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Chapter Text

THE DAILY PROPHET
March 11, 2003

Malfoy the Menace Strikes Again: Injuries and Property Damage in Latest Broom-Racing Scandal

Appleby Arrows’ notorious Chaser, Draco Malfoy, is making headlines once more, and not for his performance on the pitch. 

Sources confirmed late Monday night that Malfoy was spotted leading an illegal broom race through the Yorkshire moors, resulting in the injury of two bystanders and substantial damage to muggle property. This marks his third offence in just two years, reinforcing the League-wide nickname “Malfoy the Menace.”

Known for his blistering speed, raw talent, and a temper to match, Malfoy’s career has been as controversial as it is brilliant. Fans may cheer him for impossible goals, but League officials grow increasingly wary of his explosive presence, both during and between matches. A staggering number of mid-game brawls have been traced back to the Chaser’s sharp tongue and ego.

With five years behind us since the end of the war, many hoped Malfoy had traded scandal for redemption. Instead, it seems he’s only changed arenas. The League has yet to issue an official statement, but insiders suggest disciplinary action is imminent and this time, it may not end with a slap on the wrist.

The locker room reeked of sweat, damp leather, liniment, and something sour. Shame, probably, Draco thought. Or last week’s spilt firewhisky soaking into the floorboards. Hard to tell. Somewhere in the corner, someone’s discarded kit bag had started to rot - the smell of mildew assaulted his nostrils with every shallow inhale. But the worst part was the silence. Not a pin-drop sort of quiet, but the heavy and loaded kind - the kind that came just before someone exploded.

Draco sat on the bench, arms limp at his sides, hair still wet from the rain or the shower. He wasn’t really sure anymore. The echo of raised voices still rang in his ears. Wood hadn’t started with shouting. That was the most terrifying part. He’d started with disappointment. That flat, clipped tone, more lethal than a Howler. And now, the coach paced just a few feet away looking like he was trying very hard not to throw a Bludger through Draco’s skull. Or kick him off the team entirely. The second vein in Wood’s temple was pulsing. Draco counted them now like a doomsday clock. One meant you still had a shot. Two? You were fucked.

“Are you thick, Malfoy?” Coach Wood’s voice cracked like a Bludger through a pane of glass. 

His face was red and not just from exertion - he always looked vaguely constipated post-training. But now he was properly livid. 

“Three times. Three illegal broom-racing stunts in two years. You think the sponsors are just going to smile and wave their chequebooks at that?”

Draco peeled off his practice robes, not bothering to meet the man’s eyes. 

“I didn’t even touch the muggles. They were startled. That’s all. And the shed? That was already falling apart—”

“Oh, piss off with the technicalities.”

Wood hurled a towel across the room. It hit a locker and slumped, defeated. 

“You were there. You flew. You nearly crashed into a bloody cow. This isn’t the Underground, it’s the Arrows, and I’ve had it. The League’s on my arse. You know what that means? It means I’m spending my nights massaging egos and lying through my bloody teeth just to keep Bletchley’s Broomsticks from pulling out of their contract.”

Draco finally looked up, eyes sharper than flint. 

“I’ve carried this team,” he said, voice venom-laced. “I scored nineteen goals against the Wasps last season. I broke the Falcons’ twelve-year home win streak. You’d still be chasing mid-tier if I hadn’t snatched that final from under Puddlemere’s nose. You want me gone? Fine. Good luck winning without me.”

Wood didn’t blink. Or move. Just pressed two fingers to his temple like he was praying to Merlin for patience. Draco held his ground, but something twisted under his ribs. He didn’t do fallback plans. There was Quidditch, and there was nothing. And if even that was slipping…well.

Fuck.

“You done?” he said finally.

Draco only clenched his jaw.

“Good. Because you are out, Malfoy. As of this morning, you’re suspended pending League review. But—" he raised a finger, and Draco hated how hopeful it made him, “There’s one option left. One way you can stay. Barely.”

Draco stepped forward. “What.”

“You’re not gonna like it.”

“Try me.”

“It’s Ministry-backed,” Coach said, like it tasted like ash in his mouth. “Public-facing. PR campaign. They’ve got this ‘Unity Initiative’.” You could be their poster boy. Media, events, youth outreach. Big smiles and handshake photos. Clean image. Like a makeover for your soul.”

Draco stared at him. “You want me to play...charity Chaser? Do tea with pensioners and pretend to like children?”

“No, no. Worse . You’ll be paired.”

“With who.”

“Granger,” Coach said. “Ministry’s Saint Swot. She’s heading the programme.”

Silence. Draco barked a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Fuck me.”

“Exactly,” said Coach, turning away. "Don’t balls this up."

__________

Saint Swot. No one called her that to her face, of course. But they didn’t really need to. The moniker followed her like a halo she hadn’t asked for but had no intention of shaking off. Hermione Granger, war heroine turned bureaucratic powerhouse, had become the Ministry’s darling in the five years since the war. Leading the “Magical Community Unity Initiative”, a glittering PR circus dressed up as a moral crusade, she spent her days organising interschool cultural exchanges, smoothing pureblood-muggleborn tensions with careful language, and giving rousing speeches about the future while elbow-deep in departmental paperwork.

Her office always smelled of ink and wood varnish. She always arrived at precisely 8:30 every morning, quill already poised for the first round of meetings. Every sentence was thoughtful. Every smile rehearsed. Her schedules ran like clockwork and her appearances like choreography. The press adored her. Old ladies in Hogsmeade wrote letters praising her style. Children named their cats Hermione. You can't spell Hermione without heroine, they'd always say about her.

She was a publicist’s dream - clean lines, calm tone, unfailing composure. Where Malfoy accumulated scandals like Chocolate Frog cards, Hermione cultivated a brand of control so flawless it bordered on divine. Gone were the whispers about her blood status, the slow-burning revulsion she once felt under the stares of pureblood socialites. No one gave a damn anymore; not when she could get the Bulgarian Minister of Magic and the head of the Hogwarts Board of Governors to sit through the same dinner without hexing each other. She was the Ministry’s secret weapon. And if she sometimes stared too long at her own reflection in the mirror, wondering who the hell she’d become…well, no one needed to know that either. The summons came at exactly 9:15am, just as Hermione was halfway through rewriting the guest list for the Midlands Magical Reconciliation Brunch because someone had discovered that two of the invitees had once tried to off each other over a Gobstones match in 1994.

“Granger. My office.”

Desmond Toller, Deputy Head of Magical Communications and Public Outreach, was a rotund man with an unfortunate fondness for brown tweed and faking urgency. His voice always sounded like there were lives at stake, even when all he wanted was tea. Hermione brushed a curl behind her ear, smoothed her blouse, and stepped into the lion’s den. He didn’t offer tea. Bad sign.

“Have a seat,” he said, which was a worse one.

She sat stiffly. Toller clasped his fingers, sighed dramatically, and then dropped the kind of sentence that rearranged the trajectory of one's entire morning.

“You’ll be co-leading the Unity Initiative with Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione didn’t react. Not for a full minute. She simply stared, her face frozen in that polite, neutral expression cultivated over years of tense diplomatic negotiations and mildly xenophobic donors.

Toller leaned forward. “Granger? Are you…are you having a stroke?”

She blinked. 

“Oh no,” she laughed. “You were joking, weren’t you? Haha. Very droll.”

He winced. “I’m not.”

The room tilted slightly. Hermione blinked again. “You’re not.”

“No. It’s effective immediately, in fact. The Ministry and the Quidditch League struck a deal. Kingsley signed off this morning. It’s already in the Prophet, actually.” 

He paused, then added helpfully, “Page four.”

Hermione stared at a small crack in the wall behind him and thought, briefly, about setting the entire building on fire. Draco Malfoy. Malfoy the Menace, for those that preferred the catchy moniker. The League’s most infamous bad boy, poster child for unchecked ego and terrible decisions. She’d read it all. The illegal broom races across London. The drunken brawls. The time he was dragged out of the Twilfrost Gala after flipping a whole dessert table because a guest called him a “washed-up aristo with daddy issues.” And now she was expected to smile next to him in photographs and pretend they were best mates building bridges. Her pulse skittered. For a second, absurdly, it felt like being seventeen again; off-balance, exposed, hopelessly unprepared. But the feeling passed. Simply because it had to.

“Why?” she asked eventually, voice taut.

“Optics,” said Toller, already massaging his temples. “The public loves a redemption arc. He’s the Bad Boy On The Broom. You’re The Harbinger of Hope. It’s the perfect story! The world needs to see a Malfoy and a muggleborn working together. It’s symbolic. Healing. All of that.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you aware of his track record?”

“I’m also aware of yours,” he said, suddenly sharp. “Which is why I know you can handle it. And let’s not pretend you have a choice.”

Hermione exhaled through her nose. “So, I’m his babysitter now?”

“Wrangler is more like it,” Toller said, without shame. “And yes. We’ll need progress reports. Keep him in line.”

When she emerged from the office twenty minutes later, she looked as composed as ever. Inside, she was vibrating with dread. Draco Bloody Malfoy. Assigned to her. Effective immediately. She’d united nations. She’d reformed outdated laws. Now she was about to spend Godric knows how long managing the human embodiment of a tabloid scandal.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Chapter Text

The boardroom was too quiet. That was the first thing Hermione noticed; how still everything felt, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Only the scratch of quills and the occasional throat-clearing from some parchment-pusher in the corner dared to break it. She sat straight-backed in an oak chair, legs crossed at the ankle, blouse crisp, wand holstered neatly against her side like the professional she was. Her expression was neutral. Stoic. Maybe even a little bored, if one didn’t look too closely at the tightness of her jaw.

Across from her, Draco Malfoy was slouched in his seat. Arms crossed. One ankle lazily thrown over his knee. He looked entirely unbothered, as if this meeting were cutting into his very important plans to start a bar fight or crash a party. His trademark scowl was present, of course, along with that impossibly tousled blond hair and a butter-soft dragonhide jacket that likely cost more than her entire wardrobe. It all said: I’d rather be anywhere else. Preferably unconscious. Hermione hadn’t seen him in the flesh since the war. Maybe glimpses at Ministry events, a profile on the back page of a newspaper, a flash of pale hair vanishing into some smoke-filled VIP corner of a gala she’d left early from. But up close? This close? She wasn’t sure. Perhaps the last time was at his family’s manor, his face blanched as she screamed bloody murder on the floor while his aunt…

Anyway. She was sure the last time was at Hogwarts, when the castle had been burning and he’d looked like a ghost, hand bleeding from something she never asked about. And now here he was. Five years later. Summoned like a troublemaking schoolboy to sit across from her as Ministry officials whispered about stipulations. Kingsley Shacklebolt sat at the head of the table looking mildly constipated with second-hand awkwardness. Creases spidered through the silk of his tunic, as though he hadn’t had the chance - or the will - to press it. He looked like a man who had fought in a war, led a country out of it, and was now wondering how this, two disaster children glowering at each other over a contract, became his Tuesday. Draco was busy flicking lint off his trousers with the kind of pointed indifference that said I could kill you with this thumb if I felt like it. Hermione didn’t look at him directly. She had long mastered the art of peripheral judgment. The silence was now bordering on unbearable, so of course Hermione had to say something.

She cleared her throat. “I assume the terms have been finalised?”

One of the parchment geezers muttered something affirmative and gestured vaguely to a document bearing the Ministry seal.

“Marvellous,” Draco said flatly. “Can’t wait to form a government-mandated friendship with the Head Girl of the Universe.”

Hermione’s lips twitched. She didn’t give him the satisfaction of a retort.

Kingsley sighed. “For Merlin’s sake, can we get this over with?”

A quill floated across the table. Hermione reached for it with elegant precision. Draco snatched it mid-air instead, sneering at her. He scanned the contract’s contents and scoffed, tossing it onto the table with exaggerated force, like it had personally wronged him. 

“Are you all mad? Watch me ruin it all. Imagine the headlines! ‘Quidditch's Most Controversial Chaser and The Minister’s Little Heroine: The PR Trainwreck You Won't Want To Miss!’” 

He sat up straighter, adopting a mock-serious expression, and added, “Or I could start with maybe a few interesting things about Saint Swot’s private life. I bet the Prophet would love that scoop.”

Hermione could feel the blood drain from her face, but she resisted the urge to react. She had to remind herself he had absolutely nothing on her. No one knew about her private affairs other than her and the very few men who’ve been in it. A full minute of utter silence passed, and she didn’t even flinch. Not giving him the satisfaction, she thought. Then Kingsley, finally deciding to chime in after an agonising pause, dropped his voice into a low, warning growl. 

“You will comply, Draco,” he said. “Either you work with Hermione Granger, or you’re off the team permanently. And don’t forget, you’re still under investigation for about a dozen unsavoury incidents we’ve been turning a blind eye to. What do you think I’ll do if you don’t play along? Maybe I’ll put you under house arrest for a year? I’m sure you’d love that, wouldn’t you? And don’t kid yourself. The only reason you’re still flying is because your name sells tickets and your sponsors are basically bankrolling half the Games and Sports Department.”

For a moment, Draco’s expression was a mix of defiance and vague curiosity, like he was considering a response that might be dramatically imprudent. Hermione, on the other hand, could already hear the thud of her hopes crashing to the floor. Please say something reckless, she silently willed Draco, anything to save her from this damn campaign. But, of course, that was when he gave a theatrical sigh, rolled his eyes, and begrudgingly signed the contract. His name went on it with all the enthusiasm of someone signing a confession. It was a hilarious sight, really. 

“There, happy now?” Draco slumped back in his chair.

Hermione, still holding onto some last shred of pride, couldn’t help herself. She had to ask.

“What if I refuse?” she asked, the words escaping before she could stop them. 

For a second, the room froze. Even the air around them seemed to stop moving. Everyone looked at her like she’d just burst into song about knitting with toenails. Because Hermione Granger did not say no. She was the one who’d once rewritten an entire departmental handbook overnight when the original was lost in a fire (some idiot tried to cook bacon with a wand). She’d mediated a magical land dispute between two goblin clans who’d been hexing each other’s food supplies for decades. She’d found a way to incorporate muggle legal procedure into Wizengamot hearings, a logistical nightmare. She’d taken on every impossible assignment the Ministry could throw at her. Voluntarily. Happily. So for her to ask what if I refuse?  was like a hippogriff demanding a Gringotts vault. No one had the script for it. No one had considered she might opt out. It was, frankly, terrifying. Kingsley raised an eyebrow very imperiously and sighed like he’d already given up on this entire affair. 

“If you refuse,” he said calmly, “you’ll miss the single biggest project of your career.”

Hermione blinked. The words didn’t hit all at once. They uncoiled slowly, like smoke slipping under a door. “Biggest project?”

“Exactly,” Kingsley continued, voice grave now. “This isn’t just another Ministry campaign. This will define how history remembers the post-war generation. It’s the cornerstone of our entire unity initiative - the legislation, the public trust, the future of magical governance. You walk away from this, and you’re walking away from real change. From shaping what this world becomes after everything we’ve survived.”

He leaned forward slightly. “You’ve spent years laying the groundwork. Every reform, every vote, every hearing. All of it has led to this. Refusing now means someone else decides what unity looks like. And trust me, not everyone has your moral compass.”

The weight of his words hung in the air. Hermione’s chest tightened as she let the reality of it sink in. Unity. They weren’t there yet. Not by a long shot. She’d seen it with her own eyes. The subtle sneers from some of the more old-fashioned pureblood families, the lingering resentment in corners of the Ministry, the quiet whispers that certain people didn’t belong in certain spaces. It wasn’t just about the war anymore; it was about perception. About shifting minds still poisoned by a past they refused to let go of.

Her work was always met with suspicion. And not just her work, but her very presence. It was no secret that the whispers had stopped when it came to her. After all, she was an icon of triumph, a figurehead, the chosen one in post-war Ministry. The muggleborn who'd made it. A fucking token, if she could put it frankly. But that didn’t mean the rest of the muggleborns had it as easy. Far from it. She still saw the side glances, the tight-lipped frowns whenever another muggleborn entered a Ministry department or public space. The old prejudices were alive and well, only not as openly blatant. She had earned her pass, but not everyone had the same opportunities or protections. Not everyone had the platform to stand in front of a podium and demand change.

Just last week, Hermione had overheard an employee in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement mutter that "the last thing we need is a parade of muggleborns acting like they own the place". That kind of rhetoric hadn’t gone anywhere; it was just tucked behind closed doors now, lingering quietly like a threat, waiting for the next generation of prejudice to spring to life. If she refused now, Hermione knew it wouldn’t just affect her career. It would send the message that true unity, where everyone was welcome, no matter their background, wasn’t achievable. That after five years of struggling to rebuild, they were all still trapped by division. The world was watching. The Ministry had made progress, but there were still factions waiting for the first sign of weakness, waiting to pull back to the old ways of hatred and segregation. Refusing this campaign would be admitting defeat. It would allow the people who didn’t believe in a unified world to dictate the narrative.

Kingsley leaned in a fraction, voice quieter now, almost as if he knew the battle waging inside her. “You’ve been in this game long enough to know that some battles don’t just take a single fight. They take years. And this is the one that will define the next decade. Don’t you want to be on the right side of history?”

Hermione swallowed hard, the truth of it too real to deny. She didn’t just need to show them what unity looked like. She needed to show everyone  - those who fought against it and those who had fought for it - that it was possible. That they were stronger together, no matter how fractured they still were. If she gave up now, the gap between the past and future would only grow wider, and she’d lose everything. And so would everyone else.

A part of her couldn't help but scoff at the irony of it all. She was the muggleborn success story; the one who had defied expectations, who had proven that blood status didn't determine value. But the more she thought about it, the more it gnawed at her. She was still just a token. No matter how much she had achieved, how hard she had fought, it didn’t change the fact that she was still being used as a symbol. A well-placed figurehead to show that, yes, the Ministry had moved on from the war, that progress had been made. But it was nothing more than a mirage.

She was being asked to sell unity. To make people believe that prejudice could be fixed with a campaign, or a carefully crafted image to smooth over the cracks of a deeply fractured society. Would it help change minds? Maybe, but not on the scale needed. No matter what she did, the system wouldn’t change overnight. She knew that. People would still clutch their prejudices tightly in the corners of their minds. And yet, she had to play her part. Because that’s what PR was: an illusion of change, a way to make people think things were better than they actually were. She still had to do it. Because she was the one they trusted to deliver that illusion.

Hermione felt a cold shiver. Of course it’s her biggest project. She’d been trained for this - only now it felt like a cage. She wasn’t meant to be paired with anyone. She was meant to oversee the campaign. She hates it. She has better things to do. But turning it down would be read as “not believing in second chances,” and the press would have a field day. So she agrees. With a long, inward groan, Hermione grabbed the quill. Gods help her, she thought, as she signed.

Ministry of Magic Official Agreement
“Magical Community Unity Initiative” Campaign Participation Contract

In light of recent events and the necessity of repairing both personal reputations and the image of the Quidditch League, it has been agreed upon by the Ministry of Magic, the Quidditch League, and Draco Malfoy that the following stipulations will govern his involvement in the campaign alongside Hermione Granger. These conditions are part of a disciplinary agreement and are designed to maintain decorum, goodwill, and public accountability. Both parties are expected to adhere to these stipulations during the campaign’s six-month duration.

Mandatory Public Partnership

Draco Malfoy is hereby assigned to participate in the “Magical Community Unity Initiative” as part of an official disciplinary agreement between the Ministry of Magic, the Quidditch League, and Mr. Malfoy. His assignment includes the following:

Mandatory Appearances : Mr. Mafloy is required to attend and publicly participate in no fewer than eight (8) official events alongside his designated partner, Ms. Granger, over the course of a six-month period.

Conduct Clause

Mr. Malfoy shall maintain an impeccable standard of conduct throughout the term of his partnership. He must refrain from any actions or behaviours that would damage the reputation of the campaign or the organisations involved. Specifically, Mr. Malfoy must adhere to the following:

No Scandals: This includes, but not limited to, avoiding illegal broom racing, dueling, public disturbances (including pub brawls), or any other behaviour that may attract negative media attention.

Violation: Any violation of this clause will result in immediate termination of the contract, removal from the Quidditch League, and potential further legal consequences.

Public Relations Appearances

As part of his role in the campaign, Mr. Malfoy must attend all events listed in the campaign’s schedule alongside Ms. Granger, including but not limited to:

• Outreach programmes
• Charities 
• Speaking engagements
• Photoshoots
• Peace symposiums
• Cultural Exchange Dinners

Additionally, Draco Malfoy is required to actively participate in discussions, speeches, and interactions during these events. There shall be no mumbling, snide remarks, or other unprofessional behaviour during any public appearance. Ms. Granger will be responsible for coaching Mr. Malfoy on the proper decorum and expectations for each event.

Reports

• Weekly Updates: Hermione Granger will be responsible for submitting weekly progress reports to the Ministry regarding Draco Malfoy’s participation and behavior.
• Consequences of Reports: Draco is aware that if these reports are less than favourable, they may significantly impact his public image and career in both Quidditch and the broader wizarding community.

__________

The evening stretched out like a never-ending hallway, with nothing but awkward silence and the clink of cutlery against porcelain. Draco was practically sprawled in his chair, one ankle crossed lazily over the other, his long fingers tracing the stem of his wine glass. He looked like he owned the entire restaurant, and, if Hermione was being honest, he probably did. He certainly carried the air of someone who could summon a fleet of house-elves to tear the place down just to prove a point. Hermione, meanwhile, was doing her best to maintain a semblance of professionalism. Sit up straight, don't scowl, don’t think about how much you’d rather be anywhere else. It wasn’t working so far.

This dinner for two was supposedly a kick-off to “fraternise,” as the Ministry had so delicately put it, and build some kind of rapport. It was the first part of the campaign’s grand plan. To force them to immediately break bread together, make small talk, and maybe, gods willing, emerge as unlikely allies. But right now, they were just two people stuck in a small, overpriced dinner where the tension could be cut with a spoon. Hermione glanced at Draco, whose gaze was fixed on her with a look that was part amusement, part defiance. She couldn’t quite decide if he was going to say something snide or if he was just letting the silence do its work. Either way, the way he stared made her skin itch.

“So,” Draco drawled, “What’s it like, Granger? Being the Ministry’s moral mascot. Poster girl for progress. Everyone’s favourite bushy-haired messiah.”

Hermione didn’t blink. Her eyes remained fixed somewhere between his shoulder and the antique sconce behind his head. A slight tilt of her chin, nothing more. Draco pressed on, clearly emboldened by the silence and non-reaction.

“I mean, really, I’m curious. Is there a manual they give you? ‘How To Smile Through Gritted Teeth While Singlehandedly Saving the Wizarding World, Volumes One Through Fucking Forty’? Or do you just wake up each morning knowing you’re better than the rest of us?”

She sipped her water. Her expression remained untouched. A masterpiece of neutrality. She’d mastered that look. Had spent too much time being talked over and talked down to by men who sounded different but meant the same. She didn’t flinch anymore. Not for garden-variety provocation. Especially not for someone like him.

“I suppose they pay you in moral superiority,” he added casually. “Maybe a bonus for each knot you untangle in this backwards little society. You know, for every magical orphan you pat on the head, every bloodline you deconstruct with a well-timed speech.”

Still, nothing from her. The candlelight flickered against the silverware, and she just stared, utterly unbothered. If anything, it almost looked like she was bored. Draco chuckled to himself, amused and irritated all at once. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. 

“Come on. Don’t you ever get tired of it? Being the Ministry’s marionette? All strings and spin. Say this. Smile here. Don’t scowl, Hermione. It’s bad for the people’s morale. ”

Her left hand twitched, just slightly. But her face remained placid. She could’ve been in a bloody trance.

He squinted at her. “Is this how it works now? You just sit there like a stone so you seem like the bigger person?”

She exhaled through her nose. Just once, and barely audible. He, however, took it as an invitation. Of course he did. Because if there was anything Draco Malfoy was good at besides Quidditch, it was riling people up. Pushing their buttons. There was a reason why duels and brawls followed him wherever he went. 

“I mean, if I wanted to talk to a statue I could’ve visited the war memorial. At least those don’t come with a Ministry-issued stick up their—”

“Is this really your idea of bonding?” she asked, voice like ice water poured into a glass. 

“You’re not denying it.”

“I’m not entertaining it.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed, the glint of a dare flashing behind his lashes.

“Alright,” he said slowly, tilting his glass back. “Let’s try a different approach.”

And then he said it. Quietly. Almost thoughtfully. Like he was picking lint off his sleeve.

“How are the DMLE’s golden boys these days? Still fumbling through paperwork? I suppose some people peak at seventeen. Potter with his saviour complex, and Weasley with...whatever it is he thinks he’s good at.”

Hermione blinked. Just once. And that was enough. Everything inside her went still. She lifted her glass and turned it gently by the stem, watching the wine shift and ripple like blood in a chalice. She could feel the thrum of anger somewhere below her ribcage. Low, dense, familiar. But she didn’t reach for it. Not yet. When she finally did lift her eyes, they were cool. Impenetrable. Like the surface of a frozen lake. The kind people fall through.

“Hurl every creatively formed insult at me, Malfoy,” she said mildly, like she was commenting on the temperature. “Have at it. My reputation, my job, my apparent stick-up-my-arse. But leave the people in my life out of your mouth.”

Her voice was silky, polite even, and for a moment Draco looked almost disappointed. He leaned back, about to make some clever retort, but then she leaned in. Slowly. A movement almost feline-like. She brought her elbows to the table and tilted forward until they were only inches apart. Her voice dropped. She didn’t raise it. 

“Don’t try to bait me,” she said, with a softness so sharp it could skin a man alive. “Because if you want me to be a cunt, Malfoy, I can be one. But I promise you, I’m the kind of cunt that can get you blacklisted from every single Quidditch league in the world.”

Draco blinked. The word landed so crisp. Pronounced with the clinical precision of someone who’d been waiting a long time to unsheath it. He wasn’t sure what startled him more; the word itself, or the way she said it. Like she could dissect him with her consonants. And just like that, she sat back in her chair and smiled. Sweetly. She was back to being a bloody nun in the blink of an eye. Then she knocked back her wine in one elegant motion, set the glass down with a soft clink, and rose to her feet.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said nicely, composed as ever.

And then she walked out. Draco remained in his seat, staring at the door she’d disappeared through. His mind was racing. Because Hermione Granger, the Golden Girl, the Holy Virgin of Virtue, Miss Goody-Two-Shoes, Saint Swot herself…had a dirty little mouth.

And he…

He was highly intrigued.

Chapter Text

Twilfitt and Tattings smelled like old galleons and expensive wood varnish. So basically, like Draco’s childhood. The boutique was all velvet drapes and floating sconces, with silent house-elf assistants gliding around like haute couture ghosts. The fitting room was charmed to look like a ballroom, complete with an enchanted harp playing something so softly tragic it felt like being serenaded. Hermione stood on one revolving pedestal, surrounded by a militant unit of seamstresses in grey frocks, arms raised obediently like sacrificial tributes. Robes flew past her in a kaleidoscope of “intelligent but soft” shades: lavenders, creams, one particularly heinous chartreuse someone called subversive. She vetoed that immediately.

Draco was stationed across from her, feet planted on a separate plinth, arms loose at his sides like this was a particularly humiliating Quidditch punishment. His tailors were obviously more dramatic; two French men named Olivier and Henri who kept muttering “drapé tragique” and “no, no, the shoulders must weep”. The two hadn't exactly spoken or interacted since The Cunt Speech™, which Draco replayed in his head like a religious experience. He’d been called worse over the years. But something about her pretty saintly mouth saying it - Miss Gold-Star-In-Her-Soul Granger - had lodged itself in his brain like a splinter. Just this morning, she greeted him with a “Good morning, Malfoy,” in the exact tone a librarian uses to scold someone for breathing too loudly in the restricted section. She stood there, in her smart robes and tidy chignon, pretending not to notice he was staring at her like she was a riddle. She was stiff as a broomstick, arms crossed, lips pursed. He realised now that her mouth had three settings: pursed, pinched, and please don’t talk. Currently, it was hovering somewhere between the second and third. Draco tilted his head at her.

“Do you always look so constipated during fittings?” he drawled.

As usual, Hermione didn’t dignify his commentary with a reply. She simply frowned at him like she was mentally redacting his entire bloodline. The truth was: she hated the way he looked at her. It wasn’t like how the press did. It wasn’t curious, admiring, or vaguely possessive like she belonged in a frame or a headline. With him, it was like he was trying to solve her. Like there was some trick behind the curtain, some fraud to unearth. Which was ridiculous. She was Hermione Granger. There was nothing to find. Still, his eyes tracked her every move, blue-grey and dissecting. He made her feel barenaked. Not physically, though that would come with its own horrifying implications, but existentially. Like he was rifling through her internal filing cabinet and would eventually stumble on the folder marked Insecurity, Deeply Buried. She pretended not to notice, and so he didn’t stop staring. The harp played something mournful and pretentious. One of Olivier’s robes dramatically strangled itself on a hanger and fell to the floor. They had six months of this. Hermione would rather have been hexed in the knee.

The last of the seamstresses slipped out with an apologetic nod, their departure silent. The rustle of robes faded. And then it was just the two of them: Saint Swot and the devil. Hermione stood still before the full-length mirror, chin high, back straight. The dress was a deep Ministry-approved navy, cut to the collarbone with sharp shoulders and a waist that left no room for error or breathing. It hugged her hips like a secret. Impossibly tight, infuriatingly elegant. Like her. Draco swaggered over, as if he’d been invited to her space, which of course, he hadn’t. His shoes clicked lazily on the marble, each step loud in the cavernous silence. He didn’t stop until he was just behind her, close enough to catch the scent of her perfume. Something with bergamot and a base note of mystery. He studied her through the reflection. Her eyes met his in the glass. Cold and unimpressed. Delightful, thought Draco.

“Merlin,” he said with a smirk that had definitely been responsible for lawsuits. “You clean up well.”

Then, a pause. “Poor bastard who ends up with you though. The suffering he has to go through.”

Hermione turned slowly to him. 

“I’m sure this is difficult for you,” she said gently. “Having to behave. To listen. To work alongside someone who doesn’t think you’re interesting enough to fear.”

She offered him a small, sympathetic smile. Then she smoothed down her dress and turned back to the mirror, as if he’d already been dismissed. And for reasons he couldn’t name, Draco wanted nothing more than to make her look at him again. He wanted to unravel more of her. He didn’t want the buttoned-up Head Girl or the poster child for Magical Reform. No. He wanted to see the real venom-dripping, don’t-fuck-with-me Hermione Granger. The one who could bare her fangs and proverbially draw blood. He continued watching her through the mirror. Watching the way she smoothed down the dress, all composure and control. Draco exhaled, low and shaky, and offered her a dry, wrecked smile.

“Fuck me,” he muttered close to her ear, “You really are the most annoying little thing, aren’t you?”

Hermione turned to him again, her heels clicking softly as she pivoted, expression blank but her voice all iron. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about,” she chirped, turning around to face him again but this time she extended a hand to his collar.

She straightened his lapel like she was touching something unpleasant, eyes scanning his face. 

“Now listen to me. Later at the press conference, keep your hands in your pockets. Don’t fidget. Don’t scowl. And don’t interrupt me, even if you think you’re being clever…especially if you think you’re being clever. And for the love of Godric, if a reporter asks you a question, try not to sneer like you’re being forced to pet a Crup.”

“Are you teaching me how to be a fake like you?” he asked in mock innocence. 

His fingers tucked a stray curl behind her ear as he added, “How very on-brand for our Ministry Marionette.”

Hermione huffed a laugh. Bright. Breezy. Completely fake. The kind of laugh that had silenced committee rooms with nothing but six syllables and a smile. Then she stepped closer, tilting her head until her mouth hovered near his ear; close enough that he could feel the brush of her breath, warm and deceptively sweet. To anyone watching, it might’ve looked like she was flirting. But her whisper felt more like a blade.

“No, Malfoy. I’m teaching you how to protect the only thing keeping you from being a public liability. So smile and follow my lead, alright?”

She pulled away with a soft pat to his chest like she was letting go of a pet she’d grown bored of. Then she stepped past him and headed for the door, heels sharp, spine straight. Draco stayed frozen for a moment, tie crooked, eyes hooded. He adjusted his collar slowly, lip curling into a grin that looked far too pleased for someone who’d just been verbally spayed. Salazar help him, he really liked how well she agitated him.

The venue was nauseatingly polished: all polished marble floors, floating press banners, and a stage framed by silken Ministry blue. The podiums were charmed to adjust to each speaker’s height. Rows of journalists were packed like sardines, elbowing each other for better angles while Quick-Quotes Quills scratched like a plague of enchanted rats.

A gaudy sign hovered above them in glittering gold letters: Uniting Wizarding Britain, Together. Hermione was the picture of composure. Hair perfectly sleek, minimal glamour charm. Soft rose lipstick, pearl earrings, a navy robe that meant serious professional but still relatable enough to be invited into your home for tea. She stood like she’d been carved from marble; untouchable, graceful, and camera-ready. Draco, by contrast, looked like someone had dared him to show up. His robes were technically regulation, but clearly custom. Charcoal grey with sharp silver threading. He was stiff, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other gripping the podium like it had personally insulted him. His jaw was tight, and the camera flashes had him blinking like a feral cat.

A Daily Prophet journalist stood, quill already hovering. “Miss Granger, could you tell us more about the goals of the Magical Community Unity Initiative?”

Hermione offered a measured smile, the kind that made people trust her. 

“Of course. The Magical Community Unity Initiative is a collaboration between the Ministry and several community partners. Over the next six months, we’ll be holding educational outreach events, cultural forums, and charities - all intended to foster connection and rebuild trust across divided magical communities.”

A murmur of approval followed. Cameras clicked like insects.

Another voice piped up from the middle row. “And Mr. Malfoy! How do you feel about representing this campaign, given your...complicated history with the public?”

Draco’s lips twitched, but Hermione was already stepping in, voice calm and composed.

“Draco brings invaluable experience as a talented athlete and a public figure. His willingness is a signal that we can move forward, not by ignoring the past, but by showing growth, accountability, and an earnestness to do better.”

The room clicked and hummed with flashes and scratching quills, but Draco heard none of it. He could only hear her. That careful cadence, her unfaltering rhythm, the grace with which she let his name sound more palatable. He didn’t understand it. When it was just the two of them, she was threatening to turn his career inside out and he believed her. She could’ve ended him right now with a different answer. Could still do it now, here, in front of every major publication in wizarding Britain. One damning sentence, one hesitation, and the story would spin itself. 

And they’d believe her. Hell, he might believe her too. Instead, she’d done the unthinkable. She praised him. Not generously, but carefully. Intentionally. Like she was protecting something that didn’t deserve it. He didn’t look at the reporters. He just watched her. The clean line of her jaw. The precise lift of her chin. That little pause she always took before speaking, as if weighing every word on scales and only releasing it once it passed inspection. Prim. Perfect. Not even smug about it. What the fuck was she thinking? He wasn’t sure if it was some next-level PR mind game or if she was just that unbothered by him. Maybe both. Maybe she’d already decided he wasn’t worth the trouble. That he’d ruin himself eventually, no assistance needed. 

Still, there was something about how effortlessly she’d stepped in. How smoothly she’d papered over the question. How she’d called him a signal of growth, as if that were a thing he could ever be. He shifted in his seat. No one had ever referred to him like that before. Not his manager. Not his sponsors. Not even his mother. He glanced at her profile again. Still composed. And even though he’d never admit it out loud, he wondered if she meant it. If she actually thought he could be better. And worse, he wondered what it would take to deserve that kind of answer. 

A witch from The Wizarding Tribune raised her hand. “Miss Granger, some have called this an unlikely partnership. What would you say to that?”

“I’d say unlikely doesn’t mean impossible. And sometimes, the most unlikely partnerships are the ones that teach us the most. We’re here to model what change and cooperation can look like. It’s not perfect. But it’s happening.”

Another quill scribbled Granger, calm under fire. The questions had started circling towards him now, sharks sniffing for blood. Draco straightened a little, exhaling loudly through his nose as he felt Hermione’s gaze from the side. Focused and supervisory. She didn’t trust him not to say something appalling. Fair enough. A woman from The Prophet leaned in. 

“Mr. Malfoy, do you think joining this campaign means you've finally given up your infamous bad boy ways?”

He smirked. “Define bad. Because if wearing a cravat incorrectly is grounds for exile, then yes, I’m fully reformed.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room. Even Hermione blinked like she was trying not to laugh. Another hand shot up, this time a younger journalist from Witch Weekly, barely out of school and clearly thrilled to be here. 

“Mr. Malfoy, there’s been quite a bit of chatter about your fondness for broom-racing and high-stakes gambling. Do you think the public can take you seriously with that sort of lifestyle?”

Draco tilted his head, faux-pensive. “Ah yes. The underground broom circuits and the gambling dens. Very cloak-and-dagger.”

A murmur of chuckles rolled through the crowd. He went on, deadpan.

“Look, I’ve always said broom-racing sharpens the reflexes. And if betting on yourself isn’t a sign of confidence, what is? Besides, I’ve cut back. Now I only race illegally when the moon’s in Virgo, and I never bet more than the average Hogwarts tuition.”

That got another proper laugh. Even a tight-lipped one from the corner where the Ministry officials sat looking mildly unwell. Next to him, Hermione didn’t laugh, but she did shift slightly in her seat, her posture just a little less stiff. Not approval, exactly, but certainly not explicit disapproval yet. Maybe reluctant amusement. Hard to tell with her.

“And what do you think of Ms. Granger, Mr. Malfoy? You two seem…vastly different.”

Draco’s jaw twitched. Hermione didn’t move, but beside him, he felt it. The coiled readiness. Her hand, previously limp on her lap, turned into a fist. He could practically hear the warning in her silence. Meanwhile, Hermione expected mockery. A thinly-veiled insult. Something about frizzy hair or virtue or how tightly wound she was. Maybe something nastier, crueller. He’d said worse before. But for some reason - maybe the lights, maybe the heat of the cameras, maybe the ghost of her breath still in his ear from earlier - he didn’t. He turned to the journalist with the barest shrug, his tone casual.

“She’s the kind of person who walks into a room and immediately recalibrates the atmosphere. She’s ten steps ahead of us, and she makes this whole thing look doable. Like maybe we don’t have to be perfect, but we can show up anyway.” 

He paused to glance at her teasingly. “Also, I think she might be legally incapable of bullshit, which is…unfortunate for me. But good for everyone else.”

There was a pause in the room. Cameras clicked quietly. Pens scratched. Draco didn’t elaborate further. He just leaned back in his chair, folded his hands, and stared out at the press like they hadn’t just witnessed him say something decent and human. Beside him, Hermione didn’t speak either. She only looked straight ahead, still composed as ever. But her fist…slowly unfurled.

The minute the moderator announced a photo op, Draco visibly deflated. “Fucking brilliant,” he muttered under his breath, dragging his chair back with the enthusiasm of a man being led to public execution. Hermione was already on her feet, spine straight, smile perfectly sculpted like she was carved by PR gods themselves. She shot him a look sharp enough to geld a dragon. Move, her glare said. Draco sighed theatrically and ambled to her side, offering the cameras nothing but his usual scowl - the scowl she told him not to do. 

The flashes were relentless, popping like wandfire across the marble steps. Hermione’s posture was all polished and perfect but the distance between them was laughable. A chasm, really. They looked less like colleagues and more like strangers caught in the same unfortunate frame. Draco stood with his hands in his pockets, a touch too relaxed, studying the sky as if the entire ordeal bored him senseless. Hermione, meanwhile, posed with textbook precision, angled away from him, like she’d rather be photographed beside a cactus. It wasn’t until the fourth burst of flashbulbs that she noticed.

“Closer,” she hissed out of the side of her mouth. “You look like you’ve been court-ordered to stand near me.”

Draco’s patience for this whole circus was thinning. And quite honestly, he was tired of being told what to do today. Fine. If she wanted close…he stepped in without warning, sliding a hand around her waist and dragging her flush against his body. Casual and confident, like his palm had always belonged there on her hip; like it was something he always did. She stiffened immediately, rigid with protest, but didn’t dare pull away. Not in front of the cameras. His grin was instant and indecent; wide and shit-eating. The kind of grin that said he was enjoying this far more than he should. The cameras went berserk.

“Happy now?” he bent low to murmur in her ear, voice honey-slick.

The crowd of journalists erupted at the unexpected intimacy of it. The sudden closeness. The whisper to the ear. Hermione, to her credit, didn’t so much as twitch. But in her head, she was aiming her stiletto at his shin. Self-control, she reminded herself. Think of the initiative. Think of diplomacy. Think of—

“Smile and follow my lead, yeah?” Draco said mockingly under his breath, fingers gripping her waist possessively.

As the cameras finally stopped flashing, Draco didn’t immediately release her. Hermione tried to subtly move away, shifting her hips, inching back, but Draco (insufferable as always) tightened his grip, his hand still resting across her waist. His long fingers extended to the curve of her ribs, and she could feel the heat of his touch even through the fabric of her dress. She glanced sideways at him with a mixture of frustration and disbelief. 

"Malfoy," she said, trying to wriggle free. "Let go."

Draco, apparently content to test her patience, gave her waist a little squeeze, making her suppress a yelp. 

"But we should show closeness," he teased, his lips curling into a sly grin.

Hermione’s patience snapped. She slapped his hand away with more force than she intended, but Draco only chuckled, tightening his arm around her again. The press was gone, but the game was far from over. They stumbled slightly as she tried to disengage, the awkwardness of it looking entirely like something else; some kind of playful skirmish between lovers. From the outside, it probably appeared as though they were...tickling each other. Hermione's cheeks flushed with irritation.

"You absolute—" she began, glaring at him as they continued to fumble, trying to disentangle themselves while still walking off the stage. 

Then, just as they got to the foot of the stage, midway through their ridiculous squirming, Kingsley, looking ever so serious, appeared in front of them. The sudden shift in the atmosphere was like ice cold water. His presence wiped the playfulness from the air.

"You two," he said in that clipped voice of his, cutting through their. "Report to my office. Now."

The effect was immediate. Both Draco and Hermione stopped their squabbling, freezing in place. Hermione, for a second, almost felt like a schoolgirl caught after curfew by a professor. Draco's usual arrogance faltered, and he straightened, a little too late. The suddenness of the Minister's interruption had wiped away any semblance of the lightheartedness they'd been trying to inject into the moment. Hermione’s lips thinned, and she shot Draco a sharp look, all business now. 

“Well, go on then,” she said, voice tight with professional restraint.

Draco shot a glance towards the Minister, his own composure slowly reassembling. The Minister’s office was painfully tidy, the sort of sterile that made Hermione feel itchy with guilt, like her mere existence was smudging the polish on the brass nameplate. Draco immediately slouched in one of the plush leather chairs as though he’d just strolled into his own living room, while Hermione perched primly on the edge of hers, back straight, ankles crossed, as if hoping good posture could protect her from the inevitable lecture.

Kingsley Shacklebolt leaned forward behind his desk, looking far too calm for someone about to verbally decapitate them.

“Well,” he began, voice smooth as velvet and twice as sharp, “That was a bloody disaster.”

Hermione blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“If this was supposed to be a campaign on unity and collaboration, then congratulations, you’ve convinced the public you’d rather hex each other than share a scone.”

Draco snorted beside her, and Hermione elbowed him, which only made him grin wider.

“There was no camaraderie whatsoever that showed in your body language. The answers you gave were merely sufficient but everyone in the room could practically feel the tension between you two. And don’t get me started on the photo op. You looked like toddlers fighting over the last sweet in Honeydukes."

“He wouldn’t let go of my waist!” Hermione hissed, before immediately regretting saying my waist in front of her boss.

Draco looked deeply satisfied. “She said she wanted closeness and she elbowed me. Honestly, Minister, I think I’m developing bruises. I might have grounds for a workplace injury claim.”

“Oh, please,” Hermione snapped. “You’re built like a troll. You’ll survive.”

Kingsley cleared his throat loudly. They both fell silent like two schoolchildren caught passing notes under the table.

“Look,” Kingsley said, rubbing his temples, “I’m going to say this once. Whatever personal vendetta or unresolved sexual tension—”

Hermione choked.

“—whatever it is, I don’t care. What I do care about is this campaign. And right now? You’re both terrible at it. No one’s going to buy what you’re selling. Not when Draco’s looking like he’s been sentenced to Azkaban every time he talks, and Hermione’s smiling like she’s trying not to cry.”

“I was not,” Hermione muttered.

Draco raised a brow. “You kind of were.”

Kingsley ignored them both. “So unless you want this entire initiative to crash and burn, and with it, your reputations and possibly your careers, I suggest you figure out how to not look like sworn enemies on camera. Or worse, exes.”

“Noted,” Hermione said tightly.

Draco crossed his legs. “What exactly do you suggest, Minister? A trust fall? A team-building ropes course in the woods?”

Kingsley didn’t even blink. “I suggest you spend some time together. Off the clock. Get used to each other’s faces. Learn how to not look like you’re fantasising about homicide.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You want us to hang out?” Draco said, like the words physically offended him.

“Gods,” Hermione breathed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Call it whatever you like,” Kingsley said, standing now, clearly done with this entire situation. “Have afternoon tea. Play chess. Walk a bloody Niffler together, I don’t care. But get your act together before the next event. That’s in three days, by the way. There better be improvements.”

He gave them both a look that was somehow both exhausted and terrifying. Hermione and Draco had nothing to say - not when the Minister was actually warning them.

“Dismissed.”

Chapter Text

The sky was as grey and brooding as the team’s mood. Rain hovered in the clouds but never quite committed, much like the Arrows' defensive line. Draco flew high above the pitch, weaving through the air with the kind of grace that made it impossible to tell whether he was showing off or just genuinely incapable of being subtle. His broom - a sleek, custom-cut Firebolt Supreme, etched with ancient runes and his own initials - sliced through the wind as he passed a Bludger.

“Oi, Malfoy! Try keeping the theatrics under fifty percent today, yeah?” came a shout from Rickett, the Arrows' Keeper and eternal killjoy.

Draco flipped him off without breaking formation. He barrel-rolled past two of his fellow Chasers, Jones and Kwan, before catching a rogue Quaffle mid-spin, hurling it with enough force to make the goalposts rattle. He heard a faint “bloody hell” from the ground. Good. Then came Griggs. Gregory Griggs, former Kenmare Kestrels star, now with a grudge and absolutely no etiquette. Built like a troll with a vendetta, and flying with all the elegance of a blunt object. Draco didn’t notice him circling behind until it was too late. There was a thud and then the wind left Draco’s lungs as Griggs’ shoulder clipped him hard, sending him into a spiral. The world tilted. Broom wobbling. Sky, ground, sky again. He righted himself with a snarl just as Coach Wood’s whistle shrieked and Griggs had the audacity to smirk at him.

Last month, during a closed scrimmage, Griggs had made a remark about Draco’s skills, something petty, something that should’ve earned him more than a broken nose. And Draco had, without hesitation, launched himself and socked him in the face. There had been a bit of blood, a team-wide shouting match, and a warning about “unacceptable conduct unbecoming of a professional athlete.” So yes, Griggs was still bitter.

“Oh, was that me?” Griggs said, not even pretending to be innocent. “My balance must be off. Nose still not healed properly. Wonder why that is?”

Draco’s blood roared. He shot forward, only barely stopped from ramming his broom through Griggs’ by Jones grabbing his sleeve mid-air. 

“Don’t, Malfoy. You know Wood will suspend your arse.”

“Get your hands off me,” Draco spat, but his heart wasn’t quite in it. 

His eyes were fixed elsewhere now, off to the stands, where Hermione Granger sat perched on the very edge of the bleachers like she was auditioning for a seat in the Wizengamot. She wasn’t wearing her usual pristine Ministry-approved robes. A wool coat, some drapey trousers, and of course, a Ministry pin. But the look on her face, which was pure exasperation, hit harder than Griggs ever could. Lips pinched. Her scowl sharp enough to cleave through protective gear. Draco felt it: an actual, physical chill down his spine. Worse than cold water down the back of your shirt. He let out a breath, straightened his posture, and shot Griggs a poisonous smile. 

“We’ll settle this later, sweetheart,” he said to him mockingly, then turned and flew off like nothing happened.

Hermione was on a splintering wooden bench, hugging her coat around her like it could shield her from the violent gusts of wind, her hair slowly frizzing into something that resembled a disgruntled lion. Quidditch, as always, held absolutely no appeal to her. She wasn’t above it - Merlin, no. She’d just…never seen the point. Grown adults flinging themselves around on broomsticks chasing balls like rabid bats? No, thank you. There were more intellectually stimulating ways to spend her time, such as reading literally anything else, or staring at the ceiling and pondering the disgrace that is Draco Malfoy. And yet.

Yet.

She found herself tracking the dark blur of Draco in motion, his figure cutting lines against the sky, fast and precise and, annoyingly, infuriatingly good. He moved like he didn’t care that people were watching, like the world narrowed down to the roar of wind in his ears and the pulse in his grip. She could see why people adored him. Why stadiums filled just to see him dive like he had a death wish and come up grinning like a devil. And perhaps he really was a daredevil in every sense. And then there was the kit. The Quidditch uniform - navy with silver accents, snug in all the places that were frankly none of her business - did nothing to lessen her suffering. His gloves, his windswept hair, the way his jaw flexed under the chin strap of his helmet. Absolutely disgusting. She grumbled to herself.

When he collided with another player, Griggs, if she remembered correctly, and the two of them almost spiralling towards a full-blown testosterone-fuelled brawl, she nearly stood up to shout. But then…he’d stopped. Just short of it. She watched his body pull back from the brink like a thread had tugged him. He looked down in her direction. Met her eyes. Hermione didn’t move, only crossed her legs and leaned her chin against her fist, scowling. The look she gave him said don’t you dare, laced with all the heat of a disappointed Head Girl. And the bastard smiled. He swooped down towards her at a reckless angle that made her flinch - what a sodding show-off - and dismounted like he’d just saved the world. As he approached the stands, still out of breath and annoyingly flushed with adrenaline, she raised a brow at him.

“Do you always have a tantrum before lunch?” she asked him dryly.

“Depends on the company. Griggs was asking for it.” Draco shrugged.

“So Griggs asked for a broken nose last time, too? That’s what I’ve heard.”

“Well. He sort of did.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and stood, brushing imaginary dust off her coat. “You know, I hate to admit it, but…you’re good.”

“Hate to admit it?” He clutched his chest. “Granger, that sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it. The uniform’s doing most of the work.”

He leaned in with a glint in his eye. “I could take it off, if you think it’s clouding your judgment.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Grow up.”

“I’m trying,” he said in mock earnest. “Look, biceps.”

She didn’t even dignify that with a glare. “I need to talk to you after training. Privately.”

Draco’s brow ticked up, interest piqued like he was deciding whether to be interested or terrified. 

“You’re not about to corner me in a broom cupboard and confess your undying lust, are you?”

She smiled without warmth. “Can we please have a normal conversation just once?”

His mouth twitched. “Fine. No fighting. No hexing. Minimal sarcasm.”

“Don’t get into another brawl before training ends. I mean it.”

Back in the air, Draco was trying. He really was. He’d gotten a wink from Granger which, fine, technically was just a blink in his general direction, but he was in a better mood for some reason. It was just one of those rare days, he supposed. For about three and a half minutes. Then came Griggs. It was verbal this time. Just a casual little insult about his mother. Partnered with a slightly too-close interception that almost knocked his broom sideways. Then Griggs let out a laugh. Low, smug, and entirely too pointed, which, if you asked Draco, was frankly the last straw.

Because here’s the thing: Griggs had a face. And not just any face, but the kind of face that begged to be suckerpunched, especially after last month’s “friendly fire” incident and Griggs had been gunning for him since. So yes, maybe Draco accelerated a little bit. Maybe his grip tightened on the handle. Maybe he very nearly abandoned all sense of professionalism to lunge for the bastard whilst in the air. Half the team dove after him like a pack of exhausted babysitters.

“Malfoy, no —”

“Fucking hell, not again—”

He didn’t even hear them. He just pulled back, hard, muscles coiled and jaw clenched, and veered off the pitch entirely. He was vibrating with frustration by the time he dismounted and shoved the locker room door open like it had personally offended him. Inside, he tore the jersey over his head with a sound halfway between a growl and a snarl. The adrenaline still had claws in him. His chest heaved, damp with sweat, muscles taut and too tense. He tousled his hair, pacing, pacing, as if motion might bleed the temper out of him. And then the door opened behind him. He didn’t even bother to look.

Hermione stepped in, then halted mid-step. She hadn't really…thought this part through. Because she had not expected to see him without a shirt. There he was, half-naked, flushed, and furious, his back to her as he exhaled like he was trying not to set something on fire. There was a sharpness to the line of his shoulders, the taper of his waist, the restless fists flexing at his sides. She blinked, realising too late that her eyes had, entirely of their own volition, completed a full visual sweep of his body like she was conducting an inspection. For science. Her throat made a sound. A stupid, traitorous, tiny sound.

Draco turned his head. “What, you here to scold me?”

“You stormed off,” she clipped. “I figured the locker might need childproofing.”

He let out a laugh. “You should see Griggs’ smug little—”

“I don’t care about him. I only care about you not giving everyone more reasons to say you’re a liability.”

He met her gaze then, and something about the fury in him started to melt. Not soften. But maybe crack. Just a little.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asked, voice still wind-lashed.

“Let’s wait until you’ve put on more clothes,” she said crisply. 

Draco didn’t bother reaching for a towel. Or a shirt. Or, frankly, a single shred of decency. Instead, he turned to her with that slow, infuriating grin of his. The kind that always came with bad decisions and even worse innuendos, and took a step forward.

“Have you even seen a man shirtless before, Granger? Or are you one of those, what do they call them, late bloomers?”

“Really scraping the bottom of the creativity barrel today, huh?”

But he kept moving forward, glinting like he thought he was doing something. Another step. And then another.

“Oh my, Granger,” he said, now entirely too close. “Are you a virgin who’s never seen a man naked before?”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t retreat. Not even an inch. However, she did scoff loudly.

“I was raised in the muggle world, Malfoy. I see men in underwear ads at every corner.”

He stilled. Slightly thrown. Good.

“And if you’re done performing your little locker room striptease,” she continued, “I came to ask if you’d like to have dinner. At my flat.”

That did the trick. The smugness pulled at the edges of his face. Sweat still clung to his back and chest, shining in the low light, but now he wasn’t moving. Just standing there, breathing heavy, stupidly close.

“Dinner, at your flat,” he repeated, watching her like she’d just spoken in Parseltongue.

“Yes. Since Kingsley wants us to spend time together. Off the clock.”

She was calm and proud of herself for not crumbling under the oppressive smell of soap and testosterone and whatever godsforsaken pheromones he was exuding. For a long beat, he didn’t say anything. Just stared at her like he couldn’t quite decide if she was serious or if this was one elaborate prank. Draco tilted his head, one eyebrow lifted in suspicion so cartoonishly perfect it should’ve come with a theme tune. 

“What’s the catch, Granger?”

Hermione, to her credit, did not sigh, though the urge roared through her chest. 

“There’s no catch,” she said, voice diplomatic. “I’m just going to cook dinner. For both of us. That’s it.”

He squinted at her, eyes narrowed as if trying to spot the fine print in the air between them.

“A little getting-to-know-you time,” she added, shrugging one shoulder. “You don’t even have to stay for dessert.”

His eyes flicked down to her lips at the word dessert like the infuriating male specimen he was. She ignored it.

“Only long enough to tell Kingsley we’ve...hung out,” she said, hating herself a little for how unconvincing that sounded aloud. “Casual, civilised, adult...interaction.”

Draco crossed his arms over his bare chest, which frankly was just obnoxious at this point. And yes, she absolutely did not mean to glance at the sharp, obscene cut of muscle lining both sides of his waist. The kind of anatomical rudeness that pointed directly into his trousers like a neon sign flashing sin this way. She wanted to pluck her eyes out. He was still looking at her like she was somehow plotting to overthrow his position in the team. But after a few seconds of suspicious silence, he gave a noncommittal nod. 

“Fine. But it better not take long. I’ve got a party later tonight.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Trust me, Malfoy, I have no reason to keep you any longer than absolutely necessary.”

“Now there’s a line women have been trying to say to me for years.”

She turned on her heel before she could audibly gag.

__________

The floo spit Draco out onto a beige carpet that looked like it had never known a spill in its life. He stepped out, brushing soot from his coat, and took stock of the room like it might bite him.

"Kitchen," Hermione called from somewhere beyond the hall. "Make yourself at home."

Draco arched a brow. Home. Interesting choice of words. He wandered further in. Her flat was small, predictably. London prices, even for Ministry darlings. But it was neat. Impossibly neat. The kind of place that had systems. Shelves aligned like soldiers, books alphabetised and colour-coded. Not that he checked, but it was Hermione Granger. He’d bet a month’s salary on it. There was a vase of eucalyptus on the coffee table, because of course there was. Soft lighting. Calming neutrals. The couch looked like it got fluffed daily. The entire space felt curated to hide that she probably hadn’t had a real night's rest in years.

He drifted towards the wall where a narrow console displayed framed photographs. Her parents, smiling stiffly in front of a French cathedral. A younger Hermione wedged between Potter and Weasley, all three of them sunburned and grinning like idiots. Another one of her and a very round, very pissed-off ginger cat, mid-hiss. The cat looked like it had just been bathed against its will. A garden snapshot of her and an older woman, probably her gran, planting something, faces smudged with soil and sunlight. No photos of a boyfriend. No images of a man half-obscured in a corner. Interesting.

“Well, that tracks,” he muttered under his breath, leaning against the edge of the mantle. “All this order. No wonder she’s single.”

From the kitchen, something sizzled. A clatter of metal, followed by a muffled curse. Draco stared at the photo of her with the cat again. He could hear her moving behind the wall - could almost picture her stirring something, brow furrowed, sleeves rolled up to her elbows with militant precision. Probably cooking the same way she worked. By the book. Thermometer in one hand, wand in the other. He let his head fall back against the wall and sighed. Merlin help him. He’d rather be hexed into oblivion than endure an evening of her fake pleasantries. But here he was. In her house. Smelling truffle and garlic. Looking at her life like it was some open drawer he wasn’t supposed to be in.

Draco finally wandered towards the kitchen, drawn in by the scent of butter. She stood barefoot by the stove, back to him, sleeves pushed up, hair twisted in a loose knot like she’d only half-committed to doing something with it. She wore light blue jeans that looked like they were stitched onto her bum. And a pale cashmere jumper - blush pink, of all things - that hugged her a little too well for someone who’d spent most of their adult life dressed like the lovechild of a librarian and a Ministry clerk. His brow arched before he could help it.

“Well, well,” he drawled, stepping into the doorway. “Finally dressed like someone under the age of eighty.”

Hermione didn’t even turn around. She just stirred the sauce like she hadn’t heard him. 

“We’re having truffle pasta,” she said crisply. “I hope you’re not picky.”

“As if I’ve got a say in the matter.”

It did smell good, though. Inviting, even. Rich and indulgent and wholly unexpected. He told himself it was the truffle. Not the domesticity. Not the fact that Granger looked suspiciously competent at something other than correcting people. She turned then, and set an unopened bottle of red on the counter. The label was instantly recognisable - even to him. Château Margaux 1989. A muggle wine. But not just any wine. A fucking grand cru classé. She opened it with easy hands and poured him a glass without asking. Didn’t even look up as she slid it across the counter. Draco took it, sipped once, then blinked like he’d just been slapped by a grape deity. He didn’t say anything to praise it. But he drank it.

Hermione turned back to plate the food, humming quietly under her breath, and Draco’s eyes betrayed him - drifting lower, back to those fucking denim jeans. High-waisted, sinfully tight around the hips, hugging her in ways her Ministry robes never could. He watched, fascinated, as she reached for the parmesan. He frowned at himself. Did he like jeans? On the one hand, they were...vulgar. Common. Mugglewear. But on the other…Merlin, she had a nice arse, and it took all of him to finally admit that to himself. He took another sip of wine. This evening was already taking a toll on him. As she carried the plates over, the scent practically seduced the room - earthy, rich, like she’d hand-foraged the truffles herself that morning. Draco followed her to the modest dining table and eased into the chair across from her.

“I’m expecting perfection,” he said, eyeing the dish. “You’re insufferable about everything else. Would be shocking if your pasta didn’t come with a dissertation.”

Hermione just raised an eyebrow and twirled a neat forkful into her mouth. He dug in, reluctantly. Fuck. He hated it. It was…perfect. Silky ribbons of pasta, the truffle notes subtle but decadent, like she’d whispered secrets into the sauce. And she wasn’t even smug. No need. She just sat there with a self-satisfied little smirk, sipping her wine like a woman who’d won something without lifting a wand. They ate for a moment in companionable silence, broken only by the clinking of cutlery and the low hum of a jazz record spinning somewhere in the flat. Then Hermione cleared her throat.

“Actually,” she said lightly, “there’s a small favour I wanted to ask.”

Draco paused mid-chew and dropped his fork. “Ah, there it is. It never was just dinner. It’s a bribe. How very Slytherin of you.”

He reached for his wine. “Go on then, Granger. What’s the catch?”

Hermione’s lips thinned. “It’s not a bribe.”

“No?”

“I did want to ask something,” she admitted, quietly now. 

Her hands dropped to her lap, and she started rubbing at a ring on her finger - absently, nervously. A habit, Draco thought, staring. A nervous tick. Hermione Granger had nervous ticks? He didn’t say anything. Just took a sip and nodded once, coaxing. Go on. She exhaled and avoided his eyes. That alone was disarming. Granger never avoids eye contact, he thought.

“There’s a charity event in two days,” she said finally, “By a Veela rights organisation from Bulgaria. And since I’ve been the representative for the Ministry in events like this…I’m required to attend.”

Draco blinked. “And?”

She drew in another breath. Her fingers twisted harder.

“I want you to come. As my…plus one.”

Silence bloomed.

“You want me to what? ”

She lifted her chin, like a woman gathering her own shattered bravery. “All you have to do is stay beside me the entire night and look…intimidating. If someone tries to approach me, you intervene and lead me away. That’s all.”

Draco looked at her like she’d just asked him to donate a kidney.

“Approach you,” he repeated. “What kind of approach are we talking about, exactly?”

Hermione faltered. And there it was again, that look of uncertainty. That strange, foreign flicker of nerves that made her spine curve inward, made her voice dip into something not quite fragile, but far too human for someone as ironclad as her. 

“Someone from my past,” she said, eyes finally meeting his. “Someone I…don’t want to engage with. By myself.”

Ah. Of course.

Draco’s smirk tugged at his mouth like muscle memory - just this side of derisive. So that was the game. Some poor bastard from her past still carried baggage for her, and she needed someone on her side to send a message. That she was no longer interested. Moved on successfully. Look who I’ve upgraded to. Merlin. Was she really using him as a tactic? A jealousy plot? The idea was so laughably textbook he nearly rolled his eyes. Granger, of all people, pulling petty stunts like this. He’d expected more. Or less. Something different than this nonsense. 

Still, he couldn't deny the delicious twist of irony. Out of all the men she could’ve paraded around like a warning sign, she’d picked him. The bloke least likely to play nice, most likely to put up a fight. And now, he had leverage. Because whoever this mystery piner was, Draco Malfoy had just become the wall she planned to hide behind. Draco leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table, and smiled like a cat watching a very clever mouse back itself into a corner.

“Well, well,” he said. “Aren’t we full of surprises.”

Hermione swallowed. “I would’ve asked Harry and Ron. But they’re both overseas on assignment until next week. If you’re not up for it, just say so. I’ll find someone else.”

Draco stared at her, utterly still. This was not the Ministry talking. Not some pompous PR assignment or political trap. She was asking for herself. For once, she wasn’t the indomitable spokeswoman or Miss I-Can-Do-Anything-By-Myself. She looked…fuck, she looked like she actually needed his help. And he knew she despised needing help from anyone. His blood sang and his adrenaline spiked at this rare opportunity. Like he’d been handed the reins to something vulnerable and volatile. Like her dignity was a string and he was holding it. He dragged his thumb across the rim of his glass arrogantly.

“Alright I’ll go,” he said. “Since you’re this desperate, Granger, I suppose I’d be doing the country a disservice by saying no.”

He tilted his head, eyes glittering. “Besides…can’t let your mystery man think you’ll fall easily back into his arms, can we?”

Chapter Text

The dress felt like armour. Which was to say: it didn’t protect her at all. Hermione stood in the sterile light of her bathroom, back straight, feet bare on the cold tile. The gown she chose was silver, sleek in that expensive, aloof sort of way like it had been designed to slip through a room unnoticed and still leave a trail of blood behind. It was backless. Cut low at the front, too. The kind of dress you wear when you're trying to convince yourself you’re harder than what happened to you. Her reflection didn’t blink. She looked...fine. Beautiful, even. But she felt like she’d been sealed into someone else. The straps bit into her shoulders. Her skin itched under the silk. It was too much. But it also wasn’t enough. Her mouth was dry now. She reached for the vial on the counter. Popped the stopper. Tipped it back. The calming draught tasted like dust, and went down rough. She didn’t move and waited for it to take effect. She stared at herself like she could make the nerves leave her body. The panic was there, thrumming quietly within her veins. But then the draught started working like warm fingers pressing down on the sharpest parts of her. Her shoulders dropped. 

“You’re fine,” she whispered to herself. “You can do this. You can handle it.”

She didn’t sound convinced, so she said it again. And again. Then louder, like she could bluff her way into bravery.

“You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine. You’ve survived worse.”

And then, just as her hands stopped shaking, the floo flared to life in the sitting room. Heavy footsteps. Her stomach twisted. She didn’t need to check the clock to know he was late. Of course he was late. But then again, she didn’t care about punctuality tonight. Not for this event. Not when her blood felt like ice sloshing around inside her. She slipped into her heels without ceremony. Walked barefoot across the wood until they clicked. When she turned the corner into the living room, she saw him. And immediately wished she’d taken a second draught.

Draco Malfoy stood there, regal, brushing ash from his shoulder with all the arrogance of someone who’d never had to apologise for anything in his life. He was dressed impeccably. Black robes. White shirt. Hair artfully dishevelled. Was that the trendy hairstyle these days among purebloods? The kind of look that said I don’t care and You should care that I don’t care all at once. But it wasn’t the outfit. It was the sway. The heavy-lidded stare. The telltale gleam in his eye that said: I had a few drinks before this and I don’t feel bad about it. He was tipsy. Maybe even more than tipsy. But in that polished way only someone rich and reckless could pull off. The kind of drunk that didn’t stain his clothes or trip his steps, just dulled his edges and gave his smirk too much room to stretch. His eyes were a bit bloodshot as he scanned her from head to toe. 

“Are you drunk?” she bit out.

Draco grinned like she’d just asked if the sky was blue. “Define drunk. ”

Her hands turned into fists.

“Oh, come on,” he added breezily. “It’s not like I stumbled in here singing bawdy ballads. I had one drink. Maybe two. I’m charming when I’ve had a bit. Everyone says so.”

She could feel it now. The heat flaring in her chest, her temples, her throat. It was always like this with him. Like she was a kettle and he was the flame and she didn’t know how to turn either of them off.

“Unbelievable,” she snapped, already turning on her heel. “I don’t need your drunk arse making a scene tonight.”

“Oh, come off it, Granger—”

“I mean it,” she barked, storming towards the floo. “Go home. I’ll manage this night without you.”

She was halfway to tossing the powder when he caught up, annoyingly graceful for someone who reeked of Ogden’s and self-sabotage.

“I am fine,” he insisted. “In fact, I’m better like this. Looser. More agreeable. Less inclined to say something cutting about your need to control everything.”

“I needed you sharp and alert tonight.”

“And I’m here, aren’t I?” he said, stepping right into her space, annoyingly steady on his feet. “In my finest robes. Smelling like firewhisky and expensive cologne. You should be thanking me.”

She snarled. Literally snarled. She’d never been more tempted to hex someone into sobriety in her life. But instead, with all the grace of a woman who had rehearsed her self-restraint for years and was seconds from setting it on fire, Hermione threw down the powder. The green flames roared.

The ballroom glistened like a dream under moonlight. High-arched ceilings shimmered with spell-cast constellations that moved overhead, stars drifting across dark velvet. Cascading drapes of gauzy silver and pale blue hung like clouds from above, and the marble floor was polished to such a sheen that the chandeliers above them reflected in it twice. The space pulsed with elegance and old money. The music was delicate and orchestral and murmurs filled the air in French, Russian, Italian - languages from diplomats, donors, and patrons.

Veelas moved gracefully between clusters of guests, their glamour dialled up for effect. Their beauty was incandescent. Almost predatory. And it didn’t help that Hermione knew that he would be here, because anyone who’s notable in Bulgaria was in this very room. She hoped her instincts were wrong this time. She hoped she was just being overly paranoid. Hermione’s arm was looped tightly through Draco’s as they stepped into the crowd. And despite having just thrown herself into the floo with murder in her eyes, she was now wearing that smile; the one that could charm a table of bloodthirsty politicians into funding a guild of house-elves.

