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Chapter Text

Hermione leans on the upper landing, just above the swirl of students and trunks, eyes tracing the familiar patterns of chaos in the Entrance Hall. She counts heads, noting who has grown since last year, when the doors swing open and everything changes.

Whispers skitter across the stone like windblown leaves. She freezes, heart hammering, as a figure steps over the threshold.

Heads turn. Robes hesitate mid-step. Every eye in the room seems to prick at him like static. Even from above, the tension is palpable, electric. His hand goes to his satchel—the only one he’s allowed to carry, polished and cleared by some officious Ministry clerk whose memory of him is probably all Murderer. Coward. Malfoy.

His left hand trembles. He tucks it into his pocket. A tiny movement, but Hermione notices. A shock goes through her chest—fear, disbelief, something that makes her pulse race—because she can read him even from this distance. The hall seems to shrink around him, but to her, he looks small. Human. Fragile.

And just like that, she realizes: she can’t look away.

The whispers coil around her like smoke, impossible to ignore even from above. Robes stiffen. Heads tilt. Murmurs lace with curiosity and something darker—judgment, fear, maybe even lingering hate. Hermione’s stomach churns; she’s seen enough of that world to recognize the pulse of it.

Draco moves carefully, every step measured, as if the stones themselves might betray him. His shoulders tighten when someone catches his eye. He tucks his left hand deeper into his pocket. His jaw tremors. Small things, easily missed on the ground, but from her vantage point, they are loud.

Her mind rebels, straining to focus on anything else, but she can’t look away. She remembers the first time she saw him like this—not in robes and halls, but by the sea, the summer long ago when everything had changed. The memory presses in unbidden: the salt air, the reckless heat, the way he looked at her as if she were the only solid thing in a shifting world.

Her heart lurches, an unexpected, unbidden warmth, and she realizes how little distance there is between that summer and now. She isn’t in the hall, isn’t part of the current chaos—but watching him, she feels every whisper, every glance, every accusation as if it’s meant for her too.

He pauses near the center, adjusting the strap on his satchel again, and the tremor in his hand catches her eyes. Something in her chest tightens. She knew he had been through hell; she knew he would return. But seeing him like this—small, careful, almost hesitant—brings back everything: the summer, the stolen hours, the reckless, impossible love she buried deep inside herself.

And for the first time since stepping onto the landing, Hermione’s pulse forgets to follow reason. She wants to run down, to cross that hall, to say anything, everything—but she doesn’t. She only watches, letting the memories wash over her, unbidden, uncontrollable, utterly hers.

Hermione clears her throat, loud enough to cut through the rising murmur. “Excuse me! Could everyone please move along? The feast is about to start.”

A few students glance up, startled, and then shuffle forward, leaving the hall just a little less crowded. She keeps her gaze deliberately fixed on the polished stone floor, tracing the pattern of tiles she’s memorized over the years. She does not look at him. She cannot.

Her chest throbs, pulse hammering in her ears. Every rational part of her screams that she should stay in control, that she should not let this—him—unsettle her. Yet the memory of that summer flickers behind her eyes, unbidden, like sunlight catching on the water. 

Chapter Text

8 weeks earlier.

Hermione Granger stumbled down the Ministry steps, her heels clattering against stone. She barely made it into the cool air before her stomach revolted. She turned aside, gripping the railing with one hand as she gagged, bile searing her throat.

Not now, not here.

But there was no stopping it. She bent double, the contents of her meager lunch spilling onto the pavement, her hair falling into her face. When she finally dragged in a breath, she pressed the back of her hand across her mouth, blinking hard against the sting in her eyes.

She had testified before. She had stood in front of wizened panels and bitter juries, argued in defence of house-elves, half-giants, Muggleborns. She had always spoken from conviction, fire threading her every word.

But this was different. This had drained her.

Because today, she had stood in defence of Draco Malfoy.

The name itself made her ribs tighten. She couldn’t believe she had done it, had spoken for him, had lent her voice to the argument that he was more than his choices, more than his family’s legacy, more than the Dark Mark that had once branded his arm.

Merlin help her, she had believed it.

She could still hear the echo of her own voice under the cavernous dome: steady, measured, precise. He did not kill Dumbledore. He saved me, twice, during the Battle. He lowered his wand. Words like rope bridges over a chasm, each one she’d crossed because she knew they were true.

And yet, her body betrayed her now. She gagged into the drain, bile burning her throat, her hair sticking damply to her face. Somewhere above, an enchanted banner still declared the Ministry’s new motto: Rebuilding Trust. Restoring Justice.

Her stomach gave another violent twist. She pressed her palm to the stone, breathing deep.the sound of the doors opening dragged her gaze upward.

He was there.

Draco stepped into the sunlight like it wounded him. No wand at his side. His face was drained of colour, nearly the same shade as his white-blond hair. He carried nothing but a battered satchel — not his own, she knew, but one inspected and cleared by the Ministry. His movements were stiff, his shoulders tense, as if every tendon in his body were waiting for a blow. For the first time in her life, Hermione thought he looked smaller than she remembered.

She saw it then, the detail that caught her more than anything else: his hands. They trembled as he adjusted the strap. When he slipped one into his pocket, she thought — no, she knew — he realised others had noticed.

For once, no mask of arrogance covered him. No smirk, no sneer. He looked stripped bare. And Hermione’s chest constricted with something she refused to name. She should walk away. She should go home, wash her face, tell herself she had done the right thing by speaking up in his trial. She had nothing left to give.

Instead, she followed him.

He walked quickly, head down, through the streets of London. He didn’t Apparate — couldn’t, she remembered with a jolt. The Ministry had restricted his magic. He was practically shackled, even outside the courtroom.

Through the streets, past Diagon, down into the twisting shadows of Knockturn Alley. The change in air was immediate. The light thinned, the shops leaned close, windows grimy and unwelcoming. Here, people didn’t linger; they slunk. Even cloaked, Hermione felt exposed. He didn’t look back once, though she kept half-expecting him to. 

But Draco kept walking, past shops with half-broken signs, past doorways that stank of stale smoke and rot. At last he stopped before a crooked building wedged between Borgin and Burkes and a boarded-up tavern. The sign above the door was so weathered it was illegible. He ducked inside, and a moment later she saw a light flicker in an upstairs window.

Her heart beat so loudly she thought it might give her away. Still, she climbed after him.

Hermione’s heart pounded. She had no business being here. And yet her hand rose before she could stop herself, rapping soft against the wood.

The door creaked open.

Draco stared at her as though she were a hallucination conjured from exhaustion. His eyes — sharp, grey, but dulled by shadows beneath them — blinked once. His voice, when it came, was stripped of every weapon she remembered from school.

“I’m making tea,” he said flatly. “How do you take it?”

She wanted to laugh. The situation was so absurd but instead, her voice came out hoarse. “Milk. No sugar.”

A faint nod. He stepped aside, leaving the door open wide enough for her to step in. She entered a room so bare it hurt to look at. A narrow bed in the corner. A kettle on a single burner. A chipped mug on the windowsill. This wasn’t Malfoy Manor. It wasn’t even a proper flat. It was survival, nothing more.

Draco set the kettle down with careful precision, as if the act of holding something steady kept him tethered to the world. His eyes flicked to her once, sharp and assessing, then away. The tremor in his hands betrayed him more than any expression could. Hermione’s throat constricted. She hated herself for noticing, hated herself for feeling the pull of something that shouldn’t exist here.

“You look… tired,” he said, voice rough. 

She did laugh then. Sharp. “Is that all?”

He didn’t answer. 

“You’re staying here?” She said, her nose wrinkled. 

Draco didn’t look at her. “Didn’t think you would care,” he said, flicking at the kettle with his hand, before sighing and moving over the kettle to take it off the heat. 

“I don’t,” she said, defiantly. 

“Why are you here?” His voice was quieter now, almost curious.

Her chest tightened. She had no answer, or at least no one she could say aloud. “I… I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I—” Her mind scrambled, searching for something defensible. “I needed to see that you’re… human. That… that there’s a person beneath all of this.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “I’m not asking for sympathy.”

“And I’m not giving it,” she said, sharply. She hated herself for saying it. She hated that part of her brain thought, You should hate him. You should turn away. You should be furious. But another part, sharper and more insistent, thought, You want him alive. You want him… not broken.

He moved to pour water into the mugs, slow and deliberate. The clink of ceramic against metal sounded like a drum in the tiny room. Hermione’s pulse hammered in her ears.

“You can ask the question, you know,” he said, handing her a mug. “Why am I here? In this shit hole?”

“I’m n—,” Hermione started but he cut her off. 

“You are,” he said softly, as if reading the truth from her face. “Your pupils. Your hands. You think you can hide it, but—” He stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m used to it. Don’t look so… guilty.”

