, he was still holding on to this idea that she’d betrayed him.

Ginny and Harry had accepted it without question. They’d seen her— really seen her—and decided that her happiness was more important than ancient grudges. But Ron…

He clung to the past like it owed him something. Like she owed him something.

She clenched her jaw, cataloguing every sharp retort she wanted to throw at him later. She would confront him. She’d make him see sense. She wasn’t going to let him drag this into something ugly.

As they stepped into the classroom, her eyes landed on him immediately—slumped in his chair across the room, sulking like a child. A dull ache pulsed behind her temples. Ginny, seated beside Harry, followed Hermione’s gaze and gave an exaggerated sigh, mouthing Prat with dramatic flair.

A reluctant smile tugged at Hermione’s lips.