It was instant. Expert. Her posture had snapped into place the moment they’d landed. Her laugh came light and airy as she greeted a passing witch in silk robes, her voice tinged with forced warmth. Her spine straight, her chin up, her expression unmarred by the fact she’d nearly throttled her date a minute ago. Draco had always admired how she could do that - shift like a coin flipped midair. Snarling one second, smiling like a duchess the next. All efficiency. All precision. All Ministry-approved sunshine. He opened his mouth to say something, but she beat him to it.

“You should go home,” Hermione said, not bothering to look at him. “Last time you drank at a ball, you upended the banquet table. Made it to the front pages. I’m not risking that.”

Draco scoffed. “That was ages ago. And I’m not even that drunk.”

But she was already halfway across the ballroom, vanishing into a cluster of foreign delegates. Nothing left behind but the scent of her perfume and the flick of her silver gown.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, earning a curious look from a passing French ambassador.

Still, Draco stayed right where he was. He wasn’t done yet. For the next half hour, Draco and Hermione played this strange game of pursuit. He spotted her standing near an old wizard in a velvet suit, nodded politely, and inserted himself into their conversation. After a few words, Hermione would shift her weight, excuse herself, and slink away before Draco even had time to finish his introduction. He’d catch up with her again, only for the cycle to repeat. It was like a social version of hide and seek, and neither of them was enjoying it.

Was she really that afraid of drunk men? Draco thought, fuming silently as he adjusted his lapels. He’d only had two glasses of firewhisky, and by his standards, that wasn’t even close enough to cause a scene. He was sober, damn it, but it wasn’t like Granger would believe that. He caught sight of her near the far end of the ballroom, deep in conversation with someone else. With a quiet growl, he stalked towards her, plucking a flute of champagne from a passing tray, more for the principle of it than anything else. By the time he reached her, he could feel her tense the moment her gaze fell upon the alcohol in his hand and it was immediately clear she did not like that. Her shoulders stiffened. She didn’t even turn to look at him as she spoke.

“And you’re still drinking,” she pointed out.

“It’s a bloody party.”

“And what happens if you get sloshed?”

“Do you want to see?”

“Malfoy, just leave. Please.”

Please. Like she was begging him to be gone. Like she’d rather foil her plans of using him tonight than be seen by his side. He smirked bitterly, a fire of frustration burning behind his eyes. 

“Fine, Granger. I’ll stay out of your way. Wouldn’t want to ruin your perfectly curated image.”

He downed the champagne in one motion, tossed the glass to a passing waiter, and turned on his heel. His words hung in the air even as he walked away. After that, the rest of Hermione’s night had been merciful. No mishaps. No drunken tirades. No tipsy Draco Malfoy lurking behind ornamental ferns pestering her. For a full half hour, Hermione Granger played her role to perfection as she was speaking to the head of the Veela foundation. Lips glossed into tight, agreeable lines. Words like policy, coalition, projected estimates rolling off her tongue like honey off a knife. A half-warm glass of champagne going nowhere in her hand.

She was fine.

She was bloody relaxed.

The calming draught did its thing.

And then, it happened. Just like she knew it would.

She felt a shift first. A subtle one. Like the floor dipped half an inch. Like the lights dimmed just a little too early. Like something had stepped through the doors and stolen all the air from the room. She didn’t even need to look to confirm it. Of course not. Because she’d memorised the shape of this. Memorised the atmosphere he brought. It had been pencilled into her bones. Forecasted like weather. It wasn’t the surprise that made her fingers twitch. It was memory. It was him.

Viktor was suddenly interrupting her conversation, speaking Bulgarian to the head of the Veela foundation like he had some sodding business with them. He probably did. But he was looking at her and smiling like the past had been gracious. Like their demise had been clean and dignified. As if it hadn't cost her something permanent. Here he was, looking every bit the gentleman. Friendly. So well-behaved she wanted to laugh or scream or both. Then, he had the gall to speak to her. But Hermione’s body didn’t flinch like it used to when he looked in her direction. She’d practised that since then. Standing very still. Looking very unaffected. But her blood? Oh, her blood. Her blood bolted for the exit. There was a scream caught behind her teeth and it wasn't asking to be let out; it was begging to be swallowed. He grinned at her. Like they were old friends. Like he hadn’t— 

She didn’t move. Because she knew how this went. Running made it worse. Running looked unhinged. Running was weak. So she stayed there, looking at him like she was ready for battle any moment. Planted like a tree, champagne stem trembling ever so slightly in her hand. She couldn’t remember the name of the project she was pitching anymore. Or what the foundation head had just asked her. All she could feel was pressure. Behind her eyes, in her throat, at the base of her spine. The cruel nostalgia of survival. She hadn't even seen his wand. But still, she couldn’t breathe. Because she didn’t need hexes to be haunted. Just his presence. And he was right here in front of her, again.

“How have you been, Hermione?”

His voice was low. Velvet. Mannered. Like the past hadn’t happened. Like there hadn’t been bruises on her body, or uncontrollable shaking, or nights where she curled up on the bathroom floor, waiting for it to feel safe again. Hermione blinked. She’d prepared for moments like this. Had planned what she’d say. Had practised the laugh, the smile, the illusion of politeness. But now that he was standing in front of her again devastatingly composed, her thoughts scattered like ash. The two diplomats in their little huddle turned towards her, waiting for her answer as if this was just any old question. As if he was just any man.

“I’ve been…well,” she said, her voice pitched like a note on the verge of snapping. 

A counterfeit smile pulled at her lips. It hurt. Viktor returned it, eyes too kind. Or maybe not kind. Maybe it's the same way a wolf looks when it’s already picked the softest part of your throat. The conversation limped on. Something about legislation. Something about her next project. He asked her if she still worked too much, and she forced a small laugh because the diplomats were watching her and she was trying not to choke on her own heartbeat. She couldn’t feel her legs.

“Ah, so you two know each other?” the woman asked brightly, sipping her wine.

Viktor chuckled, charming as ever. “Oh, yes. We have history, so to speak.”

The women giggled. One even clutched her chest in delight, eyes sparkling with innuendo. Hermione wanted to vomit in her champagne flute. Her hands were clammy. Her spine too stiff. Her heel kept tapping against the floor like Morse code for help. Help. Help. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Viktor turned to the others. “But I’d like a moment with Hermione. Outside. If you’ll excuse us.”

The moment ruptured like glass in her chest. She touched the gold band on her finger, turning it instinctively. Harry had given it to her for protection, but she doubted its faulty magic would even work now.

Please.

She didn’t say it aloud. Her throat wouldn’t open. But her whole body screamed it. Her eyes shot to the head of the Veela organisation - sharp-featured, graceful, lovely. A woman who spoke eight languages and had spent her life fighting for the safety of her people. Hermione stared at her, pleading silently. Don’t let him take me. Don’t make me go with him. But the woman just gave a small nod, as if to say “Please, go ahead.” Hermione’s stomach turned. A noise caught in her throat, something like a gasp and a laugh and a cry all at once. Viktor offered his arm like a proper gentleman, and for a second, just a second, she thought of refusing. She thought of sprinting to the floo, or throwing her drink in his face, or hexing his kneecaps into powder. But instead—

Her hand trembled. And then, traitorously, it moved. She slipped her fingers around his arm like it didn’t make her skin crawl. They walked together. And to the rest of the room, it looked like nothing. Just an old couple. Rekindled history. A polite little stroll into the night. No one saw the way her fingers curled into her palm. No one noticed how her shoulders pulled inward, how her jaw clenched so tightly it ached. No one saw how she was holding her breath. Like she was diving underwater. Like she didn’t know how long she’d have to stay there.

An empty balcony. Marble balustrades, charmed to stay cool under moonlight. Below, the garden sprawled like something out of a romantic oil painting - glowing lanterns, manicured hedges, laughter echoing from the other side of the ballroom. A perfect place for lovers to steal kisses. A perfect place to hurl herself off the ledge to get away from him. Hermione peeled herself from his arm the moment they crossed the threshold as if she’d been burned, putting five feet of distance between her and him. Viktor only chuckled. It was soft. Familiar. A sound she used to mistake for fondness. 

“You need to relax, Hermione,” he said in that lilting, measured cadence.

“What do you want?” 

He took a step towards her. She mirrored it in reverse, stepping back, her shoulders brushing the stone rail behind her. His presence filled the air like smoke - sickening, heavy, impossible to breathe through.

“Nothing,” he said flippantly. “I just wanted to chat. You’ve been avoiding me.”

Her arms wrapped around herself like scaffolding, ribs straining beneath the pressure. Maybe it was cold. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just the kind of chill that lived in your bones after too many nights spent terrified to death. Viktor’s eyes scanned her. He noticed the trembling. 

“You wouldn’t be shaking if you didn’t dress like slag,” he said. “I’ve always told you this.”

Hermione exhaled like it hurt. “Please, Viktor. You can’t keep doing this.”

He was on her in seconds. A blur. His fingers locked around her upper arm, hard and unrelenting. Her skin screamed beneath his grip. Her cortisol levels spiked in an instant and it was such a familiar and unwelcome feeling.

“Why? So I can’t see what you’re up to? See that you’re dressing like this to seduce animals?”

“The only animal I know,” she hissed, “is you.”

His sneer stretched across his face like something primal. Ugly.

“You haven’t changed,” he said, voice thick with venom. “Still so stubborn. Maybe I need to fuck you again like I used to. Remember how you liked it when I fucked you like the whore you are? Maybe then you’ll behave again, skŭpa. ”

That bloody term of endearment for her. She used to melt when he used it. Now it made her skin crawl, like acid sliding down her spine. The sound of it in his mouth felt like a mockery of everything she'd once mistaken for affection. Her whole body twisted, squirming, trying to tear herself away - but his grip didn’t loosen. Not even an inch.

“Stop,” she gasped. “Let go.”

He growled like the crack of thunder, “Shut up. We’re not through, you and I.”

Just then, the curtain shifted. A rustle made both her and Viktor turn. Stepping out from behind the drapes was Draco Malfoy, loose-limbed and lopsided like a man who couldn’t quite remember where his feet were. His bowtie hung undone around his neck. He looked completely, utterly piss drunk. But Hermione knew better. His eyes didn’t sway. They sharpened the moment they landed on her. They zeroed in on the arm where Viktor had her in a vice grip. He saw her trembling. The way she was plastered to the stone railing like a pressed flower. Malfoy was pretending; putting on a drunken show. Viktor’s hand released her arm at once.

"Hello Krum," he drawled, dragging the name out like it tasted sour. "How’s the indefinite suspension treating you?"

Viktor's jaw ticked. “Malfoy.”

“Still off the league roster, aren’t you?” Draco went on, swaying slightly. “What illegal potions were you caught using again? Venomspike? Or just a cocktail of cowardice?”

“Watch your mouth, little Malfoy.”

“I’d rather not.” Draco’s tone darkened by a shade. 

His stare dropped to Hermione for half a second, then back to Viktor. “But I will offer you a favour. A friendly warning.”

He took a lazy step forward, and though his posture was all drunken bravado, the steel in his voice was unmistakable.

“Leave before I show you exactly how we treat has-beens in England. And I won’t need a banned substance to do it.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to bleed. Viktor looked at him like he was weighing outcomes. His eyes darted to Hermione, who hadn’t said a word. Viktor straightened his coat. Then, without a word, he turned and walked off, but not before sending Draco a glare so venomous it could've curdled stone. Draco didn’t move. Not even when the echo of Viktor’s footsteps had vanished into the gilded hum of the party. Hermione didn’t move. She couldn’t. She felt like she was still bracing for impact, only to realise the wreckage had already happened. Her breath sawed in and out of her chest like it was trying to claw its way through. Her hands were shaking. Not dainty little trembles. No, she was vibrating like a wire about to snap.

Draco didn’t say anything, but he’s already stopped his inebriated performance. He slipped off his suit jacket and placed it over her shoulders. The inside was still warm from his body and that was somehow worse, she thought. She didn’t thank him; she couldn’t even get her mouth to open. Her fingers found the place on her arm where Viktor had grabbed her. It already felt like a bruise. Her skin prickled beneath her dress and every cell in her body screamed to scrub herself raw. Draco leaned back against the stone railing, shoving his hands into his pockets like they were the only things keeping him from lashing out.

“When you asked me to come tonight,” he said, not looking at her, “I thought it was to make some ugly bloke jealous. Not to play bodyguard against a psychopathic ex.”

Hermione stared at the garden below, its flowers frozen in a moonlit still. Her voice came out hollow. 

“I thought you’d left.”

“What can I say, I’m a stubborn bastard.”

“Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner about him.”

“That bad?”

She gave a nod. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t know you two were involved.”

“We didn’t exactly advertise it.”

He looked at her then. She couldn’t tell what he saw but she hoped he didn’t see too much.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she said quickly. “Please.”

He didn’t reply. Just exhaled through his nose. Then, quietly, “Why?”

“Because it’s pathetic,” she said. “Because I was in love with a monster. Because I stayed longer than I should’ve. It was stupid and humiliating.”

Draco stilled and decided not to interrupt.

“And I helped him,” she went on. “The potions. He said he needed them. Said he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t breathe without them. And I arranged for access. Because I thought if I didn’t, he’d hurt me and he’d hurt himself.”

Her hands were fists now. Clutching at his jacket like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

“If the Ministry ever finds out what I did…”

She didn’t need to finish the sentence. He didn’t say anything, but he understood the implications anyway. He pulled a small vial from his pocket and handed it to her like he always kept it there, as if he knew a moment like this would eventually happen.

“Drink,” he said flatly.

She took it. Because despite how the night began, she trusted him. Especially after how he’d stepped in to intervene. The glass was cold against her palm. She uncorked it and swallowed the contents in one bitter go. It tasted like metal and moss and the inside of a hospital ward. Like punishment. Like memory. But the relief was just as immediate.

“I’ll take you home,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

She didn’t argue. Just nodded, a shallow tilt of the head. Her limbs moved like they belonged to someone else. Her knees felt hollow. Her throat still ached. He reached for her hand and didn’t let go as they moved through the ballroom like ghosts. Her heels made no sound on the marble. They looked like two people who had nothing to say to each other. Which was almost true. His hand hovered near her back but didn’t touch as he ushered her to the floo network. Green flames roared to life and they were gone in a snap.

Her flat was dim and untouched, a museum of things she no longer recognised as comfort. Her jumper draped over a chair, an open book spine-up on the sofa. Everything waiting for her return, unaware of the state she’d be in when she came back. Draco didn’t follow her in. He stood at the threshold like a sentinel, his shoulders taut, like he was trying not to feel anything at all.

“Does he know where you live?” Draco asked, tension still humming under his skin.

Hermione shook her head. “Not this flat. And even if he did, I made Harry put up a hundred wards.”

“Is that enough?”

“Some of them would kill him,” she muttered. “If he tried to enter. Or linger. Or…” 

Her mouth clicked shut. She rubbed her arms again. She hadn’t really stopped since the balcony.

“Good,” Draco said, flatly. 

Like it was an acceptable solution. Like that was the end of it. It wasn’t. There was a silence, heavy but not awkward. Her living room was dim, lit only by the streetlamps bleeding through the curtains, catching the edges of his profile. He still looked ready to fight someone. Maybe not Viktor anymore. Maybe himself.

“I’m fine,” she said eventually. 

The words felt like a formality. Empty. Like brushing dirt under a rug.

“You’re not,” he said. “But you will be.”

She swallowed. Nodded. “Right.”

Another pause.

“You still shaking?” he asked.

“No,” she lied.

He looked at her hands. “Liar.”

She huffed, mostly at herself, and sat on the edge of the armrest, eyes on the floor. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

That earned a blink. “Right. Of course.”

“I mean,” he added, “You’d hex me if I tried to hover.”

She glanced up at him. “Only a little.”

Something close to a smile ghosted over his face - faint, dry, almost even fond. But perhaps it was also the alcohol in his system. He stepped towards the fireplace.

“Get some sleep,” he said. 

“Malfoy.”

He stopped, half-turned.

“Thanks,” she said, softly. “For earlier.”

He gave a short nod. “Keep the jacket.”

And then, like always, he left without needing ceremony - just walked into the flames and disappeared. The flat was quiet again. She sat still for a long moment, the weight of his coat around her shoulders like armour she hadn’t known she needed.

The club pulsed like a living thing as lights in red and violet cut across bodies like a curse. It smelled like firewhisky, sweat, and magic gone feral. The kind of place where memories went to drown. Draco Apparated just outside the entrance, already loosening his collar, already slipping into something recognisable. Inside, it was all noise and heat and motion. He liked that. He shoved through the crowd like he belonged there. Because he did. He kept walking until he found the VIP area tucked into the back, cordoned off with enchanted glass and some half-hearted glamour that couldn’t conceal the debauchery inside. His people were there already - Theo sprawled out like a prince of rot, Pansy on someone’s lap, Blaise nursing something that looked radioactive. They lit up when they saw him. 

“Oi, back so soon,” Theo whooped, flinging an arm into the air like he’d been summoning Draco for hours.

Draco grinned. But Merlin’s balls, he felt tired. He ducked into the booth, which smelled like illegal concoctions and expensive perfume. The leather was sticky. The table littered with empty vials and glasses in various stages of forgetting. A new girl was there, watching him. Blonde. Sharp cheekbones. Mouth too red. Her dress looked painted on, barely clinging to her shoulders. She leaned in when he sat, eyes catching the glint of his cufflink.

“Hello, Draco Malfoy,” she said, in a voice that could bruise.

He didn’t ask who she was. Didn’t even start with small talk. He just leaned in and snogged her. Hard. Open-mouthed. Because this is who he was. Because this was what he knew. The liquor, the bad decisions, the bite of someone else's mouth against his. It was enough to drown out the memory. Enough to forget the way Granger had looked on that balcony, shaking in so much fear that he barely recognised her. And especially enough to shove out the sound of Viktor Krum telling her that he’d like to fuck her again like he used to.

Draco hated that.

Chapter Text

Hermione banged on the door like she meant to break it down. Which, to be fair, she did want to. She’d tried the floo first - of course she had, she wasn’t deranged - but the bastard had locked it. Not just closed. Locked. Warded with something unnecessarily smug, like a passive-aggressive note in spell form. So now here she was. Fists sore. Face flushed. Banging like a woman unravelling at the seams. Five minutes. She checked her watch. If he didn’t open in the next sixty seconds, she’d have no choice but to file an official complaint about him not honouring the contract. “Failure to comply with Ministry obligations” had a nice ring to it. Maybe then he’d bother to be serious once and for all. She banged again, louder this time, because Hermione Granger did not bluff.

On what was probably the 57th second, the door finally creaked open. Draco stood there, looking like a wreck - a half-dazed, disheveled wreck - and very much still in the throes of sleep. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, his chest bare, and he had that familiar, glazed-over look of someone who had done one too many shots the night before. He blinked, as if the effort to process the world outside his foggy mind was one he’d rather not bother with. Hermione didn’t wait for an invitation. She barged in like it was her own flat, practically steamrolling through the threshold.

“We were supposed to start writing our column for The Daily Prophet at 10am,” she began. “The deadline’s at 3pm. The owl has to leave by then, Malfoy. That means we need to get something decent down. Like now.”

Draco barely registered her presence. He didn’t even blink when she stepped inside, the words bouncing off him like stones skimming the surface of a river. His brain was too busy trying to decipher if he was still drunk or just hungover, and frankly, he wasn’t interested in answering that question.

"You can write it yourself. I’m not in the mood,” he croaked.

“Gladly,” she said, her voice as calm as it was cutting, “if you’re fine with being kicked off the team.”

The words hit him like a bucket of ice water, freezing him in place. He blinked slowly, finally processing her threat. His eyes narrowed, the fog in his brain starting to lift just enough to focus on her. She was serious.

He rubbed his temple, groaning slightly. “That’s a low blow, Granger. You know I can’t let you write this without me.”

“Then get your arse to work,” Hermione snapped, taking a seat on one of his kitchen stools, swivelling once to face him. 

She crossed her legs with an air of finality, like she was prepared for this battle to last as long as it needed. Draco stood there for a moment, his expression a mix of annoyance and resignation, as if he was trying to decide whether to drag himself back to bed or actually do his job for once. He clearly wasn’t happy about it, but Hermione knew the deal. She knew how to push him. He’d never back down from his pride. Finally, he sighed, defeated. 

“Fine,” he muttered, stalking past her into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. “But if you’re writing half of this, don’t expect me to make it sound like your bloody political propaganda.”

Hermione smirked, already smoothing out a new parchment. “You’re not as important as you think you are.”

“Watch me.” He shot her a sideways glance. 

He flicked his fingers towards the shelf with a casual wave. Two glasses floated down, landing on the counter with the softest clink. No wand in sight. He reached into the cold box - Hermione didn’t know if he’d charmed it or had one of those enchanted cooling cabinets that purebloods insisted weren’t muggle-inspired - and pulled out a bottle of orange juice. Not pumpkin. Orange. Real, pulpy, sunshine-bright Muggle orange juice. He poured until each glass was half full. Then, without hesitation, he opened the small cabinet above his sink, revealing a shelf with exactly three bottles: one dark firewhisky, one cheap red wine, and one - Hermione blinked - Prosecco. Muggle again.

He uncorked the Prosecco like he’d done it a hundred times. A slow pour followed, patient and even, no bubbling over. Just two perfect layers of orange and gold settling into each glass. Hermione watched him from the corner of her eye, perched on the stool like a storm waiting to happen. She didn’t ask until the bubbles kissed the rim and he pushed one of the glasses towards her with a single finger.

“What are you doing?” she asked finally.

“Mimosas,” he said simply.

“Mimosas,” she repeated, incredulous. “As in the muggle brunch drink?”

He took a sip and leaned his hip against the counter. “Is there another kind?”

She narrowed her eyes, scanning him like he was something strange she’d never seen before. 

“Never in my life did I think someone like you would know how to make a mimosa.”

Draco shrugged. “It’s a good drink. Doesn’t matter if it’s muggle or not.”

She blinked, stunned into silence for a beat longer than she wanted to be. But then her eyes dropped to the glass in his hand. 

“And you’re seriously drinking again? You’re clearly still hungover.”

Draco smiled around the rim. “This is barely alcohol to me.”

Draco handed her the other glass, wordlessly. It took a second for Hermione to even register it. She'd assumed both were for him - because of course, they should be. Draco Malfoy, the self-proclaimed king of self-indulgence, would never share. But here he was, offering one up like it was the most casual thing in the world. Hermione stared at the glass for a moment before taking it. She didn’t have the energy to argue. Plus, it looked good. The sort of drink that would make you feel like a proper human again. The kind of drink you’d sip on a lazy Sunday, not the middle of a weekday morning when you had a deadline.

His shirtless form barely even fazed her anymore. It wasn’t that she didn’t notice - it’s just that there were bigger things going on in the world, like the fact that Draco Malfoy had somehow learned to make beverages of the muggle kind. Without the aid of a house-elf. And not only that, he made one for her, too. Who was this man, and what had he done with the original one? Draco didn’t answer, just took a slow sip from his own glass, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Hermione brought the mimosa to her lips, took a sip, and immediately regretted every judgment she had ever had about his abilities. It was bloody perfect.

“If you told me months ago that you would be making me a mimosa that wasn’t poisoned, I would’ve laughed in your face. The universe is chaotic. ”

“The universe always is.”

He didn’t even look at her. Just swirled his drink with a casual air that told her he didn’t really care if she thought he’d lost his mind. He probably had. They sat there side by side in the kitchen, sipping mimosas in a rare, unspoken truce. It felt oddly peaceful, Hermione thought, not needing to argue for once, not needing to punch through Draco’s deflections with words. Just quiet. Just the soft clink of glass against wood. It was almost like they were friends, if you ignored everything else.

That was until the door to his bedroom opened and a girl stepped out, looking as if she'd been hit by a hurricane and just managed to shove some clothes on before shuffling towards the front door. Her hair was a mess, and her shirt was half-buttoned. But the most glaring thing was the sheepish, almost apologetic smile she gave them as she passed by and headed for the exit.

"Thanks, Draco," she muttered, not even making eye contact with him or Hermione.

Hermione’s sip of mimosa turned into a near-choke. She stared at the girl’s retreating figure with wide eyes, but all she could muster was a strangled noise of surprise.

"Thanks Draco?" she repeated, blinking at him. 

She looked at him, incredulous, only to find him unmoved, eyes fixed on the sink, or maybe he was just trying to will himself awake. She slapped his bare arm, hard, as one would when they’ve not been informed of a presence of a third party in post-coital state.

"You've got your bloody girlfriend in here, and you didn't think to tell me? I wouldn’t have barged in like this if you had just said something!"

Draco looked at her with the sort of blank, unimpressed stare that only Draco Malfoy could manage.

“Not my girlfriend,” he said flatly, his voice raspy.

Hermione just shook her head, rubbing her temples. “You’re becoming a real headache, you know that?”

Draco didn’t respond. She sighed, setting the mimosa down. 

“Let’s just get to work before I get drunk too.”

Draco and Hermione sat across from each other, parchment and quills in front of them as they began to hash out their joint column for The Daily Prophet, “Building a Better Wizarding World.” The idea seemed simple enough on the surface: write about how to bridge gaps, how to get rid of the old prejudices that still clung to the wizarding world. Offer little glimpses into their unlikely partnership; how two people who had once been diametrically opposed now found common ground. A monthly piece for the bored and the curious. A quiet, unremarkable ripple in the vast sea of the daily grind. But the conversation quickly shifted to something heavier. Hermione cleared her throat and adjusted her papers. 

“I think we should start with something factual,” she said, looking at Draco. “We could talk about how Death Eaters weren’t all willingly participative. Some of them were—”

Draco’s expression darkened instantly. His hand froze mid-air as if the words physically pricked him. He didn’t flinch like he used to, but his face tightened in a way that spoke volumes. He’d done well to remove the Dark Mark, though it would never disappear entirely. The tattoo that had once stained him for life was fading, yes - but the memory still lingered. He dropped his quill, leaning back in his chair.

“Are you asking me to write about my experience as a Death Eater?” he asked, almost testing her. “Because that’s how it sounds.”

“Not really,” she replied, looking up at him coolly. “But if it contributes to the topic, then...you can.”

“I’m sure that’d make you uncomfortable,” he taunted. “We wouldn’t want to stir up any inconvenient truths.”

Hermione met his eyes straight on, unblinking. “Nothing about the war or the past makes me uncomfortable anymore.”

The words hung between them like an unresolved storm. Draco’s lips parted, but the air seemed to crack in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Let’s be clear about something, Malfoy,” she began. “Everything that happened between us, everything that happened to all of us, was never really about us. It was about Voldemort. He tried to control you, control all of us. The Dark Mark? That was his doing, not yours. He put that on you.”

She watched him, her eyes unwavering.

“You were just a boy, caught in something far bigger than you could’ve understood. I don’t think any of us knew how to handle it then. Not even Harry.”

There was a hint of something in Draco’s expression, something that might’ve been the instinct to say something, but Hermione cut him off with a raised hand. She wasn’t looking for his own conclusions. She was looking for understanding, not from him, but for herself.

“And before you bring it up,” Hermione added, “your aunt’s actions are not your fault. I never faulted you for that. I know you were just trying to survive. No one was really in control of their choices back then. And let’s not pretend you didn’t save my friends. You lied that time. And that lie made a difference. If you hadn’t, things would’ve been much worse. I don’t even want to think about it.”

Draco let out a bitter breath, looking away. “It wasn’t noble. It was fear. Cowardice, really. I just - I didn’t want their blood on my hands too. There was enough already.”

She paused for breath, then went on. “I’m still grateful for that lie you told. I don’t think anyone else could’ve done what you did. And I’m not going to pretend otherwise.”

He glanced at her then, eyes shadowed. “You say that like I deserve credit. I don’t. I stood in rooms where people screamed, Granger. I kept quiet. I let them think I agreed with everything. I did nothing worth remembering. Except once.”

He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “And now I get to live in a world where people want to thank me for lying. What a joke.”

“I’m not asking you to justify your past or explain your past beliefs,” she said, firm. “If you want to talk about it, we can. I used to think everything was black and white. Right and wrong. I would’ve held onto believing there was only one way to see things. But the truth is, I’ve learned that it’s not that simple. I’ve made mistakes, done things I’m not proud of, all because I thought I was right, or because I thought it was for love. I see the world differently now. I see you differently now.”

He stared at her. There was something crumbling behind his eyes - something taut and unspoken and raw.

“You know the worst part?” he said quietly. “I believed in it. Not the ideology. But the structure. The certainty. I thought if I played the role, then everything would make sense. That I’d be safe. That my family would be safe. But it was all rot. And by the time I realised, I was already too deep in.”

“You were a boy who was taught to hate, and you chose to protect instead. That means something.”

Draco’s jaw worked, like he couldn’t decide whether to sneer or thank her. “I didn’t do it for the greater good, Granger. I did it because I couldn’t stomach watching you die.”

“I know the boy you were,” she said simply. “And I see the man you are now. That’s what matters.”

He looked at her for a long moment, like she’d just said something dangerous and holy all at once.

“You really have me figured out, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“That’s…terrifying.”

Hermione gave a small, crooked smile. “Good. It means you’re not hiding anymore.”

The air between them felt thick, but Hermione wasn’t concerned with how it settled. It was a conversation that needed to happen, a truth that needed to be said. And Draco would have to face it, whether he was ready or not. Draco set his glass down, not quite meeting her eyes.

“You sound like I’ve done some full-blown personality overhaul,” he said sharply. “Like I’ve turned into someone admirable and could do no evil just because I’ve done the bare minimum to help the right side.”

His voice dipped lower. 

“But I’m still a bastard, Granger. Through and through. I haven’t earned whatever picture you’ve painted of me in that head of yours.”

Then, he finally looked at her. “When Lucius died in Azkaban, I thought that was the end of something. Like maybe that was the bottom. But then mother followed him, and I just—” 

He let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh, if it hadn’t caught so strangely in his throat. It sounded more like a sob someone had strangled on the way out. Hermione stiffened. She hoped to Merlin he wasn’t about to cry. She didn’t do well with tears. Other people’s pain always knocked the breath out of her, and if Draco Malfoy cried, she’d probably fall apart like an idiot right here next to him.

“If anything, I didn’t get better. I got worse. Whatever version of me you think you see now…it’s barely holding together some days,” he continued.

Hermione didn’t say anything. She just let him speak, let him unravel a little. She remembered reading about Lucius a few years back. How he'd stopped responding in his cell, just laid down one day and never got back up. A natural death, the papers had said. It was cold and clinical byline. Like it wasn’t supposed to mean anything to anyone. Then a few months later, Narcissa too. The official obituary said “complications,” but there was a line buried halfway down the article that called it grief-induced. Hermione didn’t know if sadness could truly kill a person, but she could only imagine what it might be like. Losing the person you’d tethered your whole life to and not even being there to see them on their last breath.

It was the only time she remembered thinking about Draco after the war. Not with hate or leftover tension, just...human curiosity. Quiet sympathy. She’d tried picturing what it would feel like to lose her mum or dad and felt sick even picturing it. She almost had. After she’d Obliviated them during the war, there was a long, awful stretch of time when the charm she did on them wouldn’t reverse - when it looked like she might’ve erased herself from their lives permanently. For a while, it felt like she had truly lost them. Draco had lost both of his parents and he was an only child like her. And somehow, he was still here, thriving but broken. 

“Whatever I believed back then,” he said slowly, “it was all I knew. It’s all they ever told me. Blood purity, legacy, who we were supposed to be. I didn’t question it, because there was nothing else to compare it to.”

He paused, staring into the amber of his drink like he might find the right words floating inside it.

“And I did believe it, for a while. Thought we were better. Above everyone else. Until the violence began and they started murdering people. Torturing them. Asking me to kill. That was when I finally wanted out because I truly didn’t think it was that serious.” 

His mouth curled, but it wasn’t really a smile. 

“When I took the Mark, I didn’t understand what it truly meant. All I knew was that it was something you can’t really refuse if the Dark Lord asked you to. And it’s definitely not something you walk away from.”

Hermione nodded to say she understood. She’d known for years, ever since Harry told her what really happened the night Dumbledore died. Draco hadn’t been able to do it. He wasn’t a killer. And people who couldn’t bring themselves to kill usually weren’t the sort to take the Dark Mark by choice. Not unless they were terrified. Or trapped. Or both.

Hermione let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “Well, I never said you’d turned into an angel. I know you’re still a complete bastard. Don’t worry, no one’s rewriting that part.”

She looked at him then, properly. “But whatever you were before, the boy who parroted blood purity nonsense, who thought he was better than the rest of us because someone told him he was…that version of you didn’t survive the war. And maybe that’s what it took. The violence. The deaths. Being forced to stand in the middle of destruction only to realise none of it made sense. That your prejudices weren’t real. That everyone dies the same. Creature, muggle, mudblood, pureblood. No name makes your death cleaner. No blood makes it easier to bear.”

Draco nodded, though his gaze drifted elsewhere - like he was no longer sitting at the table, but standing in some other time, some other place. A breath escaped him, humourless.

“What?” Hermione asked, watching him curiously.

“Nothing,” he murmured. “Maybe they were right. You really are a bloody saint.”

Hermione winced. She hated that moniker. If she ever found out who came up with that, she’d hex them up front. If only the public knew she’d done plenty of things that wouldn’t earn her a halo. All the rules she bent to save Harry and Ron. All the violent, homicidal thoughts she had for Bellatrix. All the filthy sexual acts she did to please Viktor. All the lies she told for him. Gods, she was such a phony.

She ignored him. “So how do you want to start the column?”

Draco leaned back slightly, folding his arms as he watched her. “You’re the swot. I’m just an accessory here.”

Hermione tilted her head, considering. “We could open with a meaningful anecdote. Something personal. Maybe cite one moment where it was clear to you that all that blood supremacy was rubbish?”

Draco didn’t answer straight away. He went still, frowning slightly like he was sorting through a cluttered attic of memories.

Then, quietly, he said, “When you wouldn’t give up the sword. Back at the Manor.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected that answer.

“It’s grim, I know,” he said, eyes fixed on the grain of the table. “But I won’t ever forget that day.  When you were on the floor, bleeding, screaming…and still refused to give her anything. You could’ve saved yourself. But you didn’t. And that was the moment I realised. You were braver than anyone I knew. Smarter too, for that hex on Potter’s face. None of the people I grew up admiring would’ve been as resilient as you. I don’t know anyone pureblooded who would’ve still tried to protect someone else.”

Hermione said nothing. She only stared down at her hands, a little unmoored, as if she was trying to decide whether to keep holding onto the quill or onto the silence. Draco let out a bitter huff of air, eyes darting towards the window, unfocused.

“I used to mock Gryffindors,” he added. “Thought your whole lot were all bark and idiotic bravado. Charging into danger like martyrs with no sense of strategy. Confusing bravery for being reckless. But what you did wasn’t reckless at all, was it? It wasn’t…performative. Turns out blood had absolutely nothing to do with greatness.”

Hermione’s fingers played absently with the feathered end of her quill, the motion unconscious. Her eyes had drifted sideways, caught somewhere between the edge of his jaw and the ghost of what he’d just said. And then, something bloomed in her chest. A warmth. Inexplicable. Strange. Not quite joy, but something close. Lighter. Like some shadow she'd grown used to carrying had slinked off without asking. Like something she didn’t realise had been knotted too tight had finally come undone.

She smiled at him.

Soft. A little bewildered. 

And Draco, well, he froze. Not dramatically. Just a blink. A small stillness that stretched and stretched like elastic pulled too far. His brain was lagging behind his eyes.

Was she—?

He blinked again. 

She was smiling. 

At him. 

His stomach gave a traitorous little lurch, flipping in on itself like it had forgotten they were no longer seventeen and detested each other. He wasn’t even sure if it was the hangover or some other affliction of the heart, but Merlin, he did not hate that smile. The way her eyes softened just slightly, like she’d decided, momentarily, dangerously, that he wasn’t awful. That he might even be worth smiling at. He felt like he’d won some absurd Order of Merlin for managing to get that out of her. But at the same time, he wanted to hex himself on the spot for wanting to see more of it. Hermione, ever observant, cocked her head sideways.

“You know,” she said, “you have the potential to look almost…adorable when you’re being shy.”

Draco made a sound of offence. Or protest. Or something vaguely between a scoff and a choke. 

“I’m not shy,” he said with great dignity. “And you should stop staring at my arms. It’s rude.”

She rolled her eyes, turned back to the parchment, and dipped her quill in ink like she hadn’t just made him question his entire self-concept. And so, finally, they began to write.

Chapter Text

The wind whipped lightly through the open expanse of the Quidditch pitch, carrying with it the scent of fresh cut grass and old leather. Around them, the Witch Weekly creative crew buzzed like overcaffeinated pixies - tweaking lighting charms, straightening props, fussing over wardrobe details that Hermione didn’t even know were supposed to be in style. They were standing in front of a conjured backdrop that mimicked late-afternoon light, all golden and saccharine. A cluster of Cleansweep brooms leaned artfully against a stand nearby, while in the centre of the pitch, a gleaming Firebolt Supreme floated lazily just above the ground.

Draco looked perfectly in his element; robes tailored, hair catching the sunlight like it was being paid to, smirking in a way that made half the crew trip over their own feet. Hermione, on the other hand, looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. She adjusted the strap of her leather flight harness with visible irritation and shot him a look that could curdle milk. The concept of the photoshoot was Chasing Unity, a dreamy, overproduced spread meant to symbolise pureblood-muggleborn cooperation through the timeless metaphor of sport, because apparently nothing says friendship like brooms. 

Layout one involved Draco standing behind Hermione, arms around her waist, supposedly guiding her posture as she straddled the broom. “Like teaching her to fly for the first time,” the photographer gushed. Hermione gritted her teeth and muttered something uncharitable about patronising visual metaphors. Layout two was meant to be a dynamic mid-air shot, the two of them flying side by side, Hermione gripping the broom like it might bite her, while Draco offered her an exaggerated wink and a helping hand. Layout three was just absurd. A mock-scrimmage scene where Draco had to tackle her (gently) while both reached for the same Quaffle. The crew assured them it would look “playful and friendly” when published. Hermione looked like she was preparing to file an official complaint. 

Layout four was nothing short of a nightmare: one broom, two people, actual flight involved. Not staged hovering or clever charmwork - real altitude, real speed, and one of the League’s fastest Chasers Draco-bloody-Malfoy steering the thing. Hermione nearly dropped her tea when the creative director explained it. Now, she sat stiffly in the makeup chair, clutching the edge of her seat like it might take off without her. The stylist was dabbing highlighter on her cheekbones with a charm-infused brush, murmuring calming affirmations that Hermione absolutely did not find calming. Draco, lounging like sin incarnate beside her chair, rested his chin in his hand and watched her with far too much amusement.

“Scared, Granger?” he drawled. “You’re not going to cry, are you? Might smear all that paint they’ve slathered on you.”

Hermione didn’t respond, only rolled her eyes and gripped the armrest tighter.

“I’ll be gentle,” he added suggestively. “It is your first time to ride my broom after all.”

She glared at him through the mirror.

“Or do you prefer it rougher?” His mouth curled into a wicked grin. “Want me to make you scream a little? I know unconventional moves.”

“Merlin, you’re vile,” she seethed.

“You’re in excellent hands. And thighs. I’ll do most of the work. It will feel very good,” he went on, entirely too pleased with himself.

Hermione kept her expression perfectly serene, the picture of composure. She’d had years of practice. If she could handle Ministry politics, she could handle one Draco Malfoy and his perverted broomstick innuendos. Still, she was acutely aware of the Witch Weekly journalist perched nearby, notepad in hand, eyes flicking between them like a hawk ready to pounce. The last thing she needed was a sidebar article about behind-the-scenes quarrels, complete with quotations like “Granger tells Malfoy to shove his broom up his—”

No. Not happening. She forced a bright, gracious smile and laughed lightly, as if Draco had said something charming. She even patted his shoulder, for effect. Then, under her breath: “Come closer for a moment, won’t you?”

Draco leaned in, suspicious but intrigued. Hermione leaned into his ear, still smiling sweetly.

Her eyes still fixed on the journalist, she whispered, “You’re an absolute knob-end.”

Draco pulled back, a slow grin spreading across his face like sunshine on something deeply inappropriate.

“You’re such a flirt, Granger! But thanks for calling me dashing,” he declared, ensuring the journalist scribbled it down.

Hermione’s grin widened, all teeth and vengeance. “Only because I like seeing you go bright pink like you always do when you’re shy.”

Draco looked appalled. “Lies. Absolute slander.”

“Prove it,” she said, still beaming at the makeup artist, who was now definitely eavesdropping.

“You’re evil.”

“You started it.”

The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long shadows over the Quidditch pitch. Golden light pooled over the grass like melted honey, and around them, the crew scurried, adjusting lenses, calling out instructions, readying the final layout. Hermione stood stiffly beside the levitating broom, arms crossed, trying not to look like she was seconds from sprinting off the set. 

“Are we certain we need to fly?” she asked, her voice an octave too high.

The creative director waved a clipboard. “Just a few feet up, nothing dramatic. We need the illusion, not a match.”

She exhaled shakily, nodded. Illusion she could do. Illusion she was good at. Mounting the broom felt unnatural. Like putting her foot into the mouth of a very narrow, airborne coffin. Draco climbed on after her with too much ease, far too much comfort. She didn’t look back, but she could feel the smugness rolling off him in waves. And then he settled in. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat.

She gripped the handle with both hands and settled forward, trying to remember how to function. Draco climbed on behind her, knees sliding snug on either side of her thighs, and then, with maddening nonchalance, wrapped one arm low around her waist, the other slipping between her elbows to grasp the handle just ahead of her fingers.

They were barely hovering, just a few inches above the pitch, but the positioning made it feel like they were tangled in something far more precarious than flight. The rise and fall of his chest brushed against her back with every breath. His fingertips grazed her knuckles on the handle. His chin dipped close to her ear.

“You alright?” he murmured like he already knew she wasn’t.

Hermione shook her head. “No.”

Her knuckles were white where they gripped the broom handle. Her legs trembled, her knees clenched so tightly together she thought she might crack the damn wood in half.

“Don’t you dare let go of me,” she hissed under her breath.

Behind her, Draco chuckled against the shell of her ear. “Relax, Granger. I won’t let the golden girl die. Wouldn’t be great press for either of us.”

She wasn’t religious. Had never believed in divine intervention or fate. But in that moment, Hermione recited a prayer under her breath. Just in case.

The creative director called out, “Ready to lift off?”

Draco answered with a firm, “Yeah,” while Hermione kept her jaw tight and eyes wide and said nothing. Then, she turned her head slightly, enough to feel his breath on her cheek. 

“Come closer,” she semi-pleaded.

He tightened his arms around her waist without hesitation. He tightened his grip around her waist and pulled her back into him, harder this time until she was fully slotted between his legs now, every line of her back flush to his front. The broom dipped with the weight of it. His chest rose against her shoulder blades. What he didn’t expect, what absolutely ruined him, was the way she said it: low, shaky, desperate. She hadn’t meant it to sound so suggestive, but it still made his pulse spike and his cock twitch traitorously. Merlin help him. At first, they hovered just a metre or two above ground. But then Draco kicked off, fluid and smooth, taking them higher in a clean, controlled arc. It wasn’t reckless; at least not yet, but it was fast enough to have Hermione yelping through clenched teeth and buckling forward. Flashbulbs erupted like tiny fireworks below. A storm of shutters clicked.

The director’s Sonorus-enhanced voice boomed from the field. “On my count, swoop down and give us that smile! Like you’re enjoying the ride together!”

“Enjoying the ride, my arse,” Hermione growled under her breath.

Draco could feel her quivering intensely under his hand. Could feel her laboured breaths. This won’t do for a great shot. And if it won’t make a great shot, they’ll have to do it over and over, and she wouldn’t like that. Draco leaned into her ear. Not to mock or taunt her. Not this time. His voice was sincere, and for once, it held no trace of smugness.

“Granger. Listen to me,” he began.

With a rare tone like that, she did.

“You’ve survived through so many things. You’ve held your friends together while the world was burning. You’ve bled for them and for people who didn’t always deserve it.”

His fingers brushed over hers where she was gripping the handle too tight. He peeled them back gently, trying to ease her hold before circulation cut off.

“This isn’t war,” he said. “It’s just a broomstick. Just wind and weightlessness. You’ve faced far worse. This…this is nothing but a breeze.”

Hermione nodded, though he wasn’t sure she believed him based on how she was taking in shallow breaths.

“Lean on my chest,” he murmured. “And breathe with me. Alright?”

Hermione hesitated, but then she let herself fold back, her spine meeting the solid surface of his chest, her head tipping slightly toward his collarbone. His arms caged her in, not to trap, but to hold. To comfort. She inhaled. His scent was warm leather and mint; And as his chest rose behind her, she matched it. In. Out. Again. Like waves lapping against a shore. The panic softened. Smoothed at the edges, dulled by the rhythm of him breathing with her, for her. Hermione closed her eyes and exhaled loudly, not in exasperation, but in release. Her heartbeat has gone back to a relatively normal pace now. His arms enveloping her helped, like some sort of security blanket. 

“Okay, I feel better now,” she said with conviction.

As Hermione shifted on the broom, her arse accidentally and completely obliviously pressed against his knob. She didn’t realise it, of course. She was too busy clutching onto the broom, trying to focus on her new position - a position that looked maddeningly familiar to one Draco particularly liked in bed. The sudden pressure on his crotch made him stiffen. He had no idea how it had happened, but now that it was happening, he was finding it exceedingly difficult to look anywhere except the back of her head, the way her back curved, and her bum rubbing against the general area of his cock. He could feel a boner forming and any second now, she might feel it too if she wasn’t so distracted by the altitude. He couldn’t help it, it was a biological reaction.

“Let’s go, Granger,” he said hurriedly, trying to think of gross images to stop his stiffy.

“Alright, alright,” she relented.

Thankfully, the creative director boomed from below. “Ready?”

“I won’t let you fall, alright?” he assured her again, raging boner be damned.

“Three! Two! One! Swoop down and give me that smile like you’re loving every second of it!”

Hermione barely had time to brace. Draco shifted behind her, leaning slightly, angling the broom down in one fluid, masterful motion. The wind caught her hair as they began the dive, and her fingers instinctively clenched the handle - but she didn’t scream. Not this time. She didn’t even flinch. Because his arm - strong, steady, wrapped tightly around her waist - held her anchored. And something about that made the drop less terrifying. Her heart was still galloping, but not in panic. More like…exhilaration.

Draco kept the pace quick enough to make it look real, smooth enough to keep her steady. His thighs locked around hers, guiding the motion like second nature, his body folding seamlessly with hers as they cut through the air. They landed with grace, kicking up just a puff of dust. Draco tilted the broom ever so slightly upwards, stopping them right in front of the enormous lens. Hermione plastered on the best smile she could manage, teeth and all. Draco smirked beside her, too-perfect, like the star athlete that he was.

FLASH.

“That was perfect!” the photographer cried.

__________

The pub was called The Wand In The Wench, which Ron insisted on choosing every time they decided to meet up for drinks, even though Hermione claimed, loudly and with several annotated footnotes, that it was offensive. Harry had mumbled something about tradition and cheap firewhisky, and that was that. They were tucked into their usual booth, back corner, slightly lopsided table, always a bit sticky no matter how many Scourgify charms Hermione cast on it. Ron nursed a frothing pint of Oak-Matured Oakbrew, all head and bravado. Harry was sipping something called Midnight Draught, pitch black and smoked like a forest fire. He claimed it helped him unwind, which Hermione suspected was code for ‘look cool in public.’ Hermione had gone for a clean glass of dandelion fizz, because she wasn’t trying to prove anything.

“So, how was the assignment in South America?” she asked, because she hadn’t seen either of them much lately.

Ron puffed his chest. “Can’t say. Classified,” he said, like it gave him an erection.

Harry nodded solemnly. “Classified. But I can say…we made significant progress in neutralising a cross-border threat.”

“What cross-border threat?” she asked, sipping carefully.

Ron waved his hand. “Can’t say.”

Harry added, “But you should’ve seen the way we set up camp. Four wards, a tent, and a perimeter charm that could suss out a kneazle in heat.”

Hermione blinked.

Ron grinned. “Exactly.”

“And then some intel came in,” Harry continued, “Coded message. Took us hours to decipher—”

“But once we did,” Ron cut in, “we knew we were dealing with a high-level magical anomaly.”

Hermione stared. “What magical anomaly?”

Harry only said, “Can’t say.”

Ron shook his head gravely. “Can’t say.”

Hermione took a very long sip of her fizz. “So what you’re telling me is, you spent three weeks in a tent looking at suspicious codes.”

“Exactly,” Harry said, delighted she was following.

After enduring exactly twelve minutes more of cryptic nothingness disguised as national security, Hermione pivoted the conversation. Gracefully, like someone who had no time for men who thought having “classified” information was a personality trait. She set her glass down with just enough force to signal an oncoming change in topic.

“Well,” she said, “since you’re both clearly bound by blood oaths, how’s life outside espionage? Harry, how’s living with Ginny in Grimmauld Place?”

Harry gave a long-suffering sigh, like she’d asked him to recount his most harrowing trauma. 

“Going well,” he said, “though she’s really turning into Molly.”

“Oh?” Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“She made me a chore chart,” Harry deadpanned. “With colour-coded sections. There’s one labelled wipe off streaks from teaspoons. ”

Ron burst out laughing, nearly spilling his Oakbrew. “At least Ginny knows how to cook. Padma made stew last week that tasted like poison. I think she’s experimenting with dark magic.”

Hermione smiled, despite herself. “She’s trying new recipes, Ron. That’s sweet.”

“She said it was inspired by the cuisine of southern Albania,” Ron muttered. “It moved, Hermione.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“The tomato winked at me.”

They all paused to drink. The laughter dimmed, like someone had drawn the blinds inside Hermione’s chest. Something unpleasant stirred. Ron and Padma had been together since right after the war. She knows this because it was the exact same time she’d begun seeing Viktor. He’d moved temporarily to London then, volunteering with post-war restoration efforts, and somehow, they reconnected and began a relationship. Discreetly. And it lasted three bloody years, on and off. Lived with him for a time, even.

It was before his permanent suspension from the Quidditch League. Back then, Hermione had no desire to be in the spotlight as the girlfriend of one of Europe’s brightest Quidditch stars. Only her closest friends even knew they were together - and the darkest parts, the ones that happened behind closed doors, she kept to herself. She only told Ron and Harry after it was over. And now she thought of him again. The mind works like that. One domestic complaint, one off-hand joke about stew, and suddenly she was hurtled back into long-buried memories of her deranged ex. She’d promised her two best mates that if he crossed another line, she would tell them. And he had. Again.

Hermione cleared her throat. “I…I need to tell you something.”

Both boys looked up, twin expressions of immediate, quiet seriousness. It was their best quality, really. That they still stopped everything when she said that. Like she was still the girl in the library solving everyone’s problems.

“It’s Viktor,” she said, her voice low. “He made an appearance again.”

Harry set his drink down with a soft clink. “What did he do this time?”

It wasn’t the first time Harry had asked her that. Wasn’t even the second. Viktor had a habit of reappearing. Like a storm that never quite passed. He had different ways. Missives sent to her office. Random presents. Unannounced drunken visits. One time he waited for her outside the Ministry until she came out for lunch, apologising so convincingly that she let him back into her flat. He was so good at shaping her emotions that they even ended up shagging. Had even let him tie her to the bed and have his way with her all night. For a day, Hermione let him own her again. But then his temper turned, like it always did. That was the last time she ever let him touch her. Thankfully she managed to get away that day and Disapparate with half her clothes on, running to Harry for help. That was when he had given her the ring.

In hindsight, it was ridiculous that she let it go on for three years. But back then, the war was still fresh and the aftershocks of it even more so. People were being buried left and right. And it was taking a painstaking amount of time to reverse what she’d done to her own parents. It was a dark period when her survivor’s guilt consumed her. Her mental state back then convinced her to stay with Viktor. To surrender to the abuse. To his control. To let herself get punished quietly in the shadows while the rest of the world heralded her and bathed her in golden light. Because she believed she’d earned that pain. That it was her penance. Her price for surviving when others hadn’t. For taking away her parents’ agency over their minds. But that was a spiral for another night. Right now, she had to tell Harry and Ron what happened.

So Hermione told them everything - about the Veela Organisation charity ball, how she enlisted Malfoy’s help because she knew Viktor would be there, how Viktor had cornered her, his disgusting words, the way he’d almost taken her. How Malfoy had stepped in at the right time. How he threatened Viktor and even brought her home. Harry and Ron exchanged a glance at the mention of Draco, identical expressions of muted horror and mild disapproval.

“Well,” Ron muttered, “never thought I’d say this, but thank Merlin for Malfoy and his, what do you call it, penchant for confrontation.”

“You’d think he’d be too busy snogging a random aristo,” Harry added dryly.

Hermione gave them a withering look. “He helped me, alright? I tried to shoo him away but he stayed and stepped in. He was a proper arse at the start of the evening, but he did take care of me at the end of it. He didn’t make fun of me either.”

That sobered them. Harry’s brow furrowed, the humour gone. 

“There’s a protection order for situations like this, Hermione. We’ll talk to our superior.”

Hermione blinked. “But can British magical law apply to someone who lives in Bulgaria?”

“It’ll be legally binding if he’s within UK territory. And he comes back,” Ron said bluntly. “He always comes back.”

Harry nodded grimly. “File a protection order as soon as you can. In the meantime, we’ll try to pull strings to flag him in the international floo network and portkey checkpoints. ”

Hermione’s mouth went dry. For once, neither of them was joking.

Harry’s gaze flicked to her hand. “You were wearing the ring, yeah? The one I gave you.”

“I was.”

“And you tried it again? I didn’t get an alert.”

“Yeah.” Her thumb brushed over the smooth band. “You were still in Brazil, weren’t you?”

Harry sighed and leaned back in the booth, rubbing his jaw. 

“Yeah. Too many countries apart. It really can’t stretch through continental drift. I’ve been working with a curse-breaker at the Ministry trying to find a workaround but nothing’s stuck yet. Too much magical interference the further out it goes.”

“So, if something happens, we just have to hope Harry’s somewhere with decent reception,” Ron mumbled.

Hermione let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Something like that.”

Ron sat up like he’d just been personally visited by divine inspiration.

“I have an idea,” he announced.

Hermione didn’t even look up from her drink. “No.”

“You haven’t heard it yet.”

“It’s you. I don’t need to.”

Ron pushed on, undeterred, because Ron Weasley had never once let common sense get in the way of a truly stupid plan. “It might sound mad—”

“Already does.”

“—but what if Harry gave the ring to someone else?”

Hermione looked up now, the slow dread climbing her spine. “What?”

“Well, you said it doesn’t work if he’s out of the country and we’re both gone most of the time so it makes sense, doesn’t it? Give the paired ring to someone who’s always within reach. Someone who you’ve granted access to your flat and someone who can, you know, bust in if needed.”

Harry was chewing on the inside of his cheek, considering it way too seriously for Hermione’s liking. 

“He’s got a point. If it’s about proximity, you’ll be safer if someone rooted in England had it. Someone who’s fast and isn’t afraid to get into a…fight.”

Hermione blinked at both of them. Slowly. Like maybe, if she did it long enough, they’d disappear.

“You’re not serious,” she said flatly.

Harry winced. “I mean…you said so yourself Malfoy stepped in at the ball.”

Ron raised his brows, clearly pleased with himself. “And he successfully warded off Krum, so bonus points.”

“Bonus points?” Hermione echoed, incredulous.

Harry nodded, fully betraying her now. “He could be trusted. At least enough to intervene. And we know where to find him if he fucks it up.”

Hermione truly cannot fathom how they suggested it so casually. Like here’s your new emergency contact, Hermione, surprise! It’s actually Draco Malfoy .

Hermione stared at them like they’d both been hit with a Confundus charm and were now high on the fumes of their own idiocy.

“Even if, and that’s a massive if, you two actually made sense, what on earth makes you think Draco Malfoy would agree to that? The man barely tolerates breathing in the same room as me. He’d sooner hex himself than take on that kind of responsibility.”

Ron shrugged. “I dunno. You’ve been forming a bond, haven’t you? All those Ministry events and photoshoots. He let you ride his broom—”

“ Ronald. ”

“Just saying.”

She sighed and slumped back in the booth, the headache already blooming behind her eyes like a vengeful ghost. 

“He’ll laugh in my face. If I ask him that, he’ll definitely laugh. Probably make some crude joke about being my knight in shining leather.”

“Malfoy does know how to fight, though,” Harry added, annoyingly reasonable. “He’s quick and built. Bloke’s all lean muscle. I’m not saying I’ve noticed, but I’ve noticed.”

“Yeah well, so is Viktor.” Hermione groaned and let her forehead thunk against the table.

“I wish I had other male friends,” she muttered into the wood. “Ones who are physically capable but not emotionally stunted. But no. It’s just you two idiots and Malfoy, apparently.”

Harry glanced at Ron and then back at her, looking vaguely guilty. “We’re leaving again, Hermione. Central Asia. In three days.”

Hermione looked up. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “So…you need to decide fast.”

Of course she did. Of course her options boiled down to Malfoy the Menace or nothing at all. Truly, this was the golden era of her life.

Chapter Text

The Appleby Arrows were not talking. Which, for a team known for its casual smack talk and changing room squabbles, meant only one thing: they were finally taking things seriously. Last season had ended in heartbreak - semi-final loss, one snitch catch away from the championship, the kind of defeat that haunted you in dreams and post-match interviews. But it had also proved something: the Arrows weren’t a joke. They weren’t underdogs. They were contenders. Real ones. And everyone knew it. This year wasn’t about proving themselves. It was about delivering.

Draco flew like a man on fire. Focused. Unrelenting. Even among a roster of elite players, he was the gravitational centre of the team - not because he talked the loudest (he rarely spoke during training), but because he was the first to arrive and the last to leave, always. And when the Arrows’ star Chaser moved like he had something to prove, the rest of the team followed suit. So they drilled. Passed. Pivoted. Laps in the air, full-contact scrimmages, reaction sprints that made your lungs feel like molten lead. No complaining. No flinching. Just the sharp echo of brooms slicing through the wind.

Practice ended. Most of the team peeled off the pitch, dragging bruised bodies and wind-chapped faces toward the changing tents. But Draco stayed. High above the stadium, alone now, he sliced through a tight corkscrew dive and pulled out just before the turf, relishing the g-force that rattled his bones. He didn’t feel tired. Not yet. He didn’t stop. From this height, with the stands empty and the sky hanging low and violet above him, the pressure faded just enough to breathe. The season opener was in two weeks. Headlines were already being written. He could hear them - “Arrows set for gold” - and he intended to make sure they were right.

Draco kicked off the pitch and let the wind catch under his broom. The instant lift, the weightlessness, the snap of his robes behind him, made something in his chest unclench. Up here, there were no reporters. No whispers about his temper. No headlines that called him a cautionary tale with good cheekbones . Just air and altitude and that familiar sting of cold in his lungs. He went faster. Tucked low against the broom’s handle, he sliced through the sky like a thrown blade. The pitch shrank beneath him, the stands turning into little stone smudges as he climbed higher. Then, a sharp roll, and he dropped.

Spinning.

Speeding.

Falling.

He didn’t pull up until the last second, jerking the broom in a tight arc that grazed the ground before shooting back up again - reckless, precise, absolutely perfect. And for a moment, it felt like time didn’t matter. Like he was twelve again, sleek and shining in his first professional kit, waving to his mother in the box seat and trying to pretend his father wasn’t already talking about his legacy. In the air, Draco didn’t feel like someone the press liked to poke. He didn’t feel like the man who shagged too many girls, drank too much, and said the worst things in front of authoritative figures. He felt…lighter. Like he could disappear into the clouds and never come down. And maybe that’s why he didn’t stop. Not after twenty laps. Not after thirty. He flew until his muscles burned and the stadium lights flicked on automatically, assuming night had fallen. On his broom, he was invincible. Untouchable.

Or so he thought.

Because when Draco finally glanced down - all wind-swept and half-drunk on altitude - there she was again. Hermione Granger. Standing on the pitch grounds with her arms crossed and a faint look of are you done yet? on her face. She might have called out to him the moment she arrived, but judging by the tilt of her head and the way her eyes followed his turns, she’d given up on calling him down a while ago. Draco groaned - softly, privately - then coasted into a low descent like a man reluctantly returning to earth after soaring too close to the sun.

She didn’t say anything right away when he landed. Just blinked up at him, curls slightly tousled from the evening wind, lips parted like she might have forgotten why she was there. To her credit, Hermione didn’t really mind the wait. She’d never understood people who liked watching birds. Until now. Because that was what he’d looked like - not a Quidditch player or a former school bully or someone who once poured firewhisky into the soup at a Ministry dinner - but free. Fast and sharp and utterly untethered. Something beyond her. And yet not. It was, dare she say it, beautiful.

Of course, she couldn’t say any of that aloud. She was Hermione Granger. She’d already retired from being drawn to airborne men with big brooms and even bigger tempers. And anyway, she had actual business to discuss. Kingsley had owled her that morning with another assignment for the two of them - and she swore each one was harder than the last. The Witch Weekly photoshoot had been one thing, but this new one? This one really pushed it up a notch. It was almost like the Minister got a kick out of testing her composure. Or worse, testing Draco’s. Which was exactly why she hesitated. Because on top of dropping this little gem of an assignment on him, she also had something personal to ask.

Draco landed with the grace of someone who knew people were watching. He raked a hand through his windswept hair, like some tragic romance hero who was also maybe a little bit of a twat, and strolled over with a smirk that had no business looking that good after hours of flying.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite groupie,” he quipped with a lopsided grin.

As per usual, Hermione didn’t engage. It’s becoming her favourite to do with him, actually. Instead, she reached into her handbag and pulled out a perfectly crisp cream envelope, the gold Ministry seal glinting under the sun. She handed it over without a word. Draco took it suspiciously. 

“If this is another threat about that incident with the faerie, I swear it wasn’t my fault she got a tattoo of my face.”

“It’s not,” Hermione said tightly. “It’s from Kingsley. You and I have been invited to a cultural exchange dinner next week with several visiting dignitaries. There will be dancing and we will be leading it. A Wizard’s Waltz, specifically.”

Draco blinked down at the invitation, then back up at her, mouth hanging open in something like offended disbelief.

“Wizard’s Waltz?” he repeated. “You mean to tell me I’m expected to twirl you around while half the diplomatic world watches and pretends not to judge your footwork?”

Hermione bristled. “My footwork is, well, currently theoretical, but I’ll learn. If you teach me.”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You don’t know it?”

“It’s not exactly covered in Hogwarts curriculum,” she snapped. “And the Yule Ball doesn’t count! It was more…floating than footwork.”

Draco grinned like Christmas had come early and it was wearing sensible shoes.

“Well,” he drawled, “lucky for you, Granger, I’ve been trained in the noble art of intimate social dances since before I could tie my shoes. I won Best Dancer at the Sacred Twenty-Eight Cotillion when I was eight. The trophy had cherubs on it. Hideous little things.”

She scowled. “I’m sure you were just terribly insufferable.”

“Absolutely,” he said cheerfully. “And now you get the honour of being insuffered at when we dance.”

Hermione sighed, already regretting everything about this assignment. “Look, I need you to take this seriously, Malfoy. I don’t know the steps and I don’t want to make a complete fool of myself in front of the French Minister.”

“Fine. I’ll teach the Golden Girl. But only because I’m noble. And generous. Self-sacrificing. Honestly, it’s amazing I’m not Sainted yet.”

“Wonderful,” Hermione deadpanned. “Save that humility for the dinner, will you?”

Draco was still sneering at the invitation when Hermione cleared her throat. Loudly. Twice. He looked up, bemused at the strange sight. She was fidgeting. Adjusting her handbag strap, tucking her hair behind her ear, shifting on the spot like her shoes were filled with ants and existential dread.

“You alright there, Granger? You look like you're either about to give me head or confess to a murder. Should I be aroused or worried?”

She scowled. “Neither. And don’t be disgusting.”

“I wasn’t being disgusting. I was just - fine, continue. This is clearly going somewhere.”

Hermione took a deep breath, muttered something under it that sounded suspiciously like pull the bloody bandaid off, and straightened her spine. 

“Okay. I have a favour to ask of you,” she began.

“Alright,” he said.

“You can positively say no.”

“Fantastic.”

“It’s…a very personal one.”

“Even better.”

“And you can think about it first.”

“Get to it, will you?”

“And it’s not like, it’s not some romantic thing, so don’t get any ideas—”

“Now I’m worried.”

“It’s just that it involves a lot of trust and some magical bonding.”

“...Granger.”

“Not soul bonding!”

“Then what is it?”

“You just have to wear this one thing!”

“This is sounding wildly kinky.”

She gave him a flat look. “I swear, if you make one more joke, I’ll find a way to uninvite you from the dinner and make you waltz with a centaur.”

He held up his hands, still smirking. “Alright, alright. Merlin, you’re dramatic. Just get to the point before you combust.”

Hermione took a breath. The kind that made her shoulders rise and fall like she’d just surfaced from deep water. Not the usual irritated inhale she reserved for Draco Malfoy’s theatrics - this was different. He noticed immediately. His smirk faded. His arms dropped to his sides. She wasn’t gearing up for an argument. She was bracing for something else entirely.

“This is hard for me,” she said, voice quiet now.

Draco held back from talking. He didn’t move, didn’t roll his eyes or lean back like he usually did when she got serious. He simply waited. Listened.

“You saw a glimpse of how Viktor is. At the Veela charity ball.” She looked up at him, only for a second, then away again. “But that was just the tip of the iceberg.”

Her fingers twisted together. “We were together for years. Right after the war. When everything felt…ruined and I wasn’t really myself. And he…he wasn’t just cruel with words. He h-hurt me. Often.”

Draco’s expression turned to stone. His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust the shape of it yet.

“I didn’t tell a soul about his abuse. Only Harry and Ron, and that was after I left. And after I broke up with him, he kept coming back. Finding ways to corner me. To make me feel like I’m still his. That night at the ball wasn’t an isolated incident. It’s Viktor doing what he always does - showing up where I can’t fight back or cause a scene. He doesn’t just want to intimidate me in private; he needs to do it in front of others, too. It’s like he gets off on making me feel trapped and exposed. He knows that I’ll keep my composure. It’s how he controls the narrative, how he keeps me uncertain about his next move."

She paused. Took in Draco's shift in expression.

“I don’t understand. You’re the Ministry’s sweetheart, you could easily ruin him if you told people what he’s really like. Why can’t you push back when he shows up like that?” he asked in a frustrated tone.

Hermione sighed quietly. "It’s not that simple. I get why you’d think that, but it’s never just about who people will believe. Viktor twists everything into something I’ve done wrong, makes it all seem like it’s my fault. And when he shows up like that, it’s not just to scare me - it’s to make sure he can steer the story. He knows exactly how to make it look like I’m the problem. He’ll make it look like I’m attacking him for things that have nothing to do with the truth. It’s happened before.” 

"Then provide the authorities with your memories as proof! Why do you let him pull the strings?" asked Draco.

“I told you before, right? He’s got leverage over me. The potions I helped him with, those illegal ones he got suspended for, I did that willingly for him. He said he couldn’t take another failure. That he’d break and hurt himself. I thought I was saving him. Back then, people were still dying. The war had barely ended, and I loved him. I was scared he’d be next.”

She swallowed hard. “The Ministry didn’t come after me for my other wrongdoings. The rules I broke in the past helped win the war. They could look past it. But this? Smuggling banned substances? Being tied to the downfall of one of Quidditch’s brightest stars? There’s no grey area here. No noble cause. If it comes out, people won’t care why I did it. They’ll see a girl who helped a national player cheat and ruin himself. And the Ministry won’t protect me this time. They’ll throw me under the Knight Bus to keep their hands clean.”

She paused to look away. “So yes, I could report him. But it wouldn’t just be him going down. I wouldn’t just lose my career; I’d lose everything I’ve worked for. Everything I stand for. He never told a soul about what I did, and he knows how much I have to lose if it came out. Not even Harry and Ron know. Only you. The shame and guilt - it’s eaten at me since. And Viktor is using that over me.”

“Your two best mates are Aurors,” Draco said pointedly. “If you told them what you did, they’d do whatever it takes to protect you. You wouldn’t be in trouble.”

“Absolutely. They’d lie, cover for me, burn the whole system down if they had to. But that’s exactly why I can’t tell them. They took an oath as Aurors. They fight for justice. I made them believe in it. If they knew what I did, they’d be forced to choose between the law and their loyalty. And I won’t allow them to jeopardise their careers for me.”