Hermione’s fingers flexed against her thighs. Guilty. She hated the word, hated the thought that she could feel anything but loathing for him after everything he’d done. And yet, here she was. Following him. In a Knockturn alley flat. Feeling sorry for him.

“My parents wouldn’t have me back. Not after I applied for probation instead of appealing,” he said, staring into his mug as though it held the secrets he longed for. “Something to do with admitting guilt rather than fighting for our blood right.” He looked up at her, eyes glassy, but it could be from the steam. “I just want it to be over.”

Hermione’s chest twisted. Sympathy. She loathed it. Every rational bone in her body screamed against it, every lesson from the war, every ounce of moral certainty. And yet… she couldn’t stop thinking about the hollow set of his shoulders, the haunted eyes, the tremor of his hands.

“You’re lucky you aren’t in Azkaban,” she said through gritted teeth. “You should be—”

“I know,” he cut in softly, almost a whisper. No smirk. No arrogance. Just the bare truth.

The words reverberated inside her chest like a bell she couldn’t unring. She hated that it hurt. Hated that she wanted to reach across the space between them and touch him, to fix something she had no right to fix.

The room felt impossibly small. The kettle hissed, the mug steamed, and Hermione realized with a jolt that they were alone. Alone. No one watching. No courtroom. No Aurors. No rules.

Her pulse spiked, a mixture of fear and something else she didn’t want to name. The only thing she could think to do — the only way to silence the storm of her own chest — was to move.

She stepped closer. He looked up then, startled, his grey eyes widening.

“Wait—” he began, but the sound broke off.

Hermione didn’t speak. She pressed forward until there was no space left between them. Her hands shook as she lifted one to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat beneath the fabric of his shirt. His own hands hovered near hers, uncertain, frozen, betraying every caution he was holding.

Her lips found his in a movement that was desperate, reckless, and impossibly urgent.

Draco froze. Then, slowly, almost hesitantly, he met her halfway. His lips moved against hers, tentative at first, like testing a fragile line of ice. Then, imperceptibly, they relaxed, allowing the connection to exist, even if just for a moment.

Hermione felt the weight of all the tension in the room melt into that kiss — her guilt, her fury, her longing, her fear. All of it, tangled and unbearable, pressed into the space between them.

His hands finally moved, one brushing the edge of her sleeve, the other gripping the edge of the table to steady himself. She could feel the tremor in him, the uncertainty, the human fragility she had glimpsed on the Ministry steps.

When they finally pulled apart, Hermione’s lungs burned. Her hair fell into her eyes, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, as though the contact itself had been forbidden.

Draco’s chest rose and fell, his jaw tight. He didn’t speak at first, just looked at her, that faint, hollowed look still lingering in his grey eyes.

“I… shouldn’t have—” Hermione whispered, shaking her head, trying to put space between the impulse and reality.

He shook his own head. “No. I shouldn’t either.”

But neither moved away. Silence filled the tiny room, thick and electric, as though the air itself were holding its breath. Hermione knew that nothing in the world could undo what had just happened. And yet she also knew, in the marrow of her bones, that it had been inevitable, a collision of two forces that had no other outlet.

Her pulse slowed gradually, but the warmth lingered. She hated herself. She hated him. She hated herself for wanting him. And in the same instant, she knew she would never be able to untangle those threads again.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s boots squelched against the muddy alley outside the flat. Rain plastered her hair to her face, soaked her robes through to the bone. She pressed her palms to the wet brick of the building, catching her breath, and stared at the narrow window above. A pulse of panic hit her. She should turn away. She should walk home, dry off, and pretend this day, this impulse, this madness had never happened.

And yet she didn’t.

She knocked once, softly, and the door swung open before she could hesitate again.

Draco was there, standing in the narrow doorway, his hair damp from some invisible shower of water. His eyes lifted to hers, grey and cautious, but he said nothing. Just a faint nod, an acceptance, and she felt her pulse quicken at the sheer quiet acknowledgment that she had been allowed in.

Hermione’s hands shook as she slipped inside, leaving puddles on the thin rug. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t explain herself. The shame of the nightmares clung to her like the rainwater on her robes, a private confession she hadn’t meant to reveal to anyone. And yet here she was. Trusting him. Hoping he would understand, even if she didn’t say the words aloud.

Draco moved with that same careful precision she’d noticed before. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t speak. He simply gestured toward the bathroom. She hesitated, eyes meeting his for a fraction of a second.

“Use the shower,” he said quietly. His voice carried no judgment. No amusement. Just… a steady calm that made her chest ache with relief.

Hermione blinked, startled. “The towel?” she asked softly, almost afraid to say it.

He held one out, dry, warm in his hand. A simple gesture, but one that made her stomach flip. She swallowed, nodded, and retreated into the small bathroom.

Steam rose instantly, hot and thick, wrapping her in warmth. She sank into the flow of water, letting it wash over her, but the shivers remained. Her nightmares had not stopped with the kiss. They followed her even now, in the quiet of this tiny flat. The memory of war, of loss, of faces she could not save, twisted in the back of her mind.

Yet through it all, she felt a fragile tether: Draco. His presence in the next room was an unspoken promise. She didn’t need him to speak; she didn’t need him to hold her. Just knowing he was there, quietly, watching without expectation, steadied her in a way she hadn’t known she needed.

She closed her eyes under the water, letting it run down her back. And when she finally stepped out, shivering and wrapped in his towel, she found him waiting with quiet patience, not a trace of irritation on his face.

“Thanks,” she whispered. Simple, inadequate, but the only word she could find.

Draco’s lips curved slightly, just the barest hint of acknowledgment, and she felt heat rise to her cheeks. She avoided his eyes, afraid of what they might reveal.

She sat on the edge of the cot, letting him move around the small space, the mundane rhythm of his motions oddly comforting: setting a mug of tea on the table, adjusting the kettle, folding the towel she’d used with careful attention. His quiet efficiency grounded her, made her believe that a corner of the world could be still, even if only for a moment.

Eventually, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you… do you ever wonder if anyone would find out?”

Draco looked up, eyes meeting hers with a faint, almost ironic smile. “I’ve learned that most people are too busy thinking about themselves to notice what others do. Besides,” he added, a touch more softly, “this is small. Insignificant in the grand scale.”

Hermione nodded, though a part of her bristled. Insignificant, he said. But it mattered to her, in every pulse of her chest. She mattered here. He mattered. And yet, no one outside this room could ever know.

“Why… why do you let me be here?” she asked, almost afraid to speak the question. “After the trial. After… everything.”

Draco shrugged, leaning back against the table. “Because you’re here. That’s reason enough.” His voice was steady, low, but there was something heavier beneath it—an unspoken admission of vulnerability, of care.

Hermione felt her throat tighten. Care. That word, that sentiment, had become a foreign currency in the months since the war. Yet here it was, wrapped up in the quiet of a room above Knockturn Alley, offered without conditions. She wanted to reach for it, to hold it, to believe it could last.

They talked then, slowly at first. Not about the world, not about trials or justice or war—but about smaller things: the weather, the quality of the tea, the cracks in the ceiling of the flat, the way sunlight—or what little of it reached here—caught on the peeling paint.

Each word was a thread, weaving a fragile tapestry of connection between them. Hermione found herself relaxing, curling into the cot with her knees drawn up, allowing him space, yet absorbing the steadiness of his presence like a shield.

When the conversation faltered, when silence stretched, it wasn’t uncomfortable. Instead, it hummed with a quiet intimacy she hadn’t anticipated. She could hear his breathing, even in its shallow, guarded rhythm, and it reminded her that he was real, that he was here, that she was safe—at least, for this moment.

Eventually, the night fell fully, bringing with it a cold that seeped through the thin walls. Hermione shivered and turned to him, her voice barely audible.

“I… I can’t sleep sometimes,” she admitted, almost ashamed.

He didn’t look at her. “Then sleep with me,” he said simply, and that was all.

She hesitated, teeth clenching, mind racing. Is this… safe? Appropriate? Moral? Every rule she’d ever followed screamed in protest. And yet the ache in her chest, the need for grounding, for human contact, overrode every protest.

She climbed onto the cot beside him, curling against the solid line of his body. The room was cramped; their legs brushed, their arms occasionally touched, but neither flinched. Hermione pressed her cheek against his shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of soap and rainwater, feeling her pulse finally slow in response to his steady presence.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The quiet of him was enough. Enough to let her rest, enough to let her nightmares ease, enough to let her hope, however faintly, that there could be small moments of peace.

When she finally drifted into sleep, it was with a strange, trembling gratitude. She hadn’t spoken it aloud, wouldn’t dare, but it was there: Thank you. Thank you for letting me be safe. Thank you for letting me be here.

