Chapter Text
The cloying scent of cheap Polyjuice and stale beer clung to Draco like a second skin as he nursed a glass of firewhisky, the amber liquid doing little to warm the glacial frustration coiling in his gut. Two weeks. Two weeks since the attack. Two weeks since he’d been relegated to ‘light duties’ – glorified desk work in the DMLE archives, while his actual job was filled by bloody Potter, to his immense chagrin.
“A sodding paper-pusher,” he’d muttered to Pansy earlier, who’d merely raised an eyebrow and suggested he try finding a position that didn't involve risking his neck for Granger. He was still smarting from the implication, but more so from the forced inactivity. The wounds were healing, the Healers had assured him, but the Ministry’s protocols were rigid. No active duty until he was fully cleared.
The worst part, though, wasn't the boredom or the indignity. It was the silence. He hadn't spoken to Hermione since the morning after the attack. Merlin, the night had been a blur of pain, adrenaline, and, inexplicably, passion, the mere thought of which left him breathless even now. Yet, she’d left before dawn, leaving nothing but a small, perfectly penned note on his bedside table: Draco – I hope you get better soon. Reach out if there’s anything I can do. Hermione.
Anything I can do. The words had echoed in his mind for days, a tantalizing invitation. He’d drafted a dozen replies in his head, each one more pathetic than the last. ‘Fancy dinner because I saved your life?’ ‘Miss your touch – urgent physical therapy needed?’ He’d scoffed at himself. She was Hermione Granger, for Merlin’s sake. Days away from being elected Minister for Magic, no less. She had better things to do than babysit her injured bodyguard, let alone entertain the frankly absurd notion that the crazed, adrenaline feuled night was anything more than a pressure-release, a desperate comfort in the face of near-death. He certainly couldn’t think of a single excuse to message her that wouldn't sound like a plea for attention, or worse, a declaration of something he wasn't brave enough to voice.
He took another swig, the whisky burning a trail down his throat. Then, the door creaked open, admitting a sliver of the gloomy London night, and then she was there.
Hermione.
Draco’s breath hitched. He knew it was the same one from before. There she was. Always Granger perfect. Those dark muggle jeans that hugged every curve set his heart racing. Her silky camisole gave a glimpse of those pert breasts he longed for. There were other Polyjuice users who mimicked her, of course, a testament to her growing fame, but none came close to this one. The precise curl of her always-too-bushy hair, the intelligent spark in the eyes, the determined set of her jaw. It was uncanny. But tonight, something was off. The usual composure of her mimicked form was gone, replaced by a restless energy. She looked… pissed off. Genuinely, deeply, incandescently furious.
She headed straight for the bar, slamming a handful of Galleons onto the counter with more force than necessary. "Firewhisky. Double. Neat." Her voice, usually so precise and controlled, was sharper, laced with an irritation that resonated through the dingy air.
Draco felt a strange pull, a sense of protectiveness that warred with his internal monologue of ‘she's not the real one, Malfoy, get a grip.’ Still, he found himself sliding off his stool, moving towards her. He knew he shouldn't, but the sight of ‘Hermione’ looking so genuinely distressed stirred something in him he couldn’t ignore.
"Granger?" he ventured, his voice softer than he'd intended.
She spun around, her eyes, those exact copies of Hermione’s amber-flecked irises, narrowed. "What do you want, Malfoy?" she snapped, the words barbed. "Your face is pissing me off."
Draco blinked, taken aback. That was… aggressively rude, even for a Polyjuice imitation. It struck him as odd, a reaction far too personal for what should be a casual encounter between strangers in a bar, but he didn't dwell on it. Perhaps she’d simply had a horrific day. He decided to play it cool.
"Just offering a sympathetic ear," he said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "You look like you're about to spontaneously combust. What's wrong?"
She took a long, shuddering breath, then downed half her double neat in one go. Her shoulders slumped slightly. "What's wrong?" she repeated, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "What's wrong is I'm fed up. Fed up with men who don't know what they want. Fed up with mixed signals. Fed up with feeling like I'm taking crazy pills."
Draco leaned against the bar beside her, a genuine wave of sympathy washing over him. This was a familiar lament. "Tell me about it," he muttered. "Someone… someone practically threw herself at me the other week, seemed keen, and then… totally ghosted."
Her head snapped towards him, eyes narrowed in disbelief before she dismissed the idea with a casual head shake and an eyeroll. She huffed and took another swig.
Draco nodded, feeling a strange connection. "It's just so hard to read some people. I keep thinking about sending a message, but then I think, what’s the point? She must be busy. Probably regrets it. Ministry officials don't waste time on… on trivialities." He caught himself, almost revealing too much.
She snorted, finishing her drink. "Ministry official? Is that what she is? Mine's just a ridiculously overqualified auror who looks like he'd rather spontaneously combust than admit he likes me."
Draco managed a small, wry smile. "I know the feeling. I really like this person, but we work together, and it wouldn't be proper. And sometimes… sometimes I think she wouldn't mind. Other times, I'm not so sure. The signals are so… ambiguous."
She looked at him then, her head tilted, a strange expression on her face. Like he'd just announced he’d grown an extra head. "Ambiguous?" she echoed, her voice slow, disbelieving. "What exactly gave you the impression she would be 'up for it,' as you so delicately put it?"
He flushed slightly, caught off guard by her directness. "Well," he began, uncomfortable. "We… we've kissed. A few times."
Her jaw dropped. Her Polyjuice-perfect brow furrowed in disbelief. "She's kissed you?" she practically shrieked, drawing a few curious glances from nearby patrons. She lowered her voice immediately, leaning in. "Was she… conscious? And sober?"