“So if Potter and Weasley don’t know about Krum’s career-ending leverage on you, why haven’t they done something to accost him? I mean, to them, there’s nothing for you to lose.”

“Because I already made them promise not to. Harry’s been telling me to report him. Ron threatened to do it himself more than once. But I said no. I told them I could handle it. I made them stay out of it unless I absolutely needed them.”

Draco’s brow furrowed, but she pressed on.

“They think I’m protecting my privacy. My image. That I just don’t want the press to have a field day with a messy past. But the truth is…” She swallowed. “They don’t know why I really can’t take it public. They don’t know what I did. And I can’t let them find out.”

Draco’s jaw ticked. Krum. The bastard. Not that he hadn’t already hated him for his mediocre talent, but now? He wasn’t sure how he hadn’t killed the man that night. But that wasn’t the point, was it? The real kicker was how well she had kept it together all this time. She hadn’t spoken up because Krum used her own sense of duty and guilt against her. Draco knew how easy it was to let someone else pull the strings when you thought you were stuck. How easy it was to keep quiet, to bury everything deep down. He’d done it himself. Krum had given her no room to fight back, no way to keep her dignity intact. He didn’t even want to ask the specifics of what he’d done to hurt her. 

“I have a ring,” she said, holding up her hand. 

She put it up between them, letting the light catch on the gold band. It was small and unassuming, but Draco thought it looked like a promise ring.

“Harry gave it to me. It’s part of a set and he has the other one. The magic works like this: if I turn my ring clockwise, it sends an alert to the other. If he’s within the country, he’ll feel the magic vibrate and it’ll lead him to my location so he can Apparate.”

“And I’m guessing it’s not as useful when the other person is halfway across the world?”

Hermione nodded, relieved that he understood. “Harry and Ron are always overseas, and with the work we’re all doing, it’s been harder to rely on the ring’s defective magic. If we’re too far apart, it doesn’t reach him. And he’s usually gone for weeks at a time.”

She looked at the ring again. “So, it’s not much use. And that’s where…that’s where you come in, I guess.”

He blinked. “Me?”

Hermione shifted and began fidgeting with her sleeve. 

“Yeah. I don’t have anyone else to ask. You fit the bill. I know you’re always within England because of Quidditch, and you know about Viktor…” 

She trailed off, clearly uncomfortable with the words as they left her mouth. Draco didn’t say anything right away, letting the silence stretch between them. 

“And it won’t be permanent,” she added quickly. “Just until Harry figures out how to make the ring magic work over long distances. So it’s just a temporary thing.”

Hermione knew she could protect herself. She had protected herself. In forests, in dark Ministry hallways, on battlegrounds, and in the hours after nightmares. Magic was never the issue here. Her spells were always ready, her reflexes fast, her wards tight. But even the strongest fortresses needed support. This wasn’t about needing a man to rescue her. It was about the unbearable possibility of being alone if something fatal were to happen. She remembered what it felt like to try fighting by herself. To mend and heal her own body without anyone even knowing. The ring was a lifeline. A promise that someone will come for you. And maybe that was something she never had before. So yes, she wanted it this time.

“I wouldn’t ask if I had another choice. And I guess I trust you after what you did at the ball. So...yeah.”

As soon as Hermione uttered the word I trust you, something in Draco stirred. At first, he was confused. Was this some kind of revenge ploy Granger had cooked up for shits and giggles? But then he actually heard her say the T word. No one had ever granted him that in his godforsaken life. Not his father, not his mother, not anyone. And certainly not someone like her. His eyes flicked to her fingers, shakily fussing over the ring on her hand, and a bitterness rose in his chest. What the hell had Krum done to her that made her like this? He could almost feel the heat of her discomfort, the vulnerability that she was trying to hide. But before he could form any sort of response, Hermione interrupted his thoughts.

“You don’t have to answer right now. Think about it. Tell me tomorrow,” she said, already turning back. 

She didn’t wait for an answer, and he could hear the echo of her footsteps growing fainter as she walked away.  Draco didn’t even really have to think about it longer. Before he could stop himself, he called out to her.

“Granger.”

She halted mid-step, her back still turned to him. Draco walked over, his strides wide and hurried, until she spun to face him. He extended his hand to her, palm up.

“Give it,” he said.

Hermione stilled, processing the words for a moment before they sank in. She shook her head, disbelief lacing her tone. 

“Are you sure?”

Draco nodded. “You’ll want someone who can break a nose when things go south. I’ve got plenty of experience in that department.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small, nervous chuckle that escaped her lips. She hesitated for only a second longer before pulling the twin ring from her pocket and placing it into his hand. 

“Thank you,” she said, quietly but sincerely.

Draco slipped the ring onto his finger - right beside the Malfoy signet - and watched as it magically adjusted to fit. It shimmered once, sealing the enchantment with a faint pulse of gold. 

“What happens if I happen to be halfway across the world?” he said.

“Consider it symbolic then.”

He raised a brow. “Of what? Impending doom?”

“Of trust, you prat. Don’t make it weird.”

Hermione glanced down, then back up at him. “First I’m your glorified babysitter. Now you’re my bodyguard. This is wildly unhealthy.”

Draco gave her a look. “Brilliant. Shall we start finishing each other’s—”

“—sentences? Only if the next word is ‘goodbye,’” she said, already turning away.

But before she could walk off, his voice stopped her. It was stern and urgent.

“Granger.”

Hermione paused, turning around to face him.

“Don’t go anywhere I can’t reach you, yeah?”

“Wasn’t planning to,” she said.

Behind her, Draco stared at the ring. As he twisted it around his finger, Draco caught himself thinking about it longer than he should. Normally, he'd rather set fire to his responsibilities than actually deal with them especially when they involved other people. Being an only child was practically a sport in isolation. But the idea of being trusted...that didn’t feel like the usual load he was used to carrying. And the fact that she trusted him, Granger of all people, well, that was either ironic as hell or just bloody surprising. Draco huffed under his breath. Hell, if this was what trust felt like, maybe he could get used to it. Or at least tolerate it.

__________

They were here on assignment - another oh so exciting endeavour from Kingsley’s infinite vault of Ministry PR nightmares disguised as “unity efforts.” This time, it was a diplomatic visit to the newly reopened Magical Creatures Sanctuary, nestled deep within the Forbidden Forest and managed by none other than Rubeus Hagrid. The goal? To raise awareness, show goodwill, and pose for photographs that screamed, “Look at us, rehabilitating magical fauna and former enemies alike!” And so here they were: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, crouched beside a baby hippogriff while a Ministry-funded photographer lurked in the bushes like a deranged garden gnome. The baby hippogriff blinked up at them, feathers fluffed in curiosity, beak twitching like it was deciding which one of them looked the most edible.

“Gentle now,” Hagrid boomed from behind them, his massive hands gesturing wildly in what must have been meant to be calming. “Yeh’ve got ter let ‘im sniff yeh first. Hippogriffs are proud creatures. Bit like Draco here, eh?”

Hermione stifled a laugh just as Draco shot a glare over his shoulder. “I am not sniffable.”

Hagrid didn’t seem to hear, or more likely, chose not to, as he launched straight into one of his signature near-death tales. 

“Reminds me of when I rescued a nest of Rampaging Re’em calves from the Cliffs o’ Dover. Nearly fell two hundred feet while one tried to mount me shoulder like a parrot. Lovely creatures, but they’ll crush yer ribs if they’re feeling cuddly.”

“Lovely,” Hermione muttered, wincing.

Draco took one step away from the hippogriff and another from Hagrid. 

“Is this your idea of foreplay, Granger?” he hissed, eyeing the journalists gathering behind them, quills afloat. 

“Smile,” she said through gritted teeth. “They’re writing a feature, not a funeral programme.”

Draco’s scowl deepened - impressive, really, considering he already looked like someone had hexed lemon juice directly into his eyes. He was wearing expensive boots that had definitely never been near dirt before today, and the muddy, hoof-trodden sanctuary grounds were clearly sending him into a spiral. The baby hippogriff chirped suddenly and butted its head against his hip. Draco stared down at it in horror. Hermione had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. Hard.

Hagrid, blissfully unaware of the deadly boredom he was inducing, began the grand tour with all the excitement of a five-year-old showing off his toy collection. Hermione and Draco walked along, trying not to let the wisp of danger creeping through the air swallow them whole.

“Right then,” Hagrid boomed, clapping his hands and making them both jump, “this here’s a perfect spot ter start! This is me first big find: The Augurey!”

He waved dramatically at a dark, brooding bird perched atop a nearby rock. Its feathers were as grim as a thundercloud, and it looked like it could care less about their existence.

“This bird?” Hagrid continued with a grin that could’ve powered a small village. “Found it in Ireland, eh? Thought it was a stormcrow, but then I noticed the green aura, and I knew it was an Augurey! Nearly tore off me arm before I realised it was only cryin' 'cause it thought I was a bloody rainstorm comin' in."

Hermione nodded with wide eyes. “Ah, yes, very interesting. So it’s...harmless?”

Draco, already trying to think of an escape route, added dryly, “Are we sure it’s not just a really, really sad pigeon?”

Hagrid’s laugh was so loud it shook the leaves. “Aye, that’s the spirit, Draco! Sad bird, but harmless! A bit like yer moods, eh?”

Draco gave him a look that was just short of murderous. Hagrid, grinning like a maniac, led them to the next creature: a tebo. It stood behind a pen that barely cordoned off anything, its eyes narrowed and muscles tensed. The creature was nearly vibrating with aggression, its fur bristling like it had just been told it was going to be turned into bacon.

Draco gave it a suspicious look. “That thing looks like it’s about to eat someone.”

“Nonsense, Draco! A tebo’s a perfectly harmless creature,” Hagrid said, patting the fence. “It jus’ gets a bit wound up in crowds, tha’s all!”

Draco crossed his arms. “I think it needs to be behind tall iron gates, not a measly wooden pen.”

Hagrid chuckled. “Nah, nah, tha’s just its temperament. They’re good creatures, really. Jus’ needs a bit of space.”

Hermione whispered to Draco, “Seems like your spirit animal.”

Before Draco could make a retort, a journalist from the group approached them with an eager grin. 

“Hey! Could you two stand near the tebo for a photo op?”

Draco’s eyes flicked towards the creature, whose eyes were now glowing with intensity. He tried to protest, but before he could speak, a bright flash of light exploded in his face. The tebo let out a horrific screech and charged.

“Fuck!” Draco yelled, grabbing Hermione’s arm and yanking her out of the way just as the tebo’s massive head slammed into the pen with a thundering crash and headed straight into their direction.

“Run!” Hermione exclaimed.

The pair bolted. The tebo thundered behind them, its hooves pounding the ground like a runaway carriage. Draco’s heart pounded in his ears as he scrambled to put distance between them, only to find that the creature was gaining speed. It kept charging, its legs pounding the earth like thunder as Draco and Hermione sprinted through the dense underbrush, twisting and turning to dodge branches and trunks. The creature’s enraged screech echoed through the forest, getting louder and closer with each passing moment.

"Why did we come here?!" Hermione shouted over her shoulder, barely staying ahead of the tebo’s charging fury.

“Can’t we Petrify it or something?!” Draco asked, though his breath was ragged.

“No! That’s the opposite of what we’re here for!”

They pushed forward, adrenaline and fear fuelling their legs as they reached a cluster of trees. Draco grabbed Hermione’s wrist and pulled her toward a thick oak, its branches high and wide. Without hesitation, they scrambled up the trunk, heartbeats in sync as they climbed higher, away from the creature’s charging path. The creature slowed down beneath the tree, its nostrils flaring as it snorted in frustration. It circled the base, watching them warily, clearly still agitated. Hermione, perched a few feet above Draco, kept her eyes on the tebo, her hand clutching the tree bark.

“It’s not giving up,” she said, her voice tense. “And it can make itself invisible.”

Draco blinked, looking at her. “Invisible? What—?”

“Yeah,” Hermione muttered, still watching the creature. “They can cloak themselves when they’re agitated. It’s what makes them dangerous. We can’t trust that it’s gone.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Great. So, we’re stuck here until it—”

Suddenly, a heavy silence settled around them. The tebo’s sounds finally ceased, and the forest fell quiet. They both held their breath, listening. No more tebo. No more sounds of flashing cameras. No distant chatter from Hagrid or the journalists.

Draco broke the silence with a quiet question. “Where’s everyone?”

Hermione glanced around, her brow furrowing. “They were just behind us—”

She stopped mid-sentence, something dawning on her. Her eyes widened as she looked around again. The trees were unfamiliar. The path they had taken was gone. In fact, the noise of the sanctuary, the clattering of creatures, the distant hum of activity, were nowhere to be heard. As they both slowly began to slide down from the tree, the realisation hit them both simultaneously.

As Hermione turned in a slow circle, panic crept up her spine. “We’re lost.”

Chapter Text

There were a lot of things Hermione Granger could handle. A hex to her chest cavity. Horcruxes. Being petrified by a basilisk. Even Draco Malfoy’s attitude when he was in a foul mood. But being well and truly lost in the Forbidden Forest? With said foul mood now trailing just a few paces behind her? Less so. Twigs cracked underfoot as they trudged through the underbrush, neither of them speaking much beyond the occasional “this way” or “that tree looks familiar” (it didn’t). Hermione tried to tell herself they were doing fine. That surely they didn’t veer that far from the trail. That Hagrid would realise they weren’t around to clap for the Bowtruckle performance or whatever was next on the itinerary. Everyone had seen how they were chased away by that damned tebo.

“There’s no bloody way out,” Draco grumbled. “Of course. Of course this would happen to me.”

Hermione didn’t even look at him. “Yes, Malfoy. The universe is out to get you. Clearly, you’re the only victim here.”

“I am. I could be at training! I could be having a relaxing hot bath. But no, I’m lost in the Forbidden sodding Forest, with someone who’s made a career out of bossing people around.”

She stopped walking, slowly turning to face him. “And you think running your mouth is a defence mechanism but really it’s just pathetic. ”

“Don’t talk to me about pathetic. You’ve been marching us in circles for the last hour like that’s going to magically solve things—”

“I’m trying to get us back. Merlin forbid a woman takes charge while you sulk like a kicked kneazle!”

“Right, because you’re the smartest person in the world, aren’t you? Saint Swot with her plans and her lectures and her I-read-a-book-on-this-once superiority complex—”

“At least I try, ” she shouted, stepping forward now. “At least I do more than drink and shag and suckerpunch people for looking at you wrong—”

“Don’t pretend like you know me,” he shot, voice spiteful and bitter. “You don’t know a damned thing about my life, Granger.”

"You’re right, I don’t know you. And frankly, I don’t want to. I’m not interested in learning about someone who still acts like a spoiled child.”

They stared at each other, chest heaving. They were practically nose to nose now, shoulders squared like they were about to duel. Both of them were red-faced, eyes wild, breaths loud in the dense silence of the forest. Hermione was the first to move. She turned on her heel sharply, crunching over the leaves as she stalked off in the opposite direction. 

Draco blinked, caught off guard. “Where the bloody hell do you think you’re going?”

“Going my own way,” she said without turning around. “You clearly can’t stand being around me, so—”

“Oh, for - Granger!” he growled, storming after her. “You can’t just—”

He stopped mid-sentence to let out a strangled, frustrated sound, like he physically couldn’t believe this was happening. He caught up to her with a few long strides.

“You’re unbelievable,” he snapped. “You don’t get to act like you’re such a martyr every time things go sideways!”

“You’ve made it painfully clear I’m nothing more than a walking textbook—”

“Did you forget that I saved you from a bloody–” he tossed his arm sideways in the vague direction where a tebo terrorised them earlier.

But the harmless action made Hermione flinch and recoil instantly. Her hands raised defensively as if to shield herself from something. It was instinctive and immediate. Draco froze and his words died in his throat.

“Shit,” he breathed, dropping his arm limply. “Granger, I would never—”

“No, sorry, that was just—”

“I wasn’t…I would never do that. Alright?”

The anger drained out of him all at once, leaving only disbelief and guilt in its place. He took a step back. Then another, arms held slightly out at his sides, as if to show her he was nondangerous. That he understood. That he was sorry for even moving. 

“That was just my…instinct. It’s not you,” she said timidly, averting her eyes.

Her arms slowly dropped to her sides, as if realising she was still holding them up made her feel ridiculous. She tried to swallow her embarrassment down, to look unaffected, but her voice betrayed her. 

“Sometimes my body just reacts on impulse. Stupid, I know.”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. She didn’t know why but she felt ashamed. Like she hated that part of herself that was still afraid. She felt like she'd rather melt into the forest floor than let him see her react like that again. Draco ran a hand through his hair, visibly unsettled. 

“You’re not stupid,” he said. “I don’t know the extent of what he’s done but if I ever raise an arm near you again, it’ll be to hex whatever’s out there trying to kill us. Not you.”

He hesitated. Then added, “And if it helps…I’d probably flinch too, if I had to be stuck in a forest with me.”

A beat.

“…That was me trying to be comforting, by the way.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. A smile broke through. It was small, involuntary, and completely at odds with the pit of unease in her chest. But it was there. He noticed, of course. The prat always noticed. And maybe it was the sheer absurdity of being well and truly lost in the most dangerous forest in Britain, or the fact that her heart was still beating out a staccato rhythm in her chest from the adrenaline.  But somehow, she was now smiling at Draco Malfoy. The most annoying, frustrating, sharp-tongued tosser on earth. And worse? He looked a little smug about it. Draco straightened, eyes scanning the undergrowth with a little more purpose now. He reached for a branch and pulled it aside like he actually knew what he was doing.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s find somewhere less murdery-looking before nightfall. I don’t fancy being eaten by a sentient patch of moss.”

Hermione followed. The sun was beginning to dip beneath the canopy, the golden light slicing through the trees in long, slanted beams. It was beautiful in a haunting, vaguely cursed kind of way. The kind of place that would absolutely be described as “peaceful” in someone’s last known journal entry before they were never heard from again.

They walked without speaking for a while, weaving past gnarled roots and clusters of fungi that looked slightly too alive. Eventually, they came across a small clearing just off a narrow deer path. A fallen tree trunk lay across the edge, its surface flat and dry enough to sit on. The area was slightly elevated, shielded by thick bramble and overhanging branches, offering at least some protection if something decided to come snuffling around after dark. The underbrush thinned a little, and a crooked, moss-covered log sat beneath a canopy of hanging leaves, half-shaded from the fading sun.

He motioned towards it with a jerk of his head. “Here. It doesn’t look like it’s actively trying to kill us.”

“What a glowing endorsement.”

The log was damp and streaked with ivy, but it was solid. They both sat - Hermione first, then Draco with the wary air of a man deeply suspicious of nature. For a moment, there was silence, the kind that almost felt like relief.

And then the vines moved.

It started with a rustle beneath their feet. Then a slow, sinuous shifting. Before either of them could properly register the sound, the vines snapped upward fast, wrapping tight around ankles and wrists like they'd been lying in wait. Hermione yelped as her wand hand was jerked down. Draco cursed and tried to spring up, only to be slammed back onto the log with a force that rattled the breath out of him.

“What the hell is this?!” he barked.

But before either could reach for their wands again, more vines slithered around their arms and torsos, cinching tight enough to pin them in place. They were well and truly caught. And then came the voice.

“Oooooh! Look what the forest dragged in!”

The bark of the gnarled tree in front of them peeled open like a doorway, and out popped a tiny face. The creature was about the size of a small cat, with twiggy limbs, glowing amber eyes, and a crown of moss atop its head like a bad haircut. It was mischievous, glinting, and far too delighted by their situation

“Two for one!” it giggled. “Haven’t had visitors in ages. I thought no one would ever come.”

“What in Merlin’s name—” Draco grunted, trying in vain to twist his arm. The vines only tightened.

“Oh hush, handsome,” the sprite chirped. “No moving. You’ll ruin it.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “What are you?”

“I’m a tree sprite, of course,” it said, as if she were the one being ridiculous. “Ancient forest spirit, keeper of barky secrets, notorious for games and mischief. ”

The sprite did a twirl in the air, then floated upside down in front of their faces.

Draco snarled, “Release us now, or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what?” the sprite giggled. “Glare at me harder? Come off it. You two owe me a game.”

“A game ?” Hermione asked slowly, her tone already laced with regret.

“Yes! A game of truth. You tell the truth, or…” The vines around them wriggled ominously. “I torture you. And believe me, I never miss a spot.”

“Absolutely not—” they both said at once.

“Absolutely yes!” the sprite sang. “You must play the game! Everyone who’s passed by has done it. And no one has died from it. Or at least, not in years…but it’s fun, I promise! And also, I’m bored. So. Let’s get started, shall we?”

It then clapped its tiny hands, eyeing Hermione. “Miss Frizzy Head, you first!”

Hermione winced. “Miss what—”

“What's the naughtiest thing you've done whilst at work?”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. Her mouth opened, then closed. She swallowed, clearly caught off guard by the question. She glanced at Draco for help but he just raised an eyebrow, watching her with amusement. The vines around her ankles tightened ever so slightly.

“Tick tock!” the sprite sang, its voice dripping with anticipation.

Hermione’s hands fidgeted in her lap as if she were caught in a lie, face flushing bright pink. She looked like she was about to really dig deep and reveal some long-held, scandalous secret, one that would rock the very foundation of her entire persona. Draco, on the other hand, was barely containing his mirth, practically frothing in the mouth to hear something salacious - something wildly inappropriate that could upend the image of the Ministry’s darling. Hermione opened her mouth again, closed it, and sighed. And then finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, answered.

"Fine. I…once took a nap. At my desk. For twenty minutes."

The silence in the forest was deafening while Draco blinked stupidly. Hermione winced like she’d just confessed to grand larceny. Her face was practically red with shame.

“Granger, please. There are children in this forest,” Draco deadpanned.

Hermione snapped, “Shut up. It was unbecoming of me.”

The sprite squealed. “I detect…a truth! Booooring. You! Blond Tall-Angry Man. Your turn. What’s the first thing you look at when you see a girl?”

Draco froze for a moment, weighing the consequences of his response. His lips twisted ironically, as if deciding between sarcasm and murder of a magical creature.

“Personality,” he said flatly.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. The sprite stared, then giggled like it had just heard a lie. The vines around Draco tightened with alarming speed.

“Alright, alright. Their…smile,” he bit out, face turning purple.

The vines crept tighter to his neck. 

“Fuck’s sake! The arse. It’s the bloody arse, alright?”

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t launch out of her skull.

“Look, I don’t need to be psychoanalysed while being tortured, alright?”

The sprite floated in a delighted circle. “So wonderful! We’re finally warming up! Alright, Miss Know-It-All, what’s the most surprisingly decent thing about Mister Sour-Face over here?”

Hermione huffed, arms still pinned by enchanted vines, eyes narrowed as if she could intimidate the question into vanishing.

“Well…he’s—” Her mouth opened, then shut again. A muscle in her jaw ticked. “He’s...extremely dedicated and passionate.”

The sprite squealed with delight. “Awwwww!”

“Decent might be an overstatement but,” she added quickly, as if trying to claw back some self-respect. “He stays up late to practice after everyone else’s gone home. Works himself to the bone. Then still shows up to next morning’s campaign commitment. It’s just…quite impressive, really.”

Draco stilled, clearly not expecting that answer. His usual sarcastic smirk faltered for a moment as he glanced at Hermione. He quickly cleared his throat like he was trying to remember how to breathe without making it weird.

“Let’s see if we can’t get you to spill a little secret, Mister Broody!” The sprite grinned, swirling around Draco. “What’s one physical feature of Lady Bookworm’s that you find the most…distracting?”

Draco let out a mock sigh. “What a ridiculous question.”

The vines crept up to his crotch area like demonic tentacles, threatening to do unspeakable things to his nether region. Draco choked a groan, then glanced at Hermione.

“Fine, if I have to say it...her bloody eyes,” Draco said. “It’s annoying how hard they are to look away from. Like they already know what you’re going to say...and they’re daring you to say it anyway.”

He shrugged, as if the topic were completely casual, but the faint redness blooming on his neck betrayed him. Hermione, still flushed from the unexpected and awkward exchange, took a deep inhale as the sprite’s gleeful giggle rang in her ears. Her patience was running dangerously thin.

"Alright, I think that's enough now," she snapped. "We’ve played your game and we’ve told the truth. So could you please let us go now?"

The sprite hovered, its grin unwavering as it twirled around them, clearly enjoying the discomfort it had caused. However, it seemed to sense Hermione’s waning interest, and after a brief moment of considering the situation, it huffed in what could only be described as reluctant agreement.

"Alright, alright," it muttered, its voice a little less chipper now. "I suppose I can let you go…for now."

With a flick of its twig-like fingers, the vines that had been pinning them both to the ground slackened, the tendrils slowly unwinding like a snake letting go of its prey. Hermione let out a relieved breath, rolling her shoulders as the pressure lifted. Draco, still stiff and irritated, wasted no time. The moment his arms were free, he shot to his feet, backing up a few steps away from the sprite. His gaze flickered to Hermione, a mix of irritation and discomfort still etched on his face.

The sprite gave a mock salute. "That was decent, I guess! Next time, it’ll be much more fun ."

With that, it vanished into the trees, leaving the two of them standing in the tense silence that followed. Hermione glanced at Draco, exasperated but relieved. 

“I swear, I don’t care what happens next, I just need to be far away from that creature.”

Draco simply nodded. They found another spot to sit - this time, carefully inspecting the area for any twitching vines or suspiciously cheerful woodland creatures before settling down. A large, flat boulder jutted out from the mossy ground like a forgotten seat, half-covered in lichen and blessedly mundane. Hermione dropped down first with a sigh, dusting off her trousers. Draco followed, slower, casting a final wary glance over his shoulder as if expecting the sprite to reappear with a round two.

“We should just send for help,” Hermione said, brushing a leaf from her lap. 

She closed her eyes without another word. Her posture relaxed so suddenly, so completely, that Draco tensed beside her thinking she’d somehow passed out. For a moment, she looked like she’d nodded off mid-sentence - eyes shut, limbs limp, face calm.

“Granger?” he asked, brows furrowing. “Are you…are you sleeping sitting up?”

“Shhh,” she whispered sharply, not opening her eyes. “I need to concentrate.”

Draco held his breath, suddenly feeling like he’d just been scolded by a Head Girl. Hermione’s fingers moved with quiet precision as she reached for her wand, the tip already glowing with soft light. Her lips moved silently at first, then aloud, as she cast the spell. Expecto Patronum! A wisp of silver light exploded from the tip of her wand, dancing forward and taking form. A silvery otter, sleek and graceful, flicked its tail in the air before bouncing in place as though eager for instructions.

“Find Hagrid,” Hermione ordered. “Lead him back to us.”

The transparent otter gave a little nod - if such a thing was possible - and then darted forward, weaving through the trees like a streak of starlight. Draco watched it disappear, stunned into silence. He’d seen Patronuses before, of course, but very few wizards could produce a full corporeal one - and fewer still could make it look that effortless. The last echoes of its light faded into the dusk, and he found himself still staring at where it had gone. He glanced at Hermione, now sagging slightly, her shoulders dipped in quiet exhaustion. Not surprising. Conjuring a corporeal Patronus could drain one’s magical reserves. She blinked slowly, lips parted like the spell had taken more out of her than she cared to admit. Draco swallowed. He had always known she was powerful, annoyingly brilliant, insufferably clever. But somehow this was...different. He was seeing her magic up close. Not just in theory or reputation, but right here, in front of him. And it left him a little breathless.

“…you really are something else, Granger.”

“It took me a while to do it properly,” she said, almost absently. “But I probably mastered it fully by the time we were in seventh year. That’s when Harry, Ron, and I were on the run.”

She paused, voice coloured with the edges of fatigue. “We spent months hiding. Forests, wilderness, abandoned places. Always moving. Always afraid.”

“I read about that,” he said, tone light but laced with something thoughtful. “An article called From Hogwarts to Hell and Back: The Tale of the War-Torn Golden Trio or some overly dramatic nonsense like that.”

Hermione gave a tired little huff, eyelids drooping. “Mm. Let me guess. They painted me as the nagging harpy?”

“You nagged Potter and Weasley while you were roughing it in the woods?”

“I nag no matter where I am,” she slurred, head beginning to tilt. “On the run or not.”

He watched her for a beat too long, catching the faint tremble in her fingers. She looked positively wrung out. Like a candle burned too low. Without thinking, Draco slipped out of his jacket and draped it over her shoulders in one fluid motion. Hermione blinked up at him in surprise, a soft smile tugging at her lips like a thank-you she was too tired to say.

“You really are something else, Malfoy,” she echoed his words back.

He crossed his arms. “Don’t get used to it.”

Hermione let out a sleepy sound - half laugh, half sigh - as her head lolled. Her eyelids were at half-mast now, the fatigue from conjuring her Patronus clearly weighing her down.

“M’not,” she mumbled.

Draco glanced sideways. “Not what?”

“Not getting used to it. Jus’...sayin’. You’re not the bad guy you pretend to be.”

His brow twitched, but he didn’t respond right away.

“You’re not,” she insisted, slurring a little now. “You act like a right arsehole, but then you do things like...step in when I’m cornered. Or agree to be my ring bearer. Or share your coat. You’re...caring, when it counts.”

Draco scoffed again. “Don’t ruin my reputation, Granger.”

But Hermione turned her head to look at him, lids drooping but gaze serious.

“Why d’you do it?” she asked. “The showboating. The fighting. All the self-sabotaging. S’like you want people to hate you.”

He went still. The joke was right there - locked and loaded. Something about nosy Gryffindors and minding their own bloody business. But for some reason, he didn’t want to lie to her. He glanced at her again, the sharpness of her intelligence softened by exhaustion. He let out a quiet breath.

“Easier that way, isn’t it?” he said offhandedly. “If they already think the worst, you don’t have to waste time disappointing them.”

Hermione blinked slowly, her frown forming in slow motion. “That’s...tha’s really sad.”

“Brilliant insight,” he said dryly. “Thank you, Madame Healer.”

She let out a hum, head wobbling as if it were too heavy to hold up. “Still doesn’t mean it’s true. People...people can like you, y’know. They might already do.”

Draco didn’t say anything to that. Eventually, her head dropped to the side. Draco rolled his eyes but shifted, guiding her head gently to rest on his shoulder. She didn’t protest - just let out a soft sound and melted against him like he was the most comfortable pillow in the world.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, barely audible.

“I’ll keep watch,” he said at the mess of curls tucked beneath his chin, his wand already in hand.

The forest crackled quietly around them, shadows lengthening with the sinking sun. He lowered his nose into her hair. It smelled like sweat, vanilla, and something inherently her. He didn’t mind that, though. He’d never let her know about it, but he kept sniffing her like he’d never get the chance to again. Half an hour passed, or maybe a little more, before a deep voice boomed through the trees.

“There yeh are!”

Hagrid lumbered into the clearing, led by the silver otter Patronus that had dutifully returned to its master. Draco could’ve kissed the half-giant. He then looked down at her, still asleep on his shoulder, and realised his arm had somehow wrapped itself around her in a protective semi-embrace. For a moment, he didn’t move. And, for some inexplicable reason, he didn’t like the idea of waking her up and letting go of her just yet.

Chapter Text

They stood in the middle of Draco’s flat, face to face. The space had been cleared of furniture, leaving only a wide rug underfoot and a magical phonograph in the corner, softly playing the opening notes of a classical waltz. Hermione looked like she was about to be sentenced, not taught to dance. Draco tilted his head, his arms folding lazily across his chest as he gave her a condescending once-over. 

“Why do you look like you’ve just been asked to perform a dissection on a live Puffskein?” he asked.

She shot him a withering look, but it didn’t quite mask the nervous twitch at the corner of her mouth. Her hands were clenched by her sides like she was bracing for impact. With an overly dramatic sigh, Draco extended his hand towards her, fingers poised elegantly. 

“Right. First, this is a hand.” He wiggled his fingers. “Yours is meant to go in mine. Revolutionary, I know. Let me know if I’m going too fast.”

He grinned wickedly, waiting for her reaction. Hermione glared at him, but placed her hand in his anyway, stiff as a board. Draco raised a brow but said nothing, leading her hand to his shoulder with exaggerated slowness, like she might combust from contact.

“Now,” he said patiently, “your other hand goes here. Not on my waist. Near my waist. Don’t hover like you’re avoiding a doorknob in a public loo.”

“I hate you,” she muttered, moving her hand lower.

“Hatred is the foundation of all good waltzes.”

The music flowed softly around them, and Draco guided her into the first step. 

“Alright. Left foot forward, right foot back. Granger, your other right. Bloody hell—”

“I am going right!” she snapped, already stepping again, and squarely onto his foot.

“Fuck’s sake, Granger!” Draco winced dramatically, staggering back as if she’d tried to murder him via big toe.

Hermione’s face burned. “Sorry! I thought you said left!”

“I did. On the beat. Not like you’re summoning a herd of hippogriffs.”

He tried again, straightening their posture, breathing like he was preparing for battle. 

“Small steps, small steps - no, now you’re doing some sort of…interpretive spin - what in the name of Salazar is your hip doing?”

“I’m trying!” she hissed, already sweating. “Stop yelling at me!”

“I’m not yelling,” he said, lowering the volume of his yell. “This is coaching. Keep your frame up. Lift your elbow. Don’t look down. Don’t look at me like that. You look like you’re trying to hex me with your eyeballs.”

“I am.”

And then she stepped on his foot again. He let out a noise that could only be described as an anguished gargle.

“Granger,” he muttered. “How are you the brightest witch of our age and still dance like a troll on ice?”

Hermione, full of panic and pride and sheer stubbornness, clung to composure like a drowning woman to driftwood. 

“Maybe if you stopped being snarky and actually taught me—!”

He cut her off with a dramatic sigh. “Just try not to maim me, Granger. I quite like walking.”

Hermione misstepped again, her heel catching awkwardly as she tried to mimic his pace. Draco pinched the bridge of it like this was the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

“Alright, Granger,” he said. “Come here.”

Before she could ask what he meant, his hands slid from her arms down to her waist. Firm. Intentional. Possessive, almost. He gripped her hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows above her hipbones and letting his fingers spread low on her back as he pulled her forward.

“Your steps are off because you’re not aligned properly,” he said, voice lower now, more gravel than silk. “Your hips need to move with mine.”

And just like that, there was no space between them. Her stomach brushed the flat of his. Her spine went ramrod straight, as if proper posture could somehow counteract the fact that they were now waist-to-waist, thigh-to-thigh, and she could feel the slow shift of his weight as he guided her with the faintest pressure of his hands.

“Parallel,” he said, dipping his head closer to hers. “You feel that?”

She nodded. Gods help her, she felt everything. The warmth of his palms through her thin blouse. The heat rolling off his chest. The catch in her breath that he must’ve felt, too, because his lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but wasn’t innocent either. Her hands hovered in the air, unsure where to go. Nowhere felt safe. Everywhere felt dangerous.

“You're tense,” he added, fingers flexing just slightly at her hips. “Loosen up, or you’ll throw me off tempo.”

Meanwhile, Draco was trying. Really fucking hard. The music played in smooth, lilting loops, and all he needed to do was guide her through a simple waltz. Nothing more. No deviance. No slipping. Except Granger, predictably, had the grace of a concussed flobberworm. And she kept looking up at him with that scowling, determined face, like she was memorising a battle plan rather than dance steps. She was all elbows and anxious breath, her foot colliding with his - again.

He was losing patience - patience with the dance, patience with himself, patience with this maddening witch who smelled like sugar and lavender in spring. It was doing things to him. Horrible, primitive things. His hands found her waist. He slid them lower than he probably should have, thumbs skimming over her hipbones. His fingers fanned out across the small of her back as he tugged her flush against him, aligning her body to his like they were two halves of the same spell. And it was a bloody mistake.

Because now he could feel all of her. Her softness, her warmth, the little hitch in her breath when she realised how close they were. Her stomach brushed his abs when she inhaled. Her slender legs brushed against his. Her tits - fuck, her tits - so close it was a miracle he hadn’t buried his face between them like some deranged pervert. He swallowed nervously. Don’t look down. Don’t move your hands. Don’t even blink. He could feel the shape of her hips beneath his hands. The temptation to shift just a little lower. To cup her nice—

No. Absolutely not. Hands where they are. You're not a fucking animal.

Hermione looked at him wide-eyed, and for a second, he caught sight of her parted lips and flushed cheeks and wondered how he hadn't already hexed the stupid music player to give him five bloody minutes alone. She hovered her hands awkwardly mid-air, nowhere to go. He wanted her to touch him. She was tense, but he was worse. He was stiff in his trousers and she’d notice if they stayed pressed together for much longer. Outside he was cool as a cucumber. Inside, he was chaos. Every instinct screaming to close the last remaining space between them. To drag his tongue along her neck. To taste that scent he could feel clinging to his teeth. Instead, he mentally counted backwards from ten.

Ten, nine, eight…
Don’t ruin it.
Don’t touch her like that.
Don’t mind the softness of her tits against your ribs.

They’d been circling each other for what felt like hours, limbs tangled in too-tight proximity, tempers wearing thin, toes occasionally crushed in what Draco was now calling The Granger Gauntlet. But somewhere between the bickering and the breathless counting, something clicked. The music swelled, and Hermione's eyes narrowed as she moved with determined grace through the steps they’d fumbled all evening. This time, when Draco guided her into the turn, her footwork matched his perfectly. She spun on the ball of her foot, skirt sweeping around her calves like a silken flare, curls catching the golden light from the chandelier. He caught her cleanly. One hand firm on the small of her back, the other holding her hand just so, their momentum drawing them together like magnets finally realising what they were made for. She landed with barely a stumble, chest rising with exertion, breath mixing with his. And Draco, still stunned he hadn’t been kicked in the shin, praised her for the first time.

“Good girl,” he said appraisingly.

Hermione stilled. Oh.  

Oh dear.

Her skin flushed in a creeping wave up her neck, and her grip on his shoulder faltered. Her breath caught - not in exertion this time, but in something dangerously adjacent to want. Because good girl should’ve sounded like mockery. Like his usual condescension. Instead, it unspooled inside her like velvet heat low in her belly. She tried to summon a sarcastic retort, but nothing came except the inexplicable urge to hear it again. The worst part is Draco didn’t even realise what he’d said. His mind was still occupied with the miracle of his toes being intact. His tone hadn’t even been suggestive. But her body hadn’t gotten the memo. And now, she was very aware of the fact that his hand was still on her back. That his palm spanned more space than was fair. That his thumb had moved slightly. Barely a brush. But it burned. Hermione cleared her throat, stepping back, suddenly too warm. 

“Well,” she said hoarsely. “I didn’t maim you.”

“I am a good teacher,” he responded.

They stepped apart. Not abruptly, but deliberately. Like the spell had lifted and they were suddenly, blessedly, back in the realm of reason. Neither acknowledged the moment they’d just shared. Draco rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat, covering the charged silence with bravado.

“You’re improving,” he drawled, stepping back. “But you need to get in touch with your femininity, Granger. You move like you’re afraid of being graceful.”

Hermione gave him a look - one part glare, three parts mortification - but said nothing. She focused all her energy on straightening her blouse, tucking a curl behind her ear, and very intentionally not looking at his stupidly perfect bone structure or the way his sleeves were still rolled up to his elbows. It wasn’t him. She was sure of it. It was just his pheromones. Yes. That was the only reasonable explanation. His scent had done something to her brain - some illegal mix of bergamot, sweat, and smugness that tricked the limbic system into believing things it shouldn’t. She exhaled, trying to cool the heat in her abdomen. Perhaps it was just because she hadn’t had sex in a while. A long while. Not since her clinically insane ex, actually. And that was over a year ago now. 

That was probably it. Just biology. Hormones. Any tall, lean-bodied nuisance of a man with perfect hair and clever hands would’ve done the same thing to her nervous system. Definitely. Her mind suddenly served her Davet Dumont, a French expat from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, who had asked her out during a Ministry event a month ago. She’d told him she’d check her schedule - politely, noncommittally, because she hadn’t been interested at the time. But she remembered thinking he was cute. And now, perhaps, she was interested. If she owled him ASAP, he’d probably be up for drinks tonight. She cleared her throat and slipped her shoes back on with all the poise of a duchess. She smiled professionally at Draco as if the last thirty minutes hadn’t just short-circuited her common sense.

“Thank you for the lesson. That was actually very helpful.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow, sensing the shift. “That’s it? No scathing review of my pedagogy?”

She was already walking toward the floo, her tone light. “I would, but I’ve got to get ready for a date. Another time, maybe.”

The words floated out so lightly, so casually, it took a full second for them to register. Draco blinked. A date? He stood a little too straight, something cold tightening under his ribs.

“Oh,” he said dumbly, too late for her to hear it. 

The fireplace roared to life, green flames licking the grate as she stepped inside with her usual, infuriating grace. And just like that, she was gone. Draco remained in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, lips pursed. The magical recorder was still playing the waltz. He scowled and silenced it with a flick of his wand.

__________

So it turns out, she was right and Davet was still interested in her all along. Hermione had barely toed off her shoes when she sent him a brief, innocuous missive that definitely did not read “hello I’m dangerously randy after dancing with Malfoy, are you free.” And yet he replied almost immediately. Which was how she found herself hours later at Levitasi, a wizarding lounge bar in Soho that floated three storeys above its own front entrance and required a mild anti-nausea charm before entry. The bartender stirred cocktails with a wand and some light telepathy. There were string lights that responded to mood. Everyone was too attractive. Too wealthy. It was annoying.

Davet Dumont, meanwhile, cleaned up very well himself. All sharp cheekbones and soft jawline, with that French-boy-next-door charm she vaguely remembered. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to suggest yes, I moisturise my chest, and his dark wavy hair had the kind of artful dishevelment that whispered I want to look effortless. Hermione, ever the scientist, had arrived with a purpose: to test whether Davet’s pheromones would affect her like Draco Malfoy's did. Because surely this was a biology problem. Surely she was simply...low on sex and high on confusion. Just chemistry. Definitely. She leaned in a little closer, sipping her drink, and inhaled his scent. No bodily reaction yet. But to be fair, the night was still young. 

Of course, the universe couldn’t possibly let Hermione Granger have a quiet, well-earned date. That would be far too reasonable, too vanilla, too boring. Instead, the omniscient forces of fate decided that tonight was the perfect night to place none other than Draco Malfoy in the exact same upscale bar. Because apparently, peace is something reserved for side characters in this story. And so while Hermione was conducting her noble little pheromone experiment with Davet Dumont…

Draco Malfoy was in the VIP area just across the room, surrounded by his usual contingent: Theo, Blaise, Adrian, and Jones - each with a woman who could likely name all the ingredients for Amortentia but couldn’t name a single book. It was just another night of Draco Malfoy Things. Of course, Draco's witch of the week, who he’d already forgotten the name of, was nestled against his side, her fingers lightly caressing his chest. She had the obligatory rotund arse that he preferred and a tendency to giggle at everything he said. Theo was busy flirting with some laughably loud witch in sequins, while Blaise was deep in conversation with Jones about a rather questionable club they’d all visited last week. It was the usual party boy stuff. Obnoxious, shallow, and mildly mind-numbing. Draco had already zoned out, not really listening, the rhythm of the night lulling him into his typical indifference.

That was, until his eyes landed on her.

Granger.

Instant tension seized his chest. What the bloody hell was she doing here of all places? He didn’t think she’d be the type to be mingling in this type of place. And why the fuck did she look devastatingly lethal tonight? She was wearing a dress - a dress - that clung to her like second skin and her hair pulled up in a manner that had him thinking far too many thoughts about her neck. And...oh, she was on a bloody date. Now he was suddenly getting angry. Why was he angry?

No. He wasn’t angry. 

He was just feeling uncomfortable. Because there she was, floating into Levitasi on the arm of some tall, tanned, well-dressed wanker who probably pronounced “wine” differently like it was a personality trait. Draco didn’t know his name but he was smiling at her like he’d earned the right, and Granger was laughing. In a dress that was completely inappropriate for someone with her headmistress persona. It was the kind of thing you wore when you wanted to be looked at. When you wanted to be wanted. And apparently, it was working. Every man in the room had turned to look. Including him. Especially him. Draco shifted in his seat, irritated by the heat creeping up his neck. He’d always known she was pretty, in a frustrating sort of way. Smart and stubborn, all prim and proper. But tonight, she looked like a bloody threat. He scowled and took a long sip of his drink, ignoring the way his “date” blinked up at him and asked if he was alright. Of course he was alright. Absolutely fine. Just witnessing the collapse of his already tenuous grip on self-control. No big deal.

Because why had she never looked like that around him? Why did she dress like an academic scholar most days, only to show up now looking like a fucking siren? And why, of all things, did it bother him that she’d saved this version of herself for someone else? Again, he wasn’t angry. He was just...confused. And vaguely aroused. And mildly spiralling. Draco hadn’t even realised it, but his hold on the Ogden’s bottle had gone from casual to death grip. His fingers were so tight around the neck of the bottle, it was as if he was trying to choke the damn thing. He sucked in a breath, and for a moment, his world narrowed down to Hermione Granger. He had no idea why he was suddenly breathing so heavily. 

Davet’s French accent was thick, and Hermione had to admit, there was something undeniably endearing about the way he spoke. But it was always the same subject. Always. It was vines. French vineyards, to be precise. How the soil affected the taste, how the weather could make or break a harvest, how a particular region had the most divine red...whatever. Hermione could barely focus on the words coming out of his mouth. All she could think about was how his hands gripped his glass, and whether those hands could do unspeakable things to her that would make her mewl. Gods, she was like a lion in a cage that’s been starved.

Her drink, a cocktail famous for its magical properties that made every sensation ten times more intense - was definitely not helping her focus on anything other than how randy she felt. The alcohol had a way of loosening the tightness in her chest, and she could feel her thoughts drifting towards much less intellectual matters. Hermione wasn’t really listening to Davet anymore. In fact, she wanted to shut him up with her mouth. Wanted to snog him senseless just to see if he could match the fantasy she’d been constructing in her head.

And then a seductive image appeared out of nowhere.

Hermione blinked, unsure if the alcohol was conjuring hallucinations now. She tilted her glass, peering over its rim. Surely she was just tipsy. But no, this wasn’t the drink’s effect. Because that really was Draco Malfoy in the flesh, striding his way from the VIP area like sex on legs. His sleeves were cuffed messily, his black trousers accentuated his thick thighs, and there was the faint glint of a gold chain around his neck. His hair looked like it had been shoved through, and his mouth - gods, his mouth - was already doing that arrogant little twitch when he was two seconds away from saying something offensive. His eyes were intense. And he was very much smirking. And walking. And now—

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” she muttered into her drink.

Too late. He was already there. Looming. Large. Invasive. Radiating his signature Malfoy the Menace™ Energy. Her heart gave a painful thump against her ribs. What the bloody hell is he doing here? 

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice as syrupy and insufferable as always. “Didn’t know Levitasi started letting in Ministry staff after hours. Must’ve lowered the dress code.”

His gaze dragged down - slow, impolite, proprietary - over the low dip of her dress, the bare line of her back, the faint shimmer on her skin. The very date-ness of it all. His attention then snapped to her date with the kind of disdain normally reserved for bubotuber pus.

“And who’s this? Your accountant?” Draco quipped too casually.

Davet blinked at him. “Pardon?”

Hermione blinked too, but slower - half in disbelief, half in secondhand embarrassment. 

“Malfoy. This is Davet. We work together at the Ministry,” she said tightly, like she was reintroducing oxygen into the room.

Davet, bless him, extended a hand. “Davet Dumont. Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”

Draco did not take the hand. His eyes dropped to it like it was contagious.

“Ah,” Draco said. “So not an accountant. Just a catastrophic accident.”

Hermione lightly slammed her hand on the table. “Malfoy.”

“What?” he asked innocently. “Just a harmless jest.”

“Was there something you needed?” she asked, feigning a smile.

“Just happened to see a familiar face. Thought I’d drop by and crack jokes. Judging by the atmosphere, seems like it was needed.”

Davet adjusted the collar and stood up. “I’m sorry, do you always interrupt nice dates, or do you have a problem with me?”

“Oh is that what this is? Because it looked like a hostage situation from afar. I was getting concerned.”

Davet opened his mouth, but Hermione stepped between the two tall men, placing a hand on Draco’s chest. Not to soothe, but to wrangle him like the wild animal that he was. He stilled. There were a hundred things he could’ve said. All of them would’ve ruined him.

“Stop it, Malfoy. We’re leaving,” she whispered.

Draco’s blazing eyes snapped to hers. “We?”

“Me and Davet, ” she clarified, enunciating each syllable like he was hard of hearing.

She didn’t sound angry. She sounded eerily calm. Controlled. Like she hadn’t looked at him longingly when they were practicing earlier that day. Like she hadn’t melted in his hands to the rhythm of a waltz. She didn’t even flinch now, looking every bit the professional she was. And Merlin, that infuriated him more than anything. She was always composed. Always cool. Meanwhile, he was being a proper wet blanket, ruining her night without a second thought. But if he was being honest with himself, he didn't quite care. His unexplained agitation was far more important than her so-called date.

“Suit yourself,” he said to her, jaw flexing as he stepped back to let her pass.

Hermione turned without another word, beckoning Davet to follow. And as she walked away with the twit who’s a human embodiment of a decorative throw pillow, Draco stood there, watching her leave. Chest burning from where she’d touched him. Vision hot and blurry.

She hadn’t just left him there.

She’d left with someone else.

And that was something Draco Malfoy really, really did not like.

Chapter Text

Draco’s temper was a live wire, thrumming beneath his skin as he strode onto the pitch for morning training. His mind was a jumbled mess of frustration, but it fueled him in a way nothing else could. His broom felt like an extension of his body as he shot into the sky, the wind whipping against his face, the bludgers zipping by as if he could see them before they even made a move. He barely heard the shouts from his teammates. His body moved with precision. Every move he made was a perfect counter, his hands and feet working in tandem. He darted through the air, dodging bludgers, avoiding defenders, scoring with a level of skill that made the rest of the team look like amateurs.

The goalposts were just distant blurs when he rocketed towards them. In the span of a breath, he executed a flawless maneuver, spinning on his broom and sending the Quaffle into the net without a second thought. His heart was pounding, but not from exertion. No, it was from the simmering anger that still churned in his chest. The rest of the team was huffing, trying to keep up with him, but they could barely touch him. Draco was in another league today and completely on the attack. Every shot he made felt like an attempt to scorch the image of Hermione Granger and that man-poodle from his mind. He wasn’t thinking about anything except the flight, the wind, the adrenaline.

Draco had tried to calm down last night. Tried to let off some steam with his date of the week. A pretty witch who didn’t want a relationship and just wanted to shag a popular athlete. It was the usual setup, nothing new. But as they had gotten into it, he felt off. The tension in his chest made it impossible to relax and get a decent erection, and every time the girl tried to lean in, all he could think about was how pissed he still was. So no, he couldn’t even shag her. Not when his temper was still roaring inside of him like fiendfyre. What was supposed to be a mindless distraction turned into a reminder that his fury was a lot more potent than anything else in the room. He couldn’t even get hard.

But at least training was going well - better than well. Draco was in the zone, the adrenaline pushing him faster, harder. His frustration was fueling him but it was useful for something. His teammates barely managed to keep up, and honestly, Draco was more than happy to leave them in the dust. He was untouchable on the pitch today, in full Malfoy the Menace form. And then, out of the corner of his eye, she appeared in all her curly-haired glory.

Of fucking course .

She was striding across the pitch like she owned the bloody place, her usual winning smile plastered on her face like she’d woken up on the right side of the bed, completely unaware of how the rest of the world had the decency to be a little bit more fucked up. She was dressed like a Ministry higher-up. The woman was like a walking advertisement for ‘I’ve got my shit together,’ and Draco was pretty sure he was going to snap her spine with his glare if she didn’t stop looking so chipper and pristine.

What the actual fuck was wrong with her? She didn’t even look like she’d had a disastrous night. She was all sunshine and rainbows, and there was absolutely no reason for that. And then she beckoned him innocently. Like, Hey, Malfoy, come over here let’s bond and braid each other’s hair. Because that’s totally what you need right now, right? Draco scowled, yanked his broom around with a sharp turn, and signalled a quick break to the team. They were all too happy for it - probably knackered from trying to keep up with him all morning. Without a word, he swooped down towards the pitch, dirt kicking up in a swirl as his boots hit the ground near where Hermione stood, looking like she’d spent the morning meditating with the fucking sunrise.

“What now, Granger?” he snapped, brushing a hand through his windswept hair.

“Good morning to you as well,” she said brightly, like he hadn’t just sounded like he wanted to hex someone.

She waved hello at his teammates cheerfully, who were still hovering mid-air and, of course, they waved back like a bunch of besotted morons. One of them even wolf-whistled, and Draco made a mental note to kill them later.

Hermione turned back to him. “Have you got a minute?”

Draco blinked at her and made a vague, sweeping gesture with his arms like, I’m literally right here, aren’t I? But Hermione, ever the mistress of ignoring snark, just blinked back at him, completely unbothered. 

“In private,” she added.

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked off towards the locker rooms like it had already been decided. Not a glance back. Not a single confirmation that he was following. Which, of course, he did. Bewildered. Grumbling under his breath. What the fuck did she want now? When he stepped into the locker room, she was already inside, and as he crossed the threshold, she slammed the door shut behind him. His instincts, honed by living with an evil and temperamental snake-man, immediately screamed at him to reach for his wand - but he didn’t. Some feral, suicidal part of him wanted to see where this went. She flicked her wand with quick, deft motions. Muffliato, she whispered. Plus a locking charm. And possibly a ward that would incinerate any poor sod who dared interrupt.

And then, just like that, Miss Smiling Sunflower Hermione Granger was gone.

In her place stood a woman whose fury was biblical. Her face twisted in outrage, her eyes blazing with righteous fire and Draco had just enough time to register what the hell is happening before Hermione bent down, snatched a Quaffle off the floor, and hurled it at him with terrifying accuracy. It hit him square in the chest. A loud thwump echoed off the locker room walls as he staggered backwards, colliding with the lockers behind him. The Quaffle rolled away like it wanted no part in this. He blinked, breathless all of a sudden. Not the worst pain he’d ever felt, but certainly the most well-deserved.

“You! You arrogant! Insufferable! Self-centred child! ”

Her voice snapped through the air like a whip. He stared at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. No more soft-voiced peace ambassador. No calm-as-a-cucumber PR official. No more Saint Swot. This was raw, red-faced, unfiltered Hermione Granger, and fuck, this sudden outburst instantly did something to him. A Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde situation - except somehow, the appearance of her Mister Hyde made his blood sing.

“You don’t get to do what you did last night, Malfoy! You don’t get to barrel in like a drunken troll, insult someone I’m with, and then act like you’re the victim in all of it.”

Draco’s pulse was thudding, heart racing for all the wrong reasons. He should’ve been defensive. Should’ve argued back like he always did. Logically speaking he should’ve been ashamed of himself, really. But all he could think was, Salazar, how had he never seen this side of her before? She was practically vibrating with rage. It was so riveting. 

More. 

More.

He wanted more.

“Do you have any idea what your little tantrum could’ve cost us?” she said, jabbing a finger at his chest. “That place was crawling with Daily Prophet affiliates. If I hadn’t mediated, if I hadn’t smiled and stopped you, you would’ve caused another sodding public scandal.”

His skin burned where she’d poked him in the chest. Her voice was shaking now, tight with ire. And still, all Draco could think was: she’s alarmingly magnificent. He felt like he was watching a dragon egg hatch. Something ancient and rare and marvellously dangerous cracking open right in front of him. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparking like hexes, and her chest was rising and falling in furious rhythm. And gods, he preferred her like this. Unvarnished, brutal, and stripped of pretence. It was all so bloody attractive. 

But what really sent blood rushing straight to his head wasn’t just the sight of her losing her carefully curated composure. It was the fact that he knew she was only like this with him. No one else could make her like this. Not the Ministry. Not the press. Not even Davet with his ridiculously cartoonish hair. Only him. She was raging at him, ready to hex him into next month, but at least that fury was for him alone. And it was thrilling. Terrifying. Addictive. It should’ve scared him. But it didn’t. In fact, it did the opposite - it drew him in, like a moth to a raging flame.

“And do you want to know the worst part? I didn’t even get to shag, Malfoy. Not even a snog. All I wanted was to feel good for one night. Just once! A halfway decent fuck. And I couldn’t even have that because of you!”

Draco stepped forward like a match drawn to kindling, eyes gleaming, chest rising with each breath.

“That’s it, Granger. Let it out,” he said, voice crackling with something close to exhilaration. 

She blinked, mid-breath. Rage still bubbled in her chest, but she was effectively taken aback. What? He was enjoying this? No, this was different. His posture was loose - like he was inviting the meltdown. Like she was some kind of volcanic sacrament and he was thrilled to be sacrificed. Oh gods. He was encouraging it. Was this a kink? Did he have a fury fetish? It should have deflated her. It should have robbed her of the momentum of her fury, the indignation she’d carefully stoked since Levitasi. But instead, it made her angrier. The nerve of him. The sick, maddening nerve of him, standing there, looking like a magazine centrefold, daring her to give him hell. But he didn’t let her respond. He wasn’t done. He wanted the full bloody inferno.

“Don’t stop now. Take the fucking mask off for a while. Show it all.”

Another step towards her. He was too close now. Far too close. Well. Fine. He wanted hell? She’d bloody give him the underworld. She took his cue and shoved him, hard, then began banging her fists against his chest like she was auditioning for a Greek tragedy. Useless. Pointless. Completely cathartic. Her brain was an avalanche of curse words. 

She looked forward to a good shag last night with Davet. Even used hair-removing charms on her cunt for it. She’d worn her lacy, see-through knickers. And Malfoy, with his devastating eyes and pornographic mouth, had gone and cockblocked the entire thing with his infernal smugness and that ridiculous, ruinous face.

“You! Absolute! Cunt!” she spat, fists thudding. “You selfish, sanctimonious arse!”

Draco took it. Every word. Every hit. She hit him again, her fists not hurting him really - but something about the way her entire body trembled against his made it feel like it could. And still, his eyes didn’t leave hers. They were glowing with something unholy.

“If you want a snog so fucking bad,” he said, “then use me.”

Hermione froze. Her thoughts slammed to a halt, shattering against the audacity of it. Use him? Her mouth parted and her entire body stilled. Not with fear. Not even with anger anymore. But with something far more dangerous: consideration. Draco didn’t know where his words came from. His mouth, obviously. But the part of his brain responsible for good decisions had vacated the premises the moment she called him a cunt with her whole chest. Still, she stood there. Quiet. Processing. Ruminating. Because what the hell kind of response was that? She’d been ready for fire. For him to bite back with something cruel and quintessentially Draco Malfoy. What she got instead was this - this obscene invitation. This blunt, guttural surrender. As if he was handing her his throat and daring her to squeeze.

“Use me,” he went on, softer now, but sharp enough to cut.

Go on, Granger. Take it. Take me.

She stepped back slightly. Not far. Just enough to prove she was thinking about it. Which she hated. Because she was. Her skin was electric. Her heart loud. Her anger, still simmering, had twisted into curiosity. And worse, want. He wasn’t moving. Just watching her like she was the storm and he’d left all the windows open on purpose. She wasn’t looking like she was repulsed. Wasn’t particularly shocked even. Her eyes - those sharp, impossible eyes - were calculating. Like she was measuring the heat between them like a bloody equation. Like she could solve this if she stared hard enough.

"If you want to be touched," he said carefully, "I can do that."

She blinked. Touch. Her body remembered the last time they'd been close; the last time his fingers ghosted her skin and nearly undid her during a waltz lesson, no less. Her body had the memory stamped into every nerve. And now it was asking: what if. He wanted to touch her. Again. And not just out of lust. There was a quiet reverence in his voice now. A careful, brutal sort of offering.

“All you have to do is ask,” he added.

It wasn’t seduction. Not even a command. It was a simple offer. And that’s what undid her. That it was gentle. Because this wasn’t about power anymore. This was him, palms open, teeth bared, saying I’ll take it if you give it. Saying I want you on your worst day. Her gaze flicked to his mouth, throat, and eyes. Searching for cruelty. For mockery. For some sneering bastard she could claw to pieces. But there was nothing. Just him burning and ready to be ruined. And gods help her, she wanted to. She wanted to ruin him back. And still, he didn’t make a move. He waited for her. The silence stretched between them, a living thing. Time seemed to slow, the hum of their heartbeats filling the empty locker room. 

And then, like a zap of lightning splitting the night, she was on him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t romantic. It was chaos incarnate. A snarl of limbs, breath, and frustration that collided with his mouth like she meant to bruise him with it. She kissed him like he was a problem to solve with her teeth. A one-woman riot in the shape of a snog. Her fingers clawed into his hair, yanking with the fervour of someone who’d waited far too long and absolutely refused to wait a second longer. Her mouth was all heat and fury, tongue sweeping in like it had places to be and he was in the bloody way. It wasn’t a kiss so much as a declaration of war. And Draco - sweet fucking Circe - he surrendered before the first blow landed.

His back hit the lockers with a thud he barely felt. All his attention was on the witch currently climbing him like a tree and kissing him like she wanted to set the forest on fire. Her thighs bracketed his hips. Her chest pressed tight against his. Every sound she made was a revelation. Every shift of her body against his was a curse. He was going to combust. He was already halfway there. Her hands slipped under his collar. Her nails scraped across his neck, and he actually groaned. Out loud. Like some tragic Victorian woman seeing ankles for the first time. It was ridiculous. It was glorious. It was her.

She kissed him like a woman possessed, and Draco - poor, doomed bastard that he was - kissed her back like it was the only thing he’d ever do right. His hands found her arse. Gripped it like it was the one thing tethering him to the earth. She moaned into his mouth and that was it. His knees nearly gave out. He tasted desperation and weeks of denied tension, and something else too. Something a little more dangerous. And it hit him, just before he lost the plot entirely: this was never just about lust. This was her anger, her restraint, her endless self-control finally unraveling into him. And Salazar’s balls, he never wanted her to stop.

“Oi, Malfoy! You dead in there or what?” came Coach Wood’s voice from somewhere outside the locker room, cutting through the haze like a thunderclap.

They broke apart instantly, choking on air like fish that had gotten out of a bowl. Like two animals scrambling away from hunters. Hermione’s pupils were blown wide, her lips kiss-bruised, and Draco’s chest rose and fell like he’d just ran a marathon.

“Fuck,” she hissed, catching sight of the state of him: his hair was a mess, collar crooked, lips swollen. 

Without thinking, she reached up to smooth his hair back. Draco watched her with half-lidded eyes, mouth still gaping and longing for hers. Hermione leaned in, in an attempt to kiss him again, but then cast her gaze downwards.

“Calm it down,” she whispered against his lips.

Draco glanced down and saw his full erection, cursed under his breath, and turned to the side to adjust his bottoms with a grimace. Brilliant. Just brilliant. Neither of them said another word as they straightened themselves out and strode out the door together. Shoulder to shoulder. Faces flushed. Hearts thundering like war drums. Behind them, the air still burned.

__________

It was the night of the Cultural Exchange Dinner - Kingsley’s brainchild and everyone else’s scheduling nightmare. International delegates were flooding the Ministry’s grand ballroom, all expensive robes and phony diplomacy, while the golden name tags clashed horrifically with any sense of fashion. Hermione and Draco arrived precisely three minutes late, because Hermione had insisted on redoing her hair, and Draco had insisted on standing in her sitting room, doing absolutely nothing to help but offering deeply unhelpful commentary. Now, they entered the ballroom side by side, voices low but unmistakably at odds.

“You stepped on me again,” Hermione sniped at Draco.

She didn’t look at him. Just reached down to gather her hem like she hadn’t nearly eaten marble tile because of him.

“You stopped walking mid-stride,” he replied offhandedly.

“Because you jabbed your elbow into my side.”

“I was adjusting my cufflinks.”

“With your entire arm?”

Draco huffed. Loosened his collar even though it was perfectly straight.

“Next time I’ll just let you trip over your own dramatics.”

“Next time, wear shoes that don’t squeak.”

“That’s rich, coming from the woman rustling like a silk forest.”

Not a word was said so far about The Kiss. Not in the corridor, not in the lift, not while awkwardly passing the clotted cream scones in the Ministry atrium café the next morning. They had simply decided not to address the fact that they had kissed like a pair of deranged newlyweds. At least not yet in the days following it. It wasn’t that they weren’t thinking about it. It was that neither of them tolerated awkwardness. Awkwardness implied feelings. Feelings implied a mess. So they chose the only rational option for now: feigned ignorance. They’d barely taken three steps into the ballroom before a young staff wizard intercepted them, clipboard in hand and a sheen of sweat glistening at his temples.

“Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Granger, wonderful. You’re just on time,” he said, glancing over his parchment. 

“Right, so you’ll be leading the opening waltz once the ceremony begins. There’ll be a short announcement first, then the floor clears for the representatives of the Unity Initiative. That’s you. After your lead, the rest of the attendees will join. It’ll only be a few minutes. The orchestra will cue you.”

Hermione nodded politely, already scanning the room. The orchestra was real, not just recorded spellwork. Miniature woodwinds and velvet-lined violins levitated mid-air in the far corner, tuning themselves gently while a conductor witch gestured with a wand instead of a baton. Then a light bell chimed overhead; a soft charm meant to summon attention, and the room hushed just as Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped up to the gilded podium at the head of the ballroom. He looked resplendent in deep plum robes and carried the kind of gravitas that made people instinctively stand taller.

“Good evening,” he said. “It is my honour to welcome you all to the Ministry of Magic’s annual Cultural Exchange Dinner. Tonight, we celebrate not just heritage or policy, but unity. The strength that comes when divided lines become bridges.”

A pause. Glasses were lowered. Attention sharpened.

“Tonight, we also honour the efforts made by those who continue to champion that cause. Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, co-leads of the Unity Initiative - whose work in conflict mediation, education reform, and community healing is a testament to what collaboration can truly achieve.”

Applause rose in a warm swell. It rippled from the front row to the back, polite but pointed. 

Draco leaned in beside her, murmuring beneath the swell of noise, “Suppose this is our cue to dance.”

When the first note hit - soft and sweet, the delicate lift of a cello string - Hermione realised her palms were sweating. She subtly wiped them against her dress robes, praying to any higher being that her antiperspirant charm held. This was not the time to panic. Or trip. Or hyperventilate in the middle of the Ministry’s most publicised event of the month. She was Hermione Granger, damn it. Respected public figure. First-rate problem solver. Frequent sufferer of heart palpitations anytime Malfoy so much as loosened a button. Draco turned to face her. His hand found hers easily, the other hovering by her waist like he’d done it a thousand times before, which, technically, they had. In his sitting room. Three times. 

“Relax,” he whispered. “And don’t stomp on my foot. That was the agreement.”

She exhaled through her nose, trying to remember the opening step. Right foot first. Small turn. Keep your chin up and your dignity intact.

“Just try not to step on my hem again,” she said coolly. “This is acromantula silk.”

“It’s three centimetres too long. I was doing the floor a favour,” he smirked like he hadn’t already done enough damage with those ridiculous lips of his. 

Then the orchestra bloomed. And just like that, they were moving. Their first few steps were stiff. Mechanical. Like mannequins programmed for grace but with minor glitches. Hermione counted every beat in her head. One-two-three, one-two-three. Clinging to her mental checklist like a lifeline. Elbows up. Don’t look at his mouth. For Merlin’s sake, don’t think about how nice he smells. Or the muscle under that shirt because apparently he couldn’t just be tolerable, he had to be built, too.

But Draco’s lead was…smooth. Annoyingly smooth. His hand on her back was firm but not invasive, guiding her through the sweep of the dance like he knew her weight, her rhythm, her centre of gravity. Like he’d memorised her in more ways than she cared to admit. Somewhere between the first turn and the second glide, her muscles loosened. Just a little. And for the first time in a long time, Hermione felt…held. She didn’t just feel guided in the waltz, but understood and even claimed in a way that transcended mere movement or proximity. It wasn’t like ownership in the possessive way she’d once known it. It was more akin to belonging and attunement, like her body already recognised something in his. Like his presence carved out a protected space where she could simply exist. No justifications. No explanations. And gods help her, she felt safe in his arms.

Draco had always been good at pretending things didn’t matter. Letting people think he was indifferent. Bored, even. It came second nature. But right now, with one of Hermione Granger’s hands resting delicately in his and the other on his shoulder, he wasn’t feeling particularly nonchalant. He was feeling too much. The press of her palm, the curve of her waist, the way her eyes flicked up to meet his like she didn’t trust him not to trip her on purpose. And maybe he would’ve, once. Maybe he still might. Just to see what she’d do. She was stiff, nervous, trying so bloody hard to follow the steps they'd barely rehearsed. Counting the beats in her head, probably reciting footwork like it was a spell. He could feel it in the way she kept holding her breath. Too rigid. Too careful. Always trying to prove she could do things right. The proper way, the honourable way. He wanted to ruin that for her.