In the night, they whispered sometimes, about trivialities first, then about fears, regrets, secrets they’d never shared aloud. She told him about her nightmares, about faces that haunted her long after the battles were over. He listened, offering small comforts without preaching, without judgment, without intrusion.

She began to see him differently. Not the Draco Malfoy of schoolboy arrogance, nor the scheming Death Eater heir, but a man who had been forced to endure the consequences of choices he hadn’t fully made, who had survived, who had carried his guilt silently and alone.

And she felt herself unraveling quietly, willingly, at the edges of his patience and steadiness.

They began to touch more openly, brushing fingers, leaning together while speaking softly, the intimacy of gestures growing naturally. Hermione hated herself for how much it mattered to her, but hated herself even more if she denied it.

By the end of that night, she realized she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay in that small, peeling room above the alley, to exist in the bubble they had created together. The walls, chipped and faded, seemed to glow softly in the dim lamplight.

Draco’s voice broke the silence, quiet, almost shy: “You know… the room looks beautiful with you in it.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. The words were simple, but they carried the weight of care, of warmth, of acceptance. She pressed herself a little closer to him, letting herself absorb it. Beautiful, she thought. Not because of the paint or the peeling wallpaper, not because of the furniture or the view of the alley below, but because of him, and because she was here, with him.

Chapter Text

It seemed to become a pattern. She would appear at his door and he would let her in, and make tea. She would sleep in his arms, and wake before the sun and slip out. 

That’s how she found herself pressed into the corner behind the staircase to his flat. heart hammering as she waited. The street was empty, save for the occasional clatter of a cart far down the cobbled lane.

A shadow detached itself from the alleyway across the street, and her pulse skipped. Draco. Wandless, pale in the fading sunlight, and somehow more real than he’d ever seemed in courtrooms or offices.

He smiled faintly at her, a little crooked, almost shy. “You’re early,” he said softly, a teasing lilt to his voice that didn’t quite mask the tension underneath.

“I know,” she admitted, breathless. “I… I couldn’t wait any longer.”

He took a step closer. She could see the tremor in his fingers, just a flicker, and it made her chest ache. He brushed a lock of hair from her face, his fingers ghosting the side of her face, leaving her breathless. 

“Come on,” he said with a smirk and a nod of his head towards the stairs. “After you.”

He let them into the shabby flat, that was becoming more like home than her own accommodation at the Leaky Cauldron. He bustled around doing the usual routine, kettle, mugs, tea bags. Hermione went over to him and put her hand on his forearm. 

“I don’t want tea,” she said softly. He stopped what he was doing and looked at her startled. 

“You don’t?”

“No,” she murmured. Before either of them could speak further, Hermione closed the distance. Her hands found the edge of his coat, and she pressed herself against him.

Draco’s lips met hers, gentle at first, tentative, as though asking permission with every movement. Hermione’s fingers tangled in the damp strands of his hair, and he responded with the same care, leaning into her, a brush of warmth against her cheek, a shiver that ran through both of them.

The kiss deepened, slow, tender. It wasn’t frantic, it wasn’t desperate. It was steady, grounding, as if both of them were anchoring themselves in the presence of the other. Hermione let herself breathe into it, let herself trust, let herself feel the faint pulse of desire that had been growing between them. 

When they finally parted, eyes lingering on each other’s, Draco’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Beautiful,” he said, and there was no edge to the word—only awe.

She smiled, shaky, because she agreed. Not the street, not the shadowed walls, not even the fading light—but him.

In the days that followed, their meetings became their own little world: tucked-away cafés, narrow side streets, quiet rooftop gardens, corners of the city no one else frequented. Hermione began leaving notes tucked in the folds of books she bought on purpose, or slipped under his door: “Meet me behind the bookstore.”

Draco always came. Always. Plans abandoned, obligations ignored—he appeared, every time, unwavering.

The stolen moments grew heated fingers tangled, brushing over wrists and collars, lingering just a moment too long. Lips found shoulders and the curve of a jaw, tracing tentative paths that made hearts hammer. Breaths came fast, caught between laughter and sighs, hands skimming over coats, over damp hair, over the space where the other’s warmth pressed close. Every glance held a challenge, every brush of skin a spark that made them step closer, closer still—edges of restraint trembling, the world beyond the alley and café and rooftop fading until it was only them.

One evening, after a particularly lingering embrace in the alley behind a shuttered bakery, Draco spoke, his voice low, hesitant.

“I’m leaving,” he said, kissing her neck. 

“Leaving?” Hermione echoed, fear sharpening her chest, she pulled away looking into his eyes. 

“Yes,” he admitted, eyes flicking away. “France. A cottage. Out of the way.”

She swallowed, words catching in her throat. “Are you… running?”

“Something like that,” he murmured, but there was no cruelty in it. “Not from you. Just… away from the rest.”

Hermione’s chest constricted. The words felt like a lock clicking shut around her heart. She wanted to protest, to grab his sleeve and pull him back into the moment, but the alley was silent, their breaths mingling in visible puffs.

Relief. The thought surprised her, sharp and unbidden. Relief that he had set a limit, relief that this—whatever this was—would have an end. Relief that the world would go back to normal, that the danger, the secrecy, the stolen moments, could finally settle into memory.

And then the guilt struck immediately after, a heavy weight pressing against her sternum. How can I be relieved? she thought. After all this… after everything?

Draco’s eyes searched hers, catching the flicker of emotion she tried so hard to hide. For a moment, she imagined him reading her like a book, seeing every secret thought, every selfish, guilty flutter of feeling. The thought made her shiver—and made her pulse quicken in ways she wasn’t entirely willing to name.

“I… I understand,” she said softly, words inadequate, unsatisfying. “If you need to go, then… go.”

He nodded, silent. The quiet pressed in around them, dense and intimate, a cocoon of what had been and what must soon end. Hermione’s hands twisted in her lap, fingers grazing the damp cobbles. She felt a strange ache, equal parts longing and gratitude, and she hated herself for feeling relief that he was leaving—but she couldn’t stop it.

She stormed homeward, the alley yawning behind her, fog curling around street lamps like smoke she wanted to choke on. Her mind kept replaying it all—the tentative kiss, the quiet laughter, the whispered words, the press of his warmth—and she hated herself for it. Loved it. Pathetic, she thought. A small, selfish sigh of relief escaped her anyway, and she cursed herself for that too.

Later, in her room, she reached into the pocket of her coat to tuck away a notebook and froze. Her fingers closed over something cold and hard, something not there before: a cufflink, tarnished Slytherin green, dulled with age but unmistakably his.

Her breath hitched. Relief surged first—relief that he had left her a way to find him, a tether she could follow if she chose.

And then came the familiar, guilty thrum: she hated herself for wanting him. Hated the quickened pulse, the heat in her chest, the undeniable pull toward him. She’d been telling herself she could step away, that she should step away. And yet, the moment her fingers curled around that small piece of metal, she knew she would follow. She wanted him, she admitted to herself, and hated that truth as fiercely as she wanted it.

Her palms tightened around the cufflink, knuckles whitening. She turned it over, imagining the quiet cottage he had spoken of, the way the walls would glow with their shared presence. She told herself she was reckless, foolish, weak even—but her mind made the decision faster than her conscience ever could: she would go. She had to.

Chapter Text

The cliff wind tore at her hair as she trudged up the narrow path, each footstep sucking into the mud, trainers heavy with wet earth. Her backpack swung low against one shoulder, tugging at her collarbone, and the muscles in her legs screamed with every step. She ignored them. She had ignored a lot lately: the pounding guilt, the questions she could never answer, the tug of desire she hated herself for.

A week had passed since she’d first considered coming here. Seven days of rehearsing the words she wouldn’t say, of fighting herself, of imagining his face—pale, haunted, wary—and of chasing the irrational hope that she could be… something in his world again. Go. Every morning, every evening, every sleepless night had ended the same way: she had to go.

The cottage appeared, small and squat, perched on the cliff like a defiant rock, daring the sea to swallow it. Windows glowed faintly from within, as if waiting for her. She stopped a moment, breathing deep the sharp, briny scent, letting the sea wind whip across her face and settle her nerves. She knocked once. Twice. Then waited.

The door swung open. Draco. Wandless, hair damp, posture stiff, every inch of him taut with quiet vigilance. He looked her over in a single sweep, eyes flicking to her muddy trainers, the wet hair plastered to her forehead, the sagging backpack. His grey eyes softened for a split second, though the caution never left them.

“You going to let me in?” she asked, voice clipped, carrying the weight of weeks’ worth of indecision, frustration, and need. No preamble, no pleasantries, no excuses.