Draco recoiled, affronted. "Of course she was! What kind of monster do you take me for? I wouldn’t dare—"
Imitation Hermione shook her head, running a hand through her hair, which now seemed even more wild and dishevelled than usual. She grabbed her empty glass and slammed it back down onto the counter, gesturing for another. "Idiot," she muttered, not quite to herself. "Absolute, utter idiot."
He bristled. "I'm not an idiot! It's confusing! She'll willingly kiss me, and it'll be… incredible, and then she won't mention it for days. Or she'll act like nothing happened. I don't know what that means!"
She took a long, slow swig of her freshly poured firewhisky, her eyes fixed on him, a strange mix of exasperation and… something else. Pity? "Malfoy," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle now, though still firm. "If a witch willingly, consciously, and soberly kisses you, I am fairly confident – extremely confident – it means she likes you. Possibly a lot."
He stared at her, the words slowly, painfully, sinking in. "But… we work together. It's unprofessional. And the Ministry—"
"Sod the Ministry!" she interrupted, her voice rising again before she quickly checked herself. "Look, if two consenting adults want to be together, the Ministry has no say. They don't own your personal life. If she's actually kissed you, and not just once, and she hasn't explicitly told you to back off, then she's probably just as confused by your lack of follow-through as you are by hers." She paused, her gaze piercing. "Or maybe she's just waiting for you to make the next move, because she, like a lot of witches, thinks it's the wizard's place to initiate once the interest is clearly established."
He swallowed hard. "She sent me a note," he confessed, the words tumbling out. "Said she hoped I got better. And to reach out if there was anything she could do."
Her eyes widened minutely. "And you didn't respond?" she asked, her voice a dangerous whisper.
"I didn't know what to say!" he defended himself, feeling like a small child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I thought… she's got important things to do. She doesn't need me bothering her."
She let out a frustrated growl. "For the love of Merlin, Malfoy! She gave you an opening! An invitation! She told you to reach out! And you sat there stewing in your own idiotic assumptions? You think she sends notes like that to everyone who gets injured? Do you have any idea how many people are hovering around her right now, trying to get her attention? And she reached out to you."
The pieces, slowly, painfully, began to click into place.
"You need to respond," she said, cutting through his burgeoning thoughts. Her voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "Right now. Or at least tonight. Don't wait another day. Tell her… tell her you're feeling better, and you’d like to take her up on her offer for 'anything she can do,' even if it's just a coffee. Or, you know, an actual date. Or a conversation about what the hell those kisses meant." Her eyes glinted with a fierce determination. "Stop being a coward, Malfoy. If she kisses you, she likes you. It's really that simple."
He stared at her, a profound realization dawning on him. Could it be? Could he have been so monumentally, unbelievably obtuse? He’d been so convinced of his unworthiness, of the impossibility of it all, that he’d dismissed every clear signal.
"You're right," he said, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. "You're… you're absolutely right."
A faint, almost imperceptible softening crossed her features. "Good. Now go. You're wasting precious time."
He nodded, feeling a sudden surge of adrenaline, not from danger, but from hope. He leapt from his sest snd headed for the door, but then hesitated. She’d told him to reach out, but not how. Letter? Too impersonal. Turn up at the house? Too presumptuous. Floo call. Yes, that felt right.
"Thanks," he said, turning to leave. "Really. Thanks, Granger."
She gave him a tight, almost shy smile. "Anytime, Malfoy. Just… don't be an idiot next time."
He left the Bar in a daze, the scent of stale ale and Polyjuice fading from his awareness, replaced by the faint, lingering scent of Hermione’s hair, which he could have sworn he smelled on the fake version. He apparated home, his small apartment feeling suddenly empty, suffocating in its silence. He strode to the fireplace, grabbed a handful of Floo powder, and tossed it into the flames.
"Hermione Granger's Apartment!" he barked.
The flames flared emerald green, swirling into a tunnel. Her living room came into view, cozy and familiar. Bookshelves overflowing, a comfortable armchair, a half-finished tumbler of whiskey on a side table. And then, there she was.
She was walking in from another room, running a hand through her hair, which was, even now, slightly wild and dishevelled. She wore the same dark jeans and that soft silk camisole. And on her face was an expression of utter exhaustion, mixed with faint irritation.
"Draco?" she said, her voice sounding a little tired, like she’d just had a long, frustrating day. "Took you long enough."
His gaze swept over her. The muggle jeans. The silky top. The slightly dishevelled hair. The weary eyes that still held that familiar spark. The way she ran her hand through her hair. The exact same clothes, the exact same expression, the exact same mannerisms he’d just witnessed.
The penny dropped.
It dropped with the resounding clang of a thousand Galleons falling to a stone floor. The 'fake Hermione' wasn't fake at all. There was no 'other one.' There was only her. She’d been there. At the Polyjuice Bar. Tonight. Angry. Frustrated. And she'd just sat there and listened to him spill his guts about how he was too much of an idiot to realize she clearly liked him back.
His face must have betrayed his sudden, horrified comprehension. Hermione’s brow raised in question, a flicker of concern crossing her features. "Draco? Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His mind raced, replaying every single word of their conversation.
He’d called her Granger. She had given him that tight, almost shy smile. She had been the one to tell him, after all this time, to stop being a coward.
"Hermione," he finally managed, his voice a strained whisper. His eyes met hers, and in their depths, he saw a flicker of understanding, a hint of something unreadable – exasperation? Amusement? Hope? "Can I come in?"