Not because he didn’t admire her control. Or her poise. Or her perfection. But because he hated that she felt she had to wear it like a shield. That she couldn’t even dance without carrying the weight of everyone’s expectations on her back. So he kept his movements smooth. Kept his hand steady at her waist, kept his gaze right where she could see it. Anchoring her. And when her posture softened, only barely, when she finally looked up at him without flinching, something deep in his chest gave a quiet, desperate tug.

Mine.

Which was ridiculous, really. It was the worst thought he could’ve had. The most dangerous. But it was there, stupid and unrelenting and loud in his head. 

Mine.

Even if she wasn’t. Even if she never would be. Even if she was only here for this one moment, her mouth pressed in concentration, her body swaying with his across the floor while the whole bloody Ministry watched. He tightened his grip ever so slightly. Just a nudge of comfort, as if to say I’ve got you, Granger. She looked at him suspiciously. Like he was pulling something. Maybe he was. Maybe he always was with her. It was just so easy to pull.

As the other attendees finally joined them on the dance floor, the pressure eased. The spotlight shifted. And Hermione could breathe again. She relaxed, incrementally, the way a bowstring might loosen after being pulled taut for too long. When the final note of the waltz whispered into the air and they stepped apart, it felt…off. Wrong, somehow. Her fingers missed his before she even let go of them. His hand lingered a beat too long at her waist. They didn’t speak of it. But the silence between them was heavy with mutual reluctance and a shared disquiet. Letting go shouldn’t have felt like that.

Later, over a stiff, unremarkable dinner - all overcooked game and under-seasoned root vegetables - Hermione sat straighter in her chair and debated the likelihood of dying from excessive niceties. Draco looked like he might’ve expired already, chin resting on one knuckle, eyes glazed over somewhere between the soup course and the seventh toast. By the time they made it to the refreshment table, Hermione was half-starved for something real and settled gratefully into the casual din near the bar. She plucked a glass of elderflower wine from a floating tray just as Draco approached with something darker in hand.

“Not bad, Malfoy,” she said lightly. “No catastrophic fumbling tonight. A commendable performance, really.”

“High praise from you, Granger.”

“It is.”

“You know, you’re a good kisser. You should really just use your mouth for that.”

Hermione choked on her wine. Not enough to cause alarm, but just enough for her to lower her glass and blink twice like she'd momentarily forgotten how breathing worked. She turned to him, calm and collected and absolutely not thinking about how his mouth had felt on hers.

“That was a one-time thing,” she said coolly. “I was just…carried away.”

Draco raised a brow. Like he was fighting the urge to grin or launch into one of those infuriating monologues that made her want to hex him and then immediately hear the rest of it. His mouth parted. He was just about to say something that would probably start out snide and end up strangely earnest, if she knew him at all, but then a very drunk man interrupted him. Sputtering, pink-faced, and clutching a half-empty bottle of Ogden’s like a bouquet. He weaved slightly on his feet, eyes zeroing in on them like a Seeker spotting the Snitch. The man’s bleary eyes swung towards Draco with something almost like recognition. Hermione’s gut tightened.

“Malfoy,” the old wizard said. “You’re Lucius’s boy, aren’t you?”

Draco inclined his head, slow and silent, like a predator deciding whether or not it was worth the effort. Hermione didn’t breathe.

“Tell me, son, do you ever miss it?” he asked. “All that power. Wearing the mark. Marching round like royalty. Must’ve felt good, no?”

Hermione's spine snapped straight and her fingers tightened around her wine glass. Draco didn’t so much as twitch, but she could feel the tension in his shoulders and the quiet restraint that was somehow louder than shouting. But the man wasn’t done.

“Course, rumour is you never really gave it up,” he said with a wink. “Only pretended for the court. Word was, you had a chamber of your own, kept a few muggles locked up just for fun—”

“That’s a filthy lie,” Hermione cut him off before she could stop herself. 

Her voice cracked like a whip. Draco finally moved. Just his eyes, turning to meet the man’s. 

“Funny,” Draco said, cool as polished steel. “I was just thinking the same thing about the stench coming off your breath.”

The man’s smile died.

“You Death Eater scum—” he hissed, face darkening. 

The old drunkard’s hand jerked for his coat pocket and plucked out his wand. Hermione saw the flicker of movement, the glint of wood, the way everything slowed—

The curse missed, but barely. It sliced clean across Draco’s cheek, just beneath the bone, bright and red and immediate. Blood welled up like it had been waiting for an excuse. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. For a second, there was only the sound of the orchestra faltering. Then chairs scraped, forks clinked, the swell of shocked gasps rising like a tidal wave.The entire ballroom paused mid-breath, caught in a moment that stretched thin and tight as violin string. Oh no. Hermione’s heart seized. She moved on instinct.

“Security!” she called out. “This drunk man hexed one of the Ministry’s representatives!”

The reaction was immediate. Robes rustled, wand hilts glinted. A pair of broad-shouldered personnel from the Minister’s detail crossed the floor in a blur, flanking the sputtering man. He thrashed, wand still raised, shouting something incoherent about dark blood, but it was drowned out by the collective hum of scandal and outrage. He was dragged off, red-faced and snarling, as Kingsley rose smoothly to address the gathering with the calm of a seasoned war general. Hermione turned to Draco. Blood was dripping down his cheek, already cascading past his jawline. Her stomach twisted. She didn’t think, didn’t ask, just lifted her wand and whispered, “Episkey .”

Nothing happened. Shit. It wasn’t a simple hex. Something darker. Something that needed proper tending. Draco hadn’t said a word. He just stood there, eyes burning with the kind of fury that didn’t flare but simmered. Ministry officials were at their side in seconds.

“Are you alright?” one asked. 

Hermione stepped in before Draco could open his mouth.

“We’re fine,” she said, her voice poised. “But he’s bleeding, and I’d prefer he be looked at properly. We’ll slip out quietly so as not to disturb the rest of the evening.”

She glanced at Kingsley. He met her eyes, gave a barely perceptible nod, and turned back to the crowd, lifting his hands to draw their attention, buying them time. Hermione reached for Draco’s arm.

“Come on,” she murmured, already steering him gently toward the nearest exit. “Let’s get you sorted.”

__________

The flat was quiet. Draco sat on the edge of the kitchen table, shoulders hunched beneath his shirt, one sleeve rolled to the elbow. He hadn’t uttered a word since they’d left the ballroom. Not when they Apparated. Not when she led him inside. Not even when she pressed the towel into his cheek so he wouldn’t bleed all over his own floor. Hermione stood between his knees now, bottle of dittany in one hand, the other already coaxing his face to tilt towards the light. The cut on his cheek was shallow, but angry. Mean, in the way of a curse designed to humiliate more than harm. That drunk bastard hadn’t meant to maim him. He’d meant to reduce him.

Hermione didn’t speak. Just uncapped the vial and let the drops fall into her palm, careful and gentle. The sting of it hissed faintly when her fingers met his skin, and though he didn’t flinch, she felt the muscle in his jaw tense beneath her touch. Her fingers moved slower after that. She could feel it - the way his breath caught when she brushed too close to his mouth. The way his whole body went still like a stray dog trying not to get kicked. Gods, it made her chest ache. 

“You handled it really well out there,” she whispered, thumb smoothing the last trace of blood from his cheek.

He hadn’t said anything for nearly an hour. It wasn’t the first time some bitter, half-pickled fossil had confronted him. Wouldn’t be the last. His reputation came pre-hexed, no matter how many public service campaigns he showed up for. He’d stopped caring ages ago. What was the point? But she, Granger, of all people, had stood in front of him like it wasn’t even a question. Like defending him wasn’t brave or political. Just obvious. That was the part he couldn’t quite shake. Not the hex. Not the insult. The fact that she hadn’t believed a word of the old wart’s lies. Finally, he spoke. 

“…feels good.”

Hermione laughed quietly. “What, hearing me say something nice?”

When she looked at him, he was already watching her. Quite intently.

“No,” Draco said. “Your touch.”

She stilled. Not in shock. Not even in embarrassment. But some part of her, ancient and cautious, had somehow been waiting for those words. She let her hand remain against his cheek. He reached up slowly and curled his fingers around her wrist. Not to stop her, but to keep her hand there, against his skin. He then turned his face into her palm, like he was nuzzling into her warmth.

And she let him.

Chapter Text

It was raining. Because of course it was. The sky above the Appleby Arrows’ stadium had cracked open like an overripe pumpkin, spitting sheets of cold drizzle onto the pitch and rendering visibility somewhere between “barely legal” and “someone’s going to fly headfirst into a stand.” The crowd, cloaked in charmed rainwear, was vibrating with anticipation. And right there, streaking through the deluge, was Draco Malfoy. His hair was soaked, silver-blond and flattened against his head, and he looked, frankly, like the sort of wet, furious bird that could claw your eyes out. Which was fitting. Because that was more or less his exact strategy.

He twisted his broom sharply, probably an illegal move if anyone could see him clearly enough to catch it, slipping through a gap between two Montrose Magpies. Someone from the opposing team shouted something rude. Draco responded by flipping the Quaffle under his arm and torpedoing towards the hoops with the sort of singular purpose usually reserved for curses and pure-blood vendettas. The crowd surged with noise, some of it excitement, some of it barely-contained horror. A Magpie Beater swung; Draco dropped down a full three metres, missed decapitation by inches, then rose again in one smooth arc.

And then bam!

Goal.

The crowd roared. Wands shot sparks. Someone behind Hermione Granger shrieked so loudly she spilled butterbeer down her front and didn’t even seem to notice. Hermione, for her part, remained seated. Mostly. Sort of. She clapped with the same energy one might use for a moderately decent wedding toast. Because she was not thrilled, obviously. Just here to support the Ministry’s Unity Campaign. Sitting politely beside the girlfriends and wives of the Appleby Arrows team. Not that it meant anything for her. Or whatever.

“Did you see that?” gushed a red-lipped witch somewhere in the bench below her, who had the air of someone who’d been born reclining on a chaise lounge and never quite stood up since.

Hermione nodded, politely. “He’s very…fast.”

The girl sighed. “Mmm. He is. In every way.”

Hermione blinked. “Pardon?”

“Oh, not like that,” she replied breezily, as if discussing a mildly amusing bit of gossip. “I meant he seems the type to leave before breakfast.”

Hermione looked back at the pitch. Draco was high above the crowd now, wet and barking orders to his teammates in that clipped growl that probably caused mixed feelings in at least five percent of the stadium. He spun midair. Dodged a Bludger. Shot left. No, feinted left. Then actually did go left, because sometimes being predictable was its own brand of cunning. The crowd surged again. Hermione exhaled. Not that she was invested. Not that she was watching. Not that her heart had just tried to climb out of her throat when he'd taken that Bludger hit to the shoulder. She was simply here on Ministry business. With a very annoying flutter in her chest she refused to acknowledge. And if she occasionally forgot to blink while he flew? Well. That was no one’s business.

“…and that’s another ten points to the Arrows, thanks to Malfoy the Menace!” the announcer howled over the magical sound system. “That’s his third this match! Someone stop that man!”

The stadium erupted. A wave of noise rolled down from the top tiers like an avalanche of enchanted foghorns and screaming banshees. From somewhere behind Hermione, an entire row of very enthusiastic girls lost their minds.

“OH MY GODRIC, HE BREATHED IN OUR DIRECTION—”

“Kiki, that was just wind.”

“THEN WHY DID IT FLIRT WITH ME?”

Hermione turned just enough to see them: a gaggle of young witches in glittery Arrows merchandise, shrieking like they were trying to summon him through horniness. One was wearing a shirt with Draco’s face plastered across the chest - an image so obviously taken post-match all sweaty, brooding, and distressingly photogenic. Another held a sign charmed to flash different messages, alternating between Malfoy, Touch my Quaffle and Chase me, Daddy. Hermione made a noise that could only be described as internalised screeching.

“Disgusting,” she muttered, mostly to herself, mostly not because of the shirt.

“Oh, you get used to them,” said a warm voice beside her.

Felicity Shirke, fiancée of the Arrows’ Keeper and serial bringer of excellent snacks. She passed Hermione a toffee biscuit and leaned in conspiratorially. 

“Fangirls follow him to games all the time, you know. There was one who tried to sneak into the changing rooms by pretending to be a broomstick polisher. Ended up hexing herself bald.”

Hermione blinked. “Merlin.”

“It’s not surprising. You do know he’s always been the MVP, right?” Felicity added, as if this were casual gossip and not a full dossier of emotionally compromising information.

Hermione tried to appear unaffected. “Oh?”

“You’re joking.” Felicity gave her a look. “Malfoy was the youngest Chaser to make the Arrows’ starting line-up in thirty years. Third-highest scoring Chaser in the League for the last two seasons. Holds the record for fastest goal-to-goal sprint; eighteen-point-four seconds. And he’s never missed a match since he signed. Even played with a fractured hip once, the absolute lunatic.”

“Right,” Hermione said, like she wasn’t storing every word in a mental box labelled Shut Up, That’s Not Hot . “That is impressive, I suppose.”

From the pitch, Draco whipped around a goalpost and launched the Quaffle so hard it actually hummed through the air. It went clean through the middle hoop. The Montrose Keeper looked like he might cry.

“FOURTH GOAL FOR MALFOY!” the announcer screamed. “He’s unstoppable! He’s unhinged! He’s hot and I’m not ashamed to say it—”

The groupies behind Hermione reached an all-new decibel level.

“I bet he bites,” one squealed, a little too close to Hermione’s ear.

“Do you think he keeps the uniform on or—?”

“I’d let him hex me into next week if it meant five minutes alone with him.”

Hermione turned very slowly. It wasn’t that she cared. She absolutely did not care. She was entirely immune to smug, self-sabotaging Quidditch players with unsavoury backstories and veiny forearms. She just thought it was a little bit gauche to objectify someone so openly in public. Honestly. Society was decaying. Also, if she had to see one more bewitched shirt that winked when Draco scored, she was going to launch herself into the sky and personally Bludger someone. She took a steadying breath and looked back at the pitch.

Draco hovered midair now, smirking at his teammates, wet hair mussed in a way that was not helping. He rolled his shoulder - probably the one he’d taken a hit to earlier - and Hermione had the irrational urge to go down there and lecture him about injury protocol. And also ask if he needed, what, a potion? A massage? A deeply inappropriate entanglement? No. No, she was fine. Perfectly fine. The sign behind her flipped again. Mount me like your Firebolt blinked at her like a curse. She clenched her jaw and bit a biscuit in half.

“Don’t even think about mounting him first,” she muttered into the toffee.

Felicity blinked. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Nothing,” Hermione said primly. “Just…enjoying the match.”

The rain hadn’t let up, but no one cared anymore. Because the Arrows were winning. With five minutes left on the clock, the score was at 230 to 180. The Magpies were scrambling, their Seeker was wild-eyed and soaked, and their Beaters had started swinging like they wanted to hit feelings, not Bludgers. And then…

It all happened in a blur. Draco cut across the pitch, intercepting a chaotic pass between Magpie Chasers like he’d planned it in advance (he hadn’t, but the audacity was the same). He tucked the Quaffle close, tucked his head lower, and dove. The dive was suicidal. Reckless. Glorious. Hermione gasped along with the crowd. Her hand gripped the edge of the seat so tightly her knuckles bleached white. Somewhere behind her, the fangirls screamed “ TAKE ME WITH YOUUU!!! ” as Draco barrelled down the length of the pitch.

He flung the Quaffle at the last possible second.

Straight through the centre hoop.

Whistle.

The stadium exploded.

Appleby Arrows: 240. Montrose Magpies: 180.

The crowd turned into one enormous, frothing creature of joy and chaos. Charmed fireworks burst into the sky. Enchanted rain ponchos changed colours in celebration. Someone near Hermione threw their hat into the air and it never came back down. On the pitch, the Arrows players collided into each other, wet and shouting and punch-drunk on victory. Draco was swept into the middle of it - clapped on the back, pulled into hugs, grabbed into headlocks that looked more violent than celebratory.

He was smiling.

A real one. Broad and wild and open in a way Hermione had never quite seen on him. And, Merlin help her, Hermione stood up. She hadn’t even meant to. Her body just moved, tugged up by something traitorous in her chest. She clapped loudly. She was grinning, even though her cheeks hurt and the rain was in her eyes and she had never in her life cared about Quidditch. Not even when she was in a relationship with a World Cup Seeker, which, in hindsight, might’ve been her brain’s first concussion. But now, watching Draco down there, lit up from the inside out, she cared. Somehow. She was proud. And it showed.

After the win, the Arrows team had decided to throw a cursory season opener party. They’d closed their favourite post-game spot within an hour. Someone had shouted “We’re undefeated, let’s get pissed!” and someone else had already put a tab on the team account before the rest of them could agree or stop it. Not that anyone wanted to. The pub was old, enchanted, and now entirely theirs for the night. It sat tucked into a glen just outside Appleby, a crooked little thing with fogged-up windows, creaking floors, and a reputation for serving pints that could melt through a cauldron. The Arrows had descended upon it like a victorious horde, loud and laughing, dragging the storm in with them and promptly replacing it with booze, sweat, and deafening music.

Candles floated above the long tables, dripping wax and shedding gold onto the dark wood below. The windows steamed. Someone had magicked up an impromptu trophy shelf made of floating barrels, where empty pint glasses were being stacked with increasing chaos. Someone else had conjured glitter. No one had taken responsibility for it. Draco leaned back in his seat, shirt slightly unbuttoned, Quidditch jersey slung somewhere on a hook behind him. He was half-listening to one of the Beaters reenact a moment from the match but his eyes kept straying. Again and again. To her.

Hermione was standing across the table, half turned towards his teammate Idris Flynn, who was currently trying to charm the cherry in her drink into levitating. She laughed, politely but genuinely, and Draco felt something beneath his ribs shift. Her curls were still damp from the rain, sticking slightly to her neck. She looked relaxed, flushed with heat and alcohol and something like pride, though she’d never admit it. And then. She reached for the cherry from her cocktail. Dark, glossy, still dripping faintly with syrup. She popped it into her mouth and chewed once. Then she did the thing. Her tongue darted out to catch a drop of juice. Her lips, red and stained now, curled around the stem as she drew it back between her teeth, idly chewing.

Draco went very still. Every muscle in his body tensed like he was on the pitch again, mid-dive. Except this was no Quaffle. This was her. Smirking slightly now. Slowly pulling the cherry stem between her teeth. And the worst part, the most dangerous, soul-upending part, was that she wasn’t even looking at him. Until, of course, she did. Her gaze lifted, mid-conversation, almost by accident. Their eyes locked across the table. And just like that, his world quieted. There was music, yes. Laughter, voices, the clink of glasses and the occasional pop of a rogue charm. 

But it all faded behind the rush of blood in his ears. Because she was looking at him like she knew exactly what she was doing. The cherry stem hung between her lips, teeth worrying it. Tongue flicking the edge. Draco swallowed. He wanted…well. It was impolite to name it in public. His eyes lowered, traced the wet seam of her mouth, the flicker of her lashes, the faint smile playing on her lips as she tilted her head and took another sip of her drink like she wasn’t ruining his life. She hadn’t said a word to him all night. And yet she was saying everything .

Hermione excused herself from Flynn before heading towards the bar. Her shoes clicked against the floor. Draco noticed her movement, waited a beat longer than necessary to make it seem like he hadn’t been staring, and stood up from his seat. He made his way to the bar without haste, his mind somewhere between boredom and mild curiosity. When he reached her, he stood just a few feet away, waiting for her to acknowledge him. She didn’t. Hermione was examining the drinks list on the wall as if she was looking for the meaning of life in the options. 

The barman appeared, and she ordered, “Another kirsch fizz, please. And double the cherry this time.”

Draco raised an eyebrow as she placed her empty glass on the counter. “Trying to give yourself a toothache with all that sweetness?”

“Cherries are harmless. It’s the company I keep that might be dangerous.”

He leaned slightly against the bar. “You’d think after watching me on the pitch, you’d be used to danger by now.”

“Honestly, I think I’m more used to you being a pain in the arse than actually dangerous.”

“But you haven’t even seen my best moves yet.”

“Is that what they call those death-defying dives you do? I thought you were just showing off.”

“Some people call it saving the game. The more accurate term is performing miracles. You should be grateful I’m humble about it.”

Hermione took the drink the barman slid her way, not bothering to hide her eye roll. 

“Grateful? I’m still trying to figure out how you managed to pull off that stunt without breaking your neck.”

Draco gave her a half-smile. “I’ve got a good team behind me. It’s a team effort.”

“You? A team player?” she asked, the edge of sarcasm sharp as she took a slow sip from her glass.

“I’m always a team player,” he said with mock indignation. “When the team’s doing what I tell them to. ”

“Well, you’ve got the modesty of a rock star, at least,” she teased, pushing her drink slightly aside.

Draco smirked, leaning in just a touch closer, lowering his voice. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But for the record, I’m not the one who spent the entire match looking like she was about to start a charity fundraiser for the poor Magpies.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me, but I was just trying to be supportive. Unlike some people who treat the game like it's a personal performance. ”

“I am a personal performance,” Draco said, grinning. “You should watch the replays sometime.”

She rolled her eyes, picking up her drink again. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know. But that’s why you keep talking to me.”

They stood there for a moment, their drinks between them, the easy banter rolling like an invisible thread connecting them. But something had shifted between them since that night Hermione had healed the cut on his face. It’s the type of shift that made it a little more difficult to stand this close without thinking about the way their fingers might brush or how the air between them suddenly felt thicker. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Just different. 

“You’re not going to keep staring at me like that, are you?” she asked.

Draco blinked, realising he’d been doing exactly that for a little too long. 

“Just admiring your impeccable ability to drink without choking on your own snark. Quite a talent, really.”

They returned to the table without another word, slipping back into their respective conversations like nothing. Hermione ended up beside Flynn again, who was in the middle of telling a wildly exaggerated story about his first match with the Arrows, complete with hand gestures and sound effects. Draco had folded himself into the opposite end of the table, drink in hand, flanked by his teammates, laughing about something one of the Beaters said. But the air suddenly felt off-kilter. A little too warm. A little too electric. Like something was waiting to happen.

And then, the music changed. Not the lilting background hum from earlier, but something louder. Deeper. The kind of bass that thrummed through the floor and made your chest vibrate like it had swallowed a Snitch. Someone whooped. Another stood. Then chairs scraped, laughter lifted, and the pub transformed into a dancefloor. Half the team spilled into the open space by the bar, the lights dimmed to a warm gold as enchanted lanterns floated higher to the ceiling. The crowd grew bolder, tipsier, hips swinging and arms thrown up with abandon.

Hermione stayed seated, legs crossed, still swirling the dregs of her drink like she couldn't be arsed about anything else. Across the table, Draco looked like he hadn’t moved in ten minutes. One arm thrown over the back of his chair like he owned the pub and possibly the whole of earth itself. His eyes were already on her. Had been, apparently. He didn’t open his mouth to say anything. Didn’t lean forward with a quip about her hair or the drink she clearly didn’t like but finished anyway. But he did tilt his head towards the dance floor in a pointed and maddening way. It was a silent invitation to her. Hermione raised an eyebrow. She downed the rest of her drink with the enthusiasm of someone making a terrible decision, placed the glass down with a soft click, and stood.

They never broke eye contact as she walked around the table. He got up just as she reached him, and then they were walking together side by side towards the mess of people who’d somehow transformed a cosy pub into a makeshift club. The music was obscene. Bass heavy, with a beat that seemed engineered to convince you to do something you'd regret in the morning. Or, if you were efficient, in the next five minutes. The crowd was already in full chaos. Sweaty. Glittery. A living, breathing tangle of limbs and laughter. Lanterns floated overhead, flashing in time with the music like some DJ charm had taken hold.

She turned her back to him and he was behind her in an instant, close enough to taste. Not that she was going to. Obviously. Then, they moved. Not some elegant, choreographed waltz this time. This was all hips and suggestion, all lean-ins and near-misses, the kind of dancing that was less about dancing and more about what if. Her hair brushed his cheek. His hands didn’t reach for her yet, but she could feel them anyway. Like static. Like a dare. The room was hot. Too many bodies. Too many drinks. Too much…him.

She arched just enough to drag her shoulder along his chest. He exhaled sharply. Or maybe growled. Hard to say over the bass thudding. They kept moving like time had stopped giving a damn. The lights flashed again. Her eyes caught his. Her lips parted. He looked like he was about to say something devastating. And then he didn’t. Which, frankly, was worse. Because nothing had happened. And yet she was absolutely wrecked.

Neither of them could say when exactly it happened. Maybe it was when the beat dropped. Maybe it was the moment Hermione’s back curved just right, her arm grazing his chest like she didn’t even notice. But somehow, sometime, Draco’s hands were suddenly all over her hips and waist. And oh, she quite liked that. His fingers splayed there against her stomach like they longed to stay there forever. Possessive. Hungry. Absolutely desirous. Hermione’s heart did something dramatic. Her skin went hot under her dress like his palms had rewritten physics. She wanted to take her clothes off. No, she wanted him to take her clothes off. She must be going mad because why was she thinking these things while they were surrounded by people?

They were touching so much now. And not in a sweet and polite way. Her body slotted against his like it had plans, and his hands only encouraged it - gliding, caressing, barely holding back. They moved together with the rhythm, with each other, with some unspoken language that had everything to do with want and very little to do with wisdom. When her hips rolled, his grip on her tightened, not allowing any space between them. It was dancing, technically. But only if dancing meant dry-humping in slow motion. He placed his lips near her temple, ready to whisper something filthy and inappropriate if she didn’t stop grinding her arse like that against his pelvis.

Everything pulsed. Music. Lights. Blood. The air between them buzzed like a live wire, like if either of them said a single word it would unravel everything. And then the song changed. The tempo dipped, faded into something lighter, cooler. Something that had no business being in the same room as what they’d just done. They didn’t move. Didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t pretend nothing happened. They just stood there, bodies inches apart, breath shaky and eyes roaming like it was a crime not to. And maybe it was.

Eventually, they peeled themselves apart. Barely. And followed the rest of the group back to the table - laughing, swaying, sweaty from too much everything. Draco sat down hard, limbs loose, heart jackhammering, his hair damp at the temples. Hermione slid into her seat across from him, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She looked like she'd been hexed. No. She looked like she had hexed him. Draco stared at the condensation dripping down the side of his glass like it held the answers as to why his blood was rushing like mad to his head. Because what the fuck.

He had just spent an entire song, multiple minutes, dry humping in public with Saint Bloody Swot of the Ministry. Granger. Granger. And not the uptight, quill-clutching, morally indignant version he’d spent the past weeks trading barbs with. No. This version had hips like sin and rhythm that’s more appropriate in the bedroom than on the dancefloor. The way she moved was like she’d forgotten herself entirely. Or worse, like she hadn’t, and just didn’t care. It was obscene. It was incredible. It was illegal, probably. She hadn’t just kept up; she’d led, at times. Grinding back into him like it was her idea. Arching her neck, darting her tongue out, her fingers trailing sensually down his arms like a woman who knew exactly what she was doing and exactly who was watching.

And the thing was, he thought he had her figured out: patron saint of peace, the wizarding world’s golden girl, a heroine with a cause. Sharp tongue. Big brain. And then she went and danced like that in front of his team. She was meant to move like a nun. A Ministry dignitary. But she had just rubbed her arse into his crotch like she was trying to suggest something. His hands were still tingling. His brain was, frankly, no longer functioning. Draco blinked at her across the table. She was tucking a damp curl behind her ear, sipping her water like she hadn’t just seduced him properly. He was in trouble. Real, actual, seven-levels-of-hell kind of trouble.

It happened fast. One moment, Draco was dragging his fingers through his damp hair, looking like a man trying to out-sip his own thoughts, and the next - a sharp voice sliced through the din like a cursed blade.

“Draco Malfoy!”

Everyone turned to where the shrill voice came from. Daphne Greengrass suddenly appeared out of nowhere, blond hair swept up in a style too elegant for a pub and eyes glassy with a fury that made the music feel too loud, too stupid. Her lip trembled, but her hand didn’t - not when it came up and slapped him clean across the cheek. The crack of it silenced the table. Maybe half the pub. It echoed, wild and theatrical and entirely, painfully real.

“That’s the second time you’ve stood me up,” she said, voice shaking now, and not from anger alone. 

Draco’s head was turned from the force of it. His cheek was already pinking, his expression shifting. Before anyone could gather themselves, Daphne turned on her heel and stormed out, her shoes clipping like accusations. The table stayed frozen, every person locked in some personal attempt to pretend they weren’t wildly uncomfortable. Draco’s eyes flicked once - across the group, past his teammates, past the drinks and mess and music - landing, for just a breath, on Hermione. And then he stood and followed Daphne without a word.

Hermione blinked. The cold hit first. Not physical, but emotional; like someone had opened a window in her chest and let the winter in. She didn’t know why though. And she didn’t want to dig deep. She just sat there, muscles stiff, like if she moved she’d break something fragile.

“Well,” Flynn said after a long, clumsy beat, scratching the back of his neck. “That was…yeah.”

Hermione didn’t say anything. She wasn’t sure her voice would come out the way she wanted. Flynn exhaled slowly, still watching the pub doors as they swung closed behind Draco. 

“They’ve got deep history, those two. Draco and Daphne,” he sighed.

Her head barely turned. “Do they.”

He nodded, taking a cautious sip of his drink like it might help. 

“They were serious. Rumour was he almost proposed. But then Draco ended things and they’ve been on-and-off since. She turns up unannounced like this sometimes. Makes a scene, humiliates Draco. And he always goes after her.”

Funny, she thought. She’d never read anything about that. Every stupid headline with his face under it always repeated the same things. Draco Malfoy with a different witch every week. Caught leaving another club with a new woman. Hungover at another match with love bites on his neck. But nothing about almost marrying pureblood beauty Daphne Greengrass. Nothing about still being attached to her like a dog to its owner. It was just so absurdly unfair how much she still didn’t know much about him. How much she’d assumed she knew. How little of him the rest of the world seemed to care to report. Or maybe how much he’d chosen to hide. 

Hermione stood up. Her drink was suddenly too sweet. Her dress too tight. Her skin too exposed. Stupid, she thought. Stupid girl. Thinking she had the measure of him. She muttered something vague about needing to leave early, and didn’t wait for a reply from anyone. She walked out into the cool night, heels clicking on the pavement. The air smelled like rain. Somewhere behind her, the party went on - laughs and lights and music. But for Hermione, it was already over.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger, contrary to popular belief, was not naturally gifted at emotional suppression. No, it was a hard-won skill, cultivated through years of meticulous effort and one spectacularly ill-advised relationship with Quidditch Extraordinaire slash Emotional Terrorist Viktor Krum. If there was one good thing to come out of that trainwreck, it was this: Hermione had learned how to take unsavoury feelings - hurt, anger, pain - and pack them into little boxes, label them with things like "Not Now" and "Do Not Open At All," and shove them onto the highest mental shelf she could find. And over the last few days after the Arrows’ party where she dirty danced with Draco Malfoy before he promptly left with Daphne Greengrass, she’d been doing just that. Like it was a bloody art form.

Work? Immaculate. Meetings? Handled. Appearance? Public-ready with a polite smile and a voice like a velvet noose. It was one of her many gifts. It was survival. It was how she fooled everyone into assuming Viktor treated her like a bloody princess and not an imprisoned slave. It was why she was now sitting in the Ministry conference room a full fifteen minutes early, looking every bit the polished, unbothered professional she was. She wore a high-collared ivory blouse tucked into navy trousers, the tailoring so sharp it could've sliced a wand in half. Not a hair out of place; her curls were swept back into an elegant twist at the nape of her neck. A slick of neutral gloss on her mouth, a delicate hint of scent at her wrists. She was positively gleaming with posh competence.

The door banged open five minutes late, naturally, and in stumbled the human disaster that was Draco Malfoy. He looked...well. He looked like someone who'd lost a fistfight with a bottle of firewhisky and then lost another with the sun itself. His hair was a wreck. His shirt was rumpled. His eyes were hidden behind the dark lenses of enchanted sunglasses - indoors, at a government meeting, like a complete arse.

"Merlin’s tits, Granger," he rasped, dragging himself to his chair. "You’re offensively presentable."

Hermione clicked her pen once and didn’t so much as flick an eyelash in his direction.

"Good morning, Malfoy," she said in a tone so smooth it was practically laminated. "I trust you’ve reviewed the agenda for today?"

Draco paused. The words seemed to hit him sideways. He squinted at her. Then squinted harder, as if trying to pierce whatever frosty, corporate fortress she was hiding behind.

"Did you...eat someone?" he asked finally. "You’re freakishly chipper."

She only smiled politely and handed him a copy of the upcoming schedule. Draco took it slowly, like it might explode. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. And for once, it wasn’t him. The meeting, from what Draco could tell between blinks and a pounding behind his eyes, was about the upcoming two-week agenda for the campaign. Appearances. Messaging strategy. Scheduling. Nothing new, nothing thrilling, and yet Hermione Granger was treating it like she was presenting at the Wizengamot.

She hadn't looked at him once. Not during the opening. Not even during his hilarious joke about the catering. Instead, she sat poised at the head of the table, elbows tucked in neatly, spine ramrod straight, and posture so perfect it made Draco want to sit wrong out of spite. Her tone was clipped but pleasant, her eyes fixed just over the top of her reading glasses as she flicked through parchment and spoke with practiced, polished authority. It was unnerving. Not because she was being professional, Granger was always professional, but because she wasn’t being herself. Not the her that snorted when he said something ridiculous, or sniped at him when he showed up late.

No. This version of her didn’t glance his way. Didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t react. Not even when he accidentally spilled half a vial of ink onto his notes. She was back to exactly how she was during their first meeting. And maybe it was the hangover or the way his neck still prickled with the memory of her body grinding against his, but Draco found himself bothered. Irked. Because she was being different. The kind of change you’d have to study to see. Which, unfortunately, Draco had. The way her fingers tapped rhythmically on the table too evenly. Too measured. The way her jaw tensed every time she paused to breathe. It drove him mad. He didn’t know what happened to her. All he knew was that the room was too quiet and her silence was the loudest thing he’d ever heard.

The meeting adjourned with the familiar scrape of chairs and shuffle of parchment. One by one, the room emptied until it was just the two of them. Hermione was still seated, posture perfect, expression neutral. She didn’t glance his way as she sorted her notes into a precise stack. Draco stayed put. Watching. Brow furrowed, jaw tight.

“What’s with you?” he asked finally, breaking the quiet. “You’ve been acting...strange.”

“Strange,” she echoed, still not looking up.

“It’s like I’m talking to a Polyjuiced version of you, but no one thought to tell me who’s wearing your face.”

“I’m simply being professional.”

He scoffed. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

She looked up then, gaze perfectly cool. “Yes.”

 “So professional you won’t even look at me?”

“I’m looking at you now.”

“Oh, brilliant, I’m honoured. Just one thing, though. Was the snogging and suggestive dancing also part of your professional conduct, or...?”

“That won’t happen again. I wasn’t in the right mind, and you were convenient. That’s all.”

His stomach dropped. She didn’t sound angry. She sounded like she meant it.

“We crossed lines,” she added, brushing at a wrinkle that wasn’t there. “Let’s focus on the work. I’m actually here to build something meaningful. You, on the other hand—”

A pause, while she gave him a cold, judgmental once-over.

“You ruin everything you touch.”

Draco’s brain short-circuited. He stood there, very still, like someone had just hexed him in the teeth. Like someone had seen every insecure part of him and labelled it unfixable. And she wasn’t even done yet.

“Oh, and try not to be such a liability,” Hermione added for good measure, breezing past him without a backward glance.

The door clicked shut behind her. And Draco just stood there, blinking at the empty room, wondering what the fuck just happened - and why it felt like she’d walked off with all the air in it. Of course. Of course she’d gone back to how she was. The porcelain politeness, the bright-and-blank tone that grated against his skull like nails on glass. It was her war paint, wasn’t it? That civil, infuriating little voice she used when she wanted to make sure you remembered exactly where you stood - with your nose pressed to the Ministry glass, staring in.

Draco let out a breath, dragging a hand down his face. He hated that fake version of her. The carefully manicured Granger, all pleasantries and posture and polished fingernails tapping against the table like a ticking clock. He’d seen her cracks. She hadn’t meant to let him, but she had - and it made this version feel like a fucking lie. What was this then? Some kind of reset? A clean wipe of the slate after everything that happened - after the kiss, after her healing his injury, after the fact that she’d danced like that with him? Had he imagined it? Misread it? Because she hadn’t flinched when he touched her. She’d pulled him in.

He was confused out of his fucking mind. Because he didn’t understand what had changed. Or…no. He did understand what had changed. She’d seen him run after Daphne. She’d seen the slap, the whole pathetic bit of drama. And now she’d already filed him neatly into whatever bin she used for men like him - Heartbreaker. Playboy. Womaniser. Overall not worth the time or the attention. And it wasn’t even her words that irked him - it was the way she’d said them. Like she’d just put down a report. Because it meant that was all he was. A job. And worse, it meant she’d never taken him seriously in the first place. Well. That was that, then. 

Draco finally stood up and left the room, the echo of his boots loud in the empty corridor. He didn't know where he was going until he was already mid-Apparition, that sharp pull behind his navel dragging him to a place he'd sworn he wouldn’t return to unless he had to. The house appeared in front of him like a sigh he hadn’t wanted to exhale. It had always been modest. Unassuming. A bungalow with a slanted roof, moss curling up the edges like nature had been trying to swallow the place for years and the house had simply let it. The wooden railing on the porch looked one hard winter away from collapse, and the windows blinked like tired eyes behind gauzy curtains. He used to live here, only long enough for it to know too much. Pansy was on the porch steps, arms folded over her knees, wand tapping idly against her ankle. Theo stood nearby, leaning against the support beam like it might tip sideways if he didn’t. They weren’t talking, just waiting. That told Draco enough.

“How is she today?” he asked his two mates.

Pansy looked up first. “We gave her the draughts this morning. She’s quiet now.”

Theo nodded, more subdued than usual. “She needs sleep, but she’s calmed down.”

“Was it bad this time?” Draco asked.

“Well, it wasn’t good," said Pansy.

Theo’s flask glinted faintly in the dim porch light, though he hadn’t sipped from it. “What about the other night? After she showed up at the pub? Was it worse?”

Draco rubbed a hand down his face. “Same thing as always. She screamed and cried all night. Demanded I stay over and get back with her.”

There was silence. A long one.

“You didn’t say yes, did you? You’re not back together again?” Pansy asked, obviously concerned.

“Of course not.”

The quiet returned, thicker this time. Weightier.

Finally, Theo spoke again. “She’s lucid now. You could go in. She might even let you talk.”

Draco didn’t respond right away. He looked up at the house. This crumbling, heavy thing. Once, he’d come home to this every single day. Once, he’d recovered from grief under this very roof. Once, he’d thought this place might be enough. He nodded at his two friends and then he stepped up onto the porch and opened the door.

The door to the room they once shared creaked softly as he pushed it open. She was already up. Not standing; just waiting. Like she'd heard the shift of wards and his footsteps on the floorboards and known, somehow, that it would be him. Daphne moved before he could say anything. A blur of pale arms and lithe, trembling limbs. She flung herself at him, her body colliding with his chest like a wave crashing against rock. Her arms wrapped tight around his waist.

“I’m sorry, Draco. I didn’t mean to hurt you like that,” she whimpered into his chest, voice cracked and hoarse.

Draco stood stiff, arms at his sides. He stared past the top of her head and at the far wall - at a chipped bit of paint, or a knot in the wood. Eventually, he put one arm around her in something vaguely resembling comfort. His hand landed between her shoulder blades. She was losing even more weight. Daphne held him tighter, like a child would to a parent. And Draco let her. Because this wasn’t the first time. Not the second, third, or even fourth.

“It’s alright, Daph,” he said, voice distant. “Come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”

She let him guide her, small and exhausted now, folding back into the nest of blankets she’d tangled herself in earlier. He adjusted the pillow beneath her head and pulled the covers over her arms.

Her voice came again, quieter this time. “Will you stay while I sleep this time?”

Draco looked at her. At her mussed blond hair, at the darkness beneath her eyes. The way her lip was still quivering slightly, even in the hush of her calm.

“It’s just that last night,” she added, “I had a dream that Astoria was still alive. She was calling for me. And my parents were there too but they’ve been turned into Inferi. It was horrible.”

Draco’s heart did something awful in his chest. Something jagged and human. He sat beside her on the bed, pressing a hand gently to her shoulder.

“I’ll stay,” he said stiffly. “Get some sleep.”

And he did. He sat there, silent and still, long after her eyes had closed and her breathing deepened. He stayed, watching over a modest house that was once theirs - a place he’d shared with a girl he once loved. She wasn’t always like this. But the war had chipped away at her, and what grief didn’t rot, time wore down to the bone. They’d found each other in the aftermath of war - two people gutted by loss, clinging to each other amidst the darkness. But he’d crawled out of it, and she hadn’t. Now, even if that love was gone, the debt wasn’t. Not to her. Not to the girl who once held his broken pieces together. So he stayed, hoping he could return the favour. Hoping, somehow, he could still pull her from the place where only she remained.

__________

The campaign had required Hermione and Draco to visit a lycanthropy shelter for their next assignment. Not to rehabilitate anyone, obviously, but just to be seen by the press. There was something bleakly ironic about that. Take two people with borderline unworkable history and put them in front of a room full of scarred children to prove that unity was alive and well. The shelter was small, grossly underfunded, and quietly falling apart. It had been a converted church, tucked into a nondescript village that didn’t exist on the floo grid until recently. Most of the residents were children - victims of post-war displacement, or bitten during raids. A few were teens. One or two were older. They shared rooms. Sometimes beds. 

Hermione flooed in at ten past the hour, mentally bracing herself for a Draco Malfoy-shaped disaster. She expected him to be late. Or hungover. Or late and hungover, which was his preferred setting for any public engagement that didn’t involve a Quidditch pitch or a bottle of firewhisky. She already prepared three scripts to explain his unsavoury behaviour to the staff and five more for the journalists following them today. By the time she stepped out of the hearth, she had already rolled her eyes at least once just thinking about it. Then she stepped into the main hall.

And froze.

Draco Malfoy. On the floor. Cross-legged, surrounded by a dozen children and engaging with them . He wasn’t talking loudly. He wasn’t even smiling, really. But whatever he was telling them, the kids were eating it up. A few of the younger ones clung to him like barnacles. A small girl was trying to mount his back in an attempt to piggyback ride. One of the older kids was braiding small wildflowers into his coiffed hair. And Draco didn’t seem to mind at all, like all of this was just a regular occurence. Hermione blinked. It was unsettling. Like spotting a Niffler in a tuxedo or a Dementor writing poetry. Her brain couldn’t compute the image.

She didn’t move. Didn’t announce herself. She simply stood there, half-hidden behind a peeling pillar, watching Draco bloody Malfoy sit calmly among a gaggle of werewolf children like some kind of broody, blond Pied Piper. Hermione took a moment to pull herself together before crossing the room. A staff member greeted her warmly. She responded with the appropriate smile, nodded through an explanation of the agenda, and only glanced over at Draco once - once - while the woman beside her explained something about overnight transformations and draught inventory.

Draco looked up at her briefly. Just briefly. No smirk. Then he turned his attention back to the small boy tugging on his sleeve and showing him a charmed miniature set of the Appleby Arrows. A fan, clearly. Hermione then moved to a group of children hunched over a tatty deck of self-shuffling cards. One of them, a girl missing two front teeth and proudly clutching a stuffed toy werewolf, offered her a card and asked if she’d ever played Exploding Snap with someone who actually exploded. She hadn’t, but she lied and said she had. This got her promoted to honorary dealer for the round.

Another child asked her if her hair did that all by itself or if it was part of the curse. Hermione laughed and said it was genetic. A few minutes later, she was explaining the difference between pixie dust and powdered doxy wings to a rapt audience of six, while a little boy used her kneecap as a backrest. The whole thing was bizarre. And strangely nice. Later, she wandered towards the far side of the room, where Draco was sitting beside a boy who was partially transformed - long scars trailing up his arms, patches of fur stubbornly clinging to the skin, yellow eyes too old for his face. He looked like he’d stopped expecting anyone to speak to him without flinching. Draco didn’t flinch at all. He simply sat beside him, arms draped over his knees, looking for all the world like this was perfectly normal.

“I used to throw up before every match too,” he said. “Nerves mean you give a shit.”

The boy didn’t answer, but something in his posture shifted. Slightly less taut. Slightly more human. Hermione watched them from across the room, chest inexplicably tight. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hex Draco or hug him. Possibly both. One of the younger girls perked up and asked if they could play Quidditch with him. 

“Mini Quidditch,” she clarified. “Not real, just the tiny kind, with cushions.”

Hermione opened her mouth to intervene. Surely that wasn’t appropriate. Surely—

“Yes,” Draco said. Immediately. Like it was obvious.

And before she could blink, he was already conjuring brooms. Not full-size ones - child-sized, cushioned, charmed to hover just a foot off the ground. The kind parents bought for their toddlers. Draco tossed one to the oldest boy, who caught it with both hands and grinned like he’d just been handed the moon. Then Draco mounted one himself. And played. Actually played.

He ducked and weaved and let the kids chase him, let them win, let them score on him with a pillow he’d Transfigured into a makeshift Quaffle. He let the tiniest girl knock into his leg and pretend to foul him. He mimed collapsing with exaggerated flair. They cheered. Someone giggled so hard they hiccupped. Hermione stared at him, completely still. Her heart was doing weird things in her ribcage. Like fluttering. Like warming. Like it had come down with something incurable. She’d have to see a Healer about it. Immediately, in fact. She turned and spotted the journalist who was doing a whole lot of watching and an absolute fuck-all of documenting.

“Take photos,” Hermione said under her breath. “Now.” 

The journalist blinked.

“Of him,” she added, in case they were being deliberately dense.

Because she wanted people to see this. She wanted them to see him. Like this. Gentle. Compassionate. Good. And for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out when that started to matter. A withering witch in a shawl approached her - one of the older staff members. She had the look of someone who'd worked here too long to bother pretending she wasn’t tired, but kind eyes all the same. She stopped beside Hermione and watched the children for a moment. The air outside was crisp, bright with the smell of flowers and a hint of spell-charred grass.

“They rarely get visitors,” the woman said to her. “Not ones who actually stay. Let alone play.”

Hermione nodded, lips pressed together.

“This,” the woman added, gesturing towards the game happening just off the garden path, “this is exactly what they need. Not pity. None of those funding memos. But just this.”

Draco was currently ducking a slow-motion Quaffle throw from a tiny boy in a scarf three sizes too big. He didn’t even fake a block. Let it hit him in the shoulder and groaned theatrically as he slid off his broom. The children shrieked with laughter. The woman smiled.

“I didn’t expect him to be good with children,” the woman added gently. “From the papers, he always seemed like…”

Like not a good man, Hermione completed the thought internally and glanced down at her shoes shamefully. 

“Me neither,” Hermione replied, barely above a whisper.

The two of them didn’t speak at all for the entire visit. But Hermione watched him. Closely. Not out of suspicion - though she told herself that’s what it was - but because she couldn’t stop herself. Every time he laughed. Every time a child touched him. Every time he bent down to tie someone’s shoe or help them back onto a broom. She saw it all. Last time, she’d been upset because she didn’t know anything about him. This time, she was upset because she did - and she didn’t hate what she saw. There was something unsettling about that. Maybe he wasn’t just a volatile Chaser with an ego problem and too many bad decisions. Maybe there was more to him than running after upset women and bed-hopping. Maybe, and this was the worst part, he was trying in his own way. Quietly. 

She sighed the kind of sigh that rattled through her ribs and up her spine, like her body was trying to expel a deeply inconvenient truth. It was possible, she thought, that she’d filed him too quickly. Slotted him into the category of Men to Handle Professionally But Never Personally, and built a case around it like a thesis. It was what she did. Organise. Predict. Contain. But Draco Malfoy wasn’t behaving. And it was also possible - horribly, annoyingly possible - that she’d been wrong. Which she rarely was. But still. It was possible. At the end of the visit, the journalist pulled them aside for a quick “Human Faces of the Campaign” segment.  A camera hovered nearby, quill twitching at the ready.

“Mr. Malfoy,” the journalist said, “your reputation has followed you since the war. Aggressive play on the field, in-game fights, excessive hedonism. What makes you think you’re the right person to advocate for children affected by lycanthropy?”

Hermione bristled. She opened her mouth ready to intercept, to deflect and remind them that this was an interview for a column feature, not for the fucking Wizengamot - but Draco answered first.

“I’m not here because I’m clean,” he said simply. “I’m here because I’m proof you don’t have to be.”

The journalist blinked. Hermione stilled. Draco nodded slightly towards the children still laughing outside, a few of them still zipping around on their mini brooms, shrieking with joy.

“Half of the children don’t even know who I am or my past,” Draco continued. “The other half do, and they still played with me. That’s more grace than I’ve earned in most rooms, most articles.”

The journalist scribbled intensely and waited for him to speak again.

“These kids know what it’s like,” he added, “to have something inside you that makes people uncomfortable. Something you didn’t choose.  Something that makes you feel like you have to apologise for existing.”

A pause.

“You live like that long enough, you start to believe it. That maybe you don’t deserve good things. That kindness is a debt you’re never allowed to pay off.”

He looked at the camera now, briefly. Then away again.

“But I’ve learned that progress doesn’t always look like redemption. Sometimes it just looks like showing up anyway. Walking into rooms where people expect you to fail. And staying.”

He didn’t say it for sympathy. He didn’t even look at her when he spoke. He just meant it.

“I’m not trying to be a hero,” he added. “I’m just trying to be better than the last time someone looked at me.”

Hermione stared at him. Her mouth stayed shut. Her fingers curled into the sleeve of her robe, something prickling beneath her ribs. Something that felt suspiciously like guilt. She had said some things. Sharp things. Things he didn’t know she half-meant. And now, here he was, honest in a way that made her stomach twist. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard someone own their darkness like that. Not spin it. Not hide from it. Just place it on the table, like that was all there was. She looked at him. And for a second, she didn’t see a former Death Eater. Or a troublemaker. Or the git who ruined her date with someone perfectly decent. She saw a man who had fucked up many times. But was still here. Still trying. And gods help her, she didn’t know what to do with that.

They flooed back to the Ministry in silence. Not angry silence. Not even awkward silence. Just...the kind where the air felt like it was still holding onto something taut. They stepped out of the grate, Hermione brushing ash off her sleeve, Draco already halfway to unbuttoning the collar of his too-tight shirt. They said nothing as they walked the short distance from the floo chamber to the corridor. The Ministry was mostly quiet - past peak hours, lights humming low overhead. She spoke first. Quietly.

“You were good today.”

Draco didn’t respond. Just kept walking, footsteps measured, eyes straight ahead.

“With them,” she added. “The kids.”

He snorted, but not unkindly. “Didn’t realise that was something worth praising.”

“I’m just saying...not everyone could’ve handled that as well as you did.”

That made him slow, just slightly. Not enough to stop. Just enough for her to notice.

“Well,” he said. “Consider this as me being less of a liability.”

Her steps faltered. The words hit harder than they should’ve. Maybe because she had said them. Or maybe because he hadn’t thrown them back at her until now.

“Alright, I said some things that were harsher than I intended,” she said quietly.

Draco shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Since you already decided who I am.”

She inhaled sharply. “Malfoy—”

He turned to her then. His mouth curved into something that looked like a smirk but didn’t feel like one of his usual ones.

“Don’t worry,” he said, almost softly. “I’ll try not to ruin anything else I touch.”

And before she could say anything else, before she could apologise or argue or tell him he was being overly dramatic, he walked away. No swagger or flourish in his quiet steps down an empty corridor. Hermione stood there, alone in the echo of his absence, wondering why his words felt like a bruise.

Chapter Text

It was the weekend, which meant Hermione had foolishly decided to be productive. She'd done the usual: a lap around the grocers, two different apothecaries for one particular tonic Ginny swears by, and a quick stop at Flourish & Blotts where she told herself she would just browse and then promptly blacked out and bought five titles. Now she was standing at the facade of her flat, arms full of books, packages, and an alarming amount of grocery bags that were digging into her wrists like cursed bracelets. The sun was hot. Her shoes were squeaking. Her patience had long since given up. In hindsight, she could have just levitated everything. But no - she wanted to “feel normal” for once. Whatever that meant. Normal people carried their own groceries. Normal people didn't use magic to get through every minor inconvenience. So. No levitating. She was normal. She was fine. She was—

She tripped.

The second-to-last stair caught her foot in the most spectacularly humiliating way possible, and she fell sideways, forward, down. The bags went flying. Groceries spilled. A bag of fusilli exploded like sad confetti. Her back slammed into the concrete. Her shoulder twisted with a crack. And her ribs - her poor, already-rickety ribs - took the brunt of it, landing hard against the sharp edge of the final step. The pain was instantaneous and blinding. It shot through her like fiendfyre, sharp and molten and not metaphorical. She screamed. Or maybe tried to. What came out was somewhere between a gasp and a sob and a fucking hell.

Her wand had skittered off somewhere, of course. Useless and not within arm’s length. Probably off having a better day than she was. She lay there for a moment. Frozen. Helpless. Every attempt at movement sent white-hot pain blooming up her side. Her vision blurred. She squeezed her eyes shut. This was it. This was how she died. Alone. On a Saturday. Pinned under a package of apples and whatever non-dairy yoghurt she’d been trying again.

No one would find her. She didn’t have neighbours - on purpose. Her flat was tucked into a quiet end of a quiet street in a quiet corner of London. She had picked it for obscurity and security. Now it felt like punishment. She whimpered. Actually whimpered. Like a child. Or like Ron when he’d gotten his leg broken by Sirius. Her hands shook as she tried to push herself upright. She couldn’t. Something was definitely broken. Her ribs or maybe her shoulder or her whole fucking soul. And then. 

Her eyes fell on her hand. On the ring. That stupid enchanted emergency ring. Still there. Still shining dully against her skin. She stared at it. Felt her stomach twist. Hated herself for even thinking about it. He wouldn’t be wearing his anymore, she was sure of it. Not after what she’d said to him. Not after she’d frozen him out, called him a liability and a ruiner. He wouldn’t come. Of course he wouldn’t come. But the pain surged again, much sharper this time that it made her vision white out at the edges. It was her only choice.

So she turned it, hoping for practically nothing. Then she exhaled, breath shaking, and immediately regretted it. Her ribs screamed in protest. Stars danced behind her eyes. Maybe she could still cast wandless magic. Maybe she could Stupefy herself unconscious. That’d be merciful. She closed her eyes again, just briefly, trying to summon something - anything - but the pain was worse than Crucio. This was personal. This was fate’s way of saying you should’ve just levitated the sodding groceries, Hermione.

She started to cry. Like a helpless child. She hadn’t even said goodbye to her parents. Or written a will. Her new books would be left scattered and unread. Her flat would smell like spilled milk for weeks. Someone would find her body in a pool of expired yoghurt, and the Daily Prophet would run an article titled “War Heroine Dies From Tripping Down Stairs; Sources Say Tragic But On Brand.” She’d never get to run that campaign for vampire rights. She’d never achieve her goal of writing and publishing Reforming Post-War Magical Policy: Volume I. She’d never get to tell Draco Malfoy that she—

A loud crack split the air. Hermione’s eyes flew open. Her vision was blurry now. Everything ached. She blinked through tears, convinced she was hallucinating from the pain. But there, in the flesh, was Draco Malfoy. In full Quidditch kit. Winded. Sweaty. Boots still laced. He looked like he’d Apparated directly off his broom mid-training. Which, knowing him, he probably had. They stared at each other for a beat, both of their brains malfunctioning trying to assess the situation. He rushed to her side swiftly. There was mud on his shin guards.

“You’re here,” she whispered in half disbelief, half pain.

He simply nodded and said, “I’m here.”

__________

The room at St. Mungo’s was offensively white and smelled like clean linens and antiseptic potion. Hermione sat propped up on the edge of the examination bed, looking slightly less like roadkill than she had an hour ago. Her ribs ached every time she breathed too deep, but at least she was vertical. Mostly. A Healer in soft green robes stood in front of her, clipboard in hand and a politely neutral expression on her face.

“You’ve fractured three ribs,” the Healer said. “Left side. Clean breaks, thankfully. We’ve already repaired most of the bone damage, but they’ll be tender for at least a week.”

Hermione nodded, grimacing slightly.

“You’ll need to apply bruising salve to the area - morning and night. It’s got bloodroot and peppermint, so it may sting a little.”

“Lovely,” Hermione muttered.

“Pain potion every six hours or as needed. Stabilising charm on the area every six as well - either self-cast or administered by someone else.”

She paused.

“Preferably someone with a steady hand.”

Hermione did not look at Draco, who had been leaning against the far wall, silent, the whole time.

“You can recover at home,” the Healer finished. “Just don’t overexert yourself, don’t lift anything heavy, and try not to laugh too hard.”

“No danger there,” Hermione said flatly.

The Healer smiled, nodded, and left the room with a swish of her robes. Hermione sighed and turned her head, carefully, to look at Draco, still in full Quidditch kit. Hair matted. Gloves shoved in his belt. A streak of dirt across his cheek like some idiotic war-paint. He let out a breath when the door clicked shut. One of those deep, chest-loosening exhales that people didn’t even know they were holding until it was over. Relief, she thought. Not that he’d say it. Outside, through the glass panel in the door, two junior Healers passed by and did a very unsubtle double-take at Draco. One of them whispered something to the other. They both giggled like schoolgirls. Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll make them swoon,” she said. “Standing there like a Witch Weekly centrefold.”

“Not my fault I’m irresistible in leather.”

“You’re sweaty and dirty.”

“Some people are into that.”

She huffed a laugh. Then winced. Clutched her ribs. He moved forward immediately, just a half-step.

“You alright?”

“Pain potion’s kicking in,” she said. “Starting to feel a bit loopy, honestly.”

Hermione shifted slightly on the hospital bed, the movement stiff and graceless. The mattress crinkled under her, St. Mungo’s-issued linens rustling like parchment. She looked over at Draco, still hovering near the wall like a decorative broomstick. She patted the empty spot beside her.

“You can sit here, you know. I don’t bite.”

He gave her a look. “You bit me verbally the last time we were alone in a room.”

“Consider this a ceasefire.”

With a reluctant huff that bordered on theatrical, Draco crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her. His shoulder hovered several respectful inches away. His knees were still caked in dried mud. There was a pause - long, but not uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that pressed down gently rather than smothered.

“I was out of line,” Hermione said finally. “With what I said before. I’m sorry.”

Draco didn’t respond, but his head tilted slightly, like he was listening harder than he wanted her to notice.

“It’s just...” she went on, eyes on the wall, “that night at the pub, you left with Daphne. Before that, you asked me to use you, snog you, and then we danced like that but then you were running after her like a besotted lover. It gave me whiplash and I…took it out on you without clarifying.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Draco exhaled slowly, like he was letting go of something that had been tightening around his ribs for weeks.

“Apology accepted,” he said. “On the condition that you don’t go falling down staircases just to prove a point.”

Draco glanced at her then, properly. She was pale beneath the sterile lights. Still bossy. Still a bit smug. He stared at his hands.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, finally.

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“I didn’t run after Daphne because I’m some besotted lover. ”

There was a pause. Sharp-edged and loaded.

“She’s…not well. I ran after her because she was having one of her episodes. And I…I’ve been the only person who could calm her down when that happens.”

Hermione didn’t interrupt. Just nodded, slowly.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, voice quieter now. “I didn’t mean to leave you hanging like that. I wasn’t trying to throw anything in your face. And I sure as hell wasn’t trying to undo whatever the hell it was we’d just started doing…”

She turned her head towards him. 

“This thing between us,” she said, watching him carefully, “You feel it too, right?”

“Obviously.”

“The attraction?”

“And the crippling sexual tension,” he added dryly. “Don’t forget her. She’s loud.”

Hermione nodded like she was ticking something off a list. “Just making sure I’m not hallucinating.”

Draco hesitated. Then: “Daphne and I are over. It’s been over for a long time.”

She shifted, flinching slightly, and he immediately straightened, hands twitching like he didn’t know where to put them. The pain potion was making her limbs feel floaty and her thoughts slightly disconnected, like they were happening a second too late. She had maybe five lucid minutes left before she started saying regrettable things about his jawline or the way his voice sounded when he was annoyed. Which meant she needed to ask it now.

“Before the potions kick in completely,” she said, “can I clarify something?”

Draco didn’t move. “You can.”

“Do you still have any feelings for Daphne? Is there still something?”

The question hung there. Crisp. Undeniable. Though he didn’t react right away.

“No,” he said.

Hermione turned her head slowly to look at him, searching his face.

“Are you telling the truth?”

He sighed again but not dramatically this time. Not defensively either. But like someone who’d been exhausted for years. Draco leaned forward a little, forearms braced on his thighs, eyes fixed somewhere across the room. Not at her. Not at anything, really.

“We got together right after the battle,” he said, tone level. “Back then, everything was still a mess. Her parents just died. Mine were...not much better. And Astoria was sick. It was all just kind of…death and trauma, everywhere. We ended up clinging to each other because it was either that or lose our minds.”

Hermione didn’t speak right away because she understood. Too well. We ended up clinging to each other because it was either that or lose our minds. Gods, yes. That was what it did to you. The war. The grief. It rewired your sense of safety until anything that wasn’t chaos felt unnatural. You mistook proximity for love. Mistook survival for intimacy. She’d stayed with Viktor long after she should have left not because she didn’t think it was wrong, but because she did, and still surmised maybe this was what she deserved. 

Maybe she thought if she could endure some more suffering, she could undo everything else. That letting someone break her on purpose was better than waiting for the world to do it again. Looking back, it felt less like a relationship and more like some convoluted form of self-harm. And Hermione, heart steady and throat aching, realised they’d both been young and wrecked and looking for someone to bleed with.

“Yeah,” she said faintly. “I get that.”

“We decided to live together, Daph and I. So we could take care of each other. Love each other in grief. But then Astoria died not long after. She got worse after that, having no one left. Just me. So when I joined Quidditch, she despised it. Didn’t support me. Hated that I was gone all the time. Hated that I found meaning in life again. She didn’t get that playing was the only thing that made me feel like I wasn’t falling apart.”

He smiled faintly, like it wasn’t a smile at all.

“She’d get angry when I left to train. Accuse me of wanting fame more than I wanted her. I’d come back home to broken furniture and all my clothes scorched. Sometimes she’d kick me out. One time she refused to eat unless I quit Quidditch.”

He finally looked at her.

“I was under pressure every second. On the pitch, in the papers, and then at home. I felt like I was failing everyone. Especially her. All of it became too much for me to bear. Felt like I was carrying so much weight everyday.”

Hermione’s throat was dry. Draco didn’t let the silence fester. He went on.

“So I ended it. Again and again. It was a long process. Thought breaking up might help with her extreme dependency on me. But she didn’t get better. She’d have these episodes. Show up unannounced and have a public meltdown. At my flat, at practice, once at a bloody sponsor gala. And I’d go after her, because it’s my fault she’s all alone now and I just—”

He shook his head. “What we had by then wasn’t even considered love anymore.”

That landed.

“So to answer your question,” he said. “I care about her, but not like that.”

Hermione was quiet for a long minute, then asked softly, “Is it guilt? Or do you just feel like you’re responsible for her?”

“Both. She was more than just a girlfriend. We grew up together. Pansy, Theo, Blaise, they try to help her, too. They check in. Help when I can’t. But she only ever calms down when it’s me.”

He exhaled through his nose and rubbed a hand across his nape.

“She refuses treatment. Says it won’t bring her family back. There’s nothing much we can do when she doesn’t want to help herself.”

He didn’t say it like he wanted advice. Or sympathy. Just like someone who’d already made peace with the fact that trying and failing weren’t always separate things. Hermione blinked slowly, pain potion dulling her features just enough to make her look…well. Like she might be feeling sorry for him. Draco glanced at her, then chuckled under his breath.

“Don’t go getting all misty-eyed on me, Granger. I’ll start thinking you care about me.”

She made a faint scoffing sound. “It’s the potions making me teary.”

“Or a common side effect of my presence,” he said, leaning back against the mattress frame. 

For once, she didn’t correct him.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said sincerely, before the edges of her vision darkened.

__________

When Hermione woke up, it was dark outside the narrow St. Mungo’s window and her ribs ached in that dull, pulsing way that meant the pain potion was wearing off and reality had decided to reintroduce itself. She blinked, groggy, and shifted slightly, only to realise there was someone sitting in the chair beside her bed. Draco was still in his Quidditch kit, minus the helmet. Legs stretched out, boots crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his chest like he'd never had the concept of lumbar support. His eyes were closed in an expression that was somewhere between sleeping and plotting murder.

She cleared her throat. “You’re still here.”

He cracked one eye open. “Observation skills intact, I see.”

“You can go,” she said, trying not to sound thankful he hadn’t left. “I’m fine.”

He grumbled something unintelligible, then added, “You couldn’t even get up by yourself half an hour ago.”

Which was rude. And correct. By the time they left St. Mungo’s, Hermione had been half-carried, half-dragged to the floo like an extremely inconvenient sack of potatoes. Draco didn’t complain. Not out loud, anyway. He was muttering under his breath the entire time like she was the one who’d ruined his day. When they arrived in her flat, she’d barely had time to breathe before Draco was guiding her to her bed with more care than she expected and less ceremony than she probably deserved. She thought that would be the end of it.

But then he still didn’t leave.

Instead, he started picking up the scattered groceries she’d left in her tragic, stair-adjacent collapse. Levitation charms, basic cleaning spells, a couple of muttered curses when he stepped on a bruised apple. She heard the cupboards open. The clatter of jars. The thud of a bag of rice being tossed somewhere not shelf-appropriate. She couldn’t see him from the bedroom. Just the glowing outline of his magic and the clinking of things being…sorted. It was surreal. 

She blinked at the ceiling, then called out, “You don’t have to do all that.”

No answer. Just more soft cluttering. A cabinet shutting. The fridge opening. The unmistakable sound of judgement being passed on her condiment selection. She didn’t call out again. But her chest felt weirdly full. Her heart fuzzy. More clattering. A pot being set down. The low thump of a cupboard. The unmistakable clang of a wooden spoon hitting the side of a cauldron. Hermione frowned. Was he…?

She turned her head slightly, wincing at the ache in her side. The pain potion was still doing its job, but just barely. She sniffed the air. Onions. Garlic. Something herby. Rich, savoury warmth that had no business drifting out of her kitchen, much less by the wand of a man who, by all accounts, grew up with house elves who peeled his grapes. She furrowed her brow at the ceiling. Draco Malfoy was cooking. For her. Somewhere in a different timeline, her past self was convulsing in disbelief. A few minutes later, he reappeared in the doorway, still looking like a Quidditch player who’d survived a war zone, now holding a steaming bowl like it was some sacred artefact.

“Leek and potato soup,” he announced. “Very British. Very rustic. Very ‘please don’t die on my watch.’”

He brought it over and perched back on the edge of the bed, setting the bowl on the nightstand. Then, of course, he picked up the spoon.

“Don’t you dare,” Hermione said, eyes narrowing.

“What, I’m just helping,” he said innocently, raising the spoon.

“If you try to spoonfeed me like I’m eighty seven and declining, I swear I’ll break another rib just to hex you.”

Draco grinned. “You’re no fun when you’re injured.”

“You’re no fun ever . ”

He handed her the spoon. She took it, reluctantly, and blew gently on the surface. It smelled really good.

“You cooked this?”

“I know. Shocking, right? Next I’ll be experiencing empathy.”

After dinner, which, to Hermione’s chagrin, was both delicious and restorative - she was starting to feel dangerously close to comfortable. Which is when Draco ruined everything.

“Right,” he said, standing. “Salve and stabilising time.”

Hermione blinked. “Sorry, what time?”

“The healer’s instructions? Stabilising charm every six hours, salve on the ribs?” He gave her a look that was too smug for someone wearing elbow pads. 

“I can do it myself,” she said primly.

“Brilliant,” he said. “Go on then. I’ll observe.”

“Observe?”

“Purely academic. Show me how well you apply salve without wincing or dislocating something.”

She glared at him. He smiled like a man with nowhere better to be. Hermione grabbed the salve and awkwardly twisted around, trying to reach her side with a grimace that felt like another cracked rib.

“Very graceful,” Draco said, voice dry. “You could audition for the ballet.”

“You’re insufferable.”

He walked to the side of the bed again, tone shifting as he added, “Lift your shirt.”

Hermione looked at him, wary.

He raised both brows. “Do you want to get healed or not?”