He blinked, then stepped aside. She passed him without looking at him, as though she had been here a hundred times before, though every nerve in her body was buzzing with anticipation. The backpack thudded into the corner. She tugged her jumper over her head and let it fall onto the arm of the moth-eaten sofa.

Draco froze, just slightly, and she caught the shift in his expression. Not surprise exactly, but the taut attention of someone trying not to misread the stormy emotions in front of him.

“You knew I was coming,” she said finally, eyes scanning the room, taking in the chipped paint, the threadbare sofa, the little imperfections that made this space his. “You left the wards down.”

It didn’t occur to her in the moment that he had no wand to cast the wards, and so he was here unprotected. 

He handed her a towel, rough and heavy, the faint scent of soap clinging to it. She wrapped it around herself, the fabric scratching at her damp skin, and felt the warmth seep in. There was something fragile in that moment, an unspoken hope, a need for something she had lost in the courtroom, in the trial, in the week spent pacing her flat.

“Why?” His voice was rough, hoarse from disuse, brittle in the quiet of the cottage.

Her wet hair clung to her neck, strands curling like seaweed against her jaw. She tilted her head slightly, meeting his gaze. “I needed to do something that was mine,” she said. “I wanted—” She didn’t finish. Words could not carry it. Not now.

Instead, she stepped closer, raising a hand to press against the center of his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm. Breath hitched, nerves taut. Then she kissed him. Cold, urgent, tasting of salt, seaweed, and something raw, something unspoken. Not soft. Not sweet. Not grateful. Fierce, desperate, alive.

He let her stay pressed against him, hands hovering near her waist, careful not to claim too much, careful not to shatter the delicate balance of their first true moment together. Hermione exhaled into him, letting the tension roll off her in waves, letting the salt wind and the smell of the sea wrap around them, letting herself feel… fully.

When they finally pulled back, her chest heaving, his eyes searched hers for any sign of retreat or judgment. There was none. Just a silent acknowledgment of the fragile trust they shared.

She swallowed, adjusting the towel around herself, trying to tamp down the heat that rose unbidden in her stomach. But her pulse wouldn’t quiet. She was here. She had come. She had crossed every boundary she told herself she shouldn’t. And still, she felt… exhilarated, terrified, alive.

Draco moved with quiet precision, gesturing toward the bathroom. “You can use the shower. I—uh—I’ll warm the towel before you come out.”

She gave him a look that could have killed—or melted him entirely. “Thanks.” Words small, inadequate, but she meant them in a way she hadn’t meant anything in months.

The water was hot, scalding at first, washing away the mud and grit, and she let it carry some of her anxiety away, too. When she emerged, the towel warm and comforting in her hands, Draco waited, leaning against the doorway. She shivered—not from cold, but from the pulse of being seen, being safe, being wanted.

“I made tea,” he said, uncertain. “Milk no sugar.”

“Just how I like it,” she said. 

It was like he sagged in relief as he handed her a mug. It hadn't occurred to her that he would feel as nervous as she. 

They talked. Tentative at first, small exchanges about mundane things: the weather, the sea, the sound of waves crashing against rocks. The night wore on, the room around them shrinking until it felt like it existed solely for the two of them. She let herself sit on the moth-eaten sofa, knees pulled to her chest, feeling the weight of the towel and his presence beside her. Draco draped an arm over the back of the sofa, his hand brushing her hair absentmindedly, steadying her in ways no words could.

“You’re… calm,” he said quietly, almost a question.

She laughed, soft, tired. “I trust you,” she said. And even as she said it, she hated that it came so easily. She hated that she needed him. She hated herself for feeling relief in his presence, for the warmth, the heartbeat, the stolen moments of safety.

Draco’s eyes met hers then, not demanding, not pleading, just… steady. “I’m glad,” he said, simply. “You’re here.”

She nodded, because that was enough. Enough for the moment. Enough to lean back, to feel the room—not beautiful in any conventional sense, but beautiful because of them. Because she was here. Because he was real. Because the sea roared just outside, untamed and wild, and somehow, in the middle of it all, she felt… at home.

Hermione yawned so wide her jaw cracked. Draco’s hand on her thigh tightened ever so slightly. 

“Merlin… I’m exhausted,” she said, stretching. 

“You’ve had a long day,” Draco replied simply. He helped her up. “Come on,” he said softly, voice low, careful. “You should rest.”

The room was small, shadows pooling in the corners. Rain pattered relentlessly against the panes, a steady rhythm that echoed the ache in her chest. She let herself collapse onto the bed, pulling the thin blanket around her shoulders. The rain lashed against the windows, mingling with the pounding of her own heartbeat. Darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating. 

Draco leaned on the door frame watching her. 

“Good night,” he murmured before turning as if to leave. 

“Draco!” Hermione said suddenly, he froze and turned back. “I—would— would you, stay with me?”

He froze and then smiled and sat on the end of the bed. “Of course.”

“Would you stay with me?” She asked, pulling the comforter down so he could join her. 

Draco paused, just a heartbeat, then climbed in beside her. His arms wrapped around her carefully, protective, strong yet gentle. She pressed herself into him, letting the quiet of the storm and his warmth wrap around her, grounding her.

The blanket was too thin, the rain too loud, the wind clawing at the walls. She tried to will herself into calm, but sleep dragged her straight into shadows she had hoped to leave behind.

Malfoy Manor. The walls gleamed with cold cruelty, every corner a threat. Her wrists ached as if bound, lungs burning for air she could not draw. And then she saw him—Draco. Chains bit at his wrists, his skin bruised, eyes wide with raw fear. She wanted to run to him, to protect him, but cruel, invisible hands kept them apart.

“No! Stop! Please!” she screamed, voice cracking. Shadows twisted around her, pressing into her skull, threatening to consume her entirely.

And then—warmth. Solid. Insistent. Draco’s arms wrapped around her in the darkness, lifting her from the pit of the nightmare. “Hermione… I’ve got you,” he whispered, his voice low, steady, each word a tether she could hold onto. “It’s okay. Look at me, darling… breathe for me.”

She flailed less, sobs still shaking her body, but the terror began to ebb. His chest beneath her ear rose and fell with measured breaths. Fingers brushed damp strands of hair from her face, tracing her cheek lightly, reverently. His voice repeated, calm and deliberate: “I’m right here, darling. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Her trembling hands clutched his sleeves, pressing into him, needing the solidity he offered. Her tears wet his arms, but he did not recoil; he simply held her tighter, letting her shiver, letting her sob, grounding her against the remnants of the nightmare.

Once the panic finally ebbed, she felt his fingers move along her arm, tracing the faintly raised letters there: Mudblood. She did not flinch, did not pull away. Somehow, letting him trace the word slowly, reverently, made it less sharp, less jagged. Perhaps it was a rewriting—not erasure, not magic, but acknowledgment, attention, the quiet power of being seen and honored.

The storm outside continued its relentless rhythm, but in that small, battered room, held in his arms, she felt a fragile, tentative safety. For the first time in months, she allowed herself to lean into it, to breathe—terrified, trembling, but alive.

Chapter Text

The storm had passed, leaving only excess sand clinging stubbornly to boots and the soles of bare feet. The morning was glorious, sun blazing high and warming the cliffs and the beach below, turning the waves a shimmering blue. Hermione felt the salt on her skin and the wind in her hair, and for the first time in days, she let herself relax fully.

Draco walked beside her, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his trousers, shoulders relaxed in a way that made her chest ache. They had fallen into small routines almost without noticing: breakfast together, coffee brewed just the way she liked it, the worn sofa pushed closer to the window so the sunlight could reach them. Even the small act of brushing crumbs from the table had become an excuse for brushing against each other, a pretext for a laugh, a playful nudge, a lingering glance.

Hermione felt the sharp edges of self-loathing dull as they strolled along the shore, their footprints tracing parallel paths in wet sand. Draco nudged her with his shoulder as they walked, and she nudged back, and both laughed at the simple pleasure of contact that was neither urgent nor fearful. He bent to scoop up a shell, handing it to her with a teasing flourish. “For your collection?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“I’ll find a spot for it,” she said, rolling her eyes but smiling. She tucked it carefully into her pocket, feeling the weight of it, small and tangible, like a token of normalcy.

Sometimes, they raced down toward the water, legs splashing in the shallow surf, throwing themselves at the waves and shrieking at the cold, only to retreat, soaked and laughing, and tug each other back toward the warm sun. She leaned into him on those walks, pressed her shoulder against his, rested her head briefly on his arm, enjoying the easy intimacy that came without words.

By midday, they were sitting on a large rock overlooking the sea, shoes off, toes buried in sand, letting the tide lap against their ankles. Draco rested his chin on his hand and watched her quietly, eyes soft but alert. “You’ve made this place… bearable,” he said after a while.