A pause. Then, slowly, Hermione reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it up, just enough to expose her side. She didn’t look at him. She just stared ahead, face neutral, like she was thinking about Desmond Toller’s tragic mustache or Arithmancy formulas. Something unsexy. Draco sat beside her again and dipped two fingers into the jar. The salve shimmered slightly, tinged faintly green. He didn’t speak as he pressed his palm lightly against her waist, just under the edge of the bruising. Hermione’s breath caught.

His hands were rough. Callused. Quidditch-hardened. But his touch was gentle and careful. Like she was something delicate and breakable. He spread the salve slowly and evenly, brushing it across the deep blue-black bruising that bloomed down her ribs. His fingers didn’t linger but they didn’t rush either. He moved with precision and intention. Her skin prickled beneath his hands. But not in an unpleasant way. She let out a soft breath. Half moan, half sigh.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “That was nice.”

“The salve or the part where I didn’t maim you?”

“Both.”

He reached for his wand and murmured the stabilising charm under his breath, the magic warm and smooth against her skin, anchoring the bones beneath. When it settled, she let herself lean back slightly, resting her weight into the pillows behind her. Draco then reached over to the nightstand, picked up the vial of pain potion, and handed it to her like they were on autopilot. Like this had always been their rhythm. Hermione took it with a mumbled thanks and drank it without ceremony. It burned going down - syrupy, sharp - but the relief was almost immediate. Then, as if possessed by the spirit of Molly Weasley, Draco reached over and fluffed her pillows. Actually fluffed them.

“Did you just—” she started.

“Don’t,” he said.

“You fluffed.”

“It needed it.”

She didn’t argue, because her head hit the now-too-soft pillow and she sank into it like a stone. And then, because apparently they were leaning fully into surrealism, he pulled the blanket up and tucked her in. Properly. Folded edges. Hands smoothing the blanket flat like she was some Victorian child recovering from scarlet fever. The potion made her limbs feel heavy, her thoughts fuzzy at the edges. Words came out slower now. Looser. Less filtered. She blinked up at Draco Malfoy, the enigma, the man who’d just fed her soup, rubbed salve onto her ribs, and fluffed her bloody pillows.

“No wonder Daphne wants you back,” she mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

Draco stilled, just for a second.

Then a quiet, incredulous huff. “You’re definitely concussed.”

But she didn’t hear it. She was already asleep. Her breathing had evened out, face softened in sleep. No lines between her brows. No tension around her mouth. She looked impossibly peaceful, considering the day she’d had, and the way she usually held herself like a coiled spell. Draco hovered at the edge of the bed for a moment longer, then reached down, carefully, and brushed a curl away from her face. It was soft. Wild. Of course it was. He smoothed it gently behind her ear like he hadn’t just been trying not to feel anything at all.

Then he crossed the room and sank into the armchair by her window, spine folding into the cushions as if his body had finally decided to be tired. And he was. Gods, he was. The moment the ring's magic had flared at the pitch - like someone had set off a ward inside his chest - he’d dropped everything. Didn’t tell his coach. Didn’t even think, really. He simply Disapparated out mid-drill, still half-padded with sweat in his eyes. He’d been certain; absolutely fucking certain that he was going to murder a Viktor-Krum-shaped threat today as soon as he felt the ring’s alert.

He hadn’t thought through the strategy, which was wildly uncharacteristic of him. No battle plan, no back-up. There was only pure fury and the urge to get to her quick. And when he let the magic of the ring pull him to her location, she was on the ground. But thankfully, no Krum in sight. Just her twisted form on the floor, eyes startled like she hadn’t expected him to come at all. There was no threat. Merely a stupid fall and the fact that she’d still called for him. Even after all the things she’d said. Even after the look she gave him in that Ministry room. She’d still turned the ring. And for a moment, all he could think was what if she hadn’t? What if he’d been out of range or somewhere with anti-magic wards? Would she still be lying there alone with broken bones? The thought made his stomach turn. She needed one more safeguard. Hell, a dozen. Because he could snark and pretend to be fine, but that image of Hermione Granger curled on the floor was lodged in his mind like a bad hex. That was what gutted him. 

Because she wasn’t just anyone. And the ring wasn’t just a ring. It was a reminder. Of the one time someone had essentially said to him I want you in my corner and actually meant it. Even if only in crisis. He didn’t know if it meant anything more. But he wanted it to. Oh, did he want it to. Maybe it didn’t make him a better man but it sure made him want to be. Someone worthy of being summoned. Someone she could count on, without needing a reason. 

Not for repentance.

Not for absolution. 

But because if she ever called again, for any reason, he didn’t want to be the kind of man who failed her.

Chapter Text

Hermione wasn’t used to missing work. She’d written exactly three sick notes in her entire professional life: one was post-encounter with a dragon, one after being hexed by a disgruntled goblin, and the last had involved a cursed quill. This one, “fractured ribs sustained during a fall at home”, was by far the least impressive. Still, she’d drafted the missive and sent it off to Kingsley and Toller with exactly the expected amount of regret and shame. Toller wrote back with a predictable “get well soon, Granger - attached is a schedule of events you’ll be missing.” Kingsley, bless him, sent a single-line reply that read “The staircase lost. That’s all that matters.”

She supposed that was comfort. Of a sort. What was less comforting, but undeniably more confusing, was Draco Malfoy still being in her flat. He’s been there. And he’s been there every single day. And he hovered. He brought tea. He conjured ice packs. He learned exactly how to prop the pillows so her ribs wouldn’t seize up at night. He charmed the windows to open at sunset and close again at moonrise because she liked the air, and he said he couldn’t handle her “moping like a tragic character” every five minutes.

He even adjusted the book stand at the side of her bed because she refused to stop reading while horizontal, and said things like “Your posture is atrocious, Granger” while doing it. It was all…very domestic. Very intimate. And Hermione didn’t know how to feel about it. She wasn’t used to people doing things for her. She wasn’t used to someone noticing her frown when she moved the wrong way, or fetching the salve before she even asked, or sitting nearby in case she needed something. She wasn’t used to being taken care of. Not like this. And especially not by him. She tried to pretend she hated it. Tried to roll her eyes and make a snide comment whenever he insisted on reapplying the stabilising charm or cooking something more nourishing than her standard toast-and-tea fare. 

But the truth was, she didn’t really mind. It was nice, actually. She only hated that it was nice. She kept thinking about the last time she’d been hurt. Not by a staircase, but by someone who claimed to love her. She remembered cleaning her own blood off the bathroom tile. Healing her own injuries by herself. Memorising painkiller dosages just in case. Moving through all of the ache, all alone. Back then, there’d been no one to help her alleviate her pain. No one fluffing pillows. No one helping her with nursing her battered body. And it was by her own choice. Now there was Draco Malfoy. In her kitchen. In her hallway. At the side of her bed. And he was making it clear she positively had no choice.

He refused to leave her alone. He didn’t have to say it in words. He didn’t even allude to it. He just insisted. It didn’t sit right with him that someone like Hermione Granger, Employee of the Year, Miss Never-Calls-in-Sick, could be lying in bed alone, bruised and gritting through pain because she didn’t know how to ask anyone for help. He didn’t like that. On principle. Not because he cared. Obviously. He was just being chivalrous. Old-fashioned. Courteous. Like a gentleman with too much time on his hands.

So he made her tea. Helped her apply salve and do the stabilising charms when she insisted on doing it herself and promptly almost passed out. And he cooked full meals now. A bit badly at first. Then worryingly well. It was a sunny Tuesday morning when the floo in her sitting room whirled green and spat out Ron bloody Weasley. He stumbled out with his usual gracelessness, brushing soot off his jumper and froze. Standing in the middle of the flat, barefoot, wearing Hermione’s apron and holding a spatula like a weapon, was Draco Malfoy.

They stared at each other. 

It was a solid ten seconds before either of them blinked.

“What the fuck,” Ron grimaced.

“Eloquent as ever.”

“Are you cooking ?”

Draco gestured with the spatula. “No, I’m building a ship.”

Ron regarded the pan in Draco’s hand, at the eggs sizzling merrily, and at the distinct smell of cinnamon and something that, he hated to admit, smelled fantastic.

“Are you living here now? What’s happening?”

“It’s temporary. Like your dignity.”

Before Ron could demand an exorcism or a duel, Hermione’s voice floated in from the bedroom, slightly lilting and unmistakably high on potions.

“Ronald, is that youuu?”

“Hermione, there’s a ferret wearing an apron in your living room.”

“Oh leave him alone and come here!”

“Off you go, Weasley,” Draco said, gesturing with his spatula like a disapproving school matron. 

Ron looked like he’d walked into a parallel dimension, but eventually shuffled down the hall. Draco followed him with his eyes, before turning back to the stove like this was just any other Tuesday and not his least favourite Weasley catching him making French toast for Hermione Granger. He flipped a slice with a little more aggression than necessary. 

A few minutes later, Ron emerged from the bedroom looking vaguely overwhelmed and deeply confused and concerned. Draco said nothing. He simply plated the French toast like a man who refused to be emotionally undone before breakfast. Syrup. Berries. A dusting of cinnamon sugar. He wasn’t trying to be impressive, obviously. Meanwhile, Ron hovered. Which was somehow worse than speaking. Draco glanced at him once, then breezed right past, carrying the tray down the hall like he’d been doing it for years. He knocked once on the bedroom door before opening it with his hip. Hermione was sitting up now, sleep-mussed and eyes bright. She looked so much better now. Softer. And if Draco was being honest with himself, slightly unhinged.

“Oh my,” she said, smiling widely. “What a sight for sore eyes you are.”

Draco made a face as he set the tray on her lap. “Medicated?”

“Very.”

“Figures.”

He straightened, adjusted the blanket around her legs with the reverence of a caretaker who had no idea he was acting like one, and turned to leave.

“Try not to fall out of bed,” he said over his shoulder.

Then he stepped back into the hall. Ron was still there. Unfortunately. And he looked like he had questions. The ginger cleared his throat loudly. Draco, still standing in the middle of the hallway like an unwilling mannequin, arched a brow. 

“Yes?”

“Can we—” Ron gestured vaguely toward the sitting room. “Talk?”

Draco blinked. “Talk.”

“Don’t look so horrified. I’m not proposing.”

Draco pulled the apron over his head with an annoyed flick and tossed it onto the armrest as he walked back into the sitting room. He dropped onto the settee stiffly. Arms crossed. Legs sprawled. Still slightly damp from cooking effort. Ron sat in the chair across from him like he was preparing to interrogate a suspect, his knees jiggling in the kind of way that meant he’d either start yelling or start joking, depending on how the wind blew.

“You still have the ring,” Ron pointed out.

Draco didn’t respond. Just tilted his head.

“The emergency ring,” Ron said. “I was the one who suggested Hermione give it to you.”

“...Bold of you.”

“Well, you’re always around her like a bloody Niffler. Figured you might actually come if something happened.”

Draco considered saying something awful in return. Instead, he decided to be a mature person and let that sit.

“She probably told you about Krum,” Ron went on, tone dropping half a register. “Or maybe not. She doesn’t talk about it much.”

Draco, who had been leaning into the back of the settee with the disinterest of a man forced to coexist with a Weasley, suddenly sat up straighter. His eyes narrowed.

“Krum,” Draco echoed with venom.

“Right,” Ron said, picking at a thread on his sleeve. “That reaction of yours. That’s why I pushed for you to get the ring.”

The irritation Draco had been nursing towards Ron’s atrocious existence promptly transferred itself into a very specific, very dangerous kind of stillness. Because the name Krum didn’t just piss him off - it made something hot and ugly coil low in his gut. Ron shifted in the chair. Rubbed the back of his neck like the words were stuck somewhere behind his collar.

“Look, whatever it is going on between you two,” he said. “It’s none of my business.”

“You’re doing a stellar job of acting like it isn’t.”

“But I think you should know how dangerous Krum actually is. His brand of violence wasn’t just some schoolboy type shite. It…was bad. Downright criminal.”

Draco’s jaw tensed.

“Hermione never talked about it,” Ron continued, eyes on the floor now. “Not until after she left him. And even then, it was bits and pieces. He’d use his fists on her, hex near her, once threw a goddamn bottle at her. She mentioned she had to get her head healed three times in one year. Once, her shoulder was dislocated. Said she cast a spell wrong. And everyone just believed it.”

There was a silence between them, the kind that scraped against bone. Ron went on, his voice clipped.

“He would lock her in their bedroom. Took her wand. Convinced her she was paranoid and frigid. Then minutes later, act like none of it happened. Buy her gifts. Cook her dinner. Tell her he was not himself, blaming it on the potions he was taking. Absolute manipulative type of wanker.”

Draco said nothing. But inside him, there was a simmering, roiling kind of rage - the kind he recognised. The kind that had nowhere to go except deeper. He tried to picture her hurt. Bruised in the face. Wandless. Bleeding while pretending it wasn’t a big deal. He couldn’t. He couldn’t see her like that. And the fact that it had happened anyway. That he hadn’t been there, that no one had, made something in his chest clench so tight he could hardly breathe.

“Hermione always thinks she can handle things herself,” Ron added. “Never tells anyone her problems. You know how she is. Doesn’t like fuss or drama. She’s had panic attacks since. But she still went about like normal. Never let it affect her goals or career. Acted like everything’s fine. Said she didn’t want to ruin what was left of his legacy.”

Ron finally looked up.

“So yeah. I just wanted you to know that. Because she sure as hell won’t say how bad she’s had it. Because she’s Hermione fucking Granger and she thinks pain makes her stronger or builds character.”

Draco’s expression didn’t change. But something in him shifted. He sat back, hands clasped loosely in his lap, and stared at nothing in particular. He didn’t speak for a long time after that. And neither did Ron. But Draco’s eyes are darker now. There was a calm to him, but it was the kind that came just before something erupted. Draco looked down at his hand. At the ring. The gold band sat light against his skin. It's become so familiar by now that he’d nearly forgotten it was there. But now? Now he couldn’t stop seeing it. She’d turned it. She’d called for him. The ring only alerted one person. And she’d kept that link. She’d chosen him. Despite his reputation. Despite their history. 

Later that day, Draco and Hermione were sitting across from each other at the small table in her living room, quills scratching against parchment, tea cooling beside them. The flat was quiet except for the rustling of notes or the sound of Draco flipping a page with a bit too much force. They were working on their latest joint column for The Daily Prophet. This one was about choices. They’d been writing in silence for nearly twenty minutes. But Draco kept glancing at her. Not subtly. She felt it the fourth time. Then the fifth. By the sixth, she set her quill down and raised an eyebrow.

“Why have you been looking at me like that?”

Draco cleared his throat, then looked away.

“Just making sure you’re alright,” he muttered. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Mmm,” he said, noncommittal.

Then he leaned back slightly, spinning his quill between his fingers.

“Since this week’s topic is ‘choices,’” he said, not looking at her, “can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

“Another one.”

She didn’t respond, which he took as permission.

“Why do you choose to suffer in silence?”

The question landed between them like a dropped book. Hermione stilled. She stared at the parchment in front of her. Watched the ink dry on her last unfinished sentence. Then, she looked up. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were tired.

“Because once people know what’s wrong with you, that’s all they see. And I’ve worked too hard for that not to be the first thing they think of.”

Her eyes flicked down, just once, to her forearm, to the slur peeking from beneath her sleeve. She didn’t linger on it. As if daring herself not to look at it was the real show of strength.The room was quiet again. Eventually, he set his quill down. It landed with a soft thud that somehow sounded louder than it should have.

“Do you really think asking for help makes you weak?” he asked, not quite looking at her.

She didn’t answer right away. Just rubbed the ring on her finger absently, like she’d forgotten it was still there.

“Well, not anymore. But it does make things complicated. For me, anyway,” she said finally.

“You’re allowed to be complicated, you know,” he said.

“That’s rich. Coming from you.”

“I think that’s why I used to like doing stupid things.”

She glanced up at him, confused.

“Ruining things,” he explained. “Blowing up my own life. It’s simple. There’s no risk in failing if you never planned to win.”

Hermione didn’t speak. The only sound was the tapping of a tree branch against the windowpane behind her.

“But lately,” Draco said, more to the table than to her, “the more I’m around you…the more I don’t want to fail.”

__________

Draco arrived at her flat just past five, still faintly smelling like grass and whatever horrible chemical his team used to keep padding from chafing. He hadn’t told her he was coming right after training. But they were well past the point of asking, weren’t they? He stepped through the floo with ease, brushing soot from his sleeves as he called out.

"Granger?"

No answer.

That wasn’t unusual. Sometimes she didn’t hear him over the sound of her own self-righteousness. Sometimes she ignored him on purpose. He didn’t take it personally. Except today - today something felt off. The bedroom door was open. The window, too, letting in the later afternoon breeze. Her tea sat on the nightstand, half-finished and gone lukewarm. Her book was still open on the bed, spine creased, one page folded back like she’d been interrupted. The kind of interrupted that made him go still. Too still. He called her name again, quieter this time. Nothing. 

He checked the bathroom. The kitchen. The little balcony where she sometimes sat with her legs curled beneath her and a book in her lap. Empty. Not just empty - absent. She wasn’t here. But the ring hadn’t activated. His stomach flipped. His heart started doing something distracting and fast. She never just…disappeared. Not without a word. Not with tea unfinished and a book still open. She was a creature of habit. Of order. And now she was gone. Draco’s breath caught. And then he was moving. Too rash, too loud, throwing open the front door and bolting down the steps before his mind could form the thought: She didn’t call for him. But what if she was incapacitated?

He stopped short. The flat was in a quiet part of town, by her own neurotic design. Which meant no one would’ve seen anything if something happened, either. His chest tightened. Maybe he should contact her Auror mates immediately. He turned on his heel and sprinted back up the stairs, into the flat, already reaching for the jar of floo powder by the fireplace. He didn’t hesitate - just grabbed a fistful of it and stalked towards the grate like a madman on a mission.

"Potter!" he barked, tossing a handful toward the flames. "Or Weasley. Whichever one knows where she—"

The door creaked open. Draco froze, half of his torso in the fireplace. Hermione stepped inside, slightly flushed, hair tousled by the wind, a thin stack of letters tucked under one arm. She was walking with a slight limp. Like she was trying to pretend it wasn’t there. She looked up.

"Oh," she said, blinking. "You're back from practice."

Draco stepped out of the fireplace slowly, like something wild and barely contained.

"Where the fuck were you?” he asked, dumbstruck.

"I stepped outside for three minutes," she said, blinking again, confused. 

"You left your tea unfinished," he snapped, stalking towards her. "Your book! The window was open! You could’ve been dragged out by a dementor for all I knew!"

"I was just—"

"I thought you were bloody dead."

"Malfoy—"

"Or worse, kidnapped by him. "

That stopped her. He was still half in his Quidditch kit, hair damp with sweat and clinging to his temples, eyes wide like whatever panic had seized him hadn’t let go long enough to think. He’d come straight from practice, clearly, without detour. Just to check on her.

"I just went to get my muggle mail from the postbox down the lane," she said. "That’s all. I was going stir-crazy. And I’m barely in pain anymore."

She expected him to keep arguing. To scoff. To insult her risk assessment skills. But he didn’t. He just looked at her with an incredulous expression. His shoulders were high and tight, like he was still bracing for a blow that hadn’t come. It made Hermione realise something. Beneath the irritation, beneath the dramatics - he looked scared. And that wasn’t something she’d ever expected to see on Draco Malfoy’s face. Not for her. He didn't stop once he'd started. His voice wasn’t loud, but it came fast and clipped, like the words had been waiting in his throat and had finally found an exit.

"You can’t just disappear like that," he said, pacing two steps forward. "You don’t get to go wandering off without telling anyone. Not when you’ve got half-healed bones and a history of slipping down stairs."

Hermione opened her mouth to rebut but he didn’t give her a chance to.

"Don’t say it was nothing," he said, pointing a finger at her. "Don’t say I was fine or it was only down the lane. That’s not the point."

She shut her mouth.

"You live alone, Granger. You barely tell anyone when you're in pain. You act like calling for help through the ring is some moral failing and don’t deny it, I saw it in your eyes when I first came. And you walk around with these brittle limbs like you're daring the world to hit you again just to prove you can take it."

Hermione, stunned, said nothing. She slowly moved to the settee and sat down. Carefully. Like her body had caught up to her brain and realised Oh, this is happening. Draco Malfoy is actually admonishing me. And Draco kept going, nearly out of breath now.

"And I don’t know if you think that’s noble or just part of your personality at this point, but don’t do that again. If you're going to keep pulling stunts like that, at least give me five minutes' notice so I can mentally prepare for the part where I think you’ve been taken by a deranged lunatic."

He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. Then added, as if it was the worst part of all—

"You didn’t even lock the bloody door."

Hermione watched him pace back and forth. She let the silence hold for a moment. Let him breathe. Let the fear run its course before it hardened back into irritation.

Then, gently, almost shyly, she said, "I’m sorry."

His eyes flicked to her, sharp.

"I didn’t mean to worry you," she added. "Truly."

There was no defensiveness in it. No trace of sarcasm. 

"Next time I go rogue and pick up something," she said, almost smiling, "I’ll leave a note. Or at least lock the door."

Draco said nothing. He just looked at her as if he was trying to keep from saying something else entirely. And she saw it. The panic still thrumming beneath his scowl and the way his foot tapped restlessly on the floor. He hadn’t even sat down at all. So she leaned back slightly against the settee and decided she needed to calm him down the only way she knew how.

"Would you mind…helping me with the salve?" she asked in a meek tone.

That got him moving. Without a word, he turned, walked down the hall, and came back a moment later with the small glass jar in his hand. She could hear the quiet clink of the metal lid unscrewing as he sat beside her. She lifted her shirt slowly, revealing only what’s necessary. Like she had done multiple times before. Only this time, her skin buzzed. Her blood was singing. Every inch of her was suddenly aware of him - the way he sat close but not too close, the way he dipped two long fingers in, the way his breath caught just slightly as he touched her side. She stared ahead. Calm. Composed. Except her heart was hammering against her ribcage like it wanted to be let loose.

"Pain isn’t a big deal to me, you know," she told him. 

Draco’s hand froze for half a second. But she didn’t take it back. Hermione kept her eyes on the far wall, her voice low.

"My body is used to it,” she added.

His hand still hadn’t moved, palm warm against her side, fingers spread over bruised skin like he could hold her together if he tried hard enough.

"I’m not saying that to boast," she went on. "But just so you know I’m not as frail as you think."

She felt him breathe steadily. Which was more than she could say for herself. Because his touch was doing something to her now, softening everything. Turning her thoughts fuzzy, her pulse traitorous. His breath ghosted above her skin, his face so close she could feel the way the air shifted when he blinked. His fingers remained still, pressed gently into the side of her ribcage. His large palm spanned so much of her that she felt small and held. And safe. Which was new. She was no longer used to a man’s touch without force behind it. Without control. Without the creeping sense that something was being asked of her just for allowing it. He didn’t speak for a long time. And just when she thought he wouldn’t—

"Do you want me to overwrite it?” he asked. “All the pain he inflicted on your body?" 

She could feel her brain trying to logic its way through it: cataloguing definitions, scanning for loopholes, filing his question under Emotionally Loaded Sentences No One Had Ever Said to Her Before. Draco Malfoy was watching her with a look that should’ve felt intrusive. But it didn’t. It felt…patient. Like he wasn’t asking for anything. Just offering something she hadn’t realised she needed. And she did need. She didn’t even remember most of the pain she endured anymore. Not specific hits or cuts. But her body remembered the helplessness. The way Viktor’s anger felt when it sank into her skin. The way loneliness scraped when she curled up on the floor, trying to shrink herself down to something unthreatening. The ache of being nothing more than someone else’s leverage. 

She didn’t remember it but her body had catalogued it. Kept some receipts in the form of scars. It had taken enough. And if she was being dangerously, recklessly honest, she trusted Draco Malfoy more than she’d trusted anyone in a long time. Which was objectively insane. But trust didn’t always make sense, and hers, apparently, had decided to take up residence in the shape of his voice, asking her a question no one else ever had. She swallowed.

"Yes," she said, breath catching like her body had decided the answer before her brain did.

Please, she added internally. Draco reached behind him and set the jar of salve on the table. Hermione sat perfectly still on the settee. And then, slowly, she slipped her shirt the rest of the way off, leaving only her plain cotton bra beneath. It was not sexy. Not meant to seduce at all. But his eyes widened for a fraction at the sight. Like an everyday, mundane undergarment was something to behold. Her skin goose-pimpled under the cool air. Or maybe it was the way he looked at her. Not hungry or possessive per se, but in that way when something demanded your full attention. Draco dropped to his knees in front of her ever so slowly, his hands bracing her lap. He looked up at her, and Hermione could see that his pupils were already dilated.

His voice was a low rumble when he spoke again. "Show me where he hurt you."

Her hand lifted slowly. With shaky fingers, she touched the side of her rib, where there was a faint line of scar.

"Here," she whispered.

He leaned in and brushed his lips against her skin there. Kissed the spot. Featherlight. Careful. Like a promise he couldn’t put into words. She shivered slightly at the intimate contact, but she wanted more. So her fingers moved next to the bend of her arm. Just above the inner elbow. 

"Here."

Draco moved again for another kiss. He was reverent. Made sure his mouth wasn’t too invasive, wasn’t too greedy. Hermione closed her eyes shut to relish the sensation of his lips upon her skin. Then, she rose from the settee, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her shorts and pushed it down just a little. She pointed to a spot beneath her hipbone. Draco followed her direction obediently.

"Here."

He held her waist with both hands and kissed the line of her hip like she was glass and memory all at once. Then, she guided him lower, pointing to the inner curve of her upper thigh - high enough that made it too indecent. A place just shy of sacred.

"Here."

Draco didn’t rush. He only followed her hand like it was instinct. And every place she named - every inch of skin that had once ached under someone else's hands - he reclaimed with his mouth. Not with lust or with pity. But with the devastating care of someone who knew that some bodies weren’t temples. Some were war zones. And he intended to kiss down every ruin like it was meant to be rebuilt. He was kneeling between her knees now, lips pressed to the inside of her thigh, slow and languid. Hermione had to keep herself from losing her wits and tilting her head back in pleasure.

And then, her hands found his face. She cradled it gently, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones, like she was trying to memorise the shape of him. He looked up at her, waiting for his next cue. She stared at him with something close to wonder. Then, slow as gravity, she guided him back up. Her hands upon his jaw, drawing him closer until he was fully standing up, until his chest pressed to hers. And then, as if it had always been written this way, as if there was never any other outcome, they kissed.

Deeply.

Deliriously.

And absolutely gratifyingly.

It was nothing like the first time they kissed. This time, there was no screaming, no fury, no grabbing. That kiss had been anger and adrenaline and a desperate attempt to satisfy their brimming lust for each other. But this…this was different. This was untouched by rage. Softer. There was a sort of sacred stillness in the way their mouths moved together now - open, aching, sinking. Like they were drinking each other. No, this was nothing at all like the kiss in the locker room. That had been combat. This was surrender.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger was back. Fully mended, medically cleared, and more than ready to throw herself at the next schedule with religious zeal. Her outfit was crisply pressed. Her hair shimmered. And she carried her annotated files like holy scripture. She hadn’t spent years making a name for herself just to be babysat by a Quidditch player with a secret saviour complex. As much as she’d grown used to Draco Malfoy fussing over her, she needed her life back. Her work. Her routine. She’d worn a short skirt today. Professional, obviously. But short. And lethally tight. Draco noticed. He had been noticing. He wasn’t even trying to hide it, the absolute menace. His gaze kept dragging down her legs and then flicking up again like he had plans. It had been a couple days since that kiss in her flat. She hadn’t meant to think about it constantly but her hormones had no such reservations.

What Hermione didn’t know was that Draco had been thinking about it too. Obsessively. Repeatedly. But he hadn’t touched her since. He’d made a decision for her sake. If he was going to snog her again, it wouldn’t be while she was drugged to the gills on pain potions and walking like a cursed marionette. He wanted her healed. Lucid. Fully able-bodied and capable of hexing him if she changed her mind. So since then, he’d kept his mouth and hands to himself. They had just come out of Desmond Toller’s office for another half-pointless, fully-irritating meeting. The kind where the words “brand essence” were used unironically. Hermione walked out first. Draco followed, but not without eyeing her arse in that criminally tight skirt and making zero attempt to pretend otherwise.

“Off to Quidditch?” Hermione asked, as they both walked down the Ministry atrium.

Draco looked sideways at her. “Nope.”

“Then where are you going?”

He gave a little shrug. “Prior engagement.”

A beat.

Then, he added, “An intimate celebration with someone important.”

Hermione stared at him. Something sour curled at the edge of her stomach. She didn’t know why. Or maybe she did. Either way, her expression shifted. Barely, but enough for Draco to notice.

He tilted his head slightly. “Do you want to come with me?”

“What?”

“You looked like you wanted to ask,” he said, like it was obvious. “So I’m showing you.”

He didn’t look smug or mocking for once. In fact, he looked like he was waiting for her answer. Like he’d already factored her into his day. She searched his face for any sign of sarcasm, any trap waiting to spring. There was none.

“…Yes,” she said finally, slow and cautious.

And then he grabbed her arm. The floor vanished beneath them with a crack. Hermione didn’t even have time to ask where they were going before her feet hit solid ground again. They landed in what Hermione thinks is somewhere in Northumberland - remote, empty, and far from any wizarding village or Ministry marker. Just open land stretched in every direction - rolling green hills under an endless blue sky, broken only by the occasional knot of trees or rocky outcrop. It was the sort of place that made you breathe differently. Crisp air. The scent of wild grass. Birdsong so high up it might’ve been magic.

Draco started trekking. She followed after him automatically. She was about to ask where he was going, but somehow, it felt wrong to interrupt him. Because his demeanour had changed completely. He wasn’t tense, exactly, but he was mentally somewhere else. Like his thoughts were several paces ahead of his feet. As they walked, he veered towards a patch of shrubbery. He reached down and plucked a few wildflowers - small, white, delicate things with little violet centres. Hermione blinked. Right. Apparently he picked flowers now. Maybe he’d taken up foraging. Or herbalism. He didn’t look at her and kept them loosely gathered in his hand. Surely not for me, she thought. 

Not that it mattered. They walked for another minute or so up a gentle incline, through a patch of thin trees, past a trickle of water so clear it almost didn’t exist. Then, at the edge of a clearing, they stopped beneath a massive yew tree. Ancient and twisted, its branches reached like arms overhead, casting shadows across the grass. Draco stepped forward, eyes scanning the space. He muttered a spell under his breath, the words half-swallowed by wind. A shimmer of magic rippled outward like a dropped stone. And then, before her eyes, a veil pulled back - revealing two gravestones. Side by side. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat.

Draco approached and knelt without a word. The flowers he’d gathered looked absurd in his hands now. Too soft for the man who had once been all scowls and sneers and unforgiving bone. But he handled them with care anyway, splitting the stems into two uneven bunches, and laying them gently at the base of each gravestone. One on the left. One on the right. He rested his fingers, briefly, against the edge of Narcissa’s stone. A reverent touch. Like he was checking the shape of the world now that she was no longer in it.

Hermione didn’t speak. She stood several paces back, letting the wind do the talking, her arms wrapped loosely around her middle. This wasn’t her space to intrude on. She knew grief when she saw it. There was a time when she would visit memorials and gravestones like this rigorously, back when her survivor’s guilt was at its worst. She didn’t go anymore. But the ache stayed. It just quieted over time, like most things. When Draco rose eventually, the lines of his body were taut, but not strained. His hands slid into his pockets before turning slightly, cocking his head in her direction.

Come here.

So she did. She crossed the distance until she came to stand beside him under the old yew tree. She could feel the magic humming faintly in the air, still settling after he’d dropped the concealment charm. 

“It’s her birthday,” Draco said simply.

Hermione glanced down at the stone on the right. White marble. Polished as if it’s brand new. Narcissa Black Malfoy. Beloved wife and mother. 

“Happy birthday, Mrs. Malfoy,” she said, softly. “You’d be pleased to know your son is still entirely insufferable. He tried to spoonfeed me soup last week like I was a geriatric invalid.”

Draco let out a startled laugh, edged with something a little incredulous. But then he quieted, gaze drifting to the expanse of wild grass beyond. His posture shifted. He cleared his throat lightly, like remembering he hadn’t offered her any context.

“This patch is one of the last remaining Malfoy lands,” Draco said. “The rest have been seized.”

He kicked at a stone with the toe of his boot.

“I picked this place for them because it’s secluded. Figured if I buried them in the ancestral cemetery, some miserable bastard would desecrate them just to make a point.”

And that was the cruelty of surviving. The war may have ended, but the punishments never did. Even for the dead. Hermione nodded once, letting the silence stretch again. Draco stood in silence for a while longer, watching the headstone like it might blink back. 

Then, without turning, he said, “She didn’t last long after my father died.” 

Hermione glanced at him.

“Azkaban didn’t kill him so much as reduce him. He stopped being a person altogether. He was practically dead before death took him. Mother went mad trying to reconcile it.”

Hermione stayed quiet. He didn’t sound broken about it. Just matter-of-fact. Like someone reciting the terms of a curse they’d already survived.

“She stopped eating. Barely slept. Kept seeing him in mirrors. Not in a ghostly visitation sort of way. Just in the insane, awful way. She’d wail and call me his name sometimes.”

He reached his hand into his pocket again, fidgeting with something invisible.

“So I started experimenting for a solution. Obsessively. Dug through everything I could find on memory modification. All the Obliviation-adjacent stuff. Deep-cleave spells. Repression charms. Mostly Dark Magic. All dangerous.”

“You were going to Obliviate her?”

He shook his head. “No. Not erase her memories of him completely. Just...alter specific bits. Modify the ‘reality’ she knew. I thought if I could change her worst memories, maybe she’d be able to find peace. Be my mother again.”

He shrugged, eyes still on Narcissa’s grave.

“I got good. Alarmingly good, actually. Nearly erased my own birth from her mind once by accident. But every time I cast something on her, I’d reverse it a few days later. It felt wrong. Like I was undoing their history. Like I was…violating her very being.”

Hermione’s chest ached at the nonplussed, clinical way he confessed his morally grey decisions. She could’ve just asked him for help back then to undo her parents’ Obliviation. Could’ve saved herself a year of anxiety and grief. Shame no one mentioned he was casually experimenting with illegal memory modification like it was a bloody side hustle.

“She died heartbroken. Health complications, technically. But it felt like...expiration. Like her heart had just run its course.”

A breeze passed between them. The branches above creaked.

“I considered doing the same for Daphne back then. When she got bad.” He paused. “She slapped me when I suggested it.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Something along the lines of ‘what if I could erase memories of your family so you could be normal again.’ Which, in hindsight, is a bit like saying ‘what if I could rip out your favourite organ and replace it with a lukewarm sponge.’”

“I can see why she didn’t take it well,” she said quietly. “Even when the grief’s unbearable, memories are still…sacred. Erasing them would feel like losing them all over again.”

“I never tried to convince her again. But I kept the research. Just in case.”

He turned to her, as if checking to see if she was judging him, but she wasn’t.

“I don’t do noble, Granger. But I do desperate. If I love someone, I’ll wreck my moral compass trying to save them.”

The words hit her. Not because it was shocking but because she knew exactly what he meant. She had done it too. On her parents. Erased their daughter from their minds like she was a tumour. It had gutted her. Strained their relationship permanently. They remembered her now, but it’s like they were still trying to love a version of her that no longer existed. She didn’t regret it. Because she’d loved them too much to let the war eat them, too. And now he was saying the same thing out loud like it wasn’t monstrous. She didn’t look at him. Because if she did, she was afraid she’d see herself staring back.

__________

Their next public assignment had brought them to a book launch. Flourish & Blotts looked like it had overdosed on patriotism. Gold bunting hung from the bannisters. Floating candles spelled out UNITY THROUGH REMEMBRANCE in twinkling font. The newly published book was everywhere. Bloodlines & Battlefields. A title that practically screamed “we asked zero war survivors for their input.” Draco stood beside Hermione in the receiving line, looking like he was debating setting himself on fire just to escape. 

The author, a very serious witch in very unserious robes, signed copies for a line of middle-aged women who were all far too eager. Hermione and Draco posed beside her for the requisite Ministry-mandated photo op, smiling just enough to look pleasant, not enough to look like they were enjoying themselves. Draco had the gall to say something flattering about the author’s prose while absolutely not having read a word of the book. They went through cucumber sandwiches, three conversations with journalists who all asked variations of what does unity mean to you, and a ten-minute chat with a retired Hogwarts professor who absolutely thought they were sleeping together. Then came desserts. And with the sweet things, the universe decided to serve up Davet Dumont. Unexpected, like a paper cut to the gums.

“Hermione,” he chirped, appearing like he’d been summoned by a puff of French cologne. “You look radiant.”

His smile was all teeth and charm. The kind that made older witches blush. His jawline, tragically symmetrical. She could smell his aftershave before she could even react to his presence.

“Davet,” she said nervously, already vigilant for Draco’s reaction.

“I haven’t seen much of you lately. How have you been?”

Her smile thinned. “I’ve been busy, as always.”

“Ah, but always composed. It’s very…alluring.”

She was about to redirect the conversation to something neutral like magical infrastructure failures when she felt Draco arrive. His presence is unmissable when he’s taut with disapproval. He didn’t greet Davet, of course. Didn’t so much as blink at him. He slid in beside her, inserting himself with the quiet aggression of a cat taking over a box.

“Problem?” Draco asked. 

His tone was bored. But not less threatening. Hermione sighed in exasperation and mentally drafted her resignation letter.

Davet turned to him. “Oh. It’s you. From that night.”

Draco finally looked at him. Reproachfully. Like sizing up something unpleasant stuck to his shoe.

“Your accent offends me,” Draco said in fluent, disdainful French.

Davet straightened at the language switch. “I’m sorry, who are you again?”

“The one she came with.”

Technically not true, but neither of them corrected it.

Davet turned to Hermione, visibly amused. “I didn’t realise you kept a bodyguard.”

“I don’t,” she said pointedly.

But Draco didn’t bristle. His hand brushed her lower back lightly. Not possessive, but it landed like a claim. His mind was an inferno. Of course fucking Davet would show up. Of course he’d weasel into a conversation he didn’t belong in. Hermione kissed Draco less than a week ago. And now she was standing here looking unbothered at this man-poodle who dared to breathe in her space. Draco wanted to punch him. Or snog Hermione in front of him until her knees gave out just to make a point. Instead, he smiled.

“Tartlet?” he offered Davet, plucking one off a tray and holding it out like he wanted to hit him with it.

Davet glanced at it, confused. “No, thank you…?”

“Shame,” Draco said ruefully. “Thought it might shut you up.”

Hermione’s hand was suddenly on his wrist with a look that says don’t weaponise the pastry.

Davet effectively ignored him. “Perhaps I’ll see you around, Hermione.”

“Perhaps you won’t,” Draco mocked, after he’d turned away.

Hermione scowled. “Did you really just threaten him with a tartlet?”

“You’d rather I used a fork? Honestly, Granger.”

Then, just as Hermione thought she’d survived the worst of it, the press assembled into a semi-circle for the final scheduled event: a short interview panel. Draco and Hermione were led to a table at the front - white tablecloth, predictably starched, draped to the floor. They sat side by side. A dozen quills floated into position. A dozen cameras clicked on. Hermione did not cross her legs. Which, in hindsight, may have been a tactical error. Because barely thirty seconds into the interview, just as the first journalist and launched into a long-winded question about “legacy narratives”, Draco Malfoy slipped his hand under the tablecloth and right between her thighs.

Hermione went completely still. Not visibly, of course. That would’ve been too obvious. No, she sat perfectly upright, nodded thoughtfully at the reporter, and arranged her face into the kind of expression that screamed I am listening and absolutely not on the verge of being fingered in front of the wizarding press. Draco, the absolute bastard, looked relaxed. One elbow on the table, smiling handsomely like he wasn’t currently making slow, reverent circles against the inside of her thigh with a hand that felt suspiciously well-practised. She wanted to shove him. Or perhaps sit on his face. 

A second question came. Hermione blinked. Grinned. Said something articulate about the role of youth engagement in post-war healing. Draco’s fingers drifted higher. She dug her nails into her own knee under the table. He was doing it on purpose - moving with maddening slowness, ghosting along the seam of her knickers like a man testing her limits. Which, to be fair, was a bold thing to do to someone with a career built on keeping her composure. She didn’t twitch. Didn’t stammer. Didn’t even look at him.

But her voice dipped half an octave, and every journalist in the room leaned forward like she’d just said something profound. His thumb was now tracing seductive shapes on the front of her underwear like it was Braille for “when are we going to finally fuck?” Hermione Granger, model employee, public servant, war heroine, sat beside him like a saint. And Draco Malfoy, the absolute menace, sneered like he’d already won. They were mid-answer to a particularly convoluted question about blood prejudice when an attractive, foxy witch near the back shot up her hand without waiting to be called.

“Mr. Draco!” she chirped. “Is it true you’ve slept with over a hundred women?”

There was a beat of silence. Just long enough for the question to hang in the air like an airborne curse, and then the entire back row of reporters snorted. There was one scandalised gasp. Hermione stared straight ahead, unsure if she was more enraged by the sheer audacity of the irrelevant question or by the fact that it was asked while Draco’s fingers were now inside of her knickers and caressing her cunt. Draco, for his part, barely blinked. The corners of his mouth twitched.

“I’ve never been particularly good with numbers,” he said blandly. “That’s why I chose Quidditch as a career.”

A wave of laughter. The foxy witch fluttered her eyelashes and blushed. Hermione turned her head, very slowly, to look at him. He sipped his water like he hadn’t just derailed the interview and played with her quim in the same five-minute span. She continued to stare, dumbstruck that he even entertained the ridiculous question. The event ended in a blur of forced smiles and Hermione resisting the urge to jam a cocktail skewer into Draco’s face. He’d been the picture of PR perfection right up until the very end. Shook hands, charmed the press, signed books like it was his event. And then he had to go and engage with that so-called journalist. Couldn’t just ignore it like he usually did with people who asked idiotic questions. No. This one got a smirk and an answer that made the bint simper. Hermione nearly vomited. She didn’t speak to him as they flooed back. The moment they landed in her flat, she spun on him like a curse.

“You think that was funny?” she hissed. “Answering an inappropriate question about shagging a hundred women?”

Draco stepped towards her. “It got a laugh.”

“I didn’t laugh.”

“No,” he said, voice calm. “But you looked like you wanted to strangle me, which, frankly, is half the fun.”

She glared daggers at him. He stepped even closer to her now.

“Wait, are you jealous?” he asked suspiciously.

“Don’t start,” she snapped.

“Merlin, you are. Your nostrils are flaring.”

“I’m just annoyed,” she insisted.

“Mm. Because your public image is tied to mine and I made a crude comment?”

“Yes.”

“And not because someone implied I’ve shagged my way through half of Britain and I didn’t leap to clarify I’m actually only interested in one insufferable campaign partner?”

She pursed her lips and crossed her arms. Draco stepped in so close to her that the mood quickly changed. His presence filled her space like smoke. She could feel him without him even touching her, and that was somehow worse. Or better. Depending on her threshold for masochism that day.

“I haven’t slept with a hundred women, Granger,” he said in a hushed voice now.

Her jaw ticked. “Well, you let everyone think you did.”

“Shagging a hundred women wouldn’t be the worst rumour about me.”

A pause. He took another half-step. She could now feel the heat from his chest through the fabric of her clothes.

“And if I wanted to sleep with a hundred women…” he said, eyes falling to her mouth.

His breath was soft against her cheek. A confession masquerading as a whisper.

“They would all have to be you.”

She inhaled like she’d just remembered how to breathe. His lips were now against hers, just a breadth away from a full-on kiss.

“I’d fuck a hundred versions of you just to find out which one ruins me best,” he said.

Her knees were unsteady. Her magic, frayed and singing somewhere just under her skin.

“That’s the most unhinged compliment I’ve ever received.”

“...Thank you.”

He didn’t reach for her. Just stood there - waiting, watching, daring her to do something about it. And gods, she might. Because as insane as that line was, it sounded like a promise. And he looked like he was ready to make good on it. And just like that, she knew there was no version of this where she didn’t let him.

“Then don’t just stand there. Start finding out,” she commanded. 

His mouth found hers like a starved man finding a feast. Immediate, greedy, open-mouthed devotion that left her spinning. Hands roamed. Tongues intertwined. Any fabric that covered them didn’t stand a chance. Her dress was tugged over her head in one graceless sweep; his belt clinked to the floor. They peeled each other apart like they were each other’s Christmas presents. The settee was their battlefield. Or altar. She hadn’t decided which. Draco pulled back just enough to look at her - gloriously naked, hair mussed, legs already parted like some daring challenge - and made a sound so guttural it made her ache. He reached a hand to knead her breast. Then he let it slide down her stomach until he found her cunt. When his fingers slipped between, her whole body jolted.

“Oh, dear. You’ve been ready for me,” he said amusedly.

Hermione made a choking sound, her cheeks burning at the sensation of his fingers playing with her slickness.

“Is this my doing?” His mouth traced her jaw now. 

And just like that, she lost the last of her pride. She yanked him down by that gold chain around his neck and kissed him hard, her tongue sweeping into his mouth like a storm. Their teeth clacked. Their chests heaved. He shucked his trousers; she kicked away her knickers dangling from her ankle. He shifted lower, kissed her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, and was moving south with wicked intent.

“Let me taste you,” he said into her skin.

Hermione let out something between a laugh and a desperate whimper.

“No time. I can’t wait.”

His eyes darkened, throat bobbing, and then—

Draco slid inside her slowly. Torturously.

“Bloody hell,” she gasped, eyes flying open.

He stilled. Let her adapt and adjust for a moment. He was astoundingly thick and sizable - the bastard was hung like a bloody centaur. The gossip tabloids were, in fact, right about that one. Hermione owed a silent apology to his groupies. Entire sections of Quidditch stadiums probably owed him their sexual awakening. The stretch of him stole the air from her lungs.

“You alright?” he asked, forehead pressed to hers, surprisingly gentle.

She clenched around him just to be contrary. “Yes. Move. Please.”

He did. Slow at first. Then rougher, sharper, until the settee creaked beneath them like it might collapse. Hermione wrapped her legs around his waist and bit down on his shoulder, muffling her cries against his skin. He fucked like he fought. Driven. Relentless. And somehow still watching her, like every flutter of her lashes and stutter of breath meant something. Like he needed to observe the way she unraveled. But then they were sliding, literally, off the settee. Their bodies had shifted too far and gravity took hold. Hermione slipped first, her back catching the edge, her laugh breathless and real as she hit the rug with a soft thud. Draco followed, arms still around her like he couldn’t bear to let her go.

She was already grinning when he landed halfway on top of her, his kisses half-missed but no less hungry. She laughed into him before rolling him onto his back. She then climbed astride him in the similar way he mounted his broom. Her thighs bracketed him and Merlin help him, she looked ready to ride. Draco - who’d seen many naked women before, had touched them, fucked them, forgotten them - lay beneath her and forgot how to think. Because Hermione was all flame and will and scarred softness. She wasn’t just bare. She was revelatory. Like something divine had shed its skin and crawled on top of him and made its home there. He wouldn’t call her holy; she was her own kind of theology. A bloody celestial being meant to redefine the laws of his existence. And gods, he was nothing beneath her. He wasn’t even a man right now. He was just flesh. A blob of matter. A bundle of atoms. 

“You’re exactly where I want you,” he bit out.

“Ditto.”

She took him in with a slow roll of her hips. One long glide that stretched her open again and had both of them groaning. He threw his head back and her lips parted like she wanted to express how good he felt. She paused when she was fully seated, just breathing through it, adjusting again to the stretch. His hands found her thighs, holding them to keep her in place, so he can sear this image of her into his brain - nude, straddled on him, and flushed. Then she started to move. Slow, sinuous tilts of her hips. Drawing back until just the head of him was inside her, then sliding down again, each time a little faster, a little deeper. Every roll sent sparks ricocheting through her spine. Her breath came quicker. He grabbed her arse for dear life.

“Granger—” he choked.

She arched slightly, changing the angle, and gasped when he hit that spot inside her that made her whole body jolt. Her hair clung to her neck now. She moved like a woman possessed - grinding down on him with hungry movements that made the muscles in his abdomen twitch. Draco surged up, mouth catching one of her breasts like he was starving. He sucked hard, then moved to the other, leaving multiple red marks. Granger had tits like a fucking dream. His dream, apparently.

“I knew you’d feel this good,” he gritted, voice hoarse. 

“Yeah?” she managed, panting. “You’ve thought about how good I’d feel?”

He gave a wrecked laugh. “I’ve been wanking to you every bloody day.”

He hadn’t meant to say it. But fuck all, it was true. He didn’t even know when it started. But when it did, it became an everyday thing. In the shower. In his bed at night. Before a game. He’d think about her tongue, her arse, or about how her tits felt during that locker room kiss. Sometimes it wasn’t even explicit. Sometimes it was just the thought of her voice saying his name. Or the way she’d smile wryly when he’d rile her up. She leaned in, mouth hot against his ear. This…this was better than every wet dream he’d had of her. 

“Am I living up to your fantasies?” she asked, a bit breathless now, all wicked bravado and flushed cheekbones.

“Yes.”

“Tell me about them.”

He looked up at her like she’d just given him permission to be untamed. Which, frankly, she had.

“I think about spaffing inside you all the time,” he said. 

Blunt. Depraved. Not even trying to use euphemisms to sugarcoat it. She loved it. 

“Tell me more,” she coaxed.

“I want to fill you with so much cum it leaks out of you all day. Down your thighs. While you go about as the Ministry’s saintly swot.”

Hermione’s thighs trembled. Her mouth parted slightly, like oxygen was suddenly optional.

“What else,” she whispered.

“I dream about fucking you every day until your cunt moulds into the shape of my cock.”

Her stomach flipped. 

“So no one else could fit. Just me,” he added, rubbing her clit with his thumb.

Gods, that was so specific. And with the size of him, it felt like a warning. One her body clearly had no intention of heeding. He wasn’t even looking at her anymore. He was looking at where they were joined, like the sight of her spread over him was confirming some deranged prophecy.

“And I want marks,” he breathed. “On you. Everywhere. In the shape of my mouth. So everybody knows who’s been fucking you.”

Her orgasm hit her mid-blasphemy. Her core contracted and then she was coming violently, like her body had been waiting for that filth to push it over the edge. She clawed down his chest, like she needed him to feel it too. Needed his body to feel her coming.

“Do it. Come inside me,” she said shakily, still riding on the climax.

Draco’s eyes shot open, wild. She nearly cried with how much she wanted it. 

“I want you to fill me,” she added.

That did it. He grabbed her hips and thrust up, hard. She cried out - neck arched, hands clawing at his shoulders as she shattered even more, her whole body rippling around his cock. He followed with a strangled groan, emptying himself into her like he’d waited years for her permission. His grip was tight as he pumped through the aftershocks, one final thrust followed by another until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. They collapsed together on the rug - still joined in a tangle of limbs. And when silence followed afterwards, it was electric. Charged. A beat passed. Then two. Hermione blinked up at the ceiling, chest still rising and falling like she’d run a marathon. Thank Merlin for contraceptive potions. Without them, she might’ve had to be sensible. Or careful. Magic really was a gift - especially when it let her be as filthy as she wanted to be.

“Brilliant,” she said hoarsely, “We defiled the carpet we just cleaned.”

Draco heaved. “Worth it.”

Silence fell again. But not the kind that hummed. Not the volatile, pre-sexual kind. This one was different. Like a deep satisfaction. The stillness following a volcano eruption. Hermione shifted against him, cheek resting against his shoulder. He could feel the softness of her tits pressed against his side. Neither of them moved for a while. Her hand, at one point, trailed lightly over his stomach. Not with intent, just curiosity. Like she couldn’t quite believe that he was here. He dared to turn his head just enough to look at her, but her eyes were closed, and her expression was neutral in that maddening way when she was sorting through too many thoughts at once. Eventually, she broke the stillness.

“Back in a second,” she said, barely above a whisper.

She padded to the bathroom, something glistening between her thighs. Draco stared at nothing, dazed. She was gone for barely a minute, but it was long enough for his heart to race for entirely different reasons. What now? She hadn’t said anything to him. Not really. No raving reviews. No witty post-coital remark. No fond jab. She'd simply did a slow walk away like she was fine. Like this was all so casual to her. But it wasn’t for him. Not this time. 

He didn’t usually shag the same girl twice. One night, maybe two, and then he was done. But this felt different. Dangerous. Because when Draco Malfoy picked a witch, he didn’t just stick - he stayed. Loyal to a fault. The carry-your-baggage, see-it-through kind. If Daphne weren’t currently incapacitated by grief and calming draughts, she’d probably tell you: he doesn’t quit easily. Even when he should. And now that he’d had a taste of Hermione Granger, he wanted more. Not just of her body, but all of her. Her sharpness. Her eyes when she was satisfied about something. Her little gasps between her laughs. He wanted to hear them again. And again. And again.

He’d missed his chance to do aftercare on her which, admittedly, had been part of his fantasies. He stayed laying there as if dreading that she might not want a repeat performance. He knew her. Knew how guarded she was. Knew what she’d been through. She didn’t give anything lightly. Not time, not trust, and especially not her body. So he wasn’t about to spring a what are we? on her immediately unless he wanted to scare her off. He’s not even one to do that. Every other witch he’d slept with after Daphne got the standard follow-up: a glass of water and a courteous ‘goodbye’ by sunrise.

But Granger wasn’t like the others. And what if she regretted it? What if this was where she discarded him? Now she knew what he felt like inside her and still might walk away. He didn’t do regret well. Nor rejection. He was more of a shag first, process feelings never type. But now he was naked on her floor, slightly carpet-burned, and perilously close to a full-on spiral. So he lay there - cock still half-hard, heart pacing - and gazed at the ceiling like it might offer him advice. Or a spell. Or maybe just a way to not fuck this up for once.

In the bathroom, Hermione stood over the sink holding a damp flannel. Draco Malfoy’s spaff was on her inner thigh. There were love bites all over her tits. Her lips were swollen. And she was actually glowing. How tragic. She dabbed at the mess between her legs without magic, opting for a rug-based deviation from the usual routine of professionalism. Because she’d finally done it. Had sex with Draco Malfoy. And it hadn’t been a mistake. Or an impulse. Or a drunken lapse in judgment. It had been intentional. Purposeful. Maybe even inevitable.

Worse, it had been good. Mind-meltingly, toe-curlingly, holy-fucking-Merlin good. He’d been so careful. And then not careful at all. The kind of sex that didn’t just take the edge off; it rewrote her biology. She looked up at her reflection. She had the nerve to look happy. Which was problematic. Because now came the part where she had to think about the implications. And thinking led to defining things, and definitions led to mistakes. And that was a crisis she was absolutely not in the mood for, ever. She didn’t want to ruminate on what this meant.

Nothing, maybe. Or, possibly everything. What a horrifying thought. She didn’t want to mess it up by naming it. Didn’t want to ask what they were, or if they were anything. Last time she asked for a label, she ended up with a psychopath who trapped her. But she also didn’t want to be just another name in Draco’s roster of conquests. She wasn’t built for casual. But she’s not ready to fast-track this either. And now she was wondering if she'd hallucinated the way he'd looked at her. Like he was hungry for more. The worst part? She was too. Gods. She splashed water on her face, patted her cheeks dry, and gave her reflection one last look. 

Still glowing radiantly.

Embarrassing.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke with the distinct, stomach-turning realisation that she had just shagged her campaign partner.

In her flat.

On her rug.

And then on her bed after.

She stared at the ceiling, sheets tangled around her waist, mind already racing. Not because she regretted it, but because she didn’t. At all. Which was arguably worse. This wasn’t a lapse in judgement. This was intentional. Enthusiastic. Predestined. But also, professionally disastrous. Possibly unethical. Almost definitely frowned upon in at least three Ministry employee handbooks. And Hermione Granger didn’t do unprofessional. She didn’t miss deadlines. She didn’t botch plans. She didn’t shag her colleagues afterhours and then let them loiter in her kitchen the next morning naked, smug, and freshly fucked. Except apparently, now, she did.

A sound echoed from beyond the bedroom wall. The low hiss of butter on a pan. The soft clink of cutlery. She sat up, one hand dragging over her face. If she looked, he’d be there. Shirtless. Devastatingly handsome. Making breakfast like this was a regular thing they did now. Like it meant something. Which it didn’t. At least not officially. Not yet. Because what would she even call this? A surprise sleepover? A catastrophic success? Merlin. They needed to talk. Set boundaries. Pretend like moaning his name like an animal in heat and coming on his cock weren’t a big deal.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and reached for her bathrobe. At least it buttoned all the way up. A small mercy. She tugged it on, tied the belt in a double knot like it might stop her from saying anything stupid, and stepped out into the hallway. The scent of cinnamon hit her first. Then butter. Then smugness. He was at the stove, shirtless as predicted, with a half-sliced loaf hovering mid-air beside him. His hair was a mess. And his posture was infuriatingly relaxed. 

“Morning,” he said, not turning around.

“I didn’t think you’d stay,” she said, arms still folded like that would help.

That earned her a glance over the shoulder. He looked unfairly good. Like eight hours of sleep had kissed him on the mouth and offered to run him a bath.

“You left me unsupervised,” he said mildly. “Thought I’d try to make up for the structural damage I did to your rug.”

“And you’re making breakfast?”

“French toast,” he corrected. “You liked it the first time.”

She pressed her lips together. Her brain, loyal little monster, immediately supplied the memory of his hands on her breasts, his tongue all over, and the sound she’d made when he—

Nope.

Repress. Reset. Re-engage.

“We should talk,” she said instead.

That made him pause. Just for a second. Then he flipped the slice with an easy flick of his wand. 

“About the toast?”

“About the fact that I shagged my colleague.”

A beat.

“Colleague,” he echoed. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

“It’s what we are.”

He didn’t turn around. “You didn’t seem particularly collegial when you asked me to come inside you.”

Hermione inhaled sharply. “Don’t.”

“Just reminding you.”

“I remember,” she said quietly. Then, firmer: “We’re on a Ministry campaign. This isn’t…we can’t just have a… fling in the middle of it.”

He turned then, finally, a faint smirk ghosting the edge of his mouth like he was debating whether or not to lean into it. But his eyes, they weren’t mocking. They were waiting. Draco watched her tighten the belt of her bathrobe like it was a warding charm. Here it comes. The part where Hermione Granger, ever the archivist, attempted to file away last night into something appropriately labelled. Probably under Incidents, subcategory Ill-Advised. She’d likely assign it a codename, too. Something dull and unsexy like Post-Coital Containment. She was about to build a boundary. He could feel it. But he didn’t blame her. Not really.

He’d known, of course he’d known, that this was coming. Because if there was one thing Hermione Granger didn’t do, it was let things be. No, she catalogued. She dissected. She resolved things the same way she filed paperwork: immediately and efficiently. And yes, fine. Maybe that was one of the things he found hot about her. His sexy little neurotic princess. And her pathological need for closure immediately. She hadn’t even had a bite of toast and she was already overanalysing the implications of him making her breakfast. It was so on-brand of her. But Draco didn’t panic. At least not yet.

Because he knew her. Knew how much trust it must’ve taken for her to let him in at all - literally and metaphorically. He’d seen her flinch at sudden movements. Seen the way she curled around silence like it was armour. The fact that she let him touch her meant something. Even if she wasn’t ready to say it out loud. So now she’d draw her line. Not to end things. Just to give it shape. To convince herself she was still choosing this, not falling into it. And he would let her.

He would, because this was just like after that first kiss in the locker room. She’d pushed him away then, too. Convinced herself it meant nothing. That it was a fluke. An impulse. He half-believed it, if he was honest with himself. She was scared, and cautious, and possibly working through a backlog of personal trauma that would’ve sent most men running. But Draco Malfoy didn’t run. He waited. And as Merlin as his witness, he was going to wait with style.

Just ask Daphne. She’d tell you just how fucking good he was at being patient. If she weren’t sedated half the time. If the grief hadn’t fogged her up so badly she forgot everything he’d done for her. How long he’d stayed. How much of himself he’d shelved just to keep her upright. He knew how to wait. And this? This wasn’t even the hard part. Hermione was still here. Talking to him. Bracing for control. Which meant he was still in the running. Hermione sat down at the table and finally took a bite of his toast.

It was crisp on the edges, soft in the middle, and tasted bloody perfect. Because of course Draco Malfoy, bully turned Quidditch god turned insufferably competent breakfast chef, would be good at this. He couldn’t just be fit and maddening and excellent in bed. No, he also had to know how to caramelise sugar and whisk eggs. She hated him. She took another bite. Draco watched her from across the counter, leaning on one elbow. Like she wasn’t internally cataloguing every part of him - from his bare chest to the exact point where the waistband of his boxers dipped below polite society. Hermione chewed. Swallowed. Cleared her throat.

“We should…slow down.”

That got his attention. “This is about the French toast, isn’t it?”

“I’m being serious.”

“You always are,” he said. “It’s sort of your brand.”

Hermione ignored that. “Last night was…unprofessional.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“And I don’t regret it,” she rushed, before he could twist it into something it wasn’t. “But we work together. Closely. On a very public, very sensitive campaign. And it might get complicated if we don’t…establish boundaries.”

“Are we putting up signs?”

“Draco.”

“What? I just want to know how big this boundary is. Do I need a permit?”

She glared at him, but it lacked real heat. He looked truly sinful leaning against her counter, still golden from sleep and unapologetically smug. Her thighs betrayed her with a twitch of muscle memory. Absolutely not.

“I’m saying,” she continued firmly, “That we should be smart about this. Not label anything. Not rush anything.”

“Was that rushed? Felt rather well-paced to me.”

Hermione ignored the warm flush crawling up her neck. 

“I mean we need to be careful. Conscientious. We’re clearly attracted to each other…but we still have a job to do.”

She paused, stabbing her fork into her toast a little too precisely.

“We haven’t even gone on a single date. No dinner. No romance. Just…straight to sex. And now breakfast. And maybe that’s fine, shagging was inevitable, but it still deserves some thinking through.”

Draco raised a brow. “Would you like a date? We could do that. Let you experience the full Draco Malfoy Dating Masterclass.”

Hermione gave him a look. “No. That’s not what I’m asking for.”

“Thought you said you wanted to date?”

“I’m saying let’s not make this a thing. Let’s not fall into a pattern just because it’s easy. We have to be careful. This has the potential to get very messy, very fast.”

Draco watched her chew, amused. “So, just to clarify. This is you saying maybe to sleeping with me again?”

She swallowed. “Correct. To be determined. If this goes wrong, it won’t just be awkward. It’ll be complicated. And I hate complications.”

“Conditional shagging,” he mused. “What an honour.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Be serious.”

“I am. I’ll behave. No flirting. No touching under tables. Just boundaries and corporate small talk.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Never,” he said, placing another piece of toast on her plate. “I’m just trying to meet your professional standards.”

She eyed the toast. Then him. Then the toast again. She wanted to leap across the counter and strangle him with his necklace. And perhaps lick syrup off his abs. But no. She was Hermione Granger. Poster girl for composure. Keeper of self-respect. She picked up the toast and took another bite. Draco watched her with that infuriating expression - the one that said he knew. That this wasn’t over. That he was already halfway into whatever fortress she thought she’d built around herself. And worse, that he was willing to wait at the gates.

__________

Draco had agreed to the pause. He'd nodded, shrugged, said something appropriately nonchalant like “Whatever you want, Granger” and gone right back to whisking eggs like a man without a care in the world. And that was the moment Hermione should’ve known she was in trouble. Because to Draco Malfoy, pause didn’t mean stop. It meant postpone. It meant she’s going to crack eventually and when she does I will be shirtless and ready. So for the next seven days, Draco made it his mission to seduce her without ever crossing the lines she’d drawn. Technically.

It started with the Reading Glasses Incident. They were reviewing their campaign agenda in Toller’s office at the Ministry when Draco pulled a pair of tortoiseshell half-rims from his coat pocket, slid them on, and began reading aloud in a voice so smooth it might’ve been classified as a potion. Hermione glanced up from her own stack of parchment. Froze. He didn’t need reading glasses. She knew this. He had perfect vision. She even heard him bragging about it once during a mid-game brag-off with a Falmouth Beater.

She squinted at him. “Where did you even get those?”

He didn’t look up. “Fashion is a form of communication, Granger.”

“You look like you’re about to grade my homework.”

“Only if you’ve been very, very naughty.”

She left the room before she did something illegal. The following day, he arrived at their press prep session with his shirt unbuttoned. Not scandalously, just enough to show a dangerous sliver of collarbone and the curve of that gold chain he never took off. 

When she told him to button up, he said, “You told me not to touch you. You said nothing about tasteful exposure.”

On day four, he started stretching. Deliberately. Always and only when she was in the room. They were reviewing schedule grids when Draco leaned back in his chair and let out a long, theatrical stretch, letting his shirt ride up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach and that infuriating dip of his hip bones. Hermione looked up from her notes. Froze. The stretch continued. Purposeful. The kind of motion that screamed Quidditch-trained core and I know exactly what I’m doing, Granger. He made a small, satisfied sound. A sigh. Maybe even a soft groan. Hermione’s quill snapped in her hand.

She cleared her throat. “Do you need a Healer or just constant attention?”

Draco didn’t even open his eyes. “Depends. Can the Healer look at this mole for me?”

She blinked. Had to look away. That mole. She knew exactly which one he meant. Knew where it was. Just above his left hipbone - a little bean-shaped thing she couldn’t unsee. Mostly because she’d spent a full minute staring at it while he was on top of her, fucking her mercilessly into her mattress during round two that night. From the corner of her eye, she saw him smirk, just slightly. Arrogant, petulant bastard. 

By Friday, it wasn’t a game anymore. They were due to meet Desmond. Hermione had darted into the loo to fix her hair, needing to look like she hadn’t slept three hours that morning. Draco waited by her desk, flipping through the campaign folder. He wasn’t planning to do anything. But then he saw them. Her trainers - stuffed just under the coat rack, one heel scuffed down to the foam, the other fraying at the toe. Not even proper work shoes. They were battered, sad things, the kind of shoes that had survived a war and probably a few too many nights spent pacing in thought. 

And maybe it was the silence. Or the morning light. Or the inexplicable fondness that had settled into his chest over the last few weeks like a warm, persistent infection. But before he knew it, his wand was in hand. A shimmer of spellwork. And they were good as new. Hermione emerged a few minutes later, pinning her badge to her blouse and still half-reciting the day’s talking points. She reached for her shoes. Froze. They weren’t supposed to be new. But now they looked it. Stitching repaired. Soles even. Laces replaced. Like someone had taken the battered edges and made them presentable again. Her breath suddenly caught at the uneasy feeling of dèja vu.

Viktor used to “fix” her things all the time. At first, it had felt like affection. Thoughtfulness. The kind of care she’d never had from anyone before. A replaced quill here, a mended shirt there. He always said it was because she worked too hard and deserved nice things. But it didn’t stop. It became constant. Invasive. Controlling. Her favourite chipped teacups vanished. Her jumpers stopped smelling like home. Her desk rearranged itself and became too tidy for her liking. Until slowly, she stopped recognising her own life.

The dresses she wore, the soap she used, the books on her shelves - they had all been “improved” by him. Curated to his liking. Like he was editing her. Because he loved her, he said. Because he couldn’t bear to see her “neglect herself.” That was the word he always used on her. Neglect. Used like an accusation every time she said no. Every time she didn’t want his help. It made her feel ungrateful. Guilty. Like gratitude was the price of peace. So when she saw the transfigured shoes, exactly how she would’ve done it herself, something inside her recoiled. Not because Draco was like him. But because it looked like a ghost of something she thought she’d buried. She stared at the trainers like they might snap shut around her ankles.

“Did you—” she started.

Draco didn’t look up from the folder he was reviewing. “Your shoes were falling apart.”

Her stomach turned, just slightly. He hadn’t asked. He’d just…decided. Chosen for her.

“Oh,” she said.

She didn’t say thanks. Didn’t smile. Just a slight tension in her jaw, like she was trying not to flinch. Draco looked up then. 

“You okay?”

Hermione blinked. Swallowed. “Fine. Just didn’t sleep well.”

He nodded and went back to the folder. She decided to go with another pair.

__________

A week without shagging her was hardly a crisis. Draco wasn’t concerned yet. He’d survived worse. Dry spells. Injury rehabs. The absolute hell of pre-season abstinence obligations. He was nothing if not patient. Strategic. A long-game kind of man. And besides, he wasn’t exactly being denied. Just…deferred. Paused, like a bloody broadcast. Hermione was clearly one bad day and a lonely evening away from climbing him again, and he wasn’t going to rush it. No, he was going to lure her back with his best arsenal: charm, French toast, and deeply unethical levels of athleticism. So when he spotted her on the sidelines during Friday’s Arrows practice, hair pinned up, standing far too close to the Quidditch League regulators, Draco knew what he had to do. Show off.

He tore through the next drill like he was performing for a World Cup audience. Speed, sharp turns, feints that belonged in a season final, not a midweek run. He dropped into a vicious roll and caught the Quaffle one-handed, then pitched it backwards to Flynn without breaking pace. The sky was crisp. The stadium empty apart from the officials. Hermione was watching. And he could feel it. Her gaze. Following him. Tracking him. Good. Let her watch. Let her remember. He dove into a corkscrew spiral, smirked as he passed directly in front of her perch, then angled upward again, just cocky enough to be deliberate. Not enough to get scolded for showboating yet. He was planning a clean wrap-up when something slammed into his right flank.

Griggs.

The Arrows’ Arsehole.

Draco steadied himself mid-air, boots scraping the breeze, broom tilting just off balance before he corrected. He turned slowly, shoulders already tight with anticipation, eyes narrowing beneath the sun glare. Griggs hovered a few feet away, his broom angled low, like a challenge. His sneer was already locked and loaded like he'd been waiting for an excuse. Draco was supposedly the Quidditch League’s problem child, but if anyone deserved that title more, it was Griggs.

“Getting a bit reckless there, Malfoy.”

Draco’s grip tightened around the broom handle. “I was trying to liven things up.”

Their brooms dipped closer. The air between them charged, antagonistic. Griggs always flew too close, spoke too loud, existed like he was itching for someone to break first.

“You’re showing off,” Griggs said, voice oily. “Is it because of that Ministry bint over there?”

“Careful,” Draco warned, low and flat.

Griggs tilted his head, circling just slightly, like a shark testing blood.

“I get it. I’d be distracted too. Wouldn’t mind a go myself, if only she let anyone near her little minge—”

Draco didn’t think.

He moved. No, he lunged.

He shoved Griggs hard across the chest, both hands braced, broom jerking as the impact cracked through the air. Griggs reeled back with a grunt, arms flailing for balance, broomstick wobbling dangerously beneath him. A shrill whistle cut through the air.

“Oi! Enough! ” came Wood’s voice from the far end of the pitch.

Draco heard shouts - Vaisey, Flynn, someone barking his name. He was already wheeling back around, heart hammering. Griggs was baring his teeth, snarling something incoherent as two teammates flew between them, hands raised.

“Are you mad ?” Flynn snapped, yanking Draco back by the arm. “You could’ve sent him into the stands!”

“He was asking for it.”

“He was talking , Malfoy. You don’t get to rearrange someone’s spine every time they piss you off!”

Wood landed hard on the grass below. “That’s it. Five minutes. Both of you. Ground now.”

Draco clenched his jaw but descended, blood still pounding in his ears. From the edge of the pitch, he caught a glimpse of Hermione watching him, looking displeased. Brilliant. Exactly what he needed. Just when he was making progress. Draco stormed off the pitch the moment Wood barked the whistle. He didn’t wait for the debrief. Didn’t look at Griggs again. Didn’t glance at the stands where Hermione stood. He just flew straight to the ground, dismounted hard, and stalked towards the changing rooms - chest heaving, fists twitching like they hadn’t gotten enough of a say. Griggs. Fucking Griggs. The moment replayed in a loop, scorched into his brain. That smug voice. The absolute filth that came out of his mouth.

Draco’s grip tightened. Why did it always come to this? Why did his blood boil every time another man looked at her too long, or said her name like they knew her, or gods forbid implied they could ? It wasn’t even jealousy anymore. It was something more visceral. Something darker. Like his entire body rejected the idea of anyone else talking about her in a non-positive light, diminishing her. He shoved open the changing room door and stalked past the showers, deeper into the lockers. The rage was still there. No way to burn it off now. He turned and punched the metal locker nearest to him. The clang echoed. The locker dented. He exhaled hard, flexing his hand like it would shake the feeling loose.

“Very restrained.”

He froze. Hermione was standing in the doorway, arms folded. Her voice cut like blade - cool, sharp, a little too still.

Fuck.

Draco looked away. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“No,” she said. “Clearly, it’s dangerous. Lockers are being assaulted.”

Draco didn’t look at her. He flexed his hand again, slower this time.

“I didn’t throw a punch, if that’s what you’re about to report,” he muttered. “Still well within the Ministry’s no-brawling clause.”

“You shoved a teammate mid-air during drills. You could’ve injured him.”

“Technically it’s just a forceful directional correction.”

“I’m serious, Draco. That kind of behaviour is exactly what they warned you about. Your contract has terms. You breach them and you’re out. No Quidditch, no campaign, nothing.”

Draco rolled his eyes and dropped onto the bench, head tilted back against the locker. 

“Is this the part where you write me up? Or do I just get another one of your inspirational monologues about public accountability?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Mock me. Like it doesn’t matter.” Her voice was firmer now, more tired than angry. “Because it does matter. Not just for the campaign. For us.”

That caught him off-guard. Slightly. Hermione took a step closer, her arms still crossed tightly over her chest.

“I’m trying,” she said. “To believe this thing between us could work. To believe you’ve changed. And most of the time, I do. But then you let your temper get the best of you. You snap. You lash out. And I…”

Her throat closed, just a little.

“I just…I can’t help but feel like I’m back in the past. Not again. I won’t survive it a second time.”

Draco looked at her then. Hermione held his gaze. 

“I’m not saying you’re like him. You’re not. But when you get like that…aggressive and physical…it reminds me of him. And I don’t want to be near that again.”

Her mind felt split, thoughts running two tracks at once: Be fair. Be rational. Don’t punish him for someone else’s crimes and Run, before you forget what it felt like to flinch every time a man raised his voice. Because Draco wasn’t Viktor. But there was something about the dented locker. The way his face twisted with rage when he stormed out of the pitch. The seething, the clenched fists. It reminded her too much of her past. Even if Draco’s anger wasn’t directed at her. Even if it came from somewhere else entirely. She wasn’t making a comparison. But she was tracing a shadow.

Draco blinked. Right. So that was the line. Not a rejection. Not an accusation. Just a perfectly reasonable boundary from a woman who’d seen more than she ever should’ve. He understood. Still stung like a bastard, though. Not because she was wrong. Because he knew she wasn’t. He’d dented a locker with his fist. For Salazar’s sake. Of course her mind had gone there. Of course she’d seen the crack of metal and thought, Ah, another Krum variant. The one who caused damage. Who made her forget she was the brightest witch of their age. And here he was. Shoving people mid-air. Attacking equipment. Brooding in a locker room like a walking red flag. 

“Right,” he said at last. “So. No more locker abuse in front of the boss.”

Hermione didn’t smile. Which was fair. Still. He got it. He really did. He wasn’t angry at her for drawing the comparison. He was angry at himself for being so easy to misread. Or maybe for making it that easy at all. Draco exhaled slowly. He hadn’t expected her to say that. Not because she didn’t have a reason. She did. Hell, if he’d seen someone lose their temper, dent a locker, go stone-silent the way he had, he’d be wary too. Especially with her history.

But hearing it? Hearing her admit that he was the one reminding her of someone who used to hurt her? That lodged somewhere deep. Somewhere old. Somewhere he didn’t like to look. He doesn’t regret what he did though. He wouldn’t take it back. Griggs had earned the shove ten times over. And if Draco had to do it again, he would - no questions asked. But he wasn’t stupid. He could connect the dots. Punching anything wasn’t exactly confidence-inspiring behaviour. He looked at Hermione. No sarcasm now. No posturing.

“I’m not him,” he said quietly. “But I get why it felt close. I get why you’d want to draw a line.”

She didn’t look away.

“I can’t promise I won’t get angry, Granger. I’m working on it, but I can’t pretend I’m always going to be perfectly composed.”

A beat.

“But I can promise I won’t hurt you.”

That hung in the air between them. Hermione’s gaze softened, just slightly. But inside, something gnawed at her. Viktor had promised not to hurt her then too. He’d said it tearfully, sometimes right after doing the opposite. He’d said it so many times that the words meant nothing to her anymore. A recycled script. An empty oath. Hermione brushed it off. Not because she didn’t want to believe Draco but because belief wasn’t enough. Promises were just words. She needed proof. She stepped back, squaring her shoulders like she was sealing it all away into some logical little vault where her feelings couldn’t scramble things.

“We have three months left,” she said.

“What?” he asked, blinking.

“Until the campaign ends. And until then, we keep it professional. Clear boundaries. No entanglements that might compromise our work…or my judgement.”

She hadn’t meant for it to get this far. Had told herself it was fine to want him, fine to give in once, maybe even again. But she can’t deny that there were harmless moments where she felt a seed of doubt and she didn’t know why. Where she caught herself reacting not to Draco, but to a version of him that didn’t exist. A bad memory. A shadow from her past. Something she’d worked too hard to leave behind. She looked at him evenly. She knew he wasn’t Viktor. Knew Draco had always been like this when she started working with him. But still. Her instincts were too fucked up now, tangled up with old wounds that hadn’t fully healed.

“After the contract ends, then we can revisit it. Revisit us. If it still feels right.”

Draco’s mouth began to curve but stopped. Trust Hermione Granger to phrase their attraction like a scheduling issue. “Revisit it.” Like they were tabling their relationship for a Ministry follow-up. Still, she was letting him in, just a crack. She’d drawn her line, and it wasn’t out of coldness. It was fear. History. And maybe the fact that she still didn’t trust what she felt around him. He hated that. Hated that someone had made her feel like wanting something was dangerous. But if it came down to it - between proving he wanted something more than sex and proving he was safe - he knew which one mattered more. And he’d do both.

“I’ll wait, Granger,” he said. “For as long as you need.”

He stepped past her, just enough that his voice brushed her shoulder.

“But don’t think for a second I’ll stop wanting you.”

Chapter Text

Hermione dragged the comb through her hair mechanically. Today was her first public event post-boundary-setting. Post-don’t-remind-me-of-my-ex-while-I’m-fancying-you. Which meant she had approximately ten minutes to emotionally and spiritually prepare for seeing Draco Malfoy in broad daylight and pretending that she hadn’t seen him in no daylight at all, inside of her, making her sound like someone who should've been fined for public indecency. She dabbed on lip balm and studied herself in the mirror. She looked fine. Composed. Like someone who definitely hadn’t told the wizarding world’s most infamous Chaser to keep it in his trousers for the next three months. She was not, however, feeling fine. Not because she regretted setting the boundary and suggesting to slow things down. She didn’t. It had been the smart thing to do. But now came the tricky part: execution. Because they still had to see each other. Constantly.

And what then? Was she supposed to pretend they hadn’t almost accidentally set fire to her living room rug? She sighed. It would be easier if she hated him. If he were still the smug, insufferable wanker from their first meeting. The one who told the Daily Prophet he “wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be healing, actually.” But that Draco had been replaced. Or at least...complicated. Because now he made her laugh. Would brighten her day. He corrected signage at events because the font was “a hate crime.” He would rearrange charity flower stands because “the symmetry was making his eye twitch.” He always warned her if the wine was too pedestrian. He physically shielded her everytime photographers swarmed too close. He made a point to learn the names of junior Ministry staff, then forgot the names of actual department heads just to piss them off. She liked having him around. Too much, probably. She capped her eyeliner with a snap and muttered to herself in the mirror.

“Here’s hoping I don’t completely fuck this up.”

Draco, elsewhere, was thinking much the same thing. He adjusted the cuffs of his robes. Right. Day One of celibate professionalism. He was determined to do it well. Not just for her. Though, fine, yes, mostly for her. But also for the personal challenge. He’d been benched, emotionally speaking. Benched with dignity, though. It wasn’t a rejection - it was a recalibration. Fine. He could do this. No overstepping. No casually asking if she was free after events. No brushing his hand against hers. He’d follow her rules. Serve the time. Like a very sexy prison sentence. All manageable. He’d spent his entire adolescence performing emotional restraint to avoid getting hexed by his own father, or being Avada’d by the Dark Lord. This was just a different audience. And anyway, he understood why. She wasn’t shutting him out. She was asking for proof that he was safe. And if that meant playing it slow, he’d do it. Because it wasn’t about winning her back. He wasn’t trying to trick her into anything. He just knew she needed to see improvement. And he planned to give it to her in spades. Let the campaign of restraint begin. 

The grand opening of The Fourth Broomstick was their latest campaign appearance - a Ministry-endorsed launch of Madam Rosmerta’s new cafe concept, meant to spotlight post-war entrepreneurship and the “resilience of wizarding hospitality.” Hermione had written the tagline herself. She regretted it deeply. She and Draco had been touring every wizard-owned shop, stall, and startup with a vaguely inspirational origin story. Today’s spotlight: a rosier, fancier cousin to The Three Broomsticks, complete with ambient jazz music and self-sorting scone towers.

Hermione stood near the welcome archway, smiling like she meant it, posture perfect, hands clasped just so. Cameras flashed. Guests murmured. She’d already shaken fourteen hands and complimented two pairs of shoes. She was braced for Draco to be late. Or brooding. Or both. Instead, he was… suspiciously chipper. Across the room, he was actively mingling. Not just tolerating people, but engaging with them. Smiling, nodding, helping an elderly wizard adjust his monocle. He conjured a cushion for a child trying to reach the biscuit bar, then offered her a napkin.

Hermione squinted. He shook Rosmerta’s hand and bowed. Bowed , before complimenting her ribbon bunting like he hadn’t once Imperiused her into attempted murder. Was he possessed? She watched as he reorganised a messy stack of menus. Just weeks ago he threatened to walk out of a presser because the lighting “felt hostile.” This version of him was positively eerie. He caught her watching him. Then winked at her. Hermione immediately redirected her attention to the nearest teacake. She refused to be charmed. He then started approaching her, moving through the room like it had been arranged for him, which, knowing him, he probably believed. He came to stand beside her, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting a battalion.

“Did you suggest the decor?” he asked. “Very subtle. Hardly noticed the thirty floating ribbons.”

“I assume that’s your idea of praise.”

“I meant it as a backhanded compliment. But take it how you like.”

She sipped her coffee. “I saw you rearranging the dessert trays.”

“They were crooked.”

“Yes, but with character.”

“They looked like a Weasley had set them.”

Hermione fought a smile. “And you, of course, couldn’t abide the chaos.”

“I’ve endured an evil serpent-looking wizard, Granger. I draw the line at lopsided pastries.”

A beat passed.

Then he added, more lightly, “Madam Rosmerta’s forgiven me, if you’re wondering.”

“Whatever for? Imperiusing her and sending a cursed necklace to a student?”

He inclined his head. “That particular indiscretion, yes.”

“She’s alright with that, is she?”

“I apologised personally. Years ago.”

That made her pause. He didn’t sound glib. There was no trace of irony or defensiveness, no demand for credit. Just a simple offering of fact.

“I went looking for her. Repented. Paid reparations. Offered to answer for it, if she wanted.”

“And she didn’t?”

“She said she’d rather not think about it. But I gave her the choice.”

She nodded once. “Fair.”

He raised a brow. “That’s all I get?”

“I’m choosing not to reward you for basic decency.”

“Pity. I was hoping for a bit of fanfare.”

“Sorry,” she said dryly. “I left my balloons and banners at home.”

His mouth quirked. “Next time, then.”

Of course, it couldn’t just be a ribbon-cutting and polite wave to the press. No, they had to sample things. “Engage with the menu,” Rosmerta had said cheerfully, already ushering them to the tasting table with a tray full of coffee cups in every imaginable shade of madness. Apparently, smiling and sipping for five seconds wasn’t enough. They had to drink. Comment. Pose. Repeat. Hermione had lost count by cup six. Draco was on his eighth by the time he muttered, “If I die of heart failure, tell the Daily Prophet it was murder.” Hermione was too jittery to reply. Her left eye had started twitching somewhere between the espresso foam and the cinnamon-infused thunderbrew. The cafe offered fifteen different types of coffee, and they were trying all of them.

“Alright, what’s this one?” Draco asked, eyeing the latest cup like it might bite him.

“Pixie-roast dark blend with a whisper of peppermint,” said the barista.

Draco took a sip and grimaced. “It’s whispering lies.”

Hermione choked on a laugh and reached for a miniature tart to stabilise her blood sugar. Bad idea. It was filled with something labelled spiced plum and starlight. They smiled through the pastry course, too. Four types of croissants. Butterbeer éclairs. Two varieties of scones. Some kind of mocha-glazed crumpet that Draco quietly pushed off the plate like it was cursed. Hermione’s hands were visibly shaking now. Her brain was running at an alarming speed, mostly thinking about death by overdose. Rosmerta beamed at them from the counter.

“Only two more blends to go!”

Hermione and Draco nodded in unison - two twitching husks clinging to consciousness through sheer spite. After the event that consisted of fifteen cups of various caffeinated crimes, Hermione and Draco sat on a bench just outside, twitching like wind-up toys left in the rain. Her left hand kept spasming. Draco looked like he’d achieved astral projection.

Then Hermione said, quietly, “Thanks for not making it awkward or difficult. Today.”

Draco glanced at her. “You mean aside from the part where I vibrated through a chair and possibly time itself?”

She huffed a laugh, then added more seriously, “I meant…between us.”

He held her gaze, the corner of his mouth tugging upward.

“It never feels awkward,” he said quietly. “Not with you.”

Their hands were close enough to touch.

They didn’t.

__________

After the event, Hermione decided to drop by Flourish and Blotts. She told herself it was just to browse, maybe skim a few new editions on defensive enchantments. But mostly, she needed somewhere quiet to recalibrate her brain. Harry happened to be nearby, loitering outside Sugarplum’s with half-melted ice cream and the vague air of someone on unofficial patrol. So they met up for a bit. He spotted her by the display window and waved, then fell into step beside her as they wandered inside the bookshop. Hermione made straight for the upper levels - defensive enchantments, curse barriers, warding theory - while Harry trailed behind her, bumping into displays and knocking over a rotating shelf of protective amulets.

“Sorry! Sorry,” he muttered, catching a spinning amulet as it nearly took out a display of pensieve extract kits.

Hermione pretended not to notice. She was already nose-deep in a particularly dusty tome on layered perimeter wards. She didn’t need another book on the subject. Her shelves were full. But sometimes she liked to find excerpts. Reread diagrams. Take notes she’d never use. It calmed her. Made her feel like her brain was something she could tame. Especially when her emotions refused to follow suit. Especially when a certain six-foot-two blond man had decided to behave like a functioning adult. Harry wandered back over with a book that looked suspiciously like it was from the hobby spellwork section. 

“What do you think of this one for Ginny? It’s, er, how to hex people safely. Subtle spells, like partial eyebrow loss.”

Hermione looked up. “As a romantic gift? She’d love it.”

Hermione smiled and turned a page, trying not to think about Draco Malfoy smiling over coffee. Or bowing. Or very pointedly not flirting, which had somehow made everything worse.

“So…how’s it going with Malfoy?” Harry blurted.

“What?”

“You know. Malfoy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Harry hummed. “Right. Just your campaign partner. Who you definitely don’t fancy. Despite what the Daily Prophet photos clearly suggest.”

Hermione frowned. “What photos?”

“Oh, you haven’t seen them?” he said, far too casually. “It’s nothing. Just you and Malfoy, standing far too close. Looking at each other like you're either about to snog or duel.”

Hermione’s ears went pink. “That’s absurd. We’re professionals.”

“Mhmm.”

She sighed. Marked her page. “Fine. We’ve…complicated things a bit. Temporarily. There was a moment.”

“A moment.”

“A series of moments.”

Harry raised a brow. “Go on.”

She waved a hand. “It’s under control. I’ve set boundaries.”

“Mmhm.”

“There’s nothing happening now. It’s paused.”

“Sure.”

“And even when there was something, it was just physical.”

Harry made a noncommittal sound. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not looking. I’m wincing in advance.”

She rolled her eyes and muttered, “It was one time. Maybe twice. Possibly on the floor.”

Harry choked on his breath. “Hermione—!”

“Well, you asked!”

“I asked how it was going, not details!”

They both went silent, surrounded by several centuries’ worth of spellbooks. A beat passed. Harry shifted, one hand tugging at the edge of his sleeve.

“I just want you to be alright,” he said. “After everything with…you know. It wasn’t easy watching you come out of that. And if this Malfoy thing is real, I just want you to be careful. But also happy.”

Hermione didn’t speak for a moment. Her fingers pressed lightly against the spine of a book.

“I’m trying to be both,” she said. “But it’s hard to know which one to trust.”

Harry gave her a soft look. “You don’t have to know yet.”

Then he added, with a small shrug, “I’ll be in England for the foreseeable future, by the way. So if you ever want me to wear the ring again, I can.”

The offer hung in the air.

Hermione smiled. “Thanks, Harry.”

“Always,” he said. Then, after a pause: “Just…keep the floor shagging out of my updates.”

She rolled her eyes. “That was one time.”

“Still too many.”

Later on, Harry had to leave in a hurry. Some last-minute shift change and something to do with smuggled Basilisk fangs.

He squeezed her arm before he left. “Try not to spiral too hard.”

“I don’t spiral,” Hermione muttered.

Harry gave her a look, then Disapparated with a soft pop , leaving her to linger in the peace of her favourite corner upstairs. She stayed for a while, poring over tomes on perimeter enchantments and magical surveillance theory, scribbling half-thoughts and references into the margin of her notebook like it might help her untangle the thing in her chest. The Malfoy-shaped problem. Eventually, she packed up and left the shop, notebook tucked under her arm, the late afternoon light soft against the cobblestones.

Diagon Alley was crowded. Children out for sweets, witches queueing outside Twilfitt and Tatting’s, shopkeepers calling out sales from their doorways. Hermione weaved through the crowd, focused on her footing, her path, her breath. Then she passed the narrow mouth of Knockturn Alley and stopped cold.

A familiar figure.

Just for a second.

Tall. Muscular. Maybe facial hair. A flash of a dark coat. She couldn’t be sure. He was gone before she could look properly, swallowed up by the crowd or the shadows or both. Not even a clear glimpse of his face. Her stomach dipped. Breath caught.

No. It couldn’t be.

She shook her head. Perhaps she’d had too much caffeine. That’s the only reason. He wouldn’t be here. He had no business to do here. Nothing will happen. Her grip tightened around her notebook, and kept walking.

Just shadows.

Just jitters.

She didn’t look back.

__________

Draco went to a mind healer. No press. No Quidditch League officials. No Pansy dragging him by the collar. Just him. On his own. In a moderately ugly office in muggle-adjacent London that smelled lemony. They talked about his anger. His tendency to see red before he saw reason. The difference between instinct and impulse. Grief. Guilt. Things he usually avoided by flying very fast or drinking very frequently. He didn't hate it. In fact, by the end of the session, he wondered why he’d put it off for so long. It wasn’t like it had solved anything on the spot but something about being able to say things aloud and not have them thrown back at him felt…oddly tolerable. Maybe even useful. He thought he might go again. Not that he told anyone.

Meanwhile, he’d taken Granger’s pause as more of a tactical delay than a ceasefire. The rules had changed, not the goal. He didn’t flirt. Didn’t push. Didn’t stare too long at her mouth. Instead, he was relentlessly pleasant. He offered her the better quill during meetings. Corrected press typos in her favour. Summoned her favourite tea at the exact right temperature before every campaign event. She never asked, and he never explained how he knew.

At a Merfolk language panel, he pretended he already knew all the dialects just so she’d correct him because when she got pedantic, she forgot to be guarded. He told himself it was about consistency. Strategy. Charm her without charming her. Prove he could be in her life without setting it on fire. He kept things light. Kept his hands to himself. And yet, he noticed every time she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t watching. Every time her fingers hovered too long near his sleeve. Every time she laughed in spite of herself. She was trying not to want him. And he was perfectly fine waiting until she lost.

In fact, Draco could already see the fruits of his labour. Hermione had been fidgety all morning. Kept pushing her hair behind her ear, even when it wasn’t in her face. Her hands lingered at the edge of the table longer than necessary. She’d even spilled tea on herself and then giggled like a lunatic, which was not a thing Hermione Granger did unless something was bothering her, like that unfortunate time when Desmond Toller’s mustache was trimmed unevenly. Clearly, she was on the verge. He gave it two days, three at most, before she’d crack and drag him back to her flat for a “debriefing.” Possibly on her dining table this time. 

By the time they wrapped their joint briefing with Toller today, Draco was all but pre-scheduled for a snog. They stepped out into one of the quieter corridors near Level Three - lamplit, echoing, mostly deserted. Just the two of them. Hermione turned to him. She looked…pink-cheeked. Nervous. Eyes determined, mouth parted like she was about to say something bold and reckless. She stepped closer. Draco braced. This was it. This was the moment. He casually adjusted his collar and prepared his mouth for the second-best kiss of his life, after the last one. She drew a deep breath.

“I think I need the ring back,” she blurted.

It didn’t register at first. Perhaps he heard wrong. Perhaps she'd meant something else. Like I think I need a drink , or I think I need you back , or I think I need to be horizontal again, just to reassess my life choices. But no. She was looking at him with that particular kind of strained composure she reserved for awkward press questions.

Draco blinked. “What?”

Hermione didn’t waver. “I just think…it might be best if Harry wore it again.”

For a moment, all Draco heard was the soft hum of the corridor lamps. The ring on his finger suddenly felt heavier than it had all week. He hadn’t taken it off since she’d given it to him. Not even in his sleep. And yes, fine, she did say up front it was only a temporary thing. He’d known then not to get attached to the ring. Still. This felt uncalled for. He didn’t ask if something had happened. He didn’t accuse. Because she looked like she’d already convinced herself this was reasonable. And because, for all his certainty she’d come back to him eventually, this felt different. This felt like being shut out of the house before he even knew the door had closed. He stared at her. She didn’t look angry. She didn’t look cold, even. Just…resolute. Not personal, his arse. 

“Harry’s staying in England for a while. He offered. And…it just makes more sense to give it back to him.”

She didn’t mean to hurt him. That wasn’t the point. It wasn’t about trust. It wasn’t about fear. She wasn’t afraid of him. But they’d drawn lines now. Draco processed it all in silence. Fine. He could agree it was more logical to give it to Potter, her best mate, the Boy Who Lived Twice, and an Auror to boot. But that didn’t mean it didn’t sting him. Because it wasn’t about the ring. It was about what it meant. That she’d let him wear it in the first place. And now, what? Back to the safe option? He almost said something stupid. Something bitter. But she was looking at him with that wide, honest gaze - the one that made it impossible to lie to himself. So he nodded.

“If that’s what you want.”

She nodded too. Her hands were folded tightly in front of her.

“I just think…if we’re really keeping it professional, then you shouldn’t be the one I turn to if a crisis happens. It complicates things, doesn’t it? Drawing boundaries, but still keeping you in the most personal role I can give someone? That would be unfair to you.”

Draco said nothing. Because the worst part? She was right. And he hated that it still felt like a loss. But he wasn’t angry. He was disappointed. Quietly, deeply. The ring had been consent. A choice. And now she was revoking it. She had every right to. Didn’t mean it didn’t leave a mark. Draco looked down at his hand. The band sat there, ordinary and bright. Then he looked at her for a long moment, like he was parsing what this really meant. Not just the ring, but everything that had come with it. Then, with calmness, he slipped it off his finger. Hermione accepted it carefully, her fingers brushing his. The band felt warm in her palm.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice softer now. “For giving me space. To think. To…work things out.”

“I told you I’d wait,” he muttered. “And I will.”

She blinked, uncertain. Then his voice dropped lower, almost gentle like a whisper.

“But I’ll say it again, Granger. I’ll still be here, in your orbit, until you realise there’s nowhere else you want me.”

Hermione’s gut clenched on instinct. Old wiring. The part of her that used to go into fight or flight mode when Viktor said “forever” like it was a threat. When not leaving meant not letting go. But Draco wasn’t doing that. He’d given her space when she asked. And now, he’d also given her back the ring. This wasn’t a promise with strings. It was just a fact. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He wasn’t trying to scale her walls. He was just sitting outside, waiting for her to open the bloody door. And if she did, she couldn’t blame anyone but herself. Draco didn’t wait for her reply and walked away. Shoulders straight. Ringless hand loose at his side as if it hadn’t cost him anything to let go. Even though it had. 

But that didn’t mean he was done.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat alone at her kitchen table, legs tucked under her dressing gown, the ring balanced in the centre of her palm like it was weighing her down. Unassuming. Innocuous. It shouldn’t have meant anything. And yet it did. Because of who it had belonged to last. Because of how quiet he’d been when she asked for it back. She should’ve given it to Harry by now. That was the whole point of asking for it back. He was her best friend. The original wearer. And an actual Auror, which felt relevant. There were no complicated ties with Harry. No history to chew on like gristle. Just straightforward protection, zero emotional residue.

She told herself she was waiting for the right time. For the moment to feel less loaded. But the truth was: she didn’t know why she hadn’t sent it yet. Maybe it was the way Draco had looked at her when she took it. Like she’d peeled something open in him just to let it bruise. Maybe that was what had unsteadied her. Letting him keep it would’ve complicated things. You couldn’t tell someone to put a pin in whatever existed between you and then mark them as your emergency contact in case a deranged ex showed up. If she wasn’t going to give Draco a place in her life, she couldn’t keep him on retainer for emergencies. That’s not how her boundaries worked. She stared at the ring a moment longer, then reached for parchment. She wrote a short note to Harry. She tied the ring inside, sealed it, and summoned the owl before she could second-guess herself again.

__________

Meanwhile, somewhere in the sky, Draco Malfoy was determined to beat gravity into submission. The clouds above the Appleby Arrows’ pitch was iron-grey, threatening with looming stormclouds. Wind howled through the stands like a challenge. His teammates grumbled. Someone asked if this was even regulation weather. Draco didn’t care, though. The drill was brutal. Vertical climbs followed by tight corkscrews and a dive through a moving ring no wider than a barrel hoop. Ten reps. Draco pushed into the climb. He needed the burn. The strain. Because what he didn’t need was to think about the ring Hermione had taken back with a strained thank you. He didn’t want her gratitude. He wanted her trust back. But for now, he had another opponent: the air and the weight of a broomstick fighting against velocity. He’d land every turn. Outfly every bastard on this pitch. Then, maybe then, he’d figure out how to win her back. 

Draco banked into another spiral, wind cutting at his cheeks. Drills. Form. Control. He didn’t need clarity, he needed altitude. That was the point. He was halfway through another climb when the shouting started. Not the usual barking from Wood. It was something more chaotic and heated. Draco twisted on his broom and scanned the pitch. A cluster of players had broken formation. Two of them were circling each other mid-air, barking insults. Shoving. In the middle, of course, was Griggs. Face red, voice raised, like it was a personal hobby to destroy team morale before every match. For a brief moment, Draco considered ignoring it. Let someone else play referee. But then a punch was thrown. And another. For fuck’s sake. Draco shot towards them, angling hard. He wasn’t here to babysit. He didn’t want a part in any of it. All he wanted was to train, to work, to keep his head down and do something that wasn’t falling apart for once.

“Oi!” he shouted, cutting through the wind. “Knock it off! We’ve got a match coming up!”

They didn’t listen. Griggs was snarling something at a Beater, who looked about ready to launch his bat at his skull. Two teammates tried to wedge themselves between them. One member grabbed a shoulder. Another yanked their broom sideways. Someone’s elbow swung too wide, or maybe it was the end of a bat; Draco couldn’t tell. But something hard slammed into the rear end of his broom and everything tilted. Just a nudge. Just enough to throw off the balance. He adjusted, shifted his weight. Except the broom didn’t cooperate. It twitched again beneath him. Draco’s hands tightened around the handle. He leaned into the motion. Realised, half a second too late, that leaning only made it worse. The front pitched forward. And then, nothing. No resistance. No air under his feet. No broom beneath his thighs. Just space. That surreal, disorienting beat where your body registers what’s happening before your brain can.

Oh.

And then he was falling. Not slipping. Not gliding. Not descending with any kind of grace. Just plummeting. Full-force, dead drop, like a puppet with its strings cut. The wind howled past his ears. The pitch swelled up beneath him, cruel and fast and unforgiving. Somewhere above, the shouting hadn’t stopped. But Draco couldn’t hear any of it. All he could see was a blur of green, and Griggs’ dumb fucking face getting smaller overhead. And then, impact.

__________

Hermione was halfway through the east wing of the Ministry, on her way to requisitions for her monthly refill of quills and parchment, her only reliable indulgence, when she heard the unmistakable sound of something unnatural: Desmond Toller sprinting. Sprinting. Which was, in itself, deeply suspicious. Desmond didn’t sprint. Desmond barely walked with intent. The only times she’d seen him move at a pace faster than “leisurely” were when someone mentioned cauldron cakes in the break room or when the lifts were out and he refused to take the stairs out of principle. So when he came barrelling towards her, red-faced and huffing like a steam engine, she instinctively backed a step.

“Desmond?” she blinked, half-alarmed, half-bracing herself. “What on earth—?”

“Granger,” he wheezed, grabbing a nearby column to steady his soul. “It’s Malfoy.”

Her body stilled. Her stomach did something unpleasant.

“What about Malfoy?”

Toller sucked in a dramatic breath.

“He’s at St. Mungo’s. Took a bad fall. During training.” A gasping inhale. “Some kind of brawl. Don’t know the full details. Word is he’s fighting for his life.”

Hermione’s mouth opened. Closed. The stack of scrolls in her arms slipped free and scattered to the floor like startled pigeons.

“No,” she whispered.

She didn’t even hear his follow-up. Something about how technically he hadn’t seen the fall, and maybe fighting for his life was a touch dramatic. But she was already gone. Now she was the one sprinting. Shoes pounding against the corridor. Towards the floo network. Her heart somewhere near her throat. No. No, no, no. Not like this. Not him. Hermione burst out of the floo into St. Mungo’s and nearly lost her footing on the hearthstone. She righted herself with a hand against the nearest wall, soot streaking her fingers, breath shallow and ragged. Her heart was pounding in a way that made her feel sick. Like it had skipped the panic and gone straight to survival mode. The reception area blurred. 

She spotted a mediwitch in passing, caught a sleeve, and gasped, “Draco Malfoy. Quidditch accident. Where is he?”

The mediwitch blinked at her, startled. “Magical Accidents and Injuries. Room 412.”

Hermione didn’t thank her. She was already gone. She couldn’t think. Every corridor she passed narrowed behind her like a tunnel. Her ears roared. Her legs were moving too fast for the rest of her to keep up. She ran like she was being chased by a Basilisk. Down one corridor, then another, her clothes catching on corners, shoes slipping slightly on polished stone. Every Healer she passed blurred into motion. The walls tilted. The floor didn’t feel entirely real beneath her. Draco. Please, not Draco. Anyone but him.

She hadn’t told him a single thing that mattered. Not that her day always moved faster when he was around, even when he was being deliberately difficult. Especially when he was being deliberately difficult. Not that she’d come to rely on him in invisible ways - how he’d learned to read a room like a map and always knew exactly when to step forward and take the hit, or step back and let her lead. How he always had some snide comment that made her snort at the worst possible moments - during speeches, photo ops, the bloody Wizenagamot luncheon. She hadn’t told him how much she’d noticed. The way he’d turn up early and act like he hadn’t. That he never took the floo directly inside events anymore, just so she wouldn’t have to arrive alone. She hadn’t told him she was proud. Quietly, stupidly proud of how he’d handled himself these past few months. Even when no one was watching. 

And now she might never get the chance. Because there had been a brawl. Another fucking brawl. When he knew what that word did to her. When he looked her in the eye and said he got it. That he understood. She didn’t know if she was furious or terrified or both so tightly wound together they’d become indistinguishable. Her hands trembled. Her lungs burned. The stairs blurred beneath her. If he died, if he was…she bit down on the thought like it might bite back. She couldn’t lose him. She wouldn’t know how to handle it. In fact, she was certain she wouldn’t survive it. She can’t do grief like this again. Not after the war, not after everything she'd already clawed her way back from. She couldn’t fill another void inside her chest. In his shape. There was no space left for that. 

And then the corridor came into view. A crowd clustered outside his room - press, Quidditch League staff, a few Arrows members. The hushed murmuring of people waiting for a headline. It made her sick. She didn’t stop to think. She didn’t stop at all. She shoved through the wall of them like a spellfire had caught behind her, like stopping would mean sinking. Her hand hit the door. And then she was inside. He was sitting up.

Not unconscious. Not bloodied beyond recognition. Not clinging to the last threads of his soul like Desmond had suggested. Dishevelled, bruised, and looking like he’d lost a fight with a Bludger gang, but very much alive. His left arm was in a sling, his right leg elevated and splinted at an awkward angle. There was a jagged slash down one cheek, still crusted red where the Skele-Gro hadn’t finished its work. A bandage wrapped around his temple, and he looked like the ghost of himself. Pale and battered, but his eyes were open. And fixed on her like he wasn’t quite sure she was really here. For a moment, neither of them moved. Hermione’s breath hitched somewhere between her ribs. Her body didn’t know whether to collapse or scream. Too many strong emotions surged at once, elbowing each other for dominance. 

Relief. 

Anger. 

Worry. 

And most of all, fear. 

She didn’t know which one to surface first. But when her gaze dropped to his battered frame, all the gauze, the ruined hang of his uniform, her blood boiled. Because she’d thought he was dying. Dead, even. She’d run through hospital corridors and grabbing mediwitches thinking she'd already lost him. All because of another brawl . Some stupid, reckless fight that could’ve taken him away before she could even admit that she liked him. Sure, she had drawn a line. But he’d nearly died anyway. Anger it is, then. Anger she could do.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” she snapped, voice too loud for the quiet room. “Do you have some kind of death wish, or are you just pathologically wired to turn every situation into a catastrophe?”

She stepped closer to his bed, glaring, because it was easier than admitting she’s having a meltdown because she thought he was dead. 

“A brawl, Malfoy? Again? You promised. Do you even remember saying that? Or was that just a charming lie to get me off your back?”

Her breath caught and twisted, but she kept going. “Look at you. You could’ve died! And for what? Bragging rights? Your goddamn ego? Grow up!”

She stared at him - bandaged, bruised, breathing - and felt her heart clench hard enough to ache. Her insides twisted at the sight of his nearly mangled state. It only fueled her anger and frustration more. 

“You say you’re trying. You smile at reporters, you show up to events, you sign autographs like it means something. Like you’re not the same reckless, self-destructive idiot who thinks throwing punches is a personality trait.”

She was shaking now, barely blinking, fury laced with something far more brittle.

“You talked about being better, about proving people wrong. This is what you call progress? Ending up at St. Mungo’s because you still can’t walk away when it counts?”

The silence that followed rang in her ears.

“I don’t even know why I came,” she added, quieter now. “You clearly don’t care what happens to you.”

Draco didn’t move. Not when she stormed in. Not when she started shouting. Not even when her voice cracked on you could’ve died. He just sat there, bruised and aching, and let every harsh word crash over him like a second impact. Quieter, but no less painful. He’d imagined this type of scenario. Gods, he’d fantasised about her coming to him after an accident. Her showing up at the hospital, flushed with concern. Telling him off, sure, but very gently. With trembling hands. Maybe even shedding a tear or two. Maybe sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching for his hand, calling him an idiot affectionately.

But this? This was not that. This was her “unmasked” voice. Her eyes blazing and unforgiving. Her mouth shaping words like your goddamn ego and is this what you call progress like they were curses. Like she meant them. And it shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. But it did. Fuck, it did. Because he had been trying. Not performatively. Not even for her, exactly. He’d been holding his tongue. Smiling when he wanted to scream. Going to every bloody community engagement. Seeing a mind healer. Keeping his fists to himself - except once, and not even at a person. And this time, he hadn’t been involved in a single altercation. He’d tried to stop it. But none of that mattered now.

Not when she looked at him like that. Like he was already a lost cause to her. He could’ve told her the truth. Could’ve explained. But what would be the point? He didn’t want to sound like he was begging for credit for common decency. Like he was angling for her sympathy. She already saw a hopeless man who would never be good enough. And gods, maybe she was right. Maybe he was the idiot who’d always fuck things up. He looked at her - hair wild, eyes wild, everything wild - and felt something splinter inside his ribs. She was incandescent. And principled. And so angry. Not because she hated him. But because she had cared. But now she was furious that she ever did. He swallowed. His throat ached.

“I think I need to rest now,” he said weakly.

And for the first time in weeks, he meant it. His gaze dropped to the blanket stretched over his lap, and his fingers tightened faintly around the fabric.

“You’re right. I’ve made enough of a mess today.”

He didn’t look up at her again and tucked himself in. He was exhausted and in pain, physically and mentally. He no longer snapped back. Didn’t even blink like he was bracing for another round. Just shifted slightly, like the conversation was over and he was opting out. Hermione stood there, waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure. A sarcastic comment. A scoff. Some sharp-edged retort she could volley back and feel justified about. But nothing came. No fire. No flash of arrogance. No bite. He didn’t even glare at her.

Which was...odd. Draco Malfoy didn’t shut down like that. He’d sooner detonate the room than let someone admonish him. But he’d looked like he couldn’t be arsed. Like she’d dropped a weight he wasn’t going to bother picking up. Her spine stayed straight. Her fists stayed clenched. But something in her expression wavered as she watched him sink deeper into the bed, eyes closed now, jaw slack with a tiredness that felt too old for twenty-three. She didn’t say anything. Mostly because she wasn’t sure what she would say. Because part of her still thought she was right. And part of her - gods, an annoyingly reasonable part - was starting to wonder if she’d just raged at someone who was too incapacitated to defend himself. Her fingers loosened. Just a bit.

__________

By the time Draco finally drifted to sleep, Hermione's heart still hadn't found its rhythm. She stood by the edge of his bed a moment longer, watching the rise and fall of his chest like it might stop if she looked away. But when the door clicked softly shut behind her, she didn’t have time to process the ache in her ribs. The hallway outside was already a flurry of tension. The press was still loitering like vultures, and the moment she stepped out, a dozen enchanted quills swarmed her like a hive of hornets.

“Ms. Granger! Any comment on Draco Malfoy’s fate?”

“Did he provoke the fight?”

“Will the Ministry’s campaign finally drop him?”

Ministry security intercepted before she could open her mouth. One of them, a weary-looking man with a wand and a clipboard, ushered her into a cordoned-off side lounge where a makeshift debrief was already forming. Wood was there, hair mussed and jacket in his hands, like he hadn’t stopped pacing in hours. Several Arrows officials stood by as well, stiff and silent. Two Ministry liaisons she vaguely recognised from the Department of Magical Games and Sports were in murmured discussion near the far wall. Kingsley arrived a minute later, his expression unreadable as ever. The air in the room felt dense. Weighted.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Is he being suspended?”

The words escaped before she could help them. Even if he had gotten involved, she didn’t want them pinning it all on him. Not when he’d been working so hard for his team’s reputation. Not when the League had a history of blaming him the moment something went wrong. She could be angry. She was angry. But if they tried to make him the scapegoat, to brand him the Arrows’ liability again, she’d scorch the press and the Quidditch League herself.

“No,” Wood said immediately. “No, no. That’s not…look, I want everyone to hear this clearly.”

He looked around the room.

“There was a brawl during drills. Three of the players were involved. Higgins, Rourke, and Griggs. Tempers flared. Fists were thrown. Almost everyone eventually had gotten involved but Malfoy wasn’t part of it. He was running his own manoeuvres on the other end of the pitch.”

Hermione’s breath caught.

Wood continued. “I think he noticed it escalating and flew in to try and break it up. He yelled at them to stop. I heard it. Tried to pull them apart before it got worse.”

A pause.

“Someone’s broom clipped his tail end. We don’t even know whose, it was chaos. But it was an accident. He wasn’t pushed off. Just caught off-balance, and then—”

Hermione sank into a chair.

“And how bad was the fall?” Kingsley asked.

Wood exhaled. “Twenty feet. He landed hard. He’s lucky his spine’s intact. But no, he didn’t cause any trouble. He wasn’t in the brawl. He was trying to stop it. Nothing but an accident.”

Her ears rang. The words she’d shouted at him only an hour ago replayed like taunting echoes. Her accusations. Her fury. She folded her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking. Hermione sat back slowly. The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. Of course he had. She’d marched into that room, shaking with fear and indignation, ready to skin him alive for being reckless. For proving her right. Except he hadn’t. Not this time. He’d done the opposite. And she’d screamed at him like he instigated the whole thing. Gods. She pressed a hand to her forehead and let out a breath. She wasn’t going to cry. That would be unnecessary. Entirely unhelpful. Still, the humiliation and guilt stung. Not because she’d been wrong but because she hadn’t even asked. She’d just assumed. Because fear had a way of scrambling her instincts. Because she thought she’d lost him forever. And the worst part was, if she had…that would’ve been the last thing she ever said to him.

Hermione didn’t sleep that night. She stayed up in her sitting room, surrounded by parchment and three half-drunk cups of tea gone cold. The Ministry had released a formal statement regarding Draco’s condition, but it was dry and unfeeling. Full of bureaucratic padding that did nothing to clear Draco’s name. So she insisted on rewriting it herself. She drafted press kits. A script she’d deliver at the next media appearance. Bullet points for Kingsley to review. She corrected sentences, refuted speculation, and triple-checked every phrasing until the words were sharp enough to slit the throat of a misleading headline.

Because there certainly would be misleading headlines. She knew how the newspapers used him too well. Knew they’d been salivating for another Malfoy scandal since the campaign began. One whiff of blood and they’d run wild. But not on her watch. Not this time. And if any publication dared twist the truth - if a single journalist dared suggest he’d been involved - she’d make it her personal mission to see their press license revoked and their ink supplies vanish by morning. She should have felt vindicated. Righteous, even.

But all she could see was his face. The broken limbs. The bruises. The way he hadn’t even fought back when she’d yelled at him. Hadn’t deflected. Just quiet acceptance. Like he wasn’t surprised. And somehow, that was worse than if he had shouted back at her. It played over and over in her head - his voice, flat: “I think I need to rest now.” The way his eyes never quite met hers after that. As if whatever had been holding him upright had finally let go. Hermione curled up on her sofa just before dawn, arms wrapped around her knees, guilt churning like a slow boil in her chest. She closed her eyes. Tomorrow. First thing. She’d apologise.

__________

Hermione stood outside the double doors of St. Mungo’s ward wing with the kind of calibrated smile that had won departmental awards. The press had gathered like flies on a jam jar. She greeted them politely. She used words like incident and accidental injury. She clarified that no player was under investigation, and that the campaign and the Ministry remained fully aligned with the Appleby Arrows and their internal protocols. No, Mr. Malfoy had not been suspended. No, he had not provoked a fight. No, she could not confirm whether his fall was the result of “reckless flying due to romantic tension.” She very nearly hexed someone for that one. The reporters asked about his past disciplinary record. About whether this was another pattern of behaviour. One particularly bold witch asked if Hermione would continue working so closely with him given his “history.” Hermione smiled threateningly.

“What history?” she said, voice like silk over steel.

They moved on after that. The interview wrapped quickly, and the cameras reluctantly packed up, the absence of scandal leaving them visibly disappointed. Hermione didn’t blame them. It must’ve been terribly boring to discover no one fucked up enough to get publicly crucified. She exhaled and turned on her heel, already thinking of how she might apologise without sounding like someone who’d catastrophically misjudged a man with multiple broken bones. She was halfway down the corridor when her ankle gave a spectacular wobble over the uneven tile and she nearly face-planted into a potted plant. Dignity: questionable. Intent: unshaken. She made it to the ward, tugged open the door to room 412—

And stopped.

The bed was empty.

A mediwitch was Vanishing the linens with the vague efficiency of someone who’d rather be on lunch break. Hermione’s eyes swept the room again, just in case Draco had perhaps shrunk himself out of spite and was hiding behind the water jug.

“Where is the patient?” she asked, trying to keep the sharp edge out of her voice.

“He discharged himself this morning.”

“He what ?”

The witch shrugged. “Healer signed off. Said the organ damage’s been stabilised and the worst of his injuries is healed. He just needs the bones to fully grow back now. He’ll manage.”

And that was when Hermione Granger, public relations paragon of the Ministry of Magic, took a very long, very quiet breath. She didn’t waste time, of course. Apologies like this are urgent. She flooed straight to his flat, landing in the sitting room with a puff of soot and a silent prayer that he hadn’t changed the wards to splinch her if she came. If he had, she supposed she’d find out mid-explosion. To her relief, and mild surprise, she remained entirely un-hexed. Less reassuring were the two familiar faces staring at her from the leather sofa. 

“Ah,” Theo Nott said. “The whirlwind arrives.”

Blaise Zabini raised a brow, entirely unbothered. “I had five galleons on her showing up this morning.”

Theo reached into his pocket. “Pay up.”

Hermione straightened, brushing soot from her sleeve and pretending she hadn’t just arrived like an uninvited reckoning.

“Good morning,” she said, because what else did one say to two members of Slytherin’s former delinquency council?

Theo gave her a little two-fingered salute. “He’s in the bedroom. Do try not to yell this time, yeah? He’s already on the brink of dramatic martyrdom.”

“I’ll warn you though. He’s high as a kite,” Blaise added. “On potions not directly approved by the Healer, I might add. But who are we to deny a man who’s in pain?”

Hermione’s lips pressed into a tight line. “Is he lucid?”

“Define lucid,” Theo mused.

Blaise leaned back, looking far too pleased with himself. 

“Last I checked, he was composing a love letter to his leg brace.”

Theo pointed toward the hall. 

“He can talk though. But mind the boots strewn about. He kicked them at us earlier.”

Hermione cleared her throat, nodded, and headed towards the room without another word. Hermione pushed the door open slowly, half-expecting chaos, half-expecting silence. What she found was somewhere in between. Draco was awake. Sort of. He was propped up against several pillows, shirtless but swaddled in a blanket, hair tousled, bandages visible. His eyes flicked to her as she stepped in, but there was no smirk. No quip. Just that quiet, unfocused stare of someone who’d rather be unconscious again. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. The gash on his cheek was now faint, nearly vanished. And he looked less deathly pale now than yesterday. Magic was a mercy. If he’d been admitted to a muggle hospital, he’d still be lying flat, tethered to beeping machines and IV drips, probably for two weeks. Maybe three. She didn’t like thinking about it.

“Hey,” she said softly, stepping inside.

“You’re not Blaise.”

“No,” she said. “Lucky you.”

A beat. The joke hung there, unanswered.

She tried again. “I came to apologise.”

That at least earned his attention. Hermione took a breath. 

“I was wrong and cruel. I assumed the worst of you when you didn’t deserve it, and I didn’t even ask for the truth from you before I…it wasn’t fair, Draco. And I’m sorry.”

Draco watched her for a long moment, his expression frightfully neutral. Then he nodded, just once.

“Alright.”

She waited. He didn’t say anything else. No drawn-out sarcasm. No dramatic sigh. No ‘well, at least buy me flowers next time you accuse me of misconduct’. Just one word, flat and soft, like he’d handed her a receipt for her apology. Hermione lingered by the foot of the bed, not quite sure where to place her hands.

“I should’ve known better,” she continued. “And I hate that I didn’t. That I let one moment…one stupid assumption speak louder than everything you’ve done lately to prove you meant your promise.”

She glanced at him. Still no change in his expression. Still silent.

“You know,” she ventured carefully, “This would be a great moment to gloat. Something about me being wrong. I mean, I was practically unhinged. I deserve some verbal lashings.”

“I don’t think it needs saying.”

She waited for a grin. A twitch. Something. But there was nothing.

“You’re not even going to rub it in?” 

“I’m medicated,” he said simply. “Feels like cheating.”

Hermione frowned. She took another step closer. 

“Is it the potions, or are you just being unnervingly agreeable on purpose?”

He adjusted his blanket. “Can’t a man recover in peace without being accused of suspicious behaviour?”

“You were just obscenely seducing me just a few days ago.”

“Yeah well, that was before my spine tried to exit my body.”

She blinked. “Too soon for jokes.”

Draco shrugged, or tried to. The motion tugged something in his shoulder and he winced.

“I’m just tired, Granger.”

He wasn’t being cold. He wasn’t being cruel. He wasn’t anything, really. Which somehow felt like a sword to the heart. He looked like something sharp had been sanded down in him. A kind of gentleness that had no softness to it. Just detachment. Resignation. And it unsettled her more than if he’d thrown a pillow at her and told her to sod off. 

She hesitated. “I’d still like to be here for you. Even if you hate me right now.”

“I don’t hate you.”

That came pretty fast. Too fast, maybe. But it was the truth. And perhaps that was the pathetic part. Because if anyone else had said the things she did, looked at him like that, believed that of him, he’d walk away. No questions. No hesitation. But this was her. And he couldn’t bring himself to hate the one person who ever made him want to be more than what people expected. Even if she’d been wrong. Even if it hurt. How could he hate her, when so much of what she said cut because he feared she was right? She didn’t see all of him. Not yet. But he wanted her to. So no. He didn’t hate her. He just hated how much it still mattered.

“I just don’t have the energy to be interesting right now,” he added.

And wasn’t that the truth. He didn’t have it in him today. The signature smirk, the biting remarks, the stupid charm he thought was working on her. Because what was the point of trying to be better when the person you were trying for had seen you that way? She’d yelled at him because in her pretty little head, it made sense that he’d broken his promise and breached the contract just like that. That it was expected. That it was just another notch in the long, unbroken record of Draco Malfoy’s screw-ups. That was the bit that stuck. Not her words. But that she didn’t even pause to consider that maybe, for once, it hadn’t been his fault this time.

He was always reckless. He knew that. But he wasn’t that person anymore. At least, he was trying not to be since the beginning of their partnership. And it hurt him that in these past months, she didn’t see it. Or worse, she saw it and still didn’t believe it would last. Him pushing Griggs and assaulting a locker recently probably didn’t help either. So of course he’d accepted her apology. Because it was the right thing to do. Because she looked guilty and sleepless and she’d made an effort to see him. But something in him had folded in on itself after yesterday. He wasn’t angry. Just spent. His whole body still ached and his heart was cracked clean down the middle. He needed time. To heal and to figure out how much more of himself he could keep offering without falling apart. And maybe then, he’d figure out what to do next.

“Alright,” she said, her voice soft. “I’ll be just outside if you need anything.”

Draco didn’t respond, but she caught the faint dip of his chin. She paused at the door, her fingers curling around the frame. She remembered the night she’d had her accident. How quickly he’d come. The way he hadn’t left her side, how he’d spoken so gently, like she was something precious. She stepped out quietly, shutting the door with a muted click behind her. Theo and Blaise were still camped out in the living room, arguing over something that involved leftover soup and one of Draco’s signed brooms.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Will you two be staying? To look after him?”

Theo snorted. “If we tried, he’d hex our balls into orbit.”

“Already threatened to,” Blaise chimed in. “Something about not being babied unless it was by Granger, and even then only under protest.”

Hermione blinked. “Interesting.”

She hesitated, then asked oh-so-casually, “Is someone else coming by for him, perhaps?”

It wasn’t casual. It didn’t even sound casual. Theo’s eyes narrowed, amused. 

“If you mean Daphne, no. He set his wards to block her ages ago.”

Hermione let out a muted exhale. After everything that happened, she didn’t know why this insignificant piece of information made her feel better. 

But it did.

Chapter Text

Hermione wasn’t hovering. She was just…routinely checking. A few days after the hospital, she began stopping by Draco’s flat in the mornings. Never too early. Always around breakfast. Just long enough to drop off a tray. Some soup, a few slices of that seeded rye he liked, half a dozen potions lined up in ascending opacity, and leave before her awkwardness curdled. It wasn’t even crossing professional boundaries, really. She saw it as a civic duty. She wasn’t sure if he ate the meals. Sometimes the tray was left out, untouched. Sometimes it was cleaned and placed back near the floo, as if he thought that might be more convenient for her. He never sent word. Never asked her to come.

Which only made it worse. Because he wasn’t trying to draw her in. He wasn’t testing her resolve. He was just reserved and respectful. Obediently distant, like some tragic gentleman. And she was the one barging in every morning as a soup courier. After that, she’d go straight to the Ministry. She’d scan the newspapers for the morning's headlines. Make sure no one had decided to revive Draco’s Greatest Hits reel from the Arrows archives. That article in the Daily Prophet nearly gave her a coronary. ‘Malfoy Mauled in Mid-Air Melee’ . But she managed to bury it beneath a better quote from Coach Wood.

She rewrote half the Quidditch League’s official statement herself. She was a guilt-induced Florence Nightingale by morning, public relations machine by afternoon. A woman of many hats. Still, when she returned to her desk and saw the draft plan for the Arrows' upcoming charity brunch, her brain promptly glitched at the line ‘Draco Malfoy will not be available for questions due to injuries.’ She wanted to write ‘Due to reckless broom interference while selflessly breaking up a fight, thank you very much.’ She didn’t.

Instead, she found herself scribbling reminder notes: Check if Draco’s pain potions are refilled. Bring him ginger tea. Replace his hand towels - current ones look like tea cosies from the 1700s. She was the one who’d said they had to wait three months. She was the one who drew the line and insisted on being proper colleagues for now. No shagging. No dating. No entanglements. And yet here she was, folding his socks and stocking up his pantry. She told herself it was about recovery. Empathy. But then she’d see him shirtless and groggy and hot in the way only half-asleep men could be. She would short-circuit all over again.

Because Draco wasn’t making this hard. He wasn’t doing anything except existing. Politely. Brokenly. And with the kind of dignity that made her want to either scream or run him another bath. So no. This wasn’t a boundary breach. This was humanitarian aid, that’s all. Coworkers deserved kindness too. Entirely platonic soup delivery. Right? Right. She cleaned his kitchen. Set fresh vials for his medication. Then left without saying goodbye. Because if she stayed long enough, she might forget which line she was walking and step off entirely.

Draco wasn’t keeping score. He was too dignified for that. Also too concussed. But if he were keeping score - which he wasn’t - he might’ve noted that Hermione Granger had drawn a very thin proverbial line in the sand and then immediately crossed it in the form of groceries, soup, fresh linens, and a passive-aggressive stack of pain potion vials labelled by time of day. She didn’t stay long. Just enough to leave food and glare at the state of his sock drawer. Not that she commented. She wasn’t apologising anymore. Wasn’t trying to make it up to him by wordsmithing the phrase ‘sorry I was unfair’ a hundred different ways. She was doing it with food delivery. With maniacal housework nobody asked for. With non-verbal commands for him to drink his potions. Draco lay there, heart slightly more fractured than his bones, and tried not to read into it. He’d made peace with the idea that she still didn’t fully trust him. Hadn’t even really blamed her. Fear did stupid things to people. He knew that firsthand. But she kept showing up. Respectfully. Annoyingly.

Like she was trying to care without looking like she cared. Like she was fulfilling some unwritten clause in their partnership agreement. And she never touched him. Never lingered. Never looked at him too long. Which meant Draco had to pretend he didn’t notice the way her eyes scanned his injuries before she left, or the way she always paused by his bedroom door like she was waiting for him to say something. To invite her to stay longer. To poke fun at her. Be normal with her again. 

But he didn’t feel normal. He felt like a bloke recovering from a fall he didn’t deserve, haunted by the echo of her cutting words. So he let her come. Let her leave. Let her keep pretending this was professionalism and not penance or guilt. And maybe it made him pathetic, but he looked forward to the sound of her coming through his floo every morning anyway. Because if this was the only version of her he got for now - guilt-ridden, hands-off, tidying-his-cutlery Hermione - he’d take it.

__________

One night, Draco woke to a noise. Not a loud noise. Just a persistent one. Repetitive. Like someone slowly losing their mind with rhythm. He blinked up at the ceiling. Squinted. It was coming from the sitting room. Someone was in his sitting room. He reached for his wand with the weariness of a man who wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hex someone or just let them finish him off. His leg twinged as he crept out of bed, and he muttered a curse under his breath aimed at Griggs, at the universe, and at his bloody bones in that order. He moved down the corridor, half on instinct, half on sedatives. He lifted his wand in a defensive manner. And froze.

Hermione Granger was on her knees in front of his hearth, furiously Scourgifying the grout between the floor tiles. She didn’t seem to hear him come out. She was too focused. Too busy being unhinged. Hair in a haphazard bun, sleeves pushed to her elbows, hissing under her breath like the grout had called her a slur. Draco lowered his wand. Briefly considered raising it again, just out of spite and annoyance. She’s gone mental, he thinks.

“Granger?”

She startled. Visibly, bodily, like a criminal caught mid-theft. She looked up at him with wide, guilty eyes.

“Oh. I - sorry. Did I wake you?”

He blinked at her. “What are you doing? It’s two in the morning.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Because the grout on my floor offended you?”

She glanced down at her handiwork. “It was uneven.”

Draco stared. “You broke into my flat to tidy a line of decorative brick.”

“I didn’t break in.”

“You used the floo after midnight while I was asleep.”

“I…wanted to check your stock of Pepper-up Potions.”

“Are they hidden under the hearth?”

“You should go back to bed.”

He didn’t move and allowed himself to study her. Face fatigued, wand still aimed at the floor, a streak of soot on her cheek. She looked a bit like she was about to cry or commit arson. Possibly both. There was a crazed look in her eyes. The same look she got when she was hellbent on solving an impossible problem.

“What’s really going on, Granger?” he asked, finally.

She didn’t answer at first. Just shifted back to sit on her heels and avoided his eyes.

“It was stupid,” she said after a beat. “I kept thinking about the day you fell. About what I said. How fast I jumped to conclusions. I heard you were dying, and instead of…I don’t know, waiting for facts, or trusting anything I’d seen from you over the past few months, I just reacted. Out of emotions.”

She shook her head, brows drawn. “And I know it wasn’t fair. I know that. But it’s easier, sometimes, to believe the worst in someone before they can prove you wrong. And Toller didn’t help. He came running and said the words brawl and fighting for his life and I—”

Her voice broke a little, but she cleared it quickly. “I didn’t even ask questions. I just flew off the handle. Things like injuries, violence, they destabilise me. In case my history hasn’t made that obvious. And with everything between us already being…complicated, I didn’t know how to process any of it. So now I’m keeping my hands busy and pretending that helps.”

“By deep-cleaning my fireplace?”

“It was the dirtiest thing I could find.”

At that, Draco no longer pushed. It was clear she had a dirt-adjacent bone to pick. That was between the fireplace and her, though. 

“Do you do this often?” he asked softly. “Clean the guilt away?”

Then, she answered, “Sometimes.”

Draco nodded once, like that confirmed something he’d suspected. He didn’t prod further. Instead, he eased himself down onto the sofa with a pained wince. 

“Well. Don’t worry,” he said. “The grout forgives you.”

Her lips twitched. Only a little. She didn’t mean to start cleaning. She’d only meant to check if he’d taken his potions. Maybe rearrange the fruit basket she brought him in a way that didn’t give her a visceral reaction. Leave quietly. And then she’d seen the hearth. Specifically, the grout between the tiles. Uneven. Patchy. Probably half a decade worth of ash and soot layered like some passive-aggressive sedimentary timeline. A little reminder that yes, Draco Malfoy could manage to survive a fall, but apparently not do basic household maintenance.

She’d knelt down like a woman on the brink. Because this wasn’t just guilt. Not really. If it were only guilt, she’d have dropped off soup, said sorry again, and left a heartfelt note with a cute little doodle. No. This was something worse. This was Hermione Jean Granger performing her most ancient magic: fixing things. Because that was how she coped. She couldn’t undo the fall. Couldn’t un-say what she’d screamed in that hospital room. But she could disinfect his grout. She could take care of him via fruit baskets and housekeeping.

Hermione turned back to the hearth, too aware of the soot on her knees and the way her heart had been hammering. She wasn’t trying to erase anything away. Not reshaping his life. Not altering him. Just the grout. She remembered, with sickening clarity, Viktor “cleaning up” her stuff without asking. How she used to tell herself it was affection. Until it wasn’t. Until it became a way of saying, you aren’t doing this right, let me fix it for you. Her wand stilled. No. This was different. She wasn’t doing this to Draco. She was doing it for herself. Which, depending on your perspective, might even be worse.

It was fine. Totally normal. Nothing deranged about managing someone’s recovery like a project. And maybe it wasn’t just about caring for him either. Maybe it was about not letting herself want what she couldn’t have. Because she still wanted to check on him. To see his face. To feel like she wasn’t the worst version of herself every time she looked him in the eye. She didn’t trust herself to stay put if she sat down with him on the sofa. So she stayed kneeling there. With the stupid urge to flatten out the uneven bits like it could smooth out whatever had come undone between them. Hermione resumed her work, slower now. And less frantic. It was quiet. The kind of quiet that made you feel like you shouldn’t break it unless you had something real to say. And apparently, Draco did.

“You missed a spot,” he said eventually, nodding toward the top left corner of the hearth. “That stain has ruined my quality of life since I moved in.”

Hermione gave him a wry look, with mock solemnity. “Your suffering humbles us all.”

But she cleaned it anyway. He watched her in that tired, non-invasive way of his. Like she was something he was learning not to touch.

After a while, he said sincerely, “Thanks for being here.”

She didn’t look at him. Just sat back on her heels, wiped her hands on her trousers, and finally met his eyes.

“No problem. I’ll finish the rest tomorrow,” she said.

Then she stood, straightened her jumper, and left the brush by the hearth like a flag planted in neutral territory. Something between surrender and a promise. And Draco - battered, bruised, a little broken - let her go without asking for more. But gods, he hoped she’d come back.

__________

“You’re not going, Draco Malfoy.”

That was how Hermione opened the conversation when she saw him already dressed to the nines.

Draco didn’t look up from buttoning his cuff. “That wasn’t a question.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“I’m listed on the programme.”

“You just survived a fall.”

“Occupational hazard. And it’s my team’s event.”

“You couldn’t walk without limping just yesterday.”

“Now I can.”

“You’re not fully healed.”

“I’m attending a charity brunch, Granger, not a duel.”

“You’re attending a press-heavy and crowded brunch.”

At that, Draco gave her a look that said: We’re colleagues now. And this is a professional disagreement.

“Then I’ll move with care,” he said. “And not cause a ruckus.”

Hermione tried not to flinch. This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? Clean lines. Professionalism. Boundaries that stayed put. So why did it feel like every perfectly drawn line now came with a consequence she hadn’t anticipated? Hermione stood there, trying to remember why this was better. Why this cordial, composed, just friendly enough version of them was what she’d insisted on. Why it felt like she’d traded something…important. 

She cleared her throat. “Fine. But if I see so much as a hint of fatigue, I’m taking you home.”

He smirked, very faintly, at the suggestion. “Appreciated.”

The Appleby Arrows’ Charity Brunch was held in a sun-dappled estate outside York, where the hedges were trimmed and the rose arrangements had clearly been budgeted for. It was a perfect day for philanthropy. Blue skies, crisp linen tablecloths, and a mass of press cameras at the perimeter. The silent auction was already in full swing. Clipboards charmed with anti-smudge spells hovered beside enchanted displays of signed brooms, VIP match passes, and other saccharine tokens of sport.

Front and centre was Draco’s very first Arrow-issued broom. A gleaming model encased in a low glass display, with a small golden plaque that read: Malfoy, D. Debut Season, 2000. Donated for Youth Quidditch League. Someone had already placed a bid in script. Hermione didn’t want to know how many zeroes were involved. They arrived via the Apparition checkpoint, and Hermione’s heel had barely touched grass when she instinctively reached for Draco’s arm. Just in case he staggered or twisted something or tripped onto the nearest hors d’oeuvres tray.

Draco stilled. And then looked at her. Like he was trying to decide if she was concerned for his balance or about to propose marriage. He raised an eyebrow at her to make a point. Hermione blinked and realised what she was doing. She promptly let go of his arm like it had caught fire. Right. Professional. Draco’s mouth twitched and suppressed a cough of amusement. He adjusted his cuff again with a composure that felt suspiciously smug. Hermione inhaled through her nose. This was going to be a long brunch.

Draco stood near the auction display table, talking to a League official in a tie that screamed “midlife crisis” when a woman walked up to his side. Hermione, still in earshot, had just finished a polite conversation with a retired Arrows Beater about prosthetic limbs. She turned slightly, just in time to catch the approach. The witch was tall, tan, and the kind of blonde that came from potions and not genes. Her dress was cut just low enough to make a statement and just tasteful enough not to get banned from brunch. Her cleavage had a gravitational pull.

“Draco,” the witch drawled, already gliding into his space. “Didn’t think I’d see you here, looking so recovered already. How’s the injury?”

Draco turned stiffly. “Ellis.”

Hermione didn’t miss the wariness that passed through his expression.

“I bid on your broom,” she said, twirling the auction token around her finger. “But you’re the one I miss riding.”

Hermione, who had been pretending not to listen from a distance of one metre, immediately forgot how to hold a facial expression. Her smile froze like a glitching portrait. Her face went hot. Her ears rang. The champagne turned rancid on her tongue.

Draco cleared his throat. “Keep your voice down, Ellis.”

“Never owled me after, too.” Ellis pouted. “I think I deserve more from you after I let you spaff on my face, don’t you think?”