Hermione’s cheeks warmed, and she looked down at her hands, twisting them in her lap. “I didn’t do anything,” she murmured.

“Everything,” he said simply. And she realized he meant more than the cottage or the view. He meant her presence—the way she brought life to the quiet, mundane spaces, made them feel full and real again.

They began noticing small patterns in their days: who brewed the first cup of tea, whose turn it was to sweep the sand from the floorboards, which windows needed to be opened to catch the best breeze. Hermione found herself enjoying the rhythm, the predictability, the gentle companionship of being with someone who understood her in ways the world never would.

And on walks, the intimacy was playful. He would elbow her lightly when she complained about the sun in her eyes. She would flick sand at him when he lagged behind. Their laughter echoed across the cliffs, blending with the crash of the waves, and she felt herself exhaling years of tension she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

The day stretched on, hot and golden. The world beyond the cliff seemed distant, irrelevant. Here, on this small patch of earth and sand, they were learning how to be—how to inhabit the same space without fear, without past cruelties bleeding in. Hermione pressed her hand into his as they walked back toward the cottage, fingers lacing naturally, effortlessly. The rhythm of their connection was simple, grounding, and she clung to it like a lifeline, relishing the quiet joy that was theirs alone.

The cottage was warm and quiet, the last light of the sun painting the walls in amber and gold. Hermione perched on the edge of the worn sofa, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. Draco sat beside her, just close enough that their shoulders brushed. Each small contact sent a shiver through her, and she caught herself smiling before she even realized it.

They had spent the day wandering the cliffs, collecting shells and splashing in the surf, teasing each other over stumbles in the sand. Now, the cozy room smelled faintly of salt, tea, and the lingering warmth of sun-dried clothes. Hermione watched him, heart thumping, tracing the line of his jaw without thinking. His eyes caught hers once, soft and attentive, and her stomach fluttered.

She shifted slightly, letting her fingers brush against his arm, testing the waters. He didn’t pull away. He only let his hand hover close, the faintest invitation to reach out further. Hermione’s pulse sped. She wanted—no, needed—more, but the words felt impossibly heavy.

She leaned in slightly, voice soft, almost a whisper. “Do you… want me here? With you?”

Draco’s lips twitched in a smile, a little shy, a little surprised. “Of course,” he murmured. “I’ve… never wanted anything else.”

She bit her lip, trying to steady her racing thoughts. “I… I feel the same. I think about you… all the time,” she admitted, her gaze dropping to his chest, then flicking back to his eyes.

He leaned just a fraction closer, his hand brushing hers, thumb stroking the back of her fingers. “You do?” His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of disbelief and pleasure all at once.

“Yes,” she breathed. “But… I don’t want to rush anything. I just…” She swallowed. “I want to be with you. All of you. I want… this.” She gestured vaguely between them, heart hammering.

Draco’s hand tightened slightly on hers, and he took a deep breath. “You mean… you want… to make love?”

Hermione’s eyes widened, cheeks flushing. “Yes,” she admitted, voice trembling, honest and raw. “If… if you want that too.”

For a moment, he seemed stunned, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. Then, slowly, a soft, almost incredulous smile spread across his face. “You… want me?” His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for hers again.

“Yes,” she said again, leaning a little closer, feeling the heat of his body. “I do.”

Hermione’s fingers brushed against his chest, then lingered near his neck, tracing the lines of his collarbones. Her lips parted slightly, breath hitching as she leaned closer. Draco’s eyes flicked down to her mouth and back up again, wide, unsteady.

He leaned in, and their lips met, soft and brief, and she tasted the nervous tremor in him—tiny, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable. He pulled back a fraction, just enough to look into her eyes, a faint flush on his cheeks. His hand hovered near hers, unsure. “Here?” he asked, voice tentative, eyebrow raised, a flicker of uncertainty dancing across his expression.

Hermione blinked, heart skipping. She tried not to laugh at the way his nerves made him awkward, but it slipped out anyway. “Well… the bedroom will do,” she said softly, letting a smile curve her lips.

He chuckled, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Bedroom. Sounds… safe,” he said, voice low, a little breathless.

She leaned closer again, brushing her hands along his chest. “You’re nervous,” she murmured, teasing, though she felt the same flutter in her own stomach.

“I… maybe a little,” he admitted, eyes flicking down, then back to hers. “First time and all…”

Hermione’s breath hitched. “Are… are you—?” she began, then stopped. Her heart was drumming, palms sweaty. She had to know. “Have you… done this before?”

He froze, blinking at her, then laughed nervously, a sound half chuckle, half sigh. “No… not like this. Not like… with someone I actually care about.” His hands shook slightly as they brushed hers. “I—I mean, yes, I’ve… but no, not… not really…”

Hermione bit her lip, trying to keep herself from smiling. “What about Pansy?” she asked, teasing lightly, though her stomach felt tight.

His expression twisted into horror. “Pansy?! She’s… she’s like a sister! I—” He ran a hand through his hair, cheeks flushing, eyes darting to the sofa cushions like seeking a lifeline. “I’ve never… not—never mind!”

Hermione laughed softly, shaking her head, the tension in her chest easing slightly. She leaned closer, fingertips brushing over the curve of his shoulder. “It’s my first time too,” she admitted, breath warm against him.

He froze, staring at her, disbelief written in every line of his face. “Yours… really?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said, brushing a hand through his hair, feeling the silky strands. She gave him a wry grin. “Don’t look so shocked.”

Draco exhaled, long and shaky, and his thumb brushed over hers, seeking reassurance. “And… Potter?” he asked cautiously, still unsure of how to navigate the delicate intimacy of confession.

“Why does everyone think me and Harry were together?” Hermione said, shaking her head, tone half exasperated, half amused. “He’s like my brother!”

He blinked, and for a moment, a genuine, nervous grin spread across his face. “Alright,” he said finally, voice low, careful, warming. “Then… just us.”

Hermione’s pulse hammered in her ears as they stood close, the warm lamp light glinting on the iron bedframe, painting them in soft gold. Draco’s hands were careful, tentative, brushing along her arms, shoulders, throat—small, deliberate gestures that made her heart ache with longing and something softer: trust. 

“Are you sure?” he whispered, eyes flicking to hers, voice low and hoarse. His hand lingered at her waist, shaking slightly.

“Yes,” she breathed, fingertips tracing the line of his collarbone. “I’m sure.”

He exhaled sharply, a shaky sound that made her pulse race. There was a brief, suspended moment where they simply looked at each other, letting the gravity of the decision settle, the intimacy of the moment both thrilling and terrifying. Then, slowly, they leaned in again, hands brushing against skin, fabric sliding carefully, reverently away, each movement deliberate, a soft exploration rather than a rush.

They undressed each other slowly, carefully, as though they were both handling something fragile and priceless. Each button slipped loose beneath trembling fingers, each fold of fabric drawn away with reverence. When she eased his shirt from his shoulders, Hermione’s breath caught—not because of the intimacy, but because of the faint, pale lines etched along his forearms. Not fresh. Not recent. But there.

She didn’t ask, didn’t flinch, didn’t let her hand pause. She only tucked the knowledge away, catalogued it in the quiet vault of her mind. A reminder that he, too, carried wounds invisible to most. Every small motion spoke volumes: care, desire, hesitation, and a quiet, earnest longing.

Their lips met again, soft at first, tasting each other with the gentleness of trust. She felt the warmth of his chest beneath her hands, the steady beat of his heart, and it steadied her own racing pulse. He let out a small, nervous laugh, almost a whisper, and she smiled against his lips. 

Hermione pressed closer, and they moved to the bed together, hearts thundering in tandem. Every brush of hands, every fleeting kiss, every quiet sigh was a conversation in itself, a careful dance of intimacy. Nothing was rushed, nothing forced; it was exploration and consent, nervousness and excitement entwined.

Draco’s hands trembled slightly as they traced her arms and back, and Hermione pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the tension ripple through him. “You’re nervous,” she murmured softly.

“Can you blame me?” he breathed, kissing from her jaw, down her throat to where her neck met her shoulder. 

Hermione let out a trembling sigh, as her fingers trailed down his chest. 

When they finally moved to the iron-framed bed, the first attempt at shifting positions made the frame groan and squeak. Both of them froze, wide-eyed, then burst into quiet, breathless laughter. Draco’s hand found hers, squeezing gently. “It’s… loud,” he murmured, cheeks pink.

Hermione laughed again, soft and warm. “Good thing it’s just us,” she said, letting her fingers trace the curve of his cheek, feeling him relax, the tension between them softening in shared amusement.

They settled into the bed, limbs tangling slowly, each brush of skin, each fleeting touch, each whispered breath carrying trust and care. Every shared smile, every startled laugh at a squeak of the iron bed, every brush of fingertips along shoulders and jawline built a quiet intimacy that neither had experienced before.