Hermione bristled so hard the lilacs beside her rattled in their vase. Draco glanced over at her briefly. Guiltily. Hermione was staring furiously at the poor floral arrangement like it was the one saying indecent things in broad daylight. She took a seething sip of her drink. Imagined dousing the blond bint with it. Then imagined setting the glass down, walking over, and introducing her face to a decorative scone. 

“I’ve been…” He fixed his collar, very interested in it. “Busy. Trying to do a full one-eighty.”

Ellis ignored that entirely. “Can’t we resume our little fling? We had fun, didn’t we? We were so…what’s the word? Frisky.”

Hermione reached forward and snapped the stem of one of the tulips clean in half. She imagined it was Ellis’s neck. 

“Think I’ll bid a little higher,” Ellis added. “For old time’s sake.”

Hermione practically chugged her drink down, hoping it would quell the volcanic rage threatening to erupt. Her eyes skimmed the woman, head to toe. Foxy. Expensive. Tits like a dream. There was something familiar about her too. From a press conference, perhaps? A sponsor dinner? She scoured her memory, trying to place her. But then Ellis laughed and touched Draco’s arm. Hermione’s brain instantly served up an image she didn’t ask for: Draco, naked, sweaty, and fucking Ellis sideways. The thought burned. Hermione set her glass down with a little more force than necessary. She wasn’t going to cause a scene. She wasn’t. She was above that. But gods, she was suddenly violently homicidal. Draco felt a ripple in the atmosphere at her arrival. Like the quiet threat of a coming storm in a bright yellow sundress. Hermione Granger stepped up beside him with the calm of someone who had just fantasised about shoving a tulip up someone’s arse. Draco straightened instinctively.

Ellis turned to her. “Oh. Hello.”

“Hi,” Hermione said sweetly. “Hermione Granger.”

They shook hands. Firmly. There was possibly a faint crunch. Hermione smiled. That manic kind of smile people wore in mugshots in the crime section of the Daily Prophet.

“I know who you are,” Ellis said, eyes moving in that predatory sweep, assessing. Calculating. 

Of course she knew who Hermione was. Everyone in wizarding Britain did.

Hermione tilted her head, cordial. “Are you affiliated with the team?”

Ellis smiled seductively at Draco. “Define affiliated. ”

And now Hermione remembered. Not just her toothy grin, or the cleavage, or the vaguely reptilian confidence. Ellis wasn’t a publicist. She wasn’t with the Quidditch League. She was one of those press plants. She didn’t just chase gossip. She coaxed it out with her tongue. Dug with claws to find dirt. Dirt like who was cheating on their wives. Who was using illegal potions. Who had a fetish for getting choked and bound. She fished for the stories that nobody knew yet. A good scandal paid better than a steady job, and Ellis knew her value. Sometimes she fucked them. Sometimes she didn’t have to. She just listened. Seduced them. Won their trust. Took notes. She wasn’t a journalist. Journalists paid her to be bait. And tonight, she was circling Draco like he was already halfway gutted. Hermione smiled again, warm and lethal.

“Are you actually with the press tonight, or just freelancing your way through someone else’s PR budget?”

Ellis blinked. “Excuse me?”

Hermione’s smile didn’t falter. “I just think it’s fascinating how often you show up to these events with no badge or credentials. But somehow always conveniently on the scene whenever someone’s career implodes in the morning papers.”

“I was invited,” Ellis said crisply.

“So were the finger sandwiches. Doesn’t mean you should be climbing a recently injured player like a tree.”

Ellis’s jaw flexed. “I was only saying hello to an old friend.”

“Mmm. Then maybe try doing that without circling him like an animal in heat. He's barely recovered.”

The silence that followed was exquisite. Draco took a sip of champagne and wished, secretly, that there was popcorn to accompany him. He wasn’t entirely sure whether to be mortified or deeply, deeply turned on.

Ellis stepped back, pride wounded but posture intact. “Pleasure as always, Draco."

She turned on her heel and stalked off, token still in hand. Hermione didn’t watch her go. She was too busy fixing a fallen lily in the floral arrangement like it hadn’t just been her weapon of choice ten minutes ago. Hermione didn’t insert herself into the conversation because she was jealous. At least, not only because she was jealous. Women like her didn’t show up to charity brunches for canapés and goodwill. They came to sniff out trouble and package it for press. And Draco, newly healed, freshly scandal-adjacent, was prime target. So no, Hermione hadn’t bared her teeth like that just because she was jealous. This wasn’t personal. This was protective detail. Entirely professional. Even if the floral arrangement hadn’t quite survived it.

Draco cleared his throat. “So…you like working in public relations, then?”

“Do I need to start a registry, Draco? For all the witches you’ve fucked who might also be covert brand assassins?”

He winced. “That list is…hopefully shorter now.”

“She didn’t just approach you to suck your cock, you know.”

“I know.”

“She wanted a headline.”

“She wouldn’t have gotten one.”

“Not on my watch.”

Draco glanced at her then. But she was already raising her glass, eyes cool, like she hadn’t just prepared to personally bulldoze anyone who tried to sabotage his reputation.

He smiled faintly. “Good thing you’re on my team.”

__________

After the brunch where thankfully no more of Draco’s ex-shags materialised, they Apparated straight into his flat with a stagger, thanks to Hermione’s vice grip on his arm. Side-Along, of course. Not because he needed it but because Hermione Granger had apparently decided he might splinch himself clean in half if left to his own devices. Draco didn’t argue. Mostly because he was too busy limping towards the nearest piece of furniture with what he hoped was subtlety. It wasn’t. The minute he exhaled too sharply, Hermione spun around like she’d caught him stealing from a Gringotts vault.

“Bed,” she ordered, pointing.

He didn’t argue with that either. Draco collapsed onto his mattress with a hiss, propping himself upright against the headboard as Hermione bustled around the room like some mediwitch intern. She was already lining up his potions on the bedside table in meticulous order. He watched her while she worked. Not even subtly. His eyes followed the movement of her hands, the way she kept adjusting the little labels like the fate of the wizarding world depended on whether bone strength went before nerve tonic. He downed the first two potions, still watching her. He unbuttoned his shirt, slowly, because gods forbid he cramp something. And still, he watched her. Like he couldn’t help himself. Because, in all honesty, he couldn’t. 

After Hermione had flitted around his flat for the better part of ten minutes - checking that his room was well-ventilated, potion vials were cleared, no laundry had been sacrificed to the floor - Draco finally let his head fall back against the pillows with a quiet, theatrical groan. She was doing it again. That thing she’d been doing all week. Lingering like she didn’t want to be asked to stay but wouldn’t know what to do if he asked her to leave. Moving like something was about to happen, but only if she didn’t name it. Draco watched her pace a tight line between his bookshelf and the wardrobe, fingers fidgeting with her sundress. She looked like a war nurse tending to non-existent patients. His patience cracked.

“Granger. Either sit down or go home. I’ll get whiplash from watching you pace,” he drawled.

She froze mid-step like someone had snapped a ward behind her. For a second, she just stood there, caught in the act of caring too much. Then she smoothed her skirt with both hands and nodded to no one in particular.

“I’ll…right. I’ll leave you to it, then,” she mumbled, already edging towards the door.

Draco raised a brow from the bed. “That’s it? No wellness protocol? No patronising lecture about rest and hydration?”

“…I was actually getting to it.”

He sighed. “Just sit down, Granger.”

She did. Finally. Hermione sat on the edge of his bed, stiff-backed, hands folded in her lap like a Mary Sue character. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. Then, quietly, all at once, she let out a breath. A long one. Like she’d been holding it since the second they left the brunch. Maybe even longer. Draco glanced over, just barely. 

“I’m scared,” she blurted.

Her voice wasn’t fragile. Just low. Like it wasn’t meant to be said out loud, but something in her had decided it needed air.

Draco blinked at the ceiling. “Of what?”

“Pick one.”

He waited.

“I’m scared of everything,” she said finally. “I’m just...good at looking like I’m not.”

Still, her back didn’t bend. She spoke like someone giving testimony.

“I’m scared of Viktor. Of letting people think I’m strong when I’m not. I’m scared of disappointing everyone who still thinks I’m her. That version of me who always knew what to do. Who never miscalculated or made grave mistakes. I’m scared of repeating said grave mistakes.”

She fell quiet, forming the next sentences in her head. Perhaps even mentally arguing with herself that she's sharing too much. But she continued. 

“And I’m scared,” she added, “of making the same choices that got me hurt.”

He looked over, wondering how much effort it's taking her to even admit these. He gave her his full attention, even if she refused to face him.

“I’m scared you almost died,” she went on. “Because for some reason, you matter to me. And I’m scared of that fact , too.”

She exhaled again, like the words had physically cost her something. Still didn’t turn around, too vulnerable to check his reaction. Draco’s heart beat loud in his chest. Unhelpful. Immediate. He didn’t know what to say. Only that this was not the version of her he ever expected to see today. He shifted under the blankets. 

“Granger.”

She still didn’t look at him.

“I’m not dead,” he said pointedly.

“Good,” she huffed. “I’d have been furious.”

Draco didn’t speak right away. She’d just told him he mattered. That she was scared. That losing him would’ve meant something. It shouldn’t have shaken him, but it did. 

“You didn’t say any of this at St. Mungo’s,” he said eventually. 

“I know,” she said. “I panicked and I thought—”

“You thought I didn’t do what I said I would.”

“I know. And I was wrong,” she snapped, but the fight didn’t hold. It fell out of her like a wet match.

“It still fucking hurt.”

That shut her up. Then there was a pregnant pause. Like neither of them wanted to be the one to peel back the next layer.

“You said I matter to you,” he said.

She nodded, eyes fixed on some point across the room. 

“That's something,” he said, almost to himself. “Even if it’s inconvenient.”

“Is that what I am?” she asked, finally looking at him now.

Draco gave a soft huff of laughter. No, not her. Never her. But whatever they were doing - this tension, this half-in and half-out emotional limbo where he wanted her, cared about her, maybe even needed her - it was messy. It was disruptive. It gets in the way of the rules they set, the boundaries she asked for, and the work they were supposed to be doing. And he still wants it anyway. 

“No,” he said. “That’s what this is.”

Hermione turned her back again. Not out of pettiness or to dismiss him. She turned because she understood. Because he was right. Whatever this was - whatever strange, magnetic, maddening thing had been pulling them closer over the last few months - it didn’t fit into anything neat. Not the campaign. Not their past. Certainly not the future either of them had prepared for. She hadn’t planned for this. For him to mean anything. For him to matter in the way people only start to matter when you stop being careful. And she hadn’t meant to hurt him. But she had.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said again, meaning it.

Softer this time. Like it was meant for something bigger than just the words. Draco didn’t answer and she didn’t expect him to. In her head, a single thought pulsed: he’s only being a gentleman about it. That was all this was now. Graceful retreat. Subtle distance. Whatever might have been waiting for them probably wouldn’t happen now. She’d ruined it and maybe this was a fair consequence. She had to respect that. Hermione stood up, like her body had only just remembered it could move. She smoothed her dress, gathered what little remained of her composure, and turned to the door. 

She didn’t even make it one step, though. 

Draco’s hand closed around hers. It wasn’t forceful but it was firm enough to stop her mid-motion. Hermione stilled and looked down at where his fingers folded around her own. When she glanced at him, his expression suggested he’d been holding something back all day and finally lost the battle. 

“Is touching your hand against your rules?” he asked quietly.

Rules? What rules? Surely they didn't exist when his voice was silky and groggy like this.

Hermione’s voice came out featherlight. “No.”

And that was all it took. Draco tugged her gently back to him until she sank back onto the edge of his bed. This time closer. This time beside him. He didn’t let go. Instead, his thumb began to move. Tracing seductive circles against the back of her hand. Delicate. Focused. Like it pleased him to do so. It sent a ripple down her spine. And gods, the sensation reminded her. Of the same way his thumb moved over her clit that night. In patient, possessive, and devastating strokes. 

“Would it be… unprofessional if you stayed beside me? At least until the potions kick in?”

Hermione didn’t answer right away. Because what even was professionalism anymore? Was it the thirty-seven unread scrolls she hadn’t replied to? Kingsley’s speech she was supposed to finish editing by tonight? The fact that her jealousy got the best of her today and successfully scared off a leech with tits? She’d spent the better part of three months babysitting his public image, dragging him to galas, covering for his unsavoury behaviour, and shielding him from scandal. If he wanted her to sit next to him while he nursed his aching bones, it wasn’t just professional - it was practically overtime. And besides. Hand-holding can be normal between coworkers. Like handshakes. This could technically be categorised as a handshake. Just a very unorthodox, very borderline obscene one. She swallowed.

“No, that’s fine,” she said.

Draco shifted slightly as he turned her hand in his - palm up now, open to him. His thumb resumed its rhythm there, sensual against the soft centre. More exposed. More vulnerable. Like he was touching something that wasn’t meant to be touched, and doing it anyway with the expertise of someone who knew exactly what it could do. Hermione’s breath hitched. She tried to suppress it, but it slipped out anyway. His thumb dragged lower, then up again. And it wasn’t vulgar. Not technically. But it felt like it. Felt like being stroked somewhere…lower. And the whole time, gods, the whole time, they were staring at each other. Unblinking. Unmoving. Like the space between them had turned molten and they were both waiting to see who’d fall in first.

Her voice, when it came, was barely audible. “What are you doing?”

Draco’s lashes were heavy now, his gaze dark. His answer came like a sin spoken in church.

“Forgiving you,” he said.

She blinked hard. Tried not to unravel. “This is how you forgive?”

His thumb paused. Then moved again. A languid, careful, erotic drag. 

“I can stop if you want.”

She didn’t answer.

He tilted his head. “Or is this okay?”

Hermione nodded, her eyes never leaving his. Don’t think about your knickers, she told herself. Don’t think about how damp they are. Don’t think about what this would feel like if it went any further. Don’t think about—

“I can undo you,” he said. “Without ever stepping out of line.”

Her eyes snapped to his.

“Would you like that, Granger?”

There was no reply. Not with the way his thumb pressed, each caress a violation of her composure. But her fingers gently grazed his hand like a wordless answer. An ache masquerading as consent. Of course he took it as a yes.

“Good girl. Look at me while I do it,” he whispered.

So she did. But whatever happened after that, Hermione declined to comment. Boundaries? Well, technically intact. Unless you counted the part where Draco Malfoy fingered her spiritually through her palm. She blamed the potions. And his thumb. Mostly his thumb. And if she’d semi-orgasmed once, or twice, that was between her and whatever gods were currently laughing at her life choices. The rest of the details of their “handshake” would have to be redacted for her dignity.

Chapter Text

After too long for Draco’s liking, he was finally healed and cleared for work. Bones mended. Bruising gone. Officially fit to return to training, which meant the Quidditch League had stopped treating him like an idiot made of porcelain and started sending him playbooks again. Hermione had stopped coming by too, but not in a dramatic way. Not that she was obligated. She was simply the type who would conceal the fact that she was worried even though she was. When she observed that he could stand without wobbling, retrieve his own potions, and lift a soup pot without wincing, she vanished back into her professional orbit. Which was fine. Obviously. Healthy boundaries, and all that.

They never talked about that moment in his bed. The one with the palm tracing. The one where he practically performed hand sex and she’d briefly died and ascended. To Valhalla, presumably. He never brought it up. She never looked him in the eye for more than five seconds after. And maybe that was for the best. Because the truth was, he still had no idea where he stood in her life. For all he knew, he was nothing more than a warm body she could use for situational horniness. A mere controlled experiment for her hormones. And truthfully? He’d have no problem with that. If the sum total of his place in her life was just someone to get herself off, then he’d take it. He’d take the crumbs. Simply because they were hers.

He was physically recovered. On parchment, at least. The healers said so. Concussions are effectively gone and his reflexes were sharp again. But there was still something gnawing at the base of him. Not pain, exactly. Just a dull, dragging ache healers wouldn’t be able to explain away with diagnostic scans. Which was how he ended up back in the mind healer’s office. Again. His first visit hadn’t been a complete disaster, surprisingly. There had been no tears. But also, no running out halfway with a chair thrown behind him either. So, you know. Progress. Maybe what he needed now was something deeper than bone repair. A little internal fortification, so to speak. A clearing of whatever pain had rooted itself somewhere between his lungs and his better judgement. Draco Malfoy, model patient. Here for emotional maintenance. Possibly a full Pensieve rinse. Healer Inglethorpe gave him a beatific smile when he arrived, like she’d been expecting this all along.

“Welcome back,” she chirped. “Still breathing, I see.”

“Debatable,” he said, and sat down.

Healer Inglethorpe adjusted her glasses and offered him a mild, unassuming smile - the kind that said you don’t have to perform here, but I will notice if you do.

“Last time you were here, you mentioned trying to keep yourself in check,” she said. “I’d like to pick up from there, if that’s alright.”

Draco didn’t feel the need to respond. He was busy staring at a nondescript spot on her bookshelf like it was trying to spy on him.

“I’d like to hear about what’s shifted since then,” she prompted, still calm. “What’s changed. Internally, not just in your routine.”

Draco cradled his head with his palm, feigning thoughtfulness. 

“Well, I haven’t assaulted anyone as of late. Unless you count Griggs, and even then it was just verbal. I’m pretty proud of myself.”

Inglethorpe made a soft noise. Neither approval nor disapproval. 

“Sounds like something’s motivating that restraint.”

Draco leaned back and folded his arms over his chest, though not in an aggressive manner. Just braced.

“Granger said I reminded her of someone who hurt her. Didn’t love hearing that,” he said. 

Her quill stilled, but she didn’t speak over him. She waited.

“I’ve been thinking about what that means,” Draco added. “Trying not to…make people brace when I walk into a room.”

He paused first to let out a breath that sounded like a cross between a sigh and a groan.

“I guess I’m wondering if I’m actually changing,” he said, almost to himself. “Or just editing the parts that others don’t like.”

Inglethorpe tilted her head slightly, then leaned forward just enough to signal interest, not pressure.

“And when you edit those parts, what do you hope will happen?”

“Depends on the day,” he said. “Sometimes I think I’m doing it so I don’t lose the few people who still tolerate me. Other days, I think I’m trying to be someone I wouldn’t want to punch in the face.”

“That sounds like two very different goals,” she said, evenly.

“Maybe.”

“You mentioned last time that you ‘adjusted your life’ to keep things afloat with someone named Daphne.”

Draco’s spine stiffened at the mention of Daphne. He didn’t flinch because he missed her. He flinched because explaining her felt impossible without sounding like either a villain or a victim. And he wasn’t interested in being either today. What was he supposed to say? That he stayed too long out of guilt? That she needed him more than he ever loved her? That he kept pretending he could fix her grief with affection and sex? No, thanks.

“You said you supported her for years,” she added. “That you still feel responsible.”

He gave a shallow nod. “She’s been through things.”

“So have you.”

He didn’t even try to form an answer.

“Can I ask,” she continued, “When did you start learning that your role is to hold everything together?”

Draco’s expression didn’t change, but something in him did. A drawbridge was quietly being raised internally.

“Probably always,” he said finally, like he was admitting to a childhood crime. “The house I grew up in wasn’t warm. Everyone had a role. Mine was to meet expectations. My father cared about the family legacy more than the people in it. My mother ran the household like it was a business. There were always goals. Always discipline.”

“And what did that teach you?”

“You hit your marks, you get attention. You don’t, you get discarded.”

“So when things go wrong now, your instinct is to mould yourself. Adjust. Perform.”

“I suppose. I had to say the right things. Be who everyone wanted me to be.”

Inglethorpe made a note, but didn’t break eye contact. “And did that work?”

“It kept things from falling apart. Most of the time.”

“So that became your role,” she said gently. “To manage the feelings of others. Your parents. Daphne.”

“It’s not like I’m doing it to manipulate anyone. I just—”

“I didn’t say you were,” she cut in, still calm. “I said you learned that survival meant moulding yourself into what people needed. That’s not manipulation. That’s coping.”

Draco flexed his fingers in his lap like he was testing for fractures. As silly as it was, he wondered for a second if his soul had little cracks in them too. And if it was fractured, would this healer mend it the same way they did at St. Mungo’s fixed his bones?

“You’re someone who’s been trying to earn affection through usefulness,” she said. “Through service.”

“So you’re saying I’m…what? Like some house elf? Addicted to being of service?”

“I’m saying it might be worth asking what happens when you’re not.”

Draco gave a humourless snort. “You want to know what happens when I don’t respond when I’m needed? People die. Or say they will off themselves if I don’t…adjust.”

Inglethorpe didn’t move, allowing him to occupy the proverbial space she was giving him. He didn’t wait for permission to keep going.

“Be the best at school, Draco, or you’ll humiliate us. Do the Dark Lord’s task, Draco. Or he’ll kill us. Then with Daphne, it was…be with me Draco, or I’ll kill myself.”

He was staring at the floor now, blinking once repeatedly.

“That’s why after ending it with Daphne, I thought, fuck it. No more obeying. No more pleasing anyone. I’ll do whatever the fuck I want. So I let loose. Got into fights. Shagged people I didn’t care about. Let the press make me another type of villain so I don’t have to prove anything.”

“And you want to change these ways?” she asked. 

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Is it because of someone else?”

“No. Granger doesn’t need anything from me,” he said. “She doesn’t expect anything. Doesn’t want me to reshape myself around her fear. I do think she wants me to be better. But not for her own benefit.”

“And that confuses you?”

“Of course it does,” he snapped. “Because what if I’m doing it again? What if I’m just twisting myself into some version of me she’ll approve of?”

“Is she coercing you to?”

“No.”

“Is she rewarding you for it?”

He hesitated. “Not exactly.”

“Then,” she said, calm but firm, “You’re not falling into a pattern. Maybe, for the first time, you're not trying to earn affection. You’re just trying to deserve it. There’s a difference.”

Draco didn’t respond right away. He sat very still, the line between his brows deepening, not in defiance, but thought. He ran his thumb over his palm, absently. 

“It just feels so familiar,” he said. “This…recalibration. I’m trying not to get it wrong this time. With her. I’m trying to respect her boundaries. Not push. Not make her flinch. But part of me still wonders if I’m doing it again. Trying to adjust to whatever someone wants.”

“That’s a valid concern,” she said. “Especially for someone who’s had to survive by adapting.”

“Yeah, well. I used to adapt because I had to. Now I’m adapting because I want to.”

“What’s the difference, to you?”

“One was fear,” he said eventually. “Fear of losing people. Of being punished. Of being responsible for someone’s life.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s…hope.”

Inglethorpe didn’t smile, but something in her posture softened.

“It seems like your efforts aren't rooted in fear anymore. They’re rooted in desire. In value. That matters.”

He met her gaze warily, as if unsure if he should believe her words because they were very, very hopeful words.

“You’re not trying to earn Hermione’s affection,” she said. “You’re not fixing yourself to be chosen. You’re choosing to be better because you finally believe there’s something better worth becoming.”

Silence stretched again.

“And yes,” she added quietly, “There’s risk in that. Because it means you’re not in control of the outcome. But that’s not regression, Draco. That’s courage.”

__________

The meeting with Desmond Toller had just wrapped. There were parchment scraps everywhere, a map of Britain with charm-pulsing dots for each remaining campaign stop, and the beginnings of a migraine building behind Hermione’s left eye. Toller was already gathering his notes, muttering something about scheduling and budget approvals.

“…and the symposium panel next week’s been pushed to the afternoon,” Toller said, tapping his wand against the weekly schedule they’d just finished butchering into shape. “Malfoy confirmed he’ll only be there for the second half. Apparently he has a session that morning.”

Hermione paused. “Session?”

“Mind healer. Or magical therapist. Depends who you ask. One of the Arrows’ staff mentioned it when I was confirming time blocks.”

“Oh.”

She said it like someone noticing the weather. Oh. Toller moved on. Something about Kingsley and irate foreign delegates. She barely registered it. Mind healer. Of course Draco bloody Malfoy, Quidditch’s most infamous tantrum thrower and serial hexer of teammates, was quietly seeing a mind healer. And not telling anyone. And not using it to score points with her. And not…not asking her to notice. Her stomach did something. Like it had caught her in a lie she didn’t know she was telling. She continued ruminating on this piece of news as she left Toller’s office. She’d have no choice but to inquire about it later when she briefs him on their next campaign schedule. The lift was nearly empty this time of night, which was always a nice change. The Ministry corridors hummed with that sterile after-hours quiet though, which unnerved her a bit. Hermione leaned back against the mirrored wall, paperwork stuffed in her bag like a slow-burning grudge.

And then she smelled it.

A particular scent. For a gut-twisting second, her brain stuttered. Because she knew that cologne. It’s a smell she would never forget. Viktor used to wear it and it used to undo her. At one point, it would’ve been what her Amortentia smelled like. She’d get a whiff of him and get wet on instinct. Like bloody Pavlov’s dog. Because once upon a time, she associated that scent with her perfect boyfriend - fit, attentive, and loving. Back then, the scent meant getting fucked all night. He’d go so hard and so long she’d reek of his cologne all day - on her skin, in her hair, between her legs. It didn’t matter how much she scrubbed; it stayed. It was his fetish to have his scent all over her and she’d loved it. 

Now, it just made her skin crawl.

She glanced around instinctively. The lift was empty. The corridor ahead quiet and deserted. Save for two Aurors stationed near the atrium, leaning against walls, bored and wand-twirling. It was probably someone else, she thought, and that particular cologne was common enough. Still. It was strange how quickly a scent could drag you back to the past. Back to a specific part of your life you liked to pretend didn’t exist. She shook it off and walked on, faster than necessary. The cologne faded. Her pulse didn’t. 

She told herself it wasn’t about the scent. Or the memory it dragged up. Or the way she hadn’t stopped thinking about Draco all week, which was, objectively, a terrible use of cognitive resources. She just needed air. And maybe a walk. And maybe, fine, a detour past a certain corner of Clerkenwell where a certain flat happened to be. Just to check. Just to… whatever. She brought him a file. A perfectly work-related, boring file that could’ve been owled. But wasn’t. Because she was passing by the area. Technically. 

The stairs up to his building were still annoying. Still designed to punish the emotionally conflicted. Hermione took them slower than usual, more out of hesitation than exhaustion, and it wasn’t until the final flight that she noticed someone on the landing. A blonde woman, sitting alone on the top step, spine too straight for someone at rest. Her hair was partially coming down, strands clinging to the sides of her face in a way that suggested it hadn’t been styled so much as given up on. She was pale, but not in the way Draco was - aristocratic, sun-avoidant. No, this was something else. Dull. Tired. Depleted. Hermione’s steps slowed. And then the woman turned her head.

Daphne Greengrass.

Hermione stilled. She hadn’t seen her since that night at the pub when the sharp crack of her slap stole everyone’s attention. Hermione remembered the look on Draco’s face when he ran after her like a frantic madman chasing after his beloved. At the time, Hermione hadn’t known what to make of it. She’d misread the entire situation, projected meanings that hadn’t been there. But that was before Draco told her the whole story between him and Daphne. The dependency. The years of guilt and guilt-adjacent obligation. It was complicated. Sad. Maybe even a bit tragic, depending on how charitable one was feeling that day.

But one thing was painfully clear, even from several steps away - Daphne shouldn’t be here, outside his flat. She obviously wasn’t here to drop something off or say something in passing. She was waiting, and Hermione didn’t need to guess who for. And maybe she should’ve felt something in response to that. Jealousy. Irritation. Bitterness. But all she could feel was a slow, creeping sense of sympathy. Daphne looked worse than the last time she’d seen her. Thinner. Her collarbones jutted sharply against the collar of her coat. Her eyes, once bright, were dim now. This was someone still fighting a war that no longer existed. Hermione adjusted the file in her hands. Took a quiet breath. And stepped forward.

“Daphne?” Hermione said cautiously, already knowing the answer.

There was no flinch. No flicker of surprise. Just a slow lift of the head, like gravity had tripled and the effort cost more than it should’ve. Her spine remained ramrod straight. The shadows under her eyes clearly weren’t just from a restless night. Hermione felt that disorienting drop of recognition in her gut. That familiar look. That emptiness stretched thin across her features like wax. That leaden numbness that wasn’t sadness but the absence of anything else. There was a time Hermione had seen it in the mirror every day, after the battle. During Viktor. She had long since defeated her past demons, though. But not entirely.

Daphne didn’t look angry when she saw Hermione. She did not seem to look confrontational, either. She just looked…stopped. Like a clock frozen at the same hour, as if time itself had forgotten her. And Hermione knew viscerally that this wasn’t someone who’d moved on or healed herself. Five years have gone and Daphne Greengrass still wasn’t surviving whatever war was following her.

“Is everything okay?” Hermione asked.

Daphne avoided her gaze. “I’m fine.”

She kept her eyes on the brick wall across the street like she was afraid Hermione might see something in her face or eyes. Hermione didn’t press. Didn’t tilt her head or offer a pitying smile. She simply waited, because she had made up her mind she was not leaving until she found out what Daphne needed aside from her ex-boyfriend, who most likely wasn’t even home. 

Daphne glanced at her then. “I’m waiting for Draco to come out. His wards won’t allow me to knock.”

She looked away, then back again. Something almost like shame flickering behind her lashes. And then she looked at Hermione with a slight hopeful glint in her eyes.

“But maybe…you could let me in?”

Hermione hesitated. Because clearly, Draco had drawn a line through his protection wards. Daphne had tried to cross it, and it hadn’t let her. Hermione didn’t know what that meant or what it cost him to draw it. But it wasn’t hers to step over. Still, there was something hollow and terrible in Daphne’s face that made her ache. So, without a word, Hermione tried to Apparate straight into his flat. She didn’t splinch but the magic refused, which meant he wasn’t home. Of course he wasn’t. Hermione exhaled, feet still planted beside Daphne on the stoop. 

“He’s not there.”

Daphne scowled. Her shoulders tipped back like she was bracing for a gust of wind that never came. Hermione peeked at her, who still hadn’t moved. Still standing stiffly, like posture might summon him back. The wind caught the edge of her coat and revealed arms far too thin. Hermione shifted the file in her hands.

“I knew your sister,” she said, softly.

Daphne’s pale blue eyes flicked up.

“Not well,” Hermione clarified. “I mean, she was younger. But I remember her.”

Daphne didn’t speak. But a muscle ticked in her face. That terrible, haunted tension that said: I’m listening. I just don’t trust you with the ache yet.

“She used to read by the greenhouses,” Hermione continued. “Didn’t talk to anyone. I always thought she seemed…different from most Slytherins.”

Daphne blinked once, but said nothing.

“And you two looked so alike,” Hermione added lightly.

“Except when we cried. She was ugly when she cried,” Daphne muttered.

That caught Hermione off guard. Not because it was cruel, though it sort of was, but because it was normal. It was so weirdly affectionate and...sisterly. The kind of thing people said when they were allowed to miss someone without making it poetic. 

“She seemed kind,” Hermione said finally. “I always wished I’d spoken to her.”

Daphne’s voice wobbled. “You didn’t miss much. She hated small talk. Called it conversational litter.”

Hermione huffed. “That sounds about right.”

They stood like that for a moment, not facing each other. Just parallel in grief and frozen in place. Then Hermione cleared her throat. 

“Come to my place. I have really good tea. And sandwiches. You look like you haven’t eaten since Umbridge was in office.”

Daphne didn’t laugh. But she didn’t glare, either. Which, frankly, was a great sign.

“You’re inviting me to your flat,” she deadpanned instead.

“Not a trap, I promise. Just so you don't wait here alone.”

Daphne’s eyes swept her expression. Not searching for kindness. Maybe proof of something. Motive. Angle.

“You and Draco…” Her voice was cautious. “You’re close now?”

“We work together, as you know.”

Hermione kept her tone even. Work, yes. If you counted the two and half times they fucked as a form of collaboration, then sure.

“He used to talk about you a lot. After the war. Said you were too noble and saintly. It annoyed him endlessly," Daphne said, sounding painfully uninvested.

Hermione blinked. Too noble. Circe forbid she had principles. Nothing like human decency to really piss off a Malfoy. But to be fair, she’d been called worse. It was a bit pleasant to find out he apparently talked about her a lot while he was with another woman, though.

Daphne looked away. “He doesn’t talk to me now.”

“I know,” Hermione agreed.

“And now you’re talking to me.”

“Only if you want me to.”

Daphne stared for another long moment, like the offer might dissolve if she blinked. Her fingers folded slightly at her sides, nails digging into her coat fabric.

“I don’t trust you,” she said finally. “But warm tea sounds inviting right now.”

Hermione nodded. “That’ll do.”

And when she turned to lead the way, Daphne followed. Not out of trust, of course. Just out of the desperate, aching need to not be alone anymore. They didn’t speak. Not when Hermione led her down the stairwell and not even when they reached the street. Daphne followed like a ghost behind her. She even looked like one. Hermione cast a quick glance sideways to confirm she wasn’t dragging a corpse.

“Side-along Apparition?” she asked her, because offering tea was one thing, but letting someone splinch themselves on your watch was paperwork.

Daphne just gave a small, jerky nod. Hermione took her arm. If she had a knut for every time she Apparated with a blonde pureblood to her flat for tea and emotional support, she’d have…two knuts. Which wasn’t a lot, but it was odd that it had happened more than once. They landed just outside her door with a faint pop. The flat was quiet, like it was not prepared to have any visitors today. In no time, Hermione placed the mugs on the table, along with a plate of sandwiches she’d thrown together without much ceremony. Daphne took the tea without a word, both hands wrapped around the mug like she wasn’t sure what else to do with them. Her coat stayed on, her spine still straight, but the tension in her jaw had eased. She wasn’t relaxed, but she no longer looked like she might bolt. Hermione sat down across from her, the table between them just wide enough for caution. 

“I used to meet with families. After the war,” Hermione began. “The Ministry set up a programme. Support networks, financial aid, for those who lost loved ones. I coordinated a few of the early ones.”

Daphne wasn’t looking at her. But Hermione could tell she was listening by the way her fingers went still around the mug.

“You weren’t on the registry,” Hermione continued. “You didn’t come to any part of the programme.”

Daphne’s shoulder tensed and her eyes averted from the table to the window. Hermione went on.

“I remember thinking…that you must’ve had someone. A way through it.”

Daphne simply sat there, her tea untouched still. Her expression didn’t change, but Hermione saw it - the subtle shift in her breathing. Like someone trying to keep the walls up, only to realise the cracks had already let something through. When she did speak, her voice was quiet, but not delicate. More like something dulled from too much screaming from nightmares, maybe.

“Draco was with me.”

She didn’t say it like a memory. She said it like a fact that still held weight in the present.

“After the battle. When no one knew what to do with people like us. We clung to each other. Saved each other.”

Her words unspooled like this was something she’d held in her chest for years.

“He’d come to my parents’ house after they were gone. I was still sleeping on the floor back then. Couldn’t go near the bed. Couldn’t eat. And he… he cooked. He’d burn the eggs and pretend he meant to. He’d hold me while I shook like a bloody leaf at night and never once asked me to calm down.”

Her voice dropped.

“We built a little world only the two of us could be in. He made it feel safe. Made it feel like maybe we could still be human after everything. We took care of one another, even if we were miserable. We loved each other, you see. You should’ve seen him with me. He loved me like no one else could.”

Her eyes flicked up to Hermione’s, sharp with conviction now.

“He made love to me every night like I was the only thing he cared about. He was gentle when I needed it. Rough when I begged. Always knew which one I wanted, even when I didn’t say it. That’s how well he knew me. We weren’t just lovers, Granger. We were kin. Soulmates.”

Hermione kept her expression neutral, nodding like this was all very clinical and not at all the emotional equivalent of being hit by a Bombarda to the sternum. She reached for her tea and took a sip. Let it burn her tongue instead of reacting and bristling. She had to remind herself that this moment wasn’t about her. This wasn’t a competition on who Draco fucked better. This was a woman who was hurting. Who had clearly unravelled sometime between the loss of her family and the loss of Draco, and was now trying, however misguidedly, to stitch herself back together with old memories.

“So when he left me, I didn’t know where to put myself. Because he was the only place I ever felt safe. Not programmes. Not potions. Not time. Him,” Daphne continued, slightly raising her voice now.

Hermione set her tea down. “Then maybe that’s the problem.”

Daphne’s eyes widened, just a bit. Hermione didn’t soften her tone, but she didn’t sharpen it either. It was even. Level. Like she was stating something bureaucratic, the way she might explain legislation in layman terms. Her eyes never wavered.

“You keep looking for safety in him. For stability. For permission to be okay. And the truth is, that’s never going to last. Because people aren’t places. They change. They leave. Even if they don’t want to.”

Daphne opened her mouth, but Hermione didn’t give her that chance yet and kept going.

“And Draco, he’s not your portkey out of grief. He’s not some saviour. Because no matter how much he cares, he’ll never be able to fill the void you keep deepening every time you chase after him.”

Whatever Daphne was going to say a few seconds ago, she held it back now. Now, it was Hermione’s turn to steer the conversation.

“You think you need him to survive. But what you really need…is to want to survive. Even without him.”

She let that sit. Then leaned back in her chair, just slightly.

“And if you do love him, you’ll want him whole. Not weighed down by the pressure of being responsible for your well-being and safety.”

A trace of irritation crossed Daphne’s face now. She looked down at her tea, lashes casting long shadows.

“You think I don’t know that?” she said sharply. “That I sound unhinged? That I’ve become…something he had to shake off?”

Her fingers clenched around the porcelain.

“I’m not stupid, Granger. I know that I’m still broken. Still stuck. Still dragging him down. But he’s the only person who ever made me feel like I wasn’t. And maybe that’s pathetic. But you weren’t there after Astoria died. You didn’t see what it did to him. To me. And you’re telling me I need to move on ?”

Her voice cracked slightly. She swallowed.

“I want to get better. I do. But sometimes, it feels like…if I let go of him, I’ll disappear.”

Then she finally looked up, but not in a combative manner. Tiredly. Like someone realising the fortress she’s been defending has been rubble for a long time.

“Where would I even begin?” Daphne whispered.

Hermione’s tea had gone cold now. She set the cup aside.

“I don’t think you’re unhinged,” she said in a tone that’s vaguely comforting. “I think you’re grieving. And I think you’ve been grieving for a very long time.”

Hermione drew in a breath.

“You don’t have to let go of him. Not all at once. But…maybe you need to let go of the version of him that existed only to keep you afloat. Because he’s trying to become someone else now. And I don’t think he’s doing it against you. I think he’s doing it because he’s finally allowed to.”

Hermione looked down at the table, then back at Daphne.

“And maybe the place to begin,” she said, “Is by letting yourself be someone outside of him. Not because you need to stop loving him but because you need to start choosing yourself.”

At this, Hermione paused before adding, “Like I did.”

Her tone didn’t ask for recognition. She spoke it like a truth she wasn’t embarrassed to share. Like a crack of light through the rubble. Then she leaned forward, both palms flat against the table. 

“I know a mind healer,” Hermione suggested. “Not just anyone. She specialises in grief, long-term mind maladies, that sort of thing. Helped me loads.”

Daphne’s expression didn’t shift, but her posture did. Slightly. Her spine curved inward like her body was preparing for impact.

“I was exactly like you, once. Refused to seek help. Told myself I was fine. Even when I was throwing up from panic. Even when I stayed with someone who abused and hurt me.”

She looked down for a moment. Not from shame, but memory.

“It took me a long time to realise surviving isn’t the same as living. And even longer to admit that I was angry. At the people who hurt me. At the people who didn’t. At myself, mostly, for letting it all rot in me for so long.”

A beat.

“This healer…she won’t fix everything for you. But she’ll help you see where to start. And she won’t give up even when it gets ugly. That’s what she did for me. And she can do it for you too, if you let her.”

Daphne was quiet for a long time. Her fingers tapped jerkily, before her hands turned into fists.

“You think if I get better…he’ll love me again?” she said, almost a whisper. 

Hermione looked at her - at the bloodless lips, the trembling jaw, the heartbreak wearing itself thin.

“I think if you get better,” she replied “You’ll love yourself again. And maybe, once you’re whole again, and he’s whole too, you’ll see each other more clearly. And whatever’s meant to happen…will.”

Hermione didn’t say yes, he’ll come back. Because that wouldn’t be honest and it wasn’t her promise to make. But she didn’t say no , either. Because hope wasn’t the enemy here. Clinging to it too tightly was. And Daphne gave a tiny nod. The kind that probably didn’t mean belief. But at least it meant she’d heard it.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger had never felt more like a sentient Ministry pamphlet than today. Her dress robe was comically crisp. Her curls had been styled with enough Sleekeazy to bankrupt the beauty industry. A slim roll of parchment was tucked beneath one arm like a very deceptive weapon. She’d already triple-checked the rota, the contingency rota, and the oh-Merlin-we’re-on-fire rota. Now she was standing by the Ministry atrium’s gilded fountain, watching a tide of teenage wizarding delegates stream in from around the world.

Students from Hogwarts, Uagadou, Castelobruxo, Mahoutokoro, Beauxbatons, Durmstrang littered the place with gleaming badges. They looked absurdly young. Overeager. Overexcited. And already loud enough to make Hermione regret skipping a second dose of her morning tea. She plastered on her best welcoming smile. Earnest, composed, and slightly maternal. Gods. Maybe she was a pamphlet. She told herself it was just a symposium, not a battlefield. But because she was Hermione Granger, she wasn’t just going to give one talk and call it a day. No, of course not. She was also overseeing the programme schedule, liaising with interschool liaisons, moderating two panels, and facilitating the Beauxbatons-Uagadou debate on magical autonomy. 

Hermione stood off to the side of the bustling hall, watching a Mahoutokoro boy animatedly tell his Beauxbatons seatmate something about wand cores. She caught herself smiling. Then caught herself sighing. She felt, suddenly, like an old crumpled note in a room full of fresh new parchment. Because even if her own teenage years didn’t feel that far behind her, she knew that none of these children had crawled through rubble with blood on their socks. None of them had to fight Death Eaters before they were old enough to rent a flat. And good. She didn’t want them to know that kind of horror.

Draco wouldn’t be there for the morning half. Something about a prior commitment to getting his brain poked at by his mind healer. That was fine. She could manage without him. Even if she missed him. Sorely. The space beside her felt too empty lately. Like saving a seat for someone who didn’t say they were coming. They hadn’t properly talked in days. The last time was when she dropped by his flat to hand over their joint column and stayed just long enough to insult his new brew, which he claimed was salve, not soup. That had counted, somehow.

The programme began without incident. Just hours of student delegates clapping too much, sitting too straight, and pretending they were thrilled to be lectured. Hermione kept things moving, calling speakers to the stage, redirecting lost students to the right panel rooms, and silently cursing the event coordinator who thought handing out paper programmes instead of charmed maps was a good idea. There were too many teens and not enough tact. When it was her turn to speak, she walked up to the podium like the embodiment of a magical Mary Sue. She’d given this type of talk before. Rewritten it half a dozen times. Knew every line, every beat.

But she immediately felt it. The unfriendliness. The antagonistic looks. Not from everyone, but it was enough for her to notice. Like the room was bracing for a punchline at her expense. As soon as she mentioned her muggle upbringing, several Durmstrang students leaned in, whispering to each other openly. Staring at her with clear disdain and mockery. Hermione knew that brand of hostility too well. Eastern Europe is notoriously known to still be prejudiced, even after everything. She didn’t flinch, though. Didn’t lose pace. She tilted her chin and continued. She’d survived Bellatrix Lestrange and bloody Voldemort. Teenagers weren’t even in the top fifty of things that rattled her.

The applause came like clockwork. Polite, perfunctory, and just loud enough to signal the end of her speech. Even the Durmstrang students clapped, though she was fairly certain one of them sprained something doing it. The next hour blurred into a symphony of delegation and Hermione funnelling teen wizards into their respective breakout rooms. She was in full Ministry mode - smiling, guiding, and occasionally threatening when two Durmstrang boys approached her with the identical look of vague confusion.

“Excuse me,” one of them said in a sharp accent she was so familiar with. “Where is the bathroom?”

Hermione, ever the customer service mascot, gestured helpfully. “Down the corridor, second left…actually, I’ll just show you. This way.”

She led them towards a back hallway near the service wing, where a lesser-known set of lavatories were tucked behind a row of maintenance rooms. The boys followed closely behind her. Too close, actually. She was mid-step when there was a sudden, calculated shove to her lower back. She gasped, stumbling forward straight into the open door of a narrow utility closet. The door slammed shut behind her before she could even register what happened.

A spell clicked into place.

Darkness. 

She banged on the door. Once, twice. Hard enough that her palm stung.

“This isn’t funny. Let me out,” she snapped, wand already in her other hand. 

Laughter answered her from outside. And then something in Bulgarian. She didn’t understand a word. Didn’t need to. Mockery translated just fine. Their footsteps faded. She waited for them to come back, maybe to shout something else through the door. They didn’t.

“Alohomora,” she muttered, flicking her wand at the handle.

Nothing. She tried another spell. Louder. Clearer. Still nothing. Whoever had cast it knew what they were doing. A simple Alohomora wouldn’t cut it - not unless it was some complex layering of locking wards. Her fingers tightened around her wand. It was fine. This was fine. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was a grown witch with a sodding Order of Merlin. She could handle a utility closet. Except maybe she couldn’t.

The walls were too close. There was a bucket pressing into her hip and the smell of must and copper pipe made her stomach turn. Her breath began to hitch. The back of her neck prickled. She gripped the door handle again. Shoved it. Yanked. Nothing. It didn’t budge. Her throat tightened. She thought about casting a Bombarda. But stopped herself. Blowing up a utility closet in the middle of an international youth symposium would cause a minor scandal and bring attention to her. There won’t just be a dramatic scene, there’d probably be headlines about it the next day and howlers from parents. And anyway, she couldn’t raise her wand anymore. Her fingers were tingling and numb in places. She tried to grip the door handle again, but her hand slipped off, clammy and shaking.

“Hello?” she called, or tried to, but it came out thin and cracked. Pathetic.

She banged on the door again. Weakly this time. Her knuckles barely made a sound. Her whole body was buzzing. Useless. Like her veins were filled with static. She hadn’t felt this helpless since… no. She wasn’t going there. Except her brain had already dragged her. Back to tiled walls. Back to the terrifying clink of a lock. Back to a voice outside the door that said she was overreacting. That she needed to calm down and reflect on her actions. She pressed her forehead to the door and closed her eyes. She was not that girl anymore, she had to keep reminding herself.

Her thoughts scattered like dropped coins. Clattering in every direction. The symposium. The programme. There was a timed schedule. Student rotations. She was supposed to be ushering the group from Mahoutokoro to Hall B in ten minutes. Or was it five? Shit. Where was Patel? Did Patel have the updated list? She gripped her knees, breath coming too fast now. Tried to slow it down, count backwards, do any of the things she told other people to do when they were spiralling.

Was someone looking for her? Gods, what if no one noticed? What if they assumed she was shirking the itinerary? If the press caught wind of an important Ministry event without its spokesperson…Merlin. She could lose her job over this. All because some teenage wankers thought it’d be funny to shove the famous mudblood in a closet. She gasped, shallow and ragged. The air felt tighter now. Thicker. Like it was sitting on her chest instead of filling it. Hermione gathered what little strength she had left and banged on the door again. It barely made a sound. She realised too late that they had cast silencing charms on it.

Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy stepped through the Ministry Atrium looking every bit sharp. Sleek robes. Sleek hair. Sleek expression. The symposium was in full swing when he sweeped in. Students scattered about like it was a Quidditch afterparty and not a diplomatic event. Cloaks were askew. Someone was levitating biscuits. Draco dodged a small knot of Beauxbatons girls who smelled like vanilla, then a Durmstrang boy who looked like he was two insults away from knocking someone out. Draco scanned the crowd with only mild disdain. No Granger in sight. He spotted Desmond Toller near the stage, deep in discussion with a squat wizard whose beard looked like it had tenure. Draco approached and offered a tight, professional smile. 

“Pardon the interruption. Spokeswoman of the campaign, where is she?”

Toller glanced up, distracted. “Granger? Probably in one of the breakout rooms.”

Draco nodded curtly and turned on his heel. He wandered through the Ministry’s East Wing, watching students scatter into various rooms . Signs hovered above each archway: Wand Ethics, Non-Human Rights, Potion Ethics and Consent, which sounded like the start of a terrible wizarding joke. He passed a group of Ilvermorny boys attempting to flirt with a Mahoutokoro delegate. A Hogwarts girl elbowed past him. Lucky for her he was in campaign mode.

He sighed. He had no idea what the hell was going on. Had only skimmed the schedule the way one might skim a leaflet about dragon pox prevention. He was told he’d be needed at some point in the afternoon to “show moral support”, whatever that entailed. It was a good thing he was feeling good today. His morning session with Inglethorpe had actually left him less emotionally constipated than usual. That counted as progress, surely. He ducked into another corridor, scanning doorways. Still no sign of her. Draco turned a corner and nearly collided with a cluster of Durmstrang boys loitering near a Ministry tapestry, snickering. One of them said something that made the others burst into wheezy laughter.

“Мръсната мътнокръвка. Никой няма да я чуе.”

Draco halted his steps. His brain processed the words before his body caught up. Something in his gut turned. That mudblood. No one will hear her. His blood iced over. He spun on his heel, murder blazing in his eyes, and stalked back towards them without a word. The boys instantly went quiet when they saw him approach. They recognised him immediately, judging by the way their eyes bulged. Or maybe it was just his reputation. Either way, good. 

“Повтори го,” Draco said threateningly. Repeat that.

Three of them stiffened, one snorted like it was a funny question, though all of them looked startled. As if the blond, British Quidditch man shouldn’t have been fluent enough to threaten them in their own language.

“Беше шега,” the tallest one stuttered. It was a joke.

Without warning, Draco grabbed him by the front of his collar one-handed and shoved him against the wall just hard enough to rattle the sconces.

“къде е тя? Where is she?” he hissed. “Tell me now or I’ll personally hand all your teeth to your headmaster.”

No one moved. Just the twitch of a boy’s eye - left, then right. Silent. Complicit. They might as well have drawn him a bloody map.

“Last chance,” Draco warned.

The boy paled. “Closet. Down that hall. First left.”

Draco harshly let go of the boy’s collar and stormed off like a dark cloud, all the lightness and post-therapy positivity draining out of him. He didn’t care who he shoved past in the corridor. Because this wasn’t just another snafu. This was Granger. And he knew her. Knew her the way you know a book you’ve re-read a dozen times. The way she flinched at sudden movements. How she bristled and looked mildly terrorised when others touched her things. The sound of slamming. How she’d clam up whenever she was inside the lift too long. She did not like locked doors. And he, in all his not-at-all obsessive glory, had known these. Quietly. Because someone should. 

So when those Durmstrang twats said “mudblood” and “no one will hear her”, his whole body went hot. Then cold. Then deadly. He was going to find her. Now. Even if he had to blow up every fucking door in this Ministry to do it. In fact, he was very close to doing it. Nothing was stopping him. But then he saw it. A little door down the corridor, tucked between a bricked-up fireplace and a busted coat rack. Draco didn’t hesitate. He raised his wand and undid the Silencing Charm. Instantly, he heard soft sobbing. Muffled. Heartbreaking.

“Granger,” he said sharply, already reaching for the handle. 

It didn’t budge. He didn’t waste time swearing. Just braced his palm against the wood and started casting. " Alohomora. " " Colloportus counter. " " Finite incantatem. " " Contrahostium. " " Rescindere. " He was practically snarling by the fifth one. Whatever wards those bastards did, they weren’t normal spells. It’s probably stuff taught in Defence electives at places like Durmstrang. Mercifully, the lock finally clicked after Draco’s seventh attempt at counter-curse. 

It was a vicious spell meant to bar even the cleverest intruder. Draco’s wand hand was trembling by the time it yielded. He yanked the door open brusquely. Hermione staggered forward like the darkness had spat her out. Her curls were matted, her eyes red and unfocused, her robes rumpled at the shoulder like she’d been clawing at herself. She nearly tripped over the threshold, but Draco caught her. His arms and chest all bracing to take her weight. Her hands reached for him instinctively.

“You’re alright,” he murmured against her temple. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

She was shivering.

“I couldn’t get out,” she said, somewhere between a breath and a sob. “Alohamora wouldn’t…no one—”

“I know,” he said, his hand cupping the back of her head. “I know, Granger.”

She clung to him like she’d been drowning for hours and only just now breached the surface. Her fingers dug into his shirt like she was afraid he'd abandon her if she let go. Her breath came in short bursts against his collar. He was warm. Strong. And that alone made her knees threaten to give. Draco held her just as tightly with no hesitation. He was tracing grounding circles on her back like he’d done this before. He had a lot of practice in the past with Daphne.

Her eyes burned. Her lungs ached. She could still feel the pressure of the walls closing in, even though she wasn’t in them anymore. And maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the panic. Or the complete and utter disarray of her mental state. But something about the way he showed up cut straight through whatever pride she had left. Because he came fast and breathless, like nothing else in the world mattered. And gods, she’d needed him. She didn’t think anyone would come. She didn’t think anyone ever would. The words came out before she could stop them.

“I missed you.”

Draco froze. Her voice had broken saying it, like it had snuck up on her. Like she hadn’t meant to say it at all. And fuck, that made it worse. She was shaking in his arms. Her arms locked around him so tightly he thought he’d lose circulation. She was still trying to match her breathing to his. Like he might steady her. She didn’t even realise she was crying until the next sob caught in her throat and came out ragged. He tightened his hold on her and let his hand settle at the nape of her neck, thumb sweeping under her hairline. 

“I missed you too, Granger.”

There. That was all he had. No further comment. No elaboration. Just something simple, something he could survive. She needed him to be steady and present. So he’d give her that. 

“Granger—” A voice cut through the air. 

Desmond Toller came lightly jogging with his sleeves askew like he’d whizzed through the building to find them. His eyes darted between them - Hermione half-crumpled in Draco’s arms, the open utility cupboard behind them.

“What happened?” he asked, startled.

Draco’s fury returned like a snap to the spine. He adjusted his grip on Hermione, arms shifting beneath hers as he helped her upright. And then he turned. His jaw locked when he spotted them nearby: the group of boys huddled by the fountain at the far end of the atrium, still snickering, though their expressions faltered as soon as they realised they were being watched.

Draco pointed at them. “Over here. All of you. ”

His voice landed like daggers across the room. The kind you didn’t argue with because somewhere, deep in your animal brain, you knew it meant danger. 

“I wasn’t asking,” Draco added when they hesitated.

Desmond looked confused. A few witches nearby flinched. The boys - all sixth or seventh years, judging by the ill-fitting dress robes - ambled closer, slower than they should’ve. Guilt smeared across their faces.

“Is your programme open to juvenile sociopaths, Toller?” Draco asked Desmond coldly.

Desmond blinked. “What? No—”

Draco turned to the boys without giving Toller a chance to respond.

“You locked a war survivor in a closet,” he spat. “That’s not a prank. That’s a declaration.”

One of the boys opened his mouth but didn’t have a chance to speak.

“You have five seconds to apologise,” Draco continued. “Beyond that, I’ll stop caring that you’re kids. One…”

They scrambled to speak. The tallest boy stepped forward. His face was pale now, the bravado wrung out of him.

“I’m sorry, Miss Granger. We didn’t think. We were just—”

“Enough,” Desmond finally cut in, placing a hand on Draco’s arm. “I’ll be informing their headmaster and let them handle this. Disciplinary action. Possibly even suspension.”

The boys visibly grimaced at the last word. A ripple began to pass through the atrium. Whispers. Footsteps. The unmistakable hum of cameras charging up. The press was here. Draco turned his head just slightly and saw it: a Daily Prophet correspondent scribbling notes like her quill was on fire. A flashbulb snapped. Someone else gasped.

“Shite,” Desmond muttered. “Alright, everyone get back. Now . Let’s go, move, move—”

He then spun on the boys. “You four, come with me. Don’t say another word.”

To Draco and Hermione, softer: “I’ll let the Minister know. You two, just go before a fiasco forms.”

The hallway suddenly filled with people. Cameras. Curious eyes craning for a glimpse of drama or scandal. Draco’s arm hovered protectively around Hermione’s shoulders as Desmond started herding the boys away, barking orders to Ministry staff already stepping in with privacy wards. Hermione swayed slightly on her feet.

“Come on,” Draco told her. “Let’s get you out of here.”

He effectively steered her away from the flashbulbs. To his credit, Desmond didn’t flounder. Didn’t hover or panic or look to Hermione to clean up the mess, like he usually did when anything veered off-script. No, for once, he remembered he was a department head. He turned sharply on the gathering press, voice booming with bureaucratic authority.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the symposium will resume in five minutes in Hall C. Refreshments have been restocked and the panel from Beauxbatons will be beginning shortly. Let’s all focus on the programme.”

The crowd, starved for a faux pas, was being redirected with the efficiency of a senior bureaucrat who’d finally remembered he had teeth. Then, he tilted his head and caught the eye of the Durmstrang faculty across the hall. He summoned them without fuss or spectacle. Draco didn’t wait. With Hermione’s hand in his, he guided her along the edge of the atrium, ducking them behind a pair of enchanted banners mid-transformation. No one followed. No one noticed. Desmond’s diversion was working. The Ministry floos were only twenty metres ahead.

“You alright?” Draco asked under his breath, watching her from the corner of his eye as they walked.

Hermione’s answer came in the form of her grip tightening on his hand. He stepped into the floo holding hands with her as he spoke her address. And then they were gone. They landed in her sitting room with a puff of soot. Hermione stepped out of the hearth first. Her heels scraped softly against the wood as she brushed off the ash from her robes like it mattered. Like the act of cleaning could undo what happened. Draco didn’t speak yet.

He followed her out at a slower pace. His eyes tracked her movements - delicate, disjointed, twitchy. Like her body hadn’t quite remembered it was safe yet. She crossed the room. Stopped. Turned back. Walked in a different direction. Her hand hovered over a stack of papers on her table. She didn’t pick them up. She just…touched them. Like anchoring herself. Draco shrugged off his coat and dropped it over the back of a chair. His eyes never left her. He moved into her kitchen and filled a glass with water. He set it down on the counter, closer to her than to him. Didn’t say it was for her, but he didn’t really need to. Hermione circled the sofa once like she was trying to outpace a thought. Then, she spoke.

“I have a job to do,” she blurted nervously. “I can’t just leave like that, there’s still the panels, and the delegation from—”

“No.”

Her head whipped up. Draco looked calm. Too calm. The dangerous sort of calm you use when trying not to scream.

“Sit down, Granger. Or lie down. Or stare blankly into the wallpaper if that’s your preferred method of recovery.”

She opened her mouth to argue but Draco, evidently, was not having it today.

“ No. I will physically strap you down to a chair if I have to.”

She stared him down. He stared back. 

“Don’t make me transfigure your legs into chaise lounges, Granger. You will be horizontal.”

That made her lips twitch. With great reluctance, she sat on the settee. She exhaled a long, unsteady breath that left her shoulders slumped for the first time since escaping the closet. Her limbs sagged under her like her bones had been holding her up. Her hair was still tangled, curls frizzy and matted at the edges. Her blouse was wrinkled where she’d clutched at herself. One sleeve slightly torn. Her eyes were still red around the rims, the skin beneath them hollowed. She looked like she’d been through hell. And yet…

“I shouldn’t have left like that,” she said suddenly. “I mean, I know I had to, but Merlin, the symposium! Desmond can’t handle everything alone. And I was meant to introduce the Beauxbatons panel, and the ICW rep hasn’t even confirmed—”

She stood halfway, faltered, sat back down harder than she meant to. Her hands wrung together in her lap.

“I’m fine now, really. They didn’t even touch me. Honestly, it wasn’t that serious. I probably overreacted over a prank. A stupid one, but still. Boys being boys…just trying to - what, impress each other? Shock someone? They didn’t know—”

Draco stared at her, his pulse ringing in his ears. He was trying. He was really trying not to say the thing sitting at the back of his throat. Because what he wanted to say was: Y ou’ve got to be taking the piss right now. She was downplaying it. Of course she was. Because that’s what Hermione Granger did, wasn’t it? Catalogued her ordeal and shoved it behind a stack of unfinished to-do lists until it stopped interrupting her calendar. She’d been crying in that closet. She’d clung to him like she thought the world might disappear if she let go. Her hands had trembled. Her voice had cracked. She said she missed him.

And now she was sat on her sofa with her spine too straight and her shirt still rumpled from panic and this was what she called overreacting? Panic attack? No. Just a minor scheduling conflict. Just a hiccup. A temporary inconvenience. His chest twisted. Not in the romantic way but in the what the fuck is wrong with you, Granger, how is this your baseline for fine way. But he gritted his teeth and reined himself in. Because she didn’t need another man telling her how to feel. She needed someone to stay. Someone to see her and acknowledge what she refused to. So he swallowed the claws.

“Granger,” he said, carefully. “You were locked in. Alone. With a silencing charm on the door. For Merlin knows how long.”

She prepared to rebut, something stubborn and predictably idiotic already forming, but he cut her off.

“You’re not weak because you had a reaction. You’re not dramatic for having nerves. And you’re not going back to the bloody symposium. End of story.”

Hermione looked at him defiantly. And somewhere in that look - in the calm, unflinching way he refused to let her run herself ragged - something in her finally, quietly gave in. She slumped back against the couch. Like an overstrung violin whose strings had just snapped. Draco nodded once, like that settled it. Then turned for the kitchen.

Hermione made the mistake of trying to stand. “I can make—”

“Sit. Down.”

Hermione sank back into the cushions, defeated. Her hands lifted to her face. Because the truth was, she hated this. She hated that this still happened. That a locked door could undo her in seconds. That she could give speeches to international panels but the second she was in a locked space, her brain folded in on itself. It was just a utility closet. Just a stupid, cramped, dusty utility closet that she honestly would have escaped if she just figured out the counter-spell. For Merlin’s sake , she thought viciously. What kind of mess am I? She didn’t want to be someone people tiptoed around. Didn’t want to be seen as fragile. Or worse, incapable.

Draco brought her the tea without flourish. He didn’t ask if she wanted sugar, didn’t comment on how she liked it, didn’t make some cheeky quip about the mug being chipped. He set it gently into her hands and sat beside her. Close, but not touching. Hermione took small sips. Her grip was mostly steady now, though he noted the faintest tremor in her right hand, the way her thumb pressed a little too tightly against the ceramic. But at least her colour was coming back. She looked less like a ghost now. She set the cup down carefully on the table.

“Why didn’t you use the ring?” he asked.

Her hands dropped. “What?”

“The ring,” he said. “You have it.”

“Yes,” she answered, as if it was very obvious.

He waited. She looked down at her knees. 

Then, dryly, she said, “I wasn’t about to summon a busy Auror over teenagers pulling a prank.”

“You couldn’t breathe.”

“I’m breathing now.”

“Barely.”

“Technically I wasn’t harmed and the ring is for life-threatening emergencies. Viktor-related emergencies. That was the agreement.”

Draco scoffed, unamused. “You would’ve passed out.”

“But I didn’t. I wasn’t going to pull an Auror out of more dangerous missions because I couldn’t work out a locked door.”

“I don’t give a fuck if he’s halfway through tackling some bandit troll, you still should’ve summoned him!”

She huffed - properly huffed - nose flaring like a child caught doing something mildly stupid and deeply justified. Draco almost laughed. Not because it was funny but because somehow, even in a conversation like this, she managed to look like an indignant prefect who’d just been accused of cheating. It would’ve been endearing, if it didn’t make his chest ache.

“Draco. About what you said,” she said meekly. “That you’d be in my orbit for as long as it takes...”

Draco didn’t flinch. “Yes?”

“Even if I let you in…you’d have to deal with this. ”

Her eyes flicked briefly to the cup. Then to her own hands. She flexed her fingers, refusing to lift her eyes in case she saw him looking at her weirdly.

“It’s not just locked spaces that get me like this,” she continued. “It’s…a lot of stupid things. Harmless things. Certain sounds. Certain smells. Certain words. People standing too close to me. Fast wandwork. I could go on all day.”

Draco said nothing, letting her continue. 

“It’s exhausting. It’s embarrassing. I…I just think…eventually, anyone would get tired of it. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

For a split second, Draco wasn’t sure if he was more offended on her behalf or just flat-out baffled. She was listing her triggers like she was reading out a failed exam score. Like any moment now he’d stand up, dust off his trousers, and say, Sorry, Granger, I was actually only here for your glorious tits. He stared at her, utterly scandalised. Not by what she’d said but by the fact that she thought it would send him away. 

She was the most blisteringly complex, insufferably principled, achingly disarming person he’d ever met and she thought he’d get turned off just like that? Draco wanted to laugh. Because she was already bracing for the moment he’d leave. Like she thought letting him see the cracks meant he’d be gone by morning. And maybe if it were anyone else - anyone who hadn’t lived through what they had - he would be. But it was her. And for whatever reason, he just can’t leave her alone.

“If you think something like this could scare me off, then you’ve got a spectacularly rubbish opinion of me.”

Hermione flinched. Just barely. But Draco didn’t stop.

“Granger, you’d have to sprout tentacles and start siphoning blood from me before I’d even consider running.”

He tilted his head, eyes never leaving hers.

“And even then I’d probably ask if you wanted salt with it.”

That startled a laugh out of her. But he wasn’t done.

“You thought I’d waste my time on someone easy? That the hard parts of you are going to send me running? Those are the bits of you I understand best. I’m not scared of your mess. I want the whole impossible thing, or I don’t want it at all.”

And then, with razor-edged softness: “So unless you’re planning on turning into an Inferius…I’m not going anywhere, Granger.”

She set her cup down and turned to face him as if to challenge. 

“Even if I somehow transform into Umbridge?”

He looked physically ill. “I’d hex you daily for sport. But if it’s still you under it all, I’d stay.”

“Even if I stopped arguing with you altogether?”

That landed differently. He met her eyes. “Then I’d know something was wrong.”

He sighed quietly before adding, “But I’d stay anyway.”

She shouldn’t have asked. But that was always the problem with her. She never quite knew how to stop before the cliff edge. And now he’s saying he’d stay. That he wouldn’t run. That even if she became a human mollusc or a pink-cardigan-wearing hag, he’d still stay. It was absurd. Irresponsible. Frightening.

It was also exactly what she wanted to hear.

This was the part they never warned you about. Wanting someone and not knowing what the bloody hell to do with it. There wasn’t a book for this. No spell for “please don’t leave” or “I think I might unravel if you mean it.” She studied his face. The delicious face of a man who had no business meaning so much to her. And still, he did.

Hermione shifted closer, like something inside her had finally tilted towards him. Her hand rose tentatively and came to rest against his jaw. She touched him like she didn’t know if she was supposed to, but wanted to anyway. Draco stilled at first, then leaned into her touch. His eyes dropped to her mouth but he stopped himself before giving into something reckless. Before he cracked.

“I haven’t wanted anyone the way I want you,” she whispered. “And that should probably terrify you more than it terrifies me.”

Chapter Text

Hermione’s mornings followed a fairly strict pattern. Toast. Tea. And a dignified tug of war with the owl bringing her mail. She never just got one or two posts the way normal people did. No. Hermione Granger got piles. Fan mail. Bureaucratic mail. The occasional hand-scrawled complaint from someone who’d taken personal offence to her stance on Centaur rights. A few missives from colleagues, sandwiched between memos from her boss. She always made sure to read them first. Then she would move on to the newspapers next. But today was the kind of day she promptly wished she hadn’t.

Every front cover was the same. A moving photo taken at the worst and most vulnerable angle possible: her fists gripping Draco’s jacket, her face buried in his chest, while his hand rested at the back of her head like a lover’s benediction. It would’ve looked like a tragic rescue scene if not for the longing way he was looking at her . He looked maddeningly soft. Slightly proprietary. Protective. Like they were mid-confession in a romance serial. The photo looped, over and over again. A five-second cycle of an intimate and unguarded moment not meant for the public eye. The closet incident had happened a week ago but the press was only getting their claws into it now. She posited that a photographer had been biding their time to be paid handsomely for it. The papers were dry for scandal after all, and this one practically staged itself. The captions didn’t even try for subtlety:

“IS THERE MORE TO THE UNITY DUO THAN A PUBLIC AFFAIR!?”
“MINISTRY MAIDEN FALLS FOR EX-DEATH EATER?”
“MINISTRY SOURCES: THIS WAS NOT IN THE SCRIPT!!!”

Decency had clearly been sacrificed in favour of dramatic capitalisation and exclamation points. She groaned, pressing her teacup to her forehead like a hot compress. She built a career that didn’t hinge on anyone’s name but her own, only to wake up today immortalised clinging to Draco bloody Malfoy like a scene from a third-rate muggle soap opera. She’d spent too long trying to be taken seriously as a muggleborn and a woman to start trading credibility for chemistry now. Letting them sell her as the romantic subplot of her own campaign felt like handing over the reins with a curtsy. Every interview, every presser, every meaningful message about unity will be derailed. The Daily Prophet would find a way to shoehorn in a Draco-related question even if she were announcing a cure for dragon pox. 