Hermione let herself savor the closeness, the vulnerability, the warmth of being completely seen and trusted. She kissed him softly again, tasting the uncertainty and awe that mingled with desire, and he responded with the same careful reverence, lips brushing hers, hands tracing lightly, worshipfully.

Time seemed to stretch, suspended in the golden lamplight. Nothing rushed, nothing forced—just two hearts learning each other, sharing their first intimate steps, discovering closeness in shyness, laughter, and whispered confessions. By the time they rested together, breathless and warm, Hermione knew it was tender, precious, and entirely theirs: first-time nerves transformed into shared trust, soft desire, and the quiet joy of being together in a way that neither had expected but both had needed.

Chapter Text

A couple of days had passed, and the awkwardness of that first night had softened into something easier, warmer. The storm outside and the one between them both felt like a memory. Twice now they had found their way back to each other—hesitant, careful, and then with a little more certainty.

The morning light was lazy, spilling in through the shutters in pale stripes that stretched across tangled sheets. Hermione lay pressed against Draco, her cheek tucked against his chest, while his fingers traced the ridges of her spine with idle care.

“I should get up,” he murmured into her curls, his voice rough with sleep. “Need to shave.”

She smiled without opening her eyes. “I like your scruff.”

He gave a mock groan of protest, rolling onto his back and dragging her with him. Then, before she could wriggle free, he rasped his jaw against her cheek. She squealed, shrieking with laughter, trying to push him away. He only doubled down, rubbing his stubble against her neck until she was breathless.

“Draco!” she gasped, smacking his chest.

He caught her hand easily, holding it against his heart. “See? Irritating.”

“Not irritating,” she said between giggles, catching her breath. “Endearing. You’re impossible.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other. His expression softened, amusement giving way to something quieter, deeper. He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering along her jaw.

“Hopelessly so,” he agreed, unrepentant.

When her laughter softened into a grin, she brushed her fingers along the shadow of stubble on his jaw. “Let me do it, then.”

His brows lifted. “Do what?”

“Shave you,” she repeated, trying to sound casual though her lips twitched. “I’ve always wondered what it would feel like.”

His eyes narrowed, mock-suspicious. “You’d risk slitting my throat just for curiosity’s sake, Granger?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I used to do my eyebrows all the time with a razor. I’ve got steady hands.”

That earned her a startled laugh. “Granger, comparing my face to your eyebrows is hardly reassuring.”

She arched a brow, unfazed. “I thought you trusted me.”

He gave a soft laugh, then leaned closer, his nose brushing hers. “Darling,” he murmured, “I’d trust you with far more than a razor.”

The bathroom was warm, quiet, nothing but the sounds of their breath. It had once been just a room that held a sink, a bathtub, a toilet but now it was more proof of the life they were living. Two toothbrushes in the glass on the side, a bottle of her perfume on the shelf above the mirror. Draco’s razor that Hermione picked up, her hand trembled and Draco raised an eyebrow at her. 

She summoned the soap, and brushed the foam onto his cheeks making him look like Father Christmas rather than ramshackle Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. Draco held impossibly still. 

Hermione steadied her hand against his cheek, palm warm against his skin as she guided the razor along the curve of his jaw. He was so close — so still — his breath brushing her wrist as she tilted his chin. The intimacy of it made her chest ache, this quiet trust he didn’t even realise he’s giving.

But she could feel him pulling away even if he hadn't realised it. The warmth in his eyes was fading to cool indifference, the weather beaten laughter lines he had developed smoothing to insignificance. Hermione could actually feel him slipping into his armour. 

“Careful here,” she murmured, tracing the razor just beneath his jawline. “You have to—”

But before she could finish, he shrugged, impatient, and nudged her hand aside. “Merlin, Granger, I know how to hold still.”

The words shouldn’t sting, but they did.  She frowned at his reflection in the mirror — that pale, guarded face, eyes sharp as glass. The same face that never seemed to soften for itself, only sometimes for her.

“Draco… you can’t just—” She faltered. He watched himself in the mirror, but not seeing. She reached up instinctively, brushing his fringe back with her fingers, smoothing it away from his eyes as though that would help him.

“You don’t even try to see yourself, do you?” The words escaped before she could stop them, sharp with a tremor. “Draco… I’ve seen the scars.”

The way he flinched nearly undid her. His hand jerked, almost to cover his arm, as if that might erase what she already knew. He didn’t speak. He didn’t deny it. And that silence felt worse than if he had shouted.

Her chest burned. “Do you think they’ll help?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Because they won’t.”

Nothing. Just silence.

“Say something! For god’s sake, Draco!” Her control snapped, brittle as glass. She yanked up her sleeve, thrusting her arm toward him. The mark stood stark against her skin. Ugly. Permanent. “This is a scar! Someone put this on me without my permission—”

Her throat closed on the word, but she forced it out anyway. “And there you are doing it to yourself. Why, Draco?”

Still nothing. His silence was a wall, higher than any she could climb.

She exhaled hard, anger and grief tangling until she barely knew which is which. “You think making your own will fix it? That it will change anything?”

His jaw tightened, but no words came. And she hated that part of her understood what he wasn't saying. That it’s about control, not healing. That it’s a way to feel something when everything else feels impossible.

“Just when I think I have you figured out,” she choked, her voice trembling with fury and hurt, “but that’s the thing, isn’t it? I hardly know you. You’re all walls and rules and—”

Her breath caught. She looked at him, really looked — at his silence, his restraint, the way he holds everything in his chest and gives away nothing. “…and secrets I’ll never have,” she whispered. “You—”

But she couldn’t finish. The razor slipped from her hand, clinking against the porcelain sink. Her fingers shook. She stepped back because if she didn’t, she might shatter completely.

The cottage felt too small, the air too tight. She left before she knew if she was leaving the room or him, but either way her heart hammered like it was breaking itself apart.

Outside, the rain had thinned to a mist. She gripped the edge of the doorframe until her knuckles burned, pulling it closed behind her with more force than she meant to. The sound startled the birds in the hedgerow; wings scattered into the dark.

Her chest rose and fell too fast. She pressed the sleeve of her jumper against her mouth, trying to steady it, but her whole body hummed with the need to move, to get away. She stepped off the stone threshold into the grass — wet, cold against her bare feet — and didn't stop until she reached the low wall at the edge of the garden.

The world was quiet out here. Just mist, earth, the faint sound of the stream in the distance. She braced her hands on the wall and bows her head, curls falling around her face, breath shuddering out of her.

It wasn’t anger anymore. Not exactly. It was hurt, raw and hollow, that he wouldn’t let her in — that she didn’t know how to reach him without breaking herself in his silence.

The fire crackled low in the grate, her book open but forgotten on her lap. She heard the faintest whisper — “I’m sorry.”

Her head lifted. Draco was hunched forward, leaning in the door frame like he was in physical pain, the firelight cutting hard shadows across his face.

“What are you sorry for, Draco?” she asked softly, her voice carrying none of the reproach she thought she might feel. Only curiosity.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, swallowing hard. When he spoke, his voice was unsteady.

“You said you don’t know me… but that’s not true. You know parts of me I’ve never told anyone. You know I have nightmares, and you hold me through them. How I wake up whispering apologies, rehearsing arguments in my head. How I stare at myself in the mirror, wishing I could change the face I have… to something less punchable.”

She tried to smile for him, to meet his brittle attempt at humour, but her throat was too tight.

His hands twisted together in his lap, white-knuckled. The kind of restless tension she had seen so many times but never in this raw, unguarded way.

“But if you want to know something else,” he went on, “I notice when people are sad or tense, and I try to fix little things. Moving a chair. Leaving tea where it’s needed. Small, quiet things no one ever notices.”

Hermione set the tome carefully aside. The armchair creaked under her shift of weight as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, gaze fixed on him. He wasn’t looking at her, but she wanted him to feel the whole of her attention.

“I—er, I once cried behind the Herbology Greenhouses,” he said, words tripping awkwardly over themselves. “Because I felt utterly alone and afraid. And no one ever saw. I had a favourite tree at Malfoy Manor… a place I would hide when the world got too much during summer holidays.”

Her heart twisted. She reached for him without thinking, fingers brushing his cheek, coaxing his face toward her. His eyes fluttered shut, resisting the tenderness even as he leaned into it.

“I’m still so afraid,” he breathed. “Afraid of being forgotten. Not boastfully. Just… the ache of thinking no one will ever truly see me.”

“Oh, Draco,” she whispered, and pressed her lips to his — a brief, steadying kiss, offering what words could not. He didn’t kiss back, not at first. But he didn’t pull away either.

When she drew back, his eyes opened, glimmering with something fragile. Her own vision blurred with unshed tears.

“But if you ask me what I know of you,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth that never reached his eyes, “that’s a much nicer list. You leave scraps of parchment or books in random places. You fold your fingers tightly when you’re nervous. You bite your bottom lip. You run your fingers through your hair while thinking, leaving strands sticking out — perfectly imperfect.”

She flushed, ducking her gaze, cheeks warm.

“And the small, quick smiles you give when you’re proud of someone — the first year who finds their way to class, or the third year who masters the cheering charm — even if you try to hide it. And how you hum when you’re concentrating.”

Her head shot up, indignant. “I do not!”

“You do,” he laughed softly, a sound that warmed her despite herself. Then the levity faded, and he looked at her with such raw seriousness it made her pulse quicken.

“I know more about you, Hermione, than I do myself. And I don’t know if that scares me… or leaves me utterly awed by your strength.”

Her brows knit. “You called me Granger,” she murmured, hurt stinging her throat. “You haven’t called me Granger in months.”

He flinched almost imperceptibly, lips twitching in guilty hesitation. “You haven’t been Granger,” he murmured, voice low, dangerous in its intimacy. “I prefer the way Hermione tastes.”

Her heart gave a foolish leap. She kissed him again — and this time, he kissed her back, lips moving with hers in a fragile, tentative synchronicity.

“You’re such a sap,” she teased, but her voice was thick with fondness.

“Hermione,” he whispered, before kissing her once more.

The rug scratched against her bare skin, warmth from the sun lingering on her legs. His hand rested lightly on the curve of her hip, reverent and still, and she felt the steady thrum of his pulse beneath her palm. Everything about the room smelled of salt and old wood, of the late day sun and the faint trace of his shampoo. A guitar hummed somewhere outside, carried in on the breeze, and the golden light dusted the edges of the walls like scattered coins.

It felt impossibly fragile, as if the world had shrunk down to this one breathless space. She could almost feel it breaking, like glass under her ribs, if either of them moved too fast, spoke too loud.

Then he whispered her name — soft, almost hesitant — and added the question that made her stomach tighten:

“What happens after summer?”

Her body froze, every muscle curling inward. A tide recoiling from an unseen storm. The space between them seemed to swell, an invisible wedge she had carved with her own uncertainty.

She hated that she pushed him away with nothing but silence. She hated that the question clawed at her like a reminder she wasn’t ready, that she couldn’t let herself imagine beyond this room. Maybe it wasn’t him she was afraid of — he was the calm center — but the thought of tomorrow, of what waited outside these walls, left her chest hollow.

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her eyes traced the imperfections in the plaster above, searching for an escape, for a reason to breathe without confessing how much the future terrified her.

She felt him shift slightly beneath her leg, sensed the quiet hesitation in his weight, the pause of his own heartbeat syncing with hers. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t pushing. He was waiting, listening, and that made it worse. Her guilt twisted in her chest.

She hated herself a little for it, for the way she wanted him but recoiled from the thought of what came next. She hated that she could want safety and intimacy and still be terrified of the very same person who gave it.

Her breath caught, shallow and uneven, and in the silence, she realized he could hear everything she didn’t say. Every doubt, every flicker of fear, every part of herself she tried to hide.

She turned her gaze back to him, averted and soft, letting the quiet hang between them like a fragile promise. She wasn’t ready. Not yet. But she would return. She always returned.

Chapter Text

Hermione huffed, cheeks pink from both concentration and laughter. “I don’t get it,” she admitted, waving her hands as if she could sweep her mind into submission. “You said Occlumency was about control, but my thoughts are like… like a flock of Cornish pixies on espresso!”

Draco’s lips twitched in a smile that was half amusement, half exasperation. “Cornish pixies on espresso,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I—no. It’s not supposed to be… chaotic. Focus, Granger. Focus.”

“I am focusing!” Hermione protested, though her laughter bubbled out anyway. “Look! I’m emptying my mind—oh no, wait, that’s a memory of you in that ridiculous scarf, and—” She broke off, giggling as he groaned, tossing his head back dramatically.

“You’re hopeless,” he muttered, though the heat rising in his cheeks betrayed the fondness in his words. “Hopeless. But… adorable, in a maddening, infuriatingly clever way.”

Hermione grinned, shoving him lightly. “Well, at least I’m giving you practice. You look positively frazzled.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, pretending to be annoyed. “Frazzled is not flattering,” he said, tone deadpan but failing utterly to hide the twitch of his lips.

“Here, let me help,” she said, leaning closer. Her shoulder brushed his, and her fingers hovered near his hand as if by accident. “We’ll do it together. Close your eyes and just—breathe.”

He did, though she could see the tiniest tremor in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed near hers. Hermione fought a smile, leaning just enough to whisper teasingly, “It’s working… a little. See?”

Draco opened one eye, glancing at her. “I’m not a child, you know,” he murmured, though the twitch of his mouth betrayed that he was enjoying her proximity.

“You’re not,” she said softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “But sometimes, you behave like one. And sometimes… it’s charming.” Her hand lingered an instant too long, and he caught it. Their eyes met, wide, startled, yet warm.

“Charmingly infuriating,” he corrected, half-smiling, then closed his eyes again, letting her guide him through a few gentle mental exercises. Hermione laughed quietly at his grumbling mutters under his breath—tiny, controlled curses that somehow made him even more endearing.

Finally, exasperated in a way that wasn’t really annoyance, he opened his eyes. “I surrender,” he whispered, soft and breathless. “I can’t concentrate with you looking like… like the world made of sunlight and trouble.”

Hermione’s heart fluttered. “That’s… a compliment, I think,” she said, laughing. “And yes, maybe a bit of trouble.”

“Mostly trouble,” he corrected, his hand brushing hers when she reached out to steady him. Their fingers tangled briefly, electricity sparking along the contact. She felt herself shiver, and she wasn’t sure if it was the touch or the closeness, or both.

The moment stretched, playful, teasing, and light — a rare bubble of normalcy in their strange, tethered world. When Draco finally allowed a small sigh, Hermione gave him a gentle shove. “Come on, teacher. I think we’ve done enough mental gymnastics for one morning.”

They left the garden and wandered into the market, the smells of fresh bread and spices hitting her in waves. The market stretched out before them in a riot of sound and color: stalls with glistening fruit, baskets of herbs, bright scarves fluttering like banners. Hermione felt her pulse quicken with the life of it.

Draco, on the other hand, looked like he’d been dropped into an alien world. He scowled at the handful of coins she pressed into his palm. “This is nonsense. You’ve got one with a one on it, one with a two on it, one with a five… then suddenly a ten that’s flat, a ten that’s paper. What sort of system is this?”

“It’s perfectly logical,” Hermione teased, slipping the rest of the euros back into her pocket. “You just haven’t learned the pattern yet. Here—come with me.”

She laced her fingers through his, trying to ignore the way her heart hammered at the casualness of it. He followed, obedient despite his muttering.

“How much for the baguette?” she asked in French.

“One euro,” the vendor replied, then tipped his chin toward Draco. “But for him? Three.”

Hermione blinked. “Three?”

“Yes. Three for stealing the pretty lady with haunted eyes. And because he cannot count. You’d do better with me.”

Hermione’s lips curved. “Well, I don’t think my fiancé would take kindly to you flirting with me in front of him.”

She risked a glance at Draco. He didn’t know the words, but his eyes had gone dark as storm clouds. He dropped her hand only to slide his arm around her shoulders, pulling her tight against him.

“I don’t need to understand him to tell you, you’re mine,” he said, voice like ice. “Give him the damn coins, Hermione.”

Her pulse stuttered as she handed over the money, the vendor’s wink sharp as a knife.

“When you’ve had your fill of English boys, you know where to find me,” he said.

Draco marched her away, his arm still locked around her. His jaw was taut, cheeks flushed with colour. “Did you say what I think you said?” he demanded.

“About?” Hermione asked, feigning innocence, though her heart skittered wildly.

“Me,” he pressed, stopping to turn her fully toward him. His fingers brushed her chin, reverent, as though she might vanish. “Did you call me your fiancé?”

She held his gaze, daring herself not to waver. “Did you call me yours?”

Draco’s fingers lingered under her chin, thumb brushing the curve of her jaw as if he wasn’t entirely sure she was real. The market bustled around them—laughter, haggling, the clatter of crates—but the sound fell away, muted beneath the thunder of her pulse.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice rough, low enough that only she could hear.

Her lips parted. “Fiancé?”

The word trembled out of her before she could stop it, and the flicker in his eyes—sharp, hungry, reverent—sent a shiver down her spine.

He leaned closer, forehead almost touching hers. “You don’t know what that does to me,” he said, every syllable edged with restraint.

Hermione’s breath caught, but instead of answering she slid her hand into his, threading their fingers together deliberately this time. Not an accident. Not a disguise. A choice.