She could already hear it: “Ms. Granger, can you clarify your relationship status with Mr. Malfoy for our readers?” Yes, actually, it's ‘existentially complicated and none of your business.’ Hermione had feared this very scenario once. She’d dated a world-famous Quidditch star before, after all. But absolutely no one had known apart from her closest mates. Because she’d been careful. Because she’d valued her privacy. Because her personal life had never, ever been up for public dissection. Now she was apparently half of a political romance narrative, playing out on every publication like the world’s most anticipated will-they-won’t-they. She was halfway through peeling off her bathrobe to change when a blinding silver lynx shot into the room. Hermione flinched so hard she nearly sent her toast flying. Kingsley’s voice erupted from the Patronus, thunderous and inexplicably theatrical: 

“Hermione. Come to my office. As soon as you’re able.”

The lynx held her gaze for a beat - judgmental and possibly disappointed - then dissipated in a curl of mist. Hermione straightened slowly, heartbeat in her throat, and thought, for Merlin’s sake, it’s barely Thursday and I’ve already been ambushed by a large cat and all of wizarding Britain’s press. It wasn’t even half eight in the morning yet. By the time Hermione stepped into the Ministry Atrium approximately twenty two minutes later, the caffeine in her system had worn off and so had her patience.Today, it all felt like a conspiracy. She could feel eyes on her. Whispering. Judging. As if they’re all saying “How dare she show PDA with a handsome athlete and then show up to work late with red lipstick on.”

She didn’t actually have any red lipstick on, but that was beside the point. Her brain had entered full reputation paranoia. Everyone was probably imagining her sneaking around Ministry corridors with Draco Malfoy, shirking responsibilities to snog. She passed a pair of witches and was convinced one of them mouthed “slag.” She kept her head high. Unbothered. Dignified. Like someone who absolutely hadn’t been frontpage news for having what the press described as “an emotionally charged public snuggle.” When she turned the corner near Kingsley’s office, she nearly collided with a very tall, very insufferable figure.

“Ah,” Draco exclaimed ostentatiously. “If it isn’t my so-called star-crossed sweetheart.”

Hermione’s right eye twitched at him like she was nearing combustion. Draco, for his part, had to work very hard to repress a shit-eating grin. Because he’d spent the morning reading every paper in circulation and had practically giggled like a deranged schoolgirl at the headlines. The entire country had apparently taken leave of its senses and decided they were a romantic diegesis in the making. Not that anyone used the word diegesis, of course. But the verbiage the press used was more stylistic than factual. Heartstruck. Forbidden. Titillating affair. Draco couldn’t help but take delight in it all.

He could’ve kissed the editor of the Daily Oracle. The way they'd spun a five-second loop of Hermione holding onto him into a full-blown fairy-tale saga was nothing short of poetry. And the best part? Granger would hate it. Not because her panic attack had been splashed across every frontpage but because they looked good together. Objectively, aesthetically, devastatingly good. The press didn’t know a damn thing about what had actually happened. All they saw was a war heroine folded into the arms of her reformed enemy, and their chemistry was bleeding off the page like ink. Draco was smug. Criminally so. But he was doing his best to hide it. Mostly by being irritating.

“Should we snog for the cameras or is that scheduled after lunch?” he added mirthfully.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and opened the door to Kingsley’s office. Hermione hurried after him, still staring daggers. Kingsley was already inside, standing behind his desk with his hands clasped, surrounded by a semi-circle of floating newspapers. Every single one featured that photo. Looping endlessly. It felt rather invasive. Hermione studied the Minister’s countenance. He didn’t seem angry. Or pleased. Or much of anything, really. Kingsley Shacklebolt had the emotional transparency of a sealed vault. Still, Hermione straightened up, already building a mental to-do list: redirect the press cycle, propose a Ministry press kit focused on the campaign’s next steps, maybe write something thoughtful about governance—

“I’m sure you’ve both seen the front pages by now,” Kingsley said.

Hermione braced herself. This was it. Her official fall from grace. She was going to be reprimanded. Or worse, disappointedly spoken to. She was already calculating how many times she’d have to call herself a “dedicated civil servant” before he let her keep her job when Kingsley said:

“I think it’s brilliant.”

She blinked rapidly. Like maybe if she did it hard enough, she could reset the timeline. Or knock some sense back into the universe. 

“Sorry, what?”

Kingsley gestured to the newspapers.

“You couldn’t pay for this kind of public sentiment. You’ve both become the embodiment of the campaign itself. Human. Vulnerable. Connected. The weary public sees two people from opposite ends of the wizarding war embracing. That’s the message. It’s working.”

Hermione opened her mouth. Closed it again. Draco, to her left, made a very quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh masked as a cough. Kingsley continued, already halfway into strategising.

“We’ve had triple the attention on every campaign-related publication since the symposium. Witches and wizards who wouldn’t normally give a toss about it are suddenly talking about it. That’s why I think we can shift the tone to lean in.”

Lean in. Hermione felt something in her temple spasm - either a muscle or a moral boundary. Somewhere deep in her skull, a tiny bureaucrat was calmly setting her sense of professionalism on fire.

“With respect, Minister,” she said tightly, “I don’t think this is the kind of attention we want. The public doesn’t care about nuance when there’s a juicy scandal to dissect. They’re going to fixate on the wrong thing and you know that.”

Kingsley raised an eyebrow. “It’s already out there, Hermione. We might as well shape it.”

“But the actual campaign, the substance, will get buried under gossip,” Hermione said, voice climbing an octave. 

She started pacing across the room, Draco’s eyes tracking her every movement. He wasn’t surprised by this reaction. He knew she wasn’t the type to sit still with her own vulnerability. Not when she could intellectualise it. Not when there was a logical hill to die on instead. And optics was a hill she’d built herself a fortress on. Which made that moment in her flat after the symposium all the more maddening. Because she’d looked at him with soft eyes and said she’d never wanted anyone the way she wanted him. He could tell it physically hurt her to say it out loud. Like it was a confession dragged from her bones. And it took every last scrap of his manhood not to crumple at her feet, kiss her senseless, and fuck her right there on her sofa. Instead, he did the responsible thing. He went home and aggressively wanked like a proper gentleman.

“You know how intrusive the press will be,” Hermione went on. “They’ll dig up every interaction, analyse our body language, ask inappropriate questions like whether we like it lights on or lights off or what bloody positions we prefer—”

“Missionary,” Draco cut in nonchalantly.

Hermione whipped her head towards him, deeply scandalised. Kingsley made a face that looked like he regretted every career choice in his life that led him to this moment.

Draco shrugged. “What? You said they’d ask and I have an answer.”

He didn’t even flinch under Hermione’s homicidal glare. It wasn’t for her benefit, or Kingsley’s, really. He just couldn’t help himself. She got wound up like this all the time. Flinging herself down rabbit holes with hypotheticals and someone had to cut the spiral off at the knees. Might as well be him. Was it helpful? Not remotely. But it did the job. She stared. She fumed. But also, it got her to stop talking like a madwoman.

Hermione turned back to Kingsley. “ As I was saying. This opens the door to the worst kind of attention.”

“But the public will finally be listening,” Kingsley replied calmly, as if the last five seconds hadn’t happened at all.

“Then we should redirect that attention. Issue a clarification. Deny the implication. Make it clear that the photo was taken out of context and—”

Draco turned to her. “Deny the implication?”

His voice wasn’t mocking this time. It was cool. Curious. Dangerous. Because what exactly was there to deny? That she’d held him like he was her safe place? That he’d held her, not for the cameras or optics but because he wanted to? Because she needed it? That moment had been real. The world could speculate, sensationalise, scream about canoodling in broom cupboards all it liked but they knew the truth. And the way she was now treating it like a disaster to be scrubbed clean with damage control stung more than he cared to admit.

“You know what I mean,” Hermione softened, noticing the shift in his expression.

“No, I don’t,” he said. “You’re so determined to spin this into some mishap I’m starting to wonder if the idea of being romantically associated with me is truly abhorrent for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked, arms folded now. “You act like the very concept of anyone thinking you’d want me is such a hazard.”

“It’s not about wanting you—”

“Oh, good. That clears things right up.”

Kingsley cleared his throat with all the weary authority of a man who’d witnessed too many high-level arguments begin exactly like this. Neither of them looked at him. He could’ve burst into flames and they still wouldn’t have paid him any mind.

“Draco, you know it’s about the campaign ,” Hermione continued, as if that settled anything. “It’s about perception. If people think we’re shagging, they’ll stop paying attention to what we’re actually doing. They’ll think it’s a performance. That this whole thing is fake.”

“Right. Because the real scandal would be us actually liking each other.”

He stepped in closer, just enough for her to feel the heat rising off him.

“People saw something real in that photo, Granger. And I know that scares you more than public scrutiny ever could. Call it inconvenient. Call it bad journalism. But don’t deny its implications.”

Hermione stared at him for a long, charged moment. Then turned back to Kingsley, flushed and furious and slightly unsure why.

“I still think it’s a bad idea, Minister,” she argued, but more weakly now.

Kingsley inclined his head. “Possibly. But it’s a strategic one.”

Hermione’s brow creased.

“Draco has a point. The public doesn't respond to perfection,” Kingsley said evenly. “They respond to relatability. Redemption. Proof that change is not only possible but already happening. Right in front of them. And you two, like it or not, are the face of that.”

He turned to the newspapers again. “That image may be intimate and private, but it’s not salacious. It’s honest. Raw. It shows compassion in the place where people least expect it. Truth be told, it's a powerful image that speaks for itself.”

Draco didn’t say anything, but he was watching Kingsley now with something hilariously close to surprise.

Kingsley continued. “We’ll be controlling the message. Nothing too heavy-handed. But enough to keep the headlines from straying into the absurd. No sex-adjacent beats. We steer the narrative.”

Hermione’s lips parted slightly, her next objection forming, but the Minister wasn’t done.

“We’re not feeding the gossip,” Kingsley finished. “We’re showing that unity isn’t just a vague concept. It’s a personal and tangible thing. And that, Hermione, is how you win hearts and minds.”

Hermione didn’t respond right away. Her mouth was set in that thin, stubborn line she wore whenever someone made a point she couldn’t refute. Inside her head, the usual calculation had already begun - dissecting Kingsley’s logic, weighing the potential backlash against the gains, cross-referencing known behavioural patterns of the wizarding press with public response to emotionally charged narratives…damn it. It could work. 

She hated that it made sense. That Kingsley, with all his maddening diplomacy and frighteningly accurate read of people’s sentiment, was right. That this one photo had done what months of PR engagements and carefully crafted statements hadn’t: It made people pay attention. She inhaled slowly, refusing to look at Draco, who, irritatingly, wasn’t saying anything at all now. Just standing there like he wasn’t the reason she was currently one emotional crisis away from being featured in next week’s Witch Weekly love column.

“…Fine,” she said at last. “But I still want sign-off on any memo released to the press. And I’m not answering indecent questions.”

Kingsley nodded once. “Of course.”

There was a knock at the door. One of Kingsley’s assistants poked his head in, looking mildly apologetic.

“Pardon the interruption but the Italian Minister is on the international floo.”

Kingsley gave Hermione and Draco a look. “I’ll be back shortly. Don’t burn the office down.”

Then he swept out, the door clicking shut behind him. Draco sat first, dropping into one of the high-backed chairs opposite Kingsley’s desk with a graceless kind of elegance. Hermione followed a beat later, perching on the edge of hers like she was ready to break into a sprint anytime. They both sat still in silence. Pregnant, flaming silence. The only sounds were the crackle of the fireplace and the unbearable volume of Hermione’s internal monologue screaming say something, say anything, for the love of Merlin just blink louder. 

“I didn’t mean it to sound like I was…embarrassed,” she said weakly. “To be associated with you, I mean.”

Draco cocked his head to the side. “Didn’t you?”

“I just meant that it complicates public perception.”

He gave a noncommittal hum. “Right. Wouldn’t want your groundbreaking public work reduced to being involved with an ex-Death Eater.”

“That’s not fair, Draco.”

“It’s just strange hearing you go into a tirade against a narrative that doesn’t even feel false.”

Hermione swallowed. “It’s not false at all. I mean I was…so relieved. That you came. That you found me and I…was so thankful. I am thankful for you.”

“Yeah well, you didn’t look thankful when you were hexing me with your eyes just a minute ago,” he muttered.

“You said ‘missionary’ in front of Kingsley,” she said tonelessly.

“At least it wasn’t anything more obscene.”

“That aside, I thought you’d be more…creative.”

“I am creative. I just happen to like missionary best. Why is that so surprising?”

“Because,” she said, fighting a grin, “In just the limited time we shagged, we covered a wide variety of positions. I just didn’t expect missionary to be your favourite.”

He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Then, his mouth curved slowly and his eyes - his eyes were glinting with something suggestive.

“I like looking at your face while I'm inside you.”

That effectively shut her up. The air became volatile, like something was about to crack open between them again. His filthy mouth should’ve appalled her by now. Instead, it always seemed to rewire something vital in her. Hermione made a strangled sound and immediately reached for the nearest piece of parchment on Kingsley’s desk, like she might swat him with it. 

“Merlin,” she said under her breath. “I need a reassignment.”

“You say that every meeting.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other, unmoving. Statues. Idiots. Absolutely not inching any closer, but undeniably circling the same stupid gravitational field like planets. Reckless? Obviously. Precarious? Only in the way fire is. Familiar? Furiously so. Like a bad habit. Or like a sentence they kept almost finishing, then crossing out, then pretending they hadn’t written at all. And then, mercifully or not, footsteps echoed outside the door. They both straightened, just enough to pretend they hadn’t been seconds away from combusting in the middle of the Minister’s office. The door swung open. Kingsley stepped back into the room, looking mildly exasperated and still dusted with floo ash.

“Well,” the Minister said. “That was a delight.”

Hermione looked up instinctively. Draco didn’t move, but the shift in his expression was enough to tell her he’d slipped back into professional mode.

“The Quidditch Exhibition in Milan will be happening tomorrow morning,” Kingsley announced begrudgingly.

Hermione made a face. “I thought Draco was scheduled for that next week.”

“It was,” Kingsley said. “But the venue - some floating coliseum above Lago di Garda - has been double-booked with a Veela gala, and their delegation isn’t budging. So, they’re moving the exhibition up before the venue disappears into the clouds, quite literally. Draco, you leave early tomorrow.”

Hermione remembered seeing it on Toller’s campaign master tracker. The event was flagged blue, not gold, which meant it wasn’t campaign-related and only required Draco’s attendance. A Quidditch League private event that’s invitation-only. Hermione didn’t say anything at first, but her stomach flipped. Draco was apparently leaving on short notice. She told herself it wasn’t a big deal. It was only five days after all. Barely a blip in the calendar. She could do five days standing on her head. But they’d been around each other too much for months now, orbiting the same schedules like a very tense moon and sun. 

And somehow, between all their bickering and almost-shagging, she’d gotten used to him. His calming voice. His tiring dramatics. The way he’d slipped into the crevices of her routine like he’d been there from the very beginning. Days without him by her side would feel lopsided. And now he was going somewhere far without her. It was fine. She was fine. She just didn’t love the idea of her week suddenly missing one menace of a partner who’d started to feel…part of her life. As soon as Kingsley left the room, Draco stood from his seat, brushing imaginary lint from his trousers.

“Wait—” she started.

Hermione got up abruptly, heart jolting for no reason at all. Draco turned, not quite surprised. Like he’d known she’d say something and had been bracing for it since Kingsley opened his mouth. Hermione’s lips parted. What exactly was she supposed to say? Don’t go? I miss you already? Please kiss me goodbye? She mentally suckerpunched herself. She cleared her throat instead.

“You’ll be back Monday?” she asked gingerly.

“Why? Got plans you don’t want me interrupting?”

“You’ve got a speech to deliver with me in Manchester next week and I don’t fancy rewriting the whole thing if you fall off a broom again.” 

Draco smirked, and for a stupid second, she felt something warm spread in her chest. Bollocks. Not right now, she screamed at herself internally.

“I’ll be back before you miss me, Granger.”

His gaze then dropped to her mouth, where it lingered for too long. She felt it like static under her skin. Like his eyes had heat behind them, and her bloodstream noticed first. She swallowed. 

“Just don’t do anything dangerous,” she reminded him.

His eyes raked her face. “Define dangerous.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Her pulse ticked. 

“Don’t fall off a broom. Don’t antagonise the players. Don’t do that thing where you pretend you’re fine until you’re being carried off the pitch.”

He stepped closer. Just a fraction. Just enough to shift the air between them.

“Is that all?” he asked silkily.

“Don’t shag scheming press associates with large tits. Or just…don’t shag anyone at all.”

He guffawed. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re dying to bend the rules we have.”

He didn’t smile this time. Just looked at her, long and dark and hungry. It was only five days. Absolutely not that long. But the moment stretched, like something was being pulled from her - a presence she'd grown used to without meaning to. Even on days they didn’t have a schedule together, he’d still be there with her somehow. A quick visit here, a snide little owl message there. And on the very rare days they didn’t see each other at all, she always knew they’re bound to meet again tomorrow. That was their rhythm. But now he’d be too far away playing Quidditch without her to watch. What if there was another accident? What if he fell again and she wouldn’t be there to barge into the hospital yelling at him? Her body clocked the loss before her mind did, traitorous thing that it was.

Draco’s entire body was screaming to stay. Five days. Not even a week. He’d gone longer without sleep. Longer without food. But not without her. He hadn’t accounted for this part. That missing her would probably feel like a deficiency . Like one of his necessary organs had packed up and left. And the sickening part was that if she asked him not to go, he might actually stay. Might drop the whole fucking match and let Kingsley and the Quidditch League field the disaster themselves. But she didn’t ask. And he didn’t offer anything. Because they both knew the rules. 

“Just…come back quickly. And safely,” she said, more longingly now.

“You say that like something good will be waiting for me.”

“There might be.” 

She hadn’t meant to say that. Merlin, it was an emotional slip. But now it was out there, floating between them like something soft with fangs. Draco stepped unnecessarily closer. Their lips hovered in that unmistakable way two people do when they’re about to fall into each other. They looked like a secret affair about to get caught. Like sin waiting for permission to be committed. And for one reckless second, the silence begged them both to close the distance. But Draco didn’t lean in to kiss her. Instead, he pressed his lips to her ear like he was about to say something extremely vulgar. His voice was like smoke curling into her very being.

“If there’s something waiting, Granger…”

He let it hang. Let her hear it in his mouth. 

“Keep it warm and wet for me.”

Hermione stifled a small whimper that threatened to escape.

“And don’t let anyone else near it while I’m gone.”

Then he stepped away and disappeared like a phantom. Hermione was left clenching and burning, because now all she could think about was that she was dealing with Draco Malfoy. One of the most desired athletes in wizarding Britain - not just in theory, but in actual polls. The unattainable catch women wrote fan mail to. He was no longer a playboy, not by a long shot, but she finally understood the legend. Understood why witches would drop their knickers for him with such embarrassing enthusiasm. Understood why Daphne, mental state aside, probably still dreamt of letting him fuck her again just to see if it would fix her. Understood the allure of that stupid, conceited smirk and the catastrophic confidence that said I know exactly how this ends, and yes, I’m that good .

Because, unfortunately, he was. And for the first time, Hermione didn’t see him as her annoyingly seductive collaborator. She saw him as a man who could have anyone he wished. Woman, man, Veela, and honestly, the queue for him would probably wrap around an entire street. And still, he wanted her. Said he’s willing to wait for her. Asked her pointedly not to let anyone else near it while she waited for him to come back. Whatever it was. Her body, her feelings, her decision, her fucking virtue? She wasn’t sure which one but she meant to heed it. He didn’t say anything about touching it, though. As soon as she got home, Hermione furiously masturbated.

Chapter Text

Draco folded his dress robes into his duffel with the care of someone who wasn’t already ten minutes behind schedule. He hummed while he did it, which was probably infuriating if anyone else had been there in the room, but it was slightly better than thinking about being away from home for almost a week. He should’ve packed last night. He didn’t, because he’d passed out directly after what was probably his third orgasm - a frankly humiliating number, but he had decided that restraining himself from shagging Granger meant compensating with obsessive wanking. To thoughts of her and her perfectly scrumptious arse, obviously. Because his life was a farce. He wasn’t even sure if he’d have a room to himself in Italy, so really, the pre-departure wankathon was just time management. He thought himself very noble for that.

This exhibition in Italy was less of a sporting event and more of a well-funded excuse for Italian ministry officials and executives of broom companies to get pissed in box seats. A private match held in a pretentious levitated coliseum with broom displays, dinners, and vaguely scandalous afterparties all under the guise of “diplomatic sportsmanship.” The matches didn’t even matter. There’d be no real spectators, no points that matter enough to be in his record, and barely any actual playing - just enough broom tricks to keep the sponsors awake between drinks.

Five days. It wouldn’t be long. Except, apparently, it would. He was about to spend five days in another country pretending he wasn’t feeling like a corpse without Granger in proximity. Pathetic. He was turning into one of those sad bastards who wrote poetry in pub toilets and sobbed at their own metaphors. The kind who told barmaids they were misunderstood. This was entirely Granger’s fault, he internally grumbled. He zipped up the duffel. Double-checked for his custom-fitted leathers. Shut the wardrobe. Warded the flat. The portkey was scheduled to activate in exactly twenty-five minutes in a brick alley two blocks over. He still had time. Draco stepped out onto the landing with his leather duffel slung over his shoulder, pulled the door shut behind him and almost collided face-first into a wispy figure in a blue coat.

“Ow,” the spectral female winced.

Draco stumbled back half a step and looked down to see what he’d nearly bulldozed.

Daphne. 

Draco fought hard to repress a groan. Of course. Because if the day was going to spiral, it may as well start before breakfast. Draco regarded her. She still looked like she was two skipped meals and a sharp breeze away from collapsing. Hollowed out in that pale, translucent way that made strangers say “delicate” when they meant “not quite right.” That sleepless glaze she always wore hadn’t budged, and somehow, she still looked like she belonged in a Botticelli painting. Elegant in that haunting way only the truly miserable ever managed to be.

Draco sighed. “What are you doing here, Daph? It’s barely eight in the morning.”

Surprisingly, his unwell ex-lover did not immediately wail or howl like she always did when she saw him. In fact, Daphne didn’t answer for a few seconds. She kept her tired eyes on the floor or on the bannister. It seemed she was determined to look anywhere but him. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets of her coat like she wished she could vanish into them. He creased his eyebrows at her, frowning. Something was off, he quickly thought. She wasn’t clinging or pouting or reaching for him, which was uncharacteristic. She just stood there, quiet and fidgeting like a lost child, like she hadn’t meant to come at all. It unsettled him. 

“Daphne?” he asked again, this time with less exasperation.

She finally looked up at him with those bulbous blue eyes of hers that were once bright and glinting with mischief, but gradually became vacant and blank over the years. It was that thousand-yard stare people got after too many sleepless nights and nightmares. Draco was staring into them when out of nowhere, they started to glisten.

“I just…do you have a bit of time to talk? It won’t take long, I promise,” she said with a broken voice, glancing down at the duffel in his hand.

Draco checked his watch and said, “Walk with me.”

She nodded without a word. They stepped out onto the quiet street, the chill morning air greeting them. Daphne walked with her head down and kept a good metre of space between them. There was no attempt to reach for his hand. Which, in itself, was abnormal. She used to physically stick to him like a leech. Or assault his face by clawing it with her nails, depending on her mood. He thought she might be biding her time to make a scene. Perhaps wait for more people to witness her incoming outburst. If she did, he would promptly ignore her and leave her on the spot. Draco was immune to it all by now and he had no time for her episodes today. But as they turned a corner, she spoke so solemnly he thought it was someone else imitating her voice.

“I just wanted to apologise,” she said softly. “For all the trouble I’ve caused you. For ruining your life.”

Draco stopped in his tracks so abruptly he almost planted his face on the pavement. He narrowed his eyes at her. She wasn’t crying yet but her eyes had that glassy sheen. He noted no trembling either, which meant one of two things: she’d finally stabilised, or someone had dosed her with a potion designed to impersonate an eerily functional adult. He was going to kill Theo. If this was some new hallucinogen with side effects like “creepy lucidity” and “emotional closure,” then Draco wanted the name, the dose, and the bastard who brewed it. There was calm, and then there was suspiciously well-adjusted, and this was very much the latter. He thought he might be hallucinating himself. But then she kept talking and somehow, it just got worse.

“I’m going to check into St. Mungo’s,” she said quietly. “For long-term care. I thought I’d let you know and also that I shouldn’t see you anymore.”

Draco almost dropped his duffel.

Was this real?

Was she real?

He looked at her properly, scanning her face for any sign of an injury, a smirk, a punchline, a half-muttered script she’d been forced to rehearse under duress. But there was nothing. 

“What made you decide?” he asked, wary in tone but not in intent. 

He genuinely wanted to know who’d swapped her out for someone self-aware. 

“I loved you,” she said, unbowed. “I still love you.”

Her voice cracked on the second part, but she kept going. 

“And it still hurts that you left me all alone. But I think…” she hesitated, blinking quickly, “...if I want to keep loving you, I need to get better for once. Or at least try to.”

Her eyes welled up and she turned her head away, as if looking at him too long would undo whatever courage she’d scraped together to say all that.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to move on. From grief. From you. But I’ll try.”

Daphne finally started crying. But not the way she used to. Not the storm-force breakdowns that always ended with a vial of calming draught. This time it was understated. Like a curtain of gentle rain falling on a windowsill. Not loud enough to drown anything out, just soft enough to let everything in. Draco reached out instinctively, cupping her cheek like he’d done a hundred times before. But for the first time ever, she backed away from his touch.

“Daphne,” he said gently.

She looked at him longingly with red-rimmed eyes. “Let’s not pretend you’re not relieved to not have to see me again. You hated being with me. ”

“You know I loved you, Daph.”

“Until you couldn’t anymore,” she said with a half-smile, half-cry like it was something she’d accepted a long time ago, whether he had or not.

She looked down at the pavement. “I'm giving myself a deadline. If the treatment doesn’t work…if I still look for you after six months, I’m going to hire someone to Obliviate memories of our relationship.”

Draco didn’t visibly react because perhaps that was just her addled mind talking. But she’d said it like it was nothing. Like she was talking about a haircut. A practical solution to an ongoing inconvenience. She was willing to wipe him out. Every secret. Every conversation. Every fight. Every night she’d collapsed in his arms and asked him, with terrifying calm, if he thought her mind was too broken to fix. Every hour he spent convincing himself she’d get better. Every bloody ache he’d swallowed trying to be what she needed. What hit hardest wasn’t the plan. It was the shift. He remembered offering, once, to alter a few of her memories of her family. Just enough to make her pain manageable. She’d looked at him like he’d suggested cutting off a limb. Called it a violation. Called it betrayal. And now she was ready to erase him. Their whole time together. Like it was nothing more than a recurring nightmare she could finally opt out of.

He’d loved her. Not the way she wanted him to, perhaps. But it had been love nonetheless. He’d patched her back together a hundred times. He’d let her wreck parts of him just so she’d stay standing. And now she was talking about erasing all of it. Draco didn’t say anything. He just stood there, trying to keep his face neutral while his insides reeled. It shouldn’t matter, anyway. She had every right to move on, to heal in whatever way she wanted. But still. He didn’t know what to do with that. Not when, for so long, he’d been the only one who remembered the version of her before it all went wrong.

Then, barely above a whisper, she said, “I know you like her.”

“What?”

“Granger,” she said. “You like her.”

Draco said nothing, which absolutely meant everything.

“Is it because she’s so put together? So composed and pristine. The opposite of me.”

Draco realised that she must’ve seen the frontpage photo of him and Granger embracing from yesterday. No one could ever deny how obviously besotted he looked. Daphne had never wanted to be in the public eye. She never came to his matches, never stood by his side during his rise to Quidditch fame, never wanted to be photographed by the press. She did not enjoy his success and had somehow gotten the idea that he chose fame over her. Daphne was never the type to be caught in a photo like that. Granger had been caught in one by accident, and somehow it had still worked in her favour.

“That’s what people think,” he muttered. “But she’s just as scared and broken as the rest of us.”

“Scared and broken?” Daphne repeated disbelievingly.

“It’s not my place to talk about her private life but yes, believe it or not, Granger is not exactly perfect.”

“Then…why?”

“What do you mean?”

Daphne’s lip trembled and said, “If you can love her mess, why couldn’t you love mine?”

That stopped him fully. Because that question wasn’t fair. He had loved her. Gods, if she only knew how much his love for her destroyed him. He became whatever she needed. A caretaker. A constant. A lifeline. He’d nearly walked away from his budding Quidditch career just so he could dedicate his time to care for her. He hadn’t told her or anyone that. He’d even calculated how long his savings would last them if he dropped everything to hold her together for one more year. It wasn’t some grand, tragic kind of love. It was dutiful. Devout. Almost fatherly, in the end. 

And he’d kept going long after the wanting left. Long after he stopped recognising himself. Because someone had to be there for her. And now here she was, asking why that wasn’t enough. Why she wasn’t enough. Her tears were falling freely now. Draco reached for her face again, a reflex he hadn’t quite outgrown. But she stepped back to dodge him, blinking fast and wiping her face with her sleeve.

“Forget it,” she said quickly, with a brittle, breathless laugh. “Don’t answer that.”

“Daphne, I—”

“No. This’ll be the last time you’ll have to see me, I promise.”

“Why do you have to say it like that?”

“I don’t mean killing myself,” she said bluntly. “If that’s what you’re panicking about.”

“Daphne!”

“If you cared about me at all, do not come to visit at St. Mungo’s and ruin my chances of getting better by showing your face. Do you understand?”

Draco’s jaw tensed. She was right. And they both knew it. She needed to distance herself from him. Recovery couldn’t possibly work with old emotional scaffolding still standing. He was a crutch she had leaned on too long, until the leaning became collapse. And if he stayed in her periphery hovering, checking in, and watching, she’d never stop performing for his presence. Or punishing him for it. Whichever hurt more.

Attachment like that didn’t heal. It fed itself. She had to be allowed to fail or get better without him witnessing either. Still, it stung. He’d spent years tying her well-being to his own. Keeping track of her moods. Making sure she ate. Slept well. Took her potions. Didn’t hurt herself. He did it because it felt necessary. Because when everyone else moved on, they left behind people like her. Now she was asking him to stop. And the worst part was that deep down, he was glad. But the instinct to look after her hadn’t gone away just because the love had. She’d been his to worry about for so long, it had rewired something in him. Letting her go through this without him shouldn’t feel like abandonment. But it kind of did.

“Was it Pansy that finally convinced you to do this?” he asked eventually, like it mattered.

Daphne shook her head. “Ironically enough, it was your Granger.”

Draco almost lost his footing, certain that he’d heard her wrong. 

“What?” he asked incredulously.

“She didn’t tell you, did she,” she said, not really a question.

Draco opened his mouth, already brimming with questions, but before any words could come out, she reached up and kissed him. It was but a brush of lips. Brief and sad and heatless. Only enough to say goodbye and thank you and hopefully, see you in the future. When she pulled back, her hand dropped from his cheek. She mouthed “goodbye” with a pained look before turning and walking away.

He let her go. She didn’t look back, and he didn’t stop her. There was a real possibility this was the last time they’d speak, the last time he’d see her. And still, he hoped she would keep her promise. That she’d follow through and that she’d get better. If anyone deserved a clean slate, it was Daphne Greengrass. He stood there, trying not to feel like a coward. The guilt he carried for her still hadn’t gone away. It sat in his chest the same way it always had. Always sharp and jagged and impossible to swallow. 

He’ll do what she asked. He wouldn’t visit her. Wouldn’t hound her healer like some unauthorised guardian. And even thinking about it now, he already felt like a failure. Like walking away from something he should’ve stayed behind to fix. Which was stupid, because he’d already tried that. But maybe this was what trying looked like. Maybe this was how it started. He watched her disappear into the distance, coat caught by the wind. Somewhere nearby but far enough that Draco couldn’t have noticed, a camera had just whirred and caught the intimate goodbye. It was quick and unmistakably timed. Someone had been watching. And now, that moment was no longer theirs to keep.

__________

A day after Draco left for Italy, Hermione stared at the tabloid on her kitchen counter. In fact, she’d been staring at it for the past sixteen minutes - ever since she’d yanked it out of the owl’s claws with slightly more aggression than necessary. The bird had looked at her like she was the problem. The headline practically shrieked at her: ARROWS RESIDENT PLAYBOY BACK AT IT AGAIN? CAUGHT IN LIPLOCK WITH MYSTERY WOMAN! The looping photo showed Draco being kissed by a blonde girl. Her back was turned and didn’t show her face, but Hermione didn’t need a full view to know who it was by her twiggy frame and sloped shoulders. It was none other than his ex-girlfriend Daphne Greengrass. Hermione pursed her lips and took a deliberate sip of tea. It was already getting cold. Probably due to the icy way she’d been glaring at that headline. 

She would be lying if her heart hadn’t stuttered or if her stomach hadn’t dropped once she saw the photo. Because it had. Ten times in a row. Every godforsaken loop of that kiss. That was the thing about jealousy. It didn’t care that she and Draco weren’t technically dating. Didn’t care that he likely hadn’t planned on getting back together with his unstable ex. Didn’t care that the kiss looked more like a sad goodbye than some romantic reunion. Jealousy didn’t deal in nuance. It was a petty, sharp-toothed gremlin that liked to ruin perfectly nice mornings. And fine, maybe she was bitter. Just enough to feel like an idiot for spending the whole day yesterday thinking about his stupidly cute face, all while he was out with Daphne. Just enough to forget that she had no right to be upset about it. She had no claim over him and they had no label. But still. 

She was glad only one tabloid had picked it up. If any of the bigger publications had caught wind, it would’ve snowballed by now. Draco’s playboy reputation would be dragged out again, burying months of actual progress under a mess of cheap speculation. And speaking of, the majority of the press was still milking the story of their supposed romance and enemies-turned-lovers narrative, or whatever absurd angle sold the most copies. They were running out of material, though. They had no new interviews, no fresh quotes, no scandalous slips since that one photo. Give it another week and they’d forget about them entirely, Kingsley’s orders be damned.

Hermione stared at the photo again. She didn’t know the context. Didn’t know what was said or what came before or after. The kiss looked soft, though Draco seems to be caught off guard. She still didn’t like seeing it, of course. There was no point pretending otherwise. But the last thing she wanted to feel right now was anger. He was all the way in another country and it would be useless to get angry at someone who wasn’t here to explain himself. If Draco didn’t want to let go of Daphne out of obligation, then that’s a line she’d have to draw. However, that’s a discussion that will have to wait until he’s back. She sighed and tossed the paper aside. She had the inexplicable urge to incinerate it but thought better of it. She reached for her wand and tapped her magical calendar instead.

Hermione looked at it the way one might look at a suspicious leak in the ceiling - silently hoping it would resolve itself. Today’s entry, wedged between a campaign proposal and a floo call with the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, was “Visit Mum and Dad in Hampstead” in peach-coloured marker. Peach, because red felt too aggressive, and green was already taken by Kingsley-related tasks. So. Peach it is. Peach was soft. Inoffensive. Apologetic. She released a loud sigh like this was some great act of bravery. Which, frankly, it was. She’d be lying if she wasn’t dreading this for days now.

She could face Death Eaters, the entire press, and a shirtless Draco Malfoy but a few hours with her distant parents always left her emotionally wrung. They were trying. She was trying. Everyone was trying. Because the thing about undoing a memory charm on your family was that they didn’t just merrily return to their normal selves. There were no shouting matches or accusations. Only a suffocating distance that had calcified into a routine. Her father didn’t call her “love” anymore. Her mother didn’t touch her unless absolutely necessary. The last time she’d tried to hug them at the door, her mother had flinched. Like the gesture no longer belonged between them.

They never asked questions. Not about what happened, not about the war, and certainly not about what it meant to have your entire identity rewritten without consent. They never brought it up. Not even when her father forgot what brand of tea she liked or when her mother started locking her childhood bedroom. She could sit across from them, eat meals with them, listen to them talk about the neighbours, and still feel like an intruder wearing someone else’s skin. Whatever family they used to be, it hadn’t come back with the memory charm. And Hermione wasn’t sure it ever would. Just as she was about to leave, her floo flared green. Harry stumbled out like he’d meant to arrive sooner but got waylaid by something moderately life-threatening.

“Ah just in time,” he said, holding out a tin of treacle tart. “From Ginny and me. Send our love to your family.”

Hermione blinked at it. “You know my parents are not angry at you, right? You don’t have to bribe them.”

“I know,” he said cheerfully. “It’s just a thank you from the last time your dad made me drink something with floating bark in it.”

She took the tin. “His herbal immunity tonic? You said it cleared your sinuses for a week.”

“I also couldn’t feel my tongue for twelve hours. I was starting to think it was attempted murder.”

Hermione smiled despite herself. “Thanks, Harry.”

“Do you need backup?”

She paused to actually consider. “No. I mean, we’ve…improved now. I should be fine.”

“That’s what you said last time. And then you cried while eating fruit salad in my kitchen.”

“I was just tired.”

“You wept into a melon.”

“My dad called me ‘Harmony’ twice.”

Harry winced. “Right. That.”

“Yeah.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “And your mum?”

“She asked if I was still doing ballet.”

“But you never did ballet.”

“Exactly.”

“Ah.”

“She told me she suddenly remembered how proud she’d been after my recital. Which would’ve been sweet, if any of that had actually happened.”

Harry watched her cautiously, as if anticipating for the waterworks to begin.

Hermione shrugged. “It’s fine. Just tiny hiccups in the memory department. They’re trying.”

“I know,” he said gently. 

“They’re warm. Nice. They ask about the weather and what I’ve been doing these days. But I could be anyone. A cousin. A neighbour. A child of a family friend they haven’t seen in a while.”

“Give it more time. They’ve already improved so much.”

She looked up. “I know.”

There was a quiet pause.

“Alright,” Harry said, clapping his hands. “I won’t keep you. I’ve done my duty as emotionally available best friend. Now I’m going to go be emotionally unavailable to Ginny until she makes me lunch.”

Hermione smiled a little. “Tell her I said she deserves better.”

“Oh, she knows.” 

Harry kissed the top of her head like her dad used to do before the Obliviation.

“If you change your mind,” he added, tapping the twin ring on his finger, “Just summon me.”

“I’m going for brunch, not a battle,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes.

“With your parents,” he said, already walking back to the hearth. “So, yes. Kind of a battle.”

And with that, he stepped backward into the floo with a morose wave and vanished, leaving behind the smell of treacle and the distinct feeling of being looked after against her will. Hermione inhaled deeply and held the tin like a buoy that would keep her afloat. She wished, not for the first time, that she had her Emotional Support Blond by her side today. He was probably somewhere in Milan right now either getting sloshed on overpriced wine or arguing with a restaurant owner about the appropriate number of anchovies in puttanesca. Despite her earlier anger, she still missed him.

__________

Hermione stepped off the bus after having just endured forty minutes of a stranger loudly discussing their bunion surgery on their mobile phone. She smoothed down her coat, ignored the chilly wind slicing through the street, and told herself, as she always did, that taking the bus kept her humble and grounded. In touch with her muggle roots and all of that. She turned onto the familiar road, tin of treacle tucked under one arm, and tried not to overthink how today might go. The houses here all looked vaguely like her parents’. Semi-detached, prim, the kind of neighbourhood where people got competitive about wheelie bin placement. She slowed as she neared the door. This time would be better, she convinced herself. Her last visit had ended with her father telling her to “do well in her N.E.W.T.s”. It wasn’t his fault. It was hers, as it always will be. Today, at the very least, there was dessert to break the ice. And hope. The cautious, trembling sort that only ever bloomed right before being crushed.

Hermione slipped her key into the lock and stepped inside, calling out “Mum? Dad?” but she could already hear them talking from somewhere in the house. Their soft and muffled voices drifted from the sitting room accompanied by the clinking of teacups. She vaguely heard her mum say something amusing about the neighbour’s dreadful cat. Her dad’s chuckle followed. It all sounded very...normal. She shrugged off her coat and nudged the door shut behind her with the toe of her shoe. Today, the house smelled like lemon cleaner and the artificial floral scent from the plug-in diffuser her mother had become inexplicably attached to. She started down the hall, holding up Harry and Ginny’s treacle like some kind of shield to protect her from the inevitable awkwardness.

As she made her way inside, their distant conversation continued and she thought for a moment that it sounded like there were more people present. It was faint and she couldn’t quite make out the exchange. She slowed her steps, curious to hear just a little bit more. They obviously hadn’t heard her calling out to them. Or perhaps they have, and just didn’t care. Did they have a guest? She took another step in a tip-toe manner. Not to sneak around, but to hear the conversation better. Then a third voice came, clearer this time, with a timbre that didn’t belong to anyone who should be in this house. Recognition slammed through her before her mind caught up. She rushed into their sitting room and three heads looked up in unison as she entered.

Her mother.

Her father.

And Viktor.

Chapter Text

Three sets of eyes trained on Hermione when she stepped through the sitting room entry. The light from the window hit Viktor in a soft and saintly way. It lit him like a man worth trusting. And that, of course, was the most dangerous thing about him. This was Satan’s Bulgarian spawn, seated on her parents’ couch, legs crossed like he’s always occupied space here. She smelled his unmistakable scent from where she was standing. Heard the low hiss of the kettle in the kitchen and her father’s shoe tapping against the table leg. All her senses told her that the scene felt normal on the surface. For a second too long, it almost passed for normal.

But her stomach had already dropped and her mind was fumbling for purchase. If Hermione was shocked, if her fight-or-flight reflex had roared to life, she made sure it didn’t show.  She schooled her face into a blank and painfully vacant canvas. She put on the kind of expression she kept on reserve for a very volatile audience. Years of working in front of the public had taught her that the fastest way to lose control of a situation was to show that you were letting it get the best of you. And this situation was a ticking time bomb, for lack of a better word.

First things first: she quickly scanned her parents from head to toe. Her father was relaxed, a newspaper on his lap. Her mother was mid-sip and showed no sign of a Confundus or any charmwork. Good. They were still safe from the looks of it. Viktor hadn’t harmed or hexed them yet. The protective wards she placed on this house were obsessive and layered fifty-deep so no dangerous spells or offensive magic could be cast. Both of her parents seemed at ease. But so was Viktor. He looked up at her like nothing had changed between them. He was even holding her old favourite mug - the chipped blue one with the faded bookshop logo. As if he had any fucking right to touch things from her childhood. Hermione stepped forward, stoic and composed as ever.

“Viktor,” she managed to ask in a calm, neutral tone. “What a surprise. What’s going on?”

Inside, her entire nervous system was setting itself on fire.

“Viktor was just dropping by to check in on us. He told us how you two patched things up,” her father chirped.

They’d met him only once before. On a short visit in the aftermath of the memory reversal. It was brief enough to leave a warm impression, but not enough to remember why she stopped bringing him around. After they’d broken up, she made sure he was never so much as mentioned in passing again. She never told them what he’d done. And he knew that. Knew their memories were still fractured and easy to twist and fill in with lies. Which he obviously did. “Patched things up,” my arse. It never occurred to her that he’d actually go this far. That he’d use her parents to draw her in. She should’ve reset the house wards. Should’ve planned for this specific scenario. Should’ve known better than to think there was still some ounce of decency left in him to keep her family out of their mess.

“You’re just in time, love. Your mum was telling me about the cat situation next door. Honestly, it sounds like a nightmare.”

Love. Hermione fought the urge to claw her own skin off just to rid the air, and him, of that word. He smiled at her like they were still sharing inside jokes. 

“I see you’ve brought dessert,” he added, nodding at the tin in her hands. 

Hermione blinked down at the treacle tart, which she had forgotten entirely. Her stomach turned in on itself. For an absurd second, she actually considered vomiting. Right there on the carpet. She gripped the tin tighter. Think, Hermione. She could turn the ring now. But the anti-Apparition wards she’d placed would block Harry and possibly splinch him. And dismantling them layer by layer would take time - time she didn’t have right now. But there was one other option. She could step outside the house, away from the security charms. If she just made an excuse like she needed to check something, she could summon Harry from the street and wait for him to Apparate there. She didn't like the potential danger of leaving her parents with Viktor even for a second, but this was the only way.

“I just need to step out for a moment,” she said lightly, already turning for the exit.

“You won’t be too long, will you?” Viktor said. “I might get too chatty and accidentally reveal stories about you.”

He let the last three words drag. Hermione’s face blanched. His threat was blatant, and her mum and dad were none the wiser. If Viktor told them all the things she’d done - all the crimes she’d committed with Viktor - they would look at her like a stranger all over again. Her relationship with them had only just found its footing. If they found out every dirty crime she did for him there’d be no patching it up this time. Disappointment was one thing. Disgust was another. She could get out of this situation a dozen different ways. But one thing she knew with absolute clarity: she can’t let her parents be collateral damage again. They would have to be left out of this. Her body was still angled towards the hallway but she reeled herself back in, shifted her stance, and forced a smile. Viktor looked pleased and her parents didn’t notice the unspoken exchange.

“Actually, let’s get this sliced for everyone, mum. I just need a quick word with Viktor,” Hermione said, hoping her mum didn’t catch the tremble in her voice.

“Of course,” her mum said. “We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us.”

Hermione watched her parents leave the sitting room with the treacle tin in hand, the door swinging shut behind them. Then it was just her and Viktor. Alone. The prick looked entirely at home. Still pretending this was a normal weekend visit. The casual tilt of his posture made her inwardly recoil. She didn’t bother to sit.

“What are you doing, Viktor?” she asked him tonelessly.

“I was in the neighbourhood,” he said, all innocence and cheer. 

She didn’t respond to another lie. Just stared at him like he was an unsightly smudge on an otherwise clean surface. Then he laughed. Honest and idiotic, like she’d said something clever instead of barely managing to conceal the fact that she was mentally plotting his demise.

“You need to relax, skupa. I’m not here to hex anyone.”

He tilted his head towards the kitchen where her parents had gone.

“Not that I could, anyway,” he added. “You’ve warded this house well. I could feel it the moment I stepped through the door. The air nearly snapped at me.”

Hermione balled her hands into fists until her nails made half-moon marks into her palms. She couldn’t lose it just yet. The walls in this house were thin, and she didn’t need her mother hearing threats. So she kept her voice low. Almost small.

“Please, Viktor,” she whispered. “Whatever you want from me, I’ll give it to you. But leave my parents out of this. This is between you and me.”

Viktor cradled his head in his palm like he was deep in thought. Like she’d just asked him to weigh in on wallpaper samples.

“Come here,” he murmured.

She didn’t want to. Every cell in her body protested the idea. As if even her bones knew better than to go near him. But she needed him physically out of this house. That was her first priority. If she could get him out, if she could get her parents safely out of his reach, then everything else - the screaming, the hexing, the panic - could come later. So she stepped forward, stopping just in front of where he sat on the settee. He reached for her hand. Then kissed it, gently. Hungrily. Like they were still nineteen and in love and this moment hadn’t already curdled and turned rotten. She made a face and shuddered.

“What is it you want, love?” he asked, affectionate and syrupy. “Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.”

She met his gaze and said evenly, “Let’s take this outside. Not here in front of my family.”

He smirked at her like she’d finally come to her senses. “Of course. Done.”

For a second, that was it. There was no deflection or argument. Only a single word and the sound of the mantel clock ticking somewhere behind her. Hermione knew something else was coming. Because Viktor was never that simple. Never easy to talk to. He always had something up his sleeve that he could use to control her. To make things difficult for her. 

Then he added, with the same calm, “On one condition.”

And there it was. She thought it would never come. He pulled her closer to him, slotting her between his legs as he dragged his hands up the back of her thighs and settled over her arse in a possessive grip. Hermione closed her eyes and resisted the primal urge to run far away. But she held steady. Refused to let him even get a whiff of her fear. Rejected the natural compulsion of her pulse to quicken or skitter. 

“I’m going to have to take your wand, Hermione. We’ll just be talking anyway.”

And with that, he stealthily took the wand from the back pocket of her jeans. It was fine. It would have to be. She thought back to Harry tapping the ring on his finger merely hours ago. “Just summon me,” he’d offered. Looking back, it felt like foreshadowing despite the casualness of it. Once they were out of her anti-Apparition wards, she would turn the ring and end this once and for all. Viktor looked at her expectantly, like he was waiting for a visceral reaction. Or at least an indignant refusal. But he wouldn’t get any. Hermione pledged to herself to remain placid and strategic. She would bide her time and conserve her energy so that she can strike when he’ll least expect it. She watched as Viktor pocketed her wand in his trousers. 

“Alright. Since you’re being such a good girl, we’ll leave,” he said patronisingly, like she deserved treats.

Viktor rose to his feet, holding her hand like she still belonged to him. Hermione didn’t look at him. Her only goal now was to get him out the house. She walked briskly, pulling him along.

She called towards the kitchen, “Mum, dad, something’s come up. We need to head back.”

Her mother’s voice floated back, concerned but not alarmed. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s Ministry-related,” Viktor replied before Hermione could open her mouth. “Urgent. She insisted I come.”

What a great liar, Hermione thought bitterly, resisting the urge to punch him in the face. There was a beat, then the sound of cutlery clinking.

“Send our love to Harris and Rob!” her dad called out.

She mumbled something like a goodbye and practically dragged Viktor to the front door, not daring to look back in case the rising panic in her somehow tipped them off. They finally stepped outside and as soon as the front door was shut, Hermione tried to yank her hand from him but Viktor’s grip only clamped down hard, preventing her from even moving. 

“Let go!” she hissed, almost dislocating her arm to pry herself free.

With his other hand, Viktor dug something from his pocket and for a second, Hermione thought he was going to give her wand back. She was momentarily confused when he fished out a handkerchief instead, revealing a coin inside. In a flash, he placed it between their joined palms and the world immediately buckled.

It was a portkey.

Hermione barely had time to gasp. She shut her eyes, heart in her throat, and prayed to every god she knew that whatever it is that Viktor planned to do, she would meet a quick death. The world collapsed into itself, colours bleeding into one another like a painting left out in the rain. Somewhere between Hampstead and wherever-the-hell he was taking her, Hermione had a thought: maybe this was her reckoning.

Every illicit decision she made, every mistake she repeated, every instance she took Viktor back. Maybe this was what happened when you let your fear and insecurities get the best of you. Maybe this was always going to happen eventually. Maybe this was what you got when you forged Ministry officials’ signatures and faked seals to hoard banned potions all because you were in a bad place. Maybe this was what you earned when you knew better, but didn’t do better. It was a stupid situation. But so was she. And now she had to face the consequences. This is the culmination of all the idiotic things she’d done out of grief. Out of desperation. Out of love.

They landed ungracefully on carpet thick enough to muffle her stumble. Hermione caught herself against the edge of a finely sculpted furniture. Disoriented and nauseated, she straightened herself up quickly and took in the new environment. She’d expected the stone walls of some underground dungeon. Maybe even an abandoned basement with chains. But not this. She noted the velvet blackout curtains draped across tall windows. A writing desk with an old-fashioned lamp and a rotary phone sat beside a large mirror framed in carved wood. She knew exactly where they were. They were in the Hotel Astoria. 

In De Haan, fucking Belgium.

It was the same suite he’d taken her the night they made things official years ago. Way before everything went wrong. Back when he was still a Quidditch star and still trying to prove himself worthy to her. Her skin crawled knowing he’d chosen this place for a reason. It was a poor and futile attempt to woo her with some sentimentality that had already soured like spoiled milk. Just being here again was enough to make her sick. Her eyes darted to the door. Without really thinking, she bolted for it. But of course the handle wouldn’t turn. Hermione tried harder, then pressed her palm flat to the wood, trying to feel for any crack in the spellwork. The room had wards that resisted her. Sealed to keep her in, just like he used to do back when they lived together. She could’ve screamed. She wanted to. But it would be pointless. She knew he’d already secured this room like a soundproof prison. It was a typical Viktor move. Behind her, porcelain clinked.

“You’ll hurt yourself, love. Sit down,” Viktor said as he prepared tea in the mini kitchen.

His voice was light and casual, like kidnapping an ex-girlfriend was just another to-do item to tick off today. She didn’t turn around. Her fingers grazed the ring on her hand. The failsafe was useless now that they’d crossed international lines. Her wand was with him. She had absolutely nothing. She let her hand fall away from the door and turned to face her captor. Viktor was at the counter, spooning tea leaves into a pot like they were having a quiet stay in. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow and his posture was relaxed. This whole scene thoroughly revolted her. 

On the one hand, her parents were safe and away from the fray. That was the only mercy. Everything else - her wand, her ring, her sense of control, was gone. All he’d left her with was her mind. And unfortunately for him, it didn’t work the way it used to. Not for him. Not anymore. So she sifted through the chaos of her brain, looking for something sharp enough to use. What she had was this: she knew Viktor. Inside out. She knew the way his jaw clenched when his temper cracked beneath the surface. Knew he preferred control to conversation. That he only ever hit her when he felt cornered, only shouted when he sensed her slipping the leash he liked to pretend didn’t exist. He didn’t think she was out of reach yet. Fine. She’d use that. Let him think the lead still held, just long enough to wrap it around his throat.

She knew what he wanted, too. He wanted her to be pliant. To drink the tea. Let him tell his side like it still mattered to her. He wanted her to look at him the way she used to. Like he was something fractured and salvageable. That was the game. Make him think she’s giving in. If she said the right words, he’d soften. If she looked just the right level of upset, maybe he’d reach to comfort and drop his guard. If she called him out too soon, he’d start to be violent. He’d break things first to scare her. And then eventually he’d break her. Viktor wanted her compliance. Her obedience. He needed her to play along. So she would. Just long enough. Just enough to get close until she found her exit. Her eyes scanned the room for possible routes or tools. Something on the coffee table caught her attention. A stack of parchment with familiar script. The faint glow of enchantment, pulsing once every few seconds like a heartbeat. 

Hermione’s blood turned cold.

It was her magical calendar.

Or an exact replica of it. Down to the date markings, the ink colours, the little privacy glyphs she’d designed herself. Which meant he’d been in her office. That was the only place he would’ve been able to access her things. Her flat was warded to hell and back so it had to be the Ministry. This irony wasn’t lost on her. All those reinforced domestic protections, and it was work that left her exposed. All this time, he’d known all her whereabouts. Meetings, events, errands. Every place she was meant to be. He expected her to visit her parents today. He used the opportunity to trap her, knowing she couldn’t do anything in front of her family. She spotted the newspapers spread out beside the calendar. The top page showed the photo of her and Draco from the symposium. Hermione closed her eyes. So that was it. Viktor had been biding his time. Watching. Waiting. And the photo with Draco had been his last straw. He finished with the tea and brought over two cups.

“Sit and have tea with me,” he said, nodding to the small table by the window. 

Hermione stayed where she was, rooted to the spot. Then she reminded herself of her strategy and moved forward in slow, cautious steps. His eyes tracked the stiffness in her shoulders and the mechanical way she was walking. He let out a sigh. The kind that always made it sound like she was the one being unreasonable.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he said, raising both hands like that counted for anything. “I just want to talk. That’s all.”

There was almost a softness in his voice. Like they were back in their old flat, burning toast and exchanging kisses. She sat across from him, careful not to let her knee touch the table. The tea sat between them, steaming gently. She didn’t reach for it. He noticed that, too.

“It’s not drugged,” he said, gesturing to it. “You can watch me drink from it if you want.”

She lifted the cup slightly and brought it to her nose. It smelled like bergamot. 

“You drugged me many times before,” she pointed out.

He smirked. “Only when you were being difficult.”

She pretended to take the smallest sip, just enough to please him. Enough to let him believe she wouldn’t be difficult. Perhaps the tea wasn’t drugged. But that didn’t mean she was safe. Viktor leaned back in his seat, cradling the teacup like it was delicate. 

“I’ve been thinking about our last interaction. At the gala,” he started.

Game time, Hermione. She was ready to play her role. She gave him a tentative nod. Not too eager, though. Just to let him see she was interested in what he had to say. 

“I know I shouldn’t have approached you like that. You just caught me off guard.”

Of course she “caught him off guard.” That was always his narrative. She startled him into violence. Surprised him into provocation. He’d cornered her. Called her a whore with the same mouth that used to tell her he loved her. And now he wanted her to believe it was a moment of weakness because she made him do it. Hermione kept her eyes on the tea. It was safer than looking up and letting him notice how badly she wanted to break the cup in half and drive the sharp end straight into whatever passed for his conscience.

“I wasn’t trying to upset you. I know how it must have looked,” he went on with a tinge of sadness in his voice.

Hermione let the cup hover near her mouth, not drinking. 

“I’m not excusing anything,” he added. “I’m just saying, I wasn’t prepared. It’s hard seeing someone you love move on. Especially like this.”

His dark brown eyes darted briefly to the table, to the photo on the Daily Prophet’s front page. Hermione didn’t look at it.

“I’m not proud of how I reacted. But I’ve changed.” His voice dipped. “I’ve been working on myself. Trying to be better.”

Trying to be better. Oh how lovely for him. No mention of what, exactly, he was trying to be better than. Just a fog of vague regret for a version of himself he now claimed not to recognise - as if the past had happened to him, not because of him. Hermione tilted her head as if to study his sincerity. Let herself look convinced and swayed. She was going to gut him with grace. And he was going to thank her for the honour.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he said. “I kept hoping...that eventually, you might remember the good parts. We weren’t perfect, but we loved each other. That kind of connection doesn’t just disappear. You know?”

He waited. Hermione made herself look unsure. A little fragile. She brought the tea to her lips and took another fake sip. Viktor watched her with something almost like hope. And Hermione let him. Because that was the point. When she finally decided to speak, she let her voice slip into a gentle whisper. 

“And what of me? I’m no longer the girl you loved, Viktor.”

“You’ve always changed with the people around you,” he said. “That’s what makes you brilliant. You adapt.”

Her teeth ached from how hard she was grinding them. Adapt? Is that what they’re calling survival now? Is that what it was when I stopped speaking at dinner because I didn’t know what version of you I’d get? She forced her shoulders to drop. Loosened her jaw. Coaxed the sharpness out of her expression one muscle at a time. If she wanted out of this intact, she’d need more than reason. She’d need to weaponise what was left. So she set the teacup down and traced the rim with her finger. Not quite flirtatious. Just a little slow. A little shy. He noticed, his eyes landing on her fingers. Hermione looked away, just slightly. A tiny nuance to look conflicted. Time to throw in her bait.

“I’ve grown, Viktor,” she said softly. “I’m different now.”

“You were always grown,” Viktor said. “That’s what I liked about you. You knew things other people didn’t.”

Hermione looked around the suite, searching for where she could lead him to and possibly trap him. She regarded the kitchen counter, but there were no knives lying around. Fine. Then she’d have to use something else. She let her little performance deepen - let it slide just a little closer to overt seduction. She let her head fall sideways, allowing her hair to fall to one side.

“It’s strange,” she murmured. “I remember how I felt when I was here the first time.”

He leaned in slightly. “Aroused?” 

She nearly laughed in his face. Not because it was funny. But because he thought this was just another round in their old repetitive routine. He assumed this was one of those times where he’d manipulate her, she'd give in, they'd fuck, and everything would slide back into place like it always did. He still believed she was stuck in the same loop, history repeats itself and all that. She wanted to spit in his face. But she smiled, the smallest thing she could manage. 

“Something like that,” she replied coyly.

And he believed it. She could see it in the way he relaxed into the chair. She let her eyes drop to his waistband for the briefest second. One wand at the back. Another one at his side. Almost there, Hermione. You just need to hook him. She knew what he wanted. She’d played this part many times before. The old Hermione who fell easily for his sweet grovelling and irresistible words. Who gave in to the seductive delusion of fixing and reforming a “bad boy”. So she gave him that version now. She even tucked a piece of hair behind her ear the way he liked it. Viktor watched her like he was seeing something come back to life.

“You remember that night in Sofia?” she asked, quiet, like the question slipped out.

He nodded instantly. “The snowstorm.”

“You cooked,” she said coyly. “Tried to, anyway.”

“You burnt the rice.”

“You set the curtains on fire.”

He laughed. Actual laughter. She was finally getting somewhere. Hermione leaned in slightly, making sure to keep her shoulders relaxed. She mirrored the girl she used to be. The one who forgave too quickly and always blamed herself first.

“You said we were inevitable,” she said gingerly. “Do you still think that?”

His gaze warmed. It was the most dangerous thing she’d seen all day.

“I do,” he said. “I always have.”

She looked down, let her lashes fall, let her fingers trail along the curve of her teacup again. Familiar movements. Familiar silence.

And then, quietly: “I wanted to believe that.”

He shifted slightly, adjusting in his chair, and she saw the wand handle angled against his lower back, barely tucked into the waistband of his trousers. Her pulse kicked. Just a little closer. Just a little more time. She leaned forward, letting her hands fold on the table. It was the exact pose she used to take when she wanted to lure him to bed. She remembered what worked on him. She remembered everything.

“I used to drive you mad, didn’t I?” she asked.

Viktor’s cup stilled in his hand. Hermione let a slow smile ghost across her lips. 

“When I argued back. When I called you out. You used to say you hated it.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I said that because I didn’t know how to handle it.”

“You handled it just fine,” she said in a half whisper. 

His pupils dilated. Predictable. Funny how easy it could be sometimes. How little it took to wind a man around his own ego. Just the right tone, a little softness in the eyes, and suddenly he thought he was winning.

“You could handle me when I wore tights under my dresses,” she said, voice steady, almost idle. “You said you liked the sound of the fabric tearing when you lost patience.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. She kept going in for the kill.

“You used to press your hand right here—”

Her fingers brushed the inside of her thigh delicately, letting his eyes follow her movements.

“—when I said something clever. Just to shut me up.”

She looked up at him. Soft. Curious. Inviting. Inside, she was boiling. Come on. Lose focus, you fucking swine. He swallowed, and Hermione could see his throat bobbing. His knee knocked against the table as he moved forward.

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” he said.

“I still do.”

His eyes blew wide. Closer now. His breathing had changed. So had his posture. She could practically feel the heat of his delusion radiating across the table. He thought he was winning her. He thought this was the part where she folded. Gave in, just like many times before. Her plan was slowly working. She couldn’t reach the wand while they were sitting. Not without drawing attention. Not without getting caught. So she stood up. Slowly. Naturally. She made it look like a stretch. Like sitting still had simply stopped feeling comfortable.

“I need some water,” she said as she strode away.

The kitchen was only a few feet away. She let her fingers trail along the counter as she moved. Once she reached the sink, she paused. She turned her back to him, one hand settled on the counter. The other hovered near the tap.

Then, carefully: “You really chose this hotel.”

She said it lightly. Almost amused. Like it didn’t hit her like a punch to the throat when she realised where he’d brought her. He didn’t respond but tracked her movements hungrily. So she kept going.

“Where I gave my innocence to you.”

She’d given it to him willingly. She’d gone into it with both eyes open, convinced it meant something. That he meant something. That he’d earned it. Now it felt like handing over something sacred to a man who’d end up smashing it, then claiming it had been cracked to begin with. Of all the people. Of all the men in the world to bleed for. Get up. Get up, you fucking twat. She imagined flinging the kettle straight at his head. Still no movement. She wet her lips and added a more suggestive lilt to her voice.

“You brought me here after that winning match.”

Then she heard his chair scrape behind her. Her heart leapt. She kept her hands on the counter, elbows loose. 

“We stayed in and fucked for two days straight,” she said smokily. “You said it meant we belonged to each other now.”

He was so close now. She felt it. His breath hovered near her ear.

“I remember everything,” he said in a voice filled with want.

Good. She turned slowly, her hand brushing his hip. She let her eyes flick to his and saw the belief and want in them The crack forming was wide open. Her palm slid over his chest. 

Then, laced with venom: “Kiss me.”

His mouth crashed against hers like he’d been waiting years. Hands on her waist, her jaw, her hips - gripping like he still thought she was his to hold. Hermione kissed him back. Slower. Softer. She let her lips part, let her tongue glide in a way that looked like longing. She felt nothing. Nothing but disgust and contempt. Her fingers traced his spine. She smoothed down, lower, until her hand hovered at the base of his back. Another inch and she could feel the wooden tip of the wand tucked into his back pocket. So close. Her fingertips brushed it. Then everything snapped. His hand clamped around her throat so swiftly it literally knocked the air out of her. Hermione began choking.

“Don’t be a bad girl,” Viktor said softly, like he was giving her instructions.

Her body seized instantly and her vision began blurring. She can’t let him win this time. Her knee shot up. It connected hard with his groin and he released her with a cry of pain. She dropped to one knee, gasping, hand closing around the wand at last.

“Stupefy!”

It missed him. Barely. The blast hit the cupboard instead, splintering wood and sending a shock through the air. And then Viktor lunged at her and they went down hard. The wand flew from her grip. He was on top of her now and the wand was out of reach. Before he could even raise his fist, she clawed at his face viciously. Her fingernails raked from brow to cheekbone in one violent, unfiltered swipe. He groaned and reared back. She saw the instant bloom of blood across his face. Fresh, angry lines that broke open across his skin. He looked stunned for a moment, clutching his face. She’d never fought back like this before. Never retaliated violently. Never made him bleed. But she wasn’t playing submissive anymore.

She bit into his shoulder right through the fabric. She wanted to taste blood. Wanted to feel the way he jerked in pain and fury and disbelief. She wanted him to know. But before her jaw could close fully, he slammed her against the floor. Her head hit tile. The impact knocked the air out of her lungs. And then he punched her. Hard. Across the face. She saw stars and her ears rang.

“I told you,” he growled, voice tight with exertion. “I hate it when you’re difficult.”

Her vision blurred. Concussion, she thought dimly. Definitely. His face was bleeding. One of her nails had caught just under his eye. She felt a flicker of satisfaction rise through the pain. She kicked. Over and over. Wild, graceless, and messy. He hit her again. And again. And still, she never stopped kicking. His hands wrapped around her throat once more - tighter this time. His face blurred above her and his lips were moving, saying something her brain had blocked out. She didn’t want to hear it. Her brain throbbed and her chest burned. Her limbs felt like they were leaden but she had to do something. Anything. With what little strength she could muster, she drove her forehead into his. It wasn’t lethal. It wasn’t smart. It probably gave her another concussion. But mercifully, it worked.

Viktor staggered back, hands releasing her neck just enough for air to come rushing in. Hermione coughed, body spasming, but her leg still moved. She kicked forward, caught him in the groin again, and watched him crumple. But it wasn’t enough. She was beginning to lose vision. The pain in her skull pulsed like a drumbeat. The wand had rolled too far and she doubted her body could crawl fast enough. She peered over and saw he was already recovering. She reached blindly to the side table where she’d spotted a vase. Too heavy to throw, but perfect for something else. She smashed it on the floor and porcelain exploded in every direction. She grabbed a shard. Not the biggest, but it was sharp enough. Then, without hesitation, she drove it into his thigh. He growled, staggering again. Blood welled fast but it still wasn’t enough to incapacitate. She kicked his leg right at the knee and he lost his balance. And then she was on him.

She began screaming bloody murder for no coherent reason. Her voice broke as she cursed him, throat raw from being strangled. She straddled his chest, brought the shard down again, but he caught her wrists. They trembled in the air between them, his hands shaking as he held her back. She had a feeling she might die here. In the hands of the man who once promised her forever. And she was going to die alone. But strangely, she was no longer scared of the thought. Because now she knew that she could take him. She could make him bleed. His skin was wet and red and laughably human. He wasn’t really a monster. He wasn’t some all-powerful force. He was just a pathetic man who underestimated her. She tasted metal in her mouth and her wrists now ached from where he was holding her. Her knees dug into his ribs as they rolled across the floor, the shard still trapped between them. 

But she could feel that sliver of power lodged like glass beneath the skin. He didn’t have full control anymore. She might not make it out today. But she wasn’t leaving quiet. She wasn’t leaving pliant. If he wanted her dead, he was going to have to do it injured and battered, the same way he had left her all those times. Viktor shoved her down, finally gaining the upper hand. He pinned her wrists above her head, the piece of shard now lost. Her legs kicked but he straddled her hard enough to crush her chest.

“Fucking stop,” he spat.

She didn’t. Instead, she spurred on. She shrieked at him like a banshee. Wordless at first, then a torrent of curses, insults, and expletives that she had never had the courage to say out loud to him for years. She screeched like the noise itself could kill him. Like her voice might split the walls, shatter the glass, peel the roof off this cursed place and bring it all crumbling down. And then—

POP!

A deafening sound cracked the air like splitting bone. Hermione froze. For one terrifying second, she was certain it was her skull caving in. That something had ruptured inside her and she was finally breaking open. Finally done for. But through blurring vision, she could make out a vague shape moving over Viktor.

Looming. 

Tall.

Her entire world lurched as her eyes slowly focused. 

Because there, in the middle of a hotel suite in fucking Belgium, stood Draco Malfoy.