For a suspended moment, neither of them moved, caught between the absurdity of the market and the fierce gravity pulling them into each other’s orbit. Then Draco bent, catching her mouth in a kiss—brief, searing, not careful in the least.

Hermione broke away first, breathless, her cheeks flaming. “That was reckless,” she murmured, though her grip on his hand only tightened.

He smirked faintly, eyes still burning. “Darling, reckless is standing in a French market and calling me your fiancé.”

Her laugh escaped, unsteady but genuine, and together they let the market swallow them again—hands still linked, the echo of that kiss and that word sparking between them like a secret neither could quite contain

Chapter Text

Hogwarts: October 1st. 

The classroom hums with the usual restless energy of seventh-years—quills scratching, parchment rustling, half-whispered commentary as the debate veers from theory into sharp disagreement. Hermione should be paying attention. Normally, she would be the one steering the discussion, citing case law and magical precedent until the room goes silent.

But today her gaze is fixed three rows ahead.

Draco sits at his desk, posture straight, expression carved into stone. He hasn’t spoken once. Not when the argument twists toward culpability in the war, not when a Slytherin sneers about “certain families,” not even when Harry glances back, clearly waiting for him to explode.

Draco doesn’t so much as blink. He lets the words slide past him like smoke, his hand idle on the desk, his eyes unfocused on the chalkboard.

Theo Nott leans over once, muttering something low. Draco gives the barest nod—or maybe it isn’t even that. Maybe it’s nothing.

Hermione’s chest tightens. She knows that look. Knows what it means to fold yourself so small you disappear into silence. She wants—God, she wants—to march over, to grab him by the wrist, to shake him out of it. To remind him of salt air and laughter, of the way his hands shook when he touched her like she was the first good thing he’d ever held.

Instead, she stays in her seat, nails digging crescents into her palm.

Because this is Hogwarts, not Marseille. Because she can’t explain to anyone why her pulse still stutters at the sight of him, why the memory of his mouth against hers feels more real than the classroom air she’s breathing.

Her feelings haven’t disappeared with the summer. They’ve rooted deeper, impossible to dig out, impossible to ignore.

But as she watches him sitting alone, half-shadowed, she feels the same dread coil in her chest: she wants him, still. Maybe more than ever. And she can’t see how they can ever be together.

By the time class is dismissed, her decision is already made. She doesn’t return to the library with the others, doesn’t trail after Harry and Ron as they head toward the Great Hall. Instead, her feet carry her out toward the lake, the late afternoon light fractured across the water.

She finds him exactly where she half-expected he would be.

Draco doesn’t look surprised when she sits beside him on the bench, though his eyes flick briefly to her hand when she reaches into her pocket. The small weight there presses against her palm — cool metal, green enamel dulled with age. She doesn’t have to say anything; the way his breath catches tells her he recognises it.

Whatever passes between them in that moment, it isn’t argument, and it isn’t silence. It’s something else. Something that makes her chest ache.

When she leaves, the cufflink is still in her pocket. But his eyes follow her, and that’s enough.

Hogwarts: October 25th. 

The duel is supposed to be routine.

Hermione reminds herself of this as she lines up with the rest of the class, notebook open, quill hovering. A controlled demonstration. Two students, three professors. Safe.

But nothing about Draco Malfoy has felt safe to her in weeks.

She notices the signs before anyone else: the tightness in his shoulders, the restless flick of his fingers against his wand, the brittle way he volunteers as though movement might keep him from splintering apart. He hasn’t sleep in weeks. She can tell. Neither has she. Hermione bites her lip, half-rising as though she might object, but the words never leave her throat.

Professor Blackbriar sets the parameters, voice calm and precise. Hermione forces her quill to scratch along the page, though the letters blur even as she writes them.

The match begins.

Robins grins, cocky, and lifts his wand with an easy flourish. Draco mirrors him, jaw taut, pale against the dark sweep of his robes. The first few spells fly harmlessly, deflected, countered, sparks scattering like fireflies. For a moment, it looks like it might hold.

Then Draco’s wrist jerks. Too sharp. Too fast. The sound of his voice breaks across the incantation.

The hex erupts.

It slams into Robins with sickening force, knocking him back into the stone wall. The crack echoes through the room. Someone screams.

Hermione’s quill drops from her fingers.

Robins crumples to the floor, blood already blooming dark against his temple. Students surge forward, gasping, voices overlapping in panic. Hermione can’t move. Her body is ice, her lungs locked.

She sees the scorch mark seared into the wall. Smells the sharp tang of magic gone wrong, acrid and metallic. Feels the tremor in the air like the aftermath of a storm.

And then her eyes find him. 

Draco stands in the centre of the chaos, wand already ripped from his grasp, shoulders rigid as though the weight of every stare might crush him. His hands hang useless at his sides, trembling. Too pale. Too hollow.

Professor McGonagall’s voice cuts like steel. “Mr. Malfoy.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Hermione’s satchel strap digs into her palm where she grips it too tightly, the leather creaking under her hand. She can’t move. She can’t speak. She should—Merlin, she should—say something, do something. But all she can do is stand there and watch him unravel.

And he looks up.

For the briefest moment, his gaze catches hers across the room. Steel blue meets chocolate.

It feels like being flayed open.

She sees the tremor in his jaw, the way his throat works around a breath that won’t come. And for the first time since Marseille, she lets herself see what she’s been pretending not to: he is breaking.

Hermione is aware of her staring in the same way she is aware of her breathing. Powerless to stop it, not sure if she wants to. It’s the first time in ten weeks she’s allowed herself to look at him, she can see the shadows under his eyes, and she’s sure they match hers. Her lips part and her breath catches in her throat. She’s certain she can feel his breath too.

Her heart lurches. She wants to cross the space between them, wants to steady his shaking hands with her own. She wants him. Still.

But she doesn’t move.

Her body stays rooted to the flagstones, as rigid as his.

Because this is Hogwarts. Because eyes are everywhere. Because if she reaches for him, there will be no going back.

So she grips her satchel harder, forces her face still, and lets the silence settle heavy between them.

But he sees her.

And she knows, from the way his expression fractures, that he always has.

When the class finally disperses, Hermione lingers at her desk, fingers numb as she gathers her parchment. Around her, voices still buzz with shock and speculation, students casting furtive glances toward the door Draco has already been marched through.

The smell of scorched stone clings to the back of her throat. Her quill lies forgotten, ink blotting into the fibres of her notebook. She presses her palm to the desk as if the solid oak might stop the tremor in her hand.

But it doesn’t. Because what she hears isn’t just the sickening crack of Robins against the wall. It’s another crack, echoing in her skull—the sound of her own scream in Malfoy Manor, cut off too soon, smothered by Bellatrix’s voice.

Her breath stutters. She shoves her books into her satchel, too hard, the corner of a spine catching her wrist.

Don’t think about it. Don’t go there.

Her feet carry her out of the classroom almost on their own. Down the corridors, across the staircases. She isn’t heading for the library, though she tells herself she is. She isn’t heading for the common room either. By the time she realises where her steps have led her, she’s standing in the shadowed alcove just before the entrance to the Slytherin dormitories.

She grips her satchel tighter, heart hammering. She could go closer. She could knock. She could ask to see him.

The urge is so strong it makes her sway forward a step.

But she stops. The image of his hands, shaking in the classroom, burns behind her eyes. The silence afterward—McGonagall’s voice like ice, the room holding its breath—presses down on her chest until it’s hard to breathe.

If she goes to him now, she knows what it will mean. No more pretence. No more distance.

And she can’t—not yet.

So she turns. Walks quickly, blindly, until the familiar corridors of Gryffindor Tower close around her. By the time she collapses onto her bed, drawing the curtains tight, her throat is raw from holding in words she never said.

She folds into herself, just as she did after the trial, curling tight against the ache.

But the image of him remains—alone at the centre of that room, trembling, his eyes locked on hers.

And no matter how tightly she curls, she can’t shut it out.

She curls tighter under her blanket, fists pressed to her eyes, but it does nothing to block out the image of him standing in that classroom: hands trembling, face blank, eyes dark and lost.

The ache in her chest is unbearable. She loves him — she knows that now, knows it with a certainty that leaves her shaking. She loves him with all the stubborn fire she carries, with every fractured part of herself she’s fought to stitch back together.

But love is useless against silence. Love cannot reach someone who refuses to reach back.

And Draco Malfoy does not love himself enough to believe he deserves hers.

The truth slices through her like a blade. She bites her lip until she tastes copper, swallowing back the sob that claws at her throat.

She can’t save him. She can’t fix him. She can’t love him enough for both of them.

And that’s the rawest heartbreak of all — that she still wants to try.