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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.

Chapter Text

Marseille: August 

The letter is short. Harry’s letters always are.

Hermione,
You don’t sound like yourself anymore. I’m worried. Ron’s worried. Come home. You don’t have to explain everything, but you don’t have to carry it all on your own, either. You’ve done enough. More than enough. Just… come back to us. Please.

It isn’t like him to plead. The neat scrawl looks wrong somehow, tilted, as though even the ink is unsettled. She folds the parchment over and over until her fingers ache, until the edges are sharp enough to press little red crescents into her skin.

She doesn’t know how to answer him.

Because Harry’s right. She doesn’t sound like herself anymore. She doesn’t feel like herself anymore.

Hermione Granger — cleverest witch of her age, top of every class, Gryffindor prefect, the girl who always had the right answer. She knows that girl. But that girl died screaming on the marble floor of Malfoy Manor, as Bellatrix carved letters into her arm that will never fade. Mudblood.

What’s left of her is just a shadow, piecing herself together with string and stubbornness, drifting between borrowed rooms and borrowed hours, pretending there’s a version of life waiting if she can just hold herself steady long enough.

Who was she now? A version that kissed Draco Malfoy in a cottage by the sea, who clung to him like a lifeline when the nightmares came. A version who no longer recognised the sound of her own laugh.

Hermione shoved the letter into her satchel and walked.

The rain started as a mist, then grew heavier, soaking into her jumper, plastering her curls to her face. She didn’t care. She wanted to feel it, wanted to drown in it. The cobblestones slick beneath her trainers, the air sharp with ozone, the whole city muffled under the downpour.

She kept walking until she found herself in front of a sleepy café, its striped awning sagging with water. An iron bench sat empty outside, slick with rain. She dropped onto it without thinking, her satchel thumping against her knees, her hands limp in her lap.

Time stretched strangely there. She wasn’t sure how long she sat, rain soaking through to her skin, watching the blurred glow of streetlamps bleed into the puddles at her feet.

The low growl of an engine pulled her head up. A black Citroën crawled past, slowing as it reached the bench. The passenger window slid down, smooth as a sigh, and Draco leaned across the seat, pale hair damp at the edges, eyes searching hers.

“Get in the car,” he said.

She didn’t hesitate. She stood, pulled open the door, and slid inside.

The car smelled faintly of leather and rain. The wipers squeaked against the windscreen in slow, steady arcs, matching the rhythm of her heartbeat as she curled into the corner of the seat. The jumper she was wearing was his, though she tried not to think about what that meant.

Draco didn’t speak. He gripped the wheel with both hands, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the road as though the act of driving alone could keep him from unraveling.

Hermione didn’t speak either. Words felt too fragile, too sharp. She didn’t trust her voice not to betray how close she was to shattering.

The silence was not empty. It hummed, heavy, charged.

At some point, she fumbled in the glove compartment, desperate for something to do with her hands. Her fingers closed around a crumpled, sticky wrapper — a half-melted chocolate frog. She held it up, raised a brow. “Breakfast of champions.”

Draco glanced at the dashboard clock. “It’s eleven at night.”

Hermione shrugged, the motion small, her hair sticking damply to her cheeks. “It was that or a cough drop with lint on it.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Death by sugar or death by questionable hygiene. I’d almost prefer the cough drop.”

She broke the chocolate in half anyway, offering him a piece. He shook his head. “Not a chance. Knowing Zabini, it’s been there since before the Statute of Secrecy.”

“Then I’ll die braver than you.” She popped it into her mouth defiantly, and for the first time in weeks, laughter burst out of her, sharp and sudden, catching her off guard.

It felt strange. It felt good.

And when she glanced sideways, Draco was watching her, a ghost of a smile hovering at his lips.

The road wound west, through shuttered towns and quiet hills. Rain eased to mist. The moon climbed higher, casting the world in pale, eerie light. They talked — not about anything that mattered, not at first. Socks. Books. The absurdities of Muggle dentistry. She found herself laughing again, and every laugh felt like a rebellion.

When the cliffs opened to a stretch of empty beach, he pulled the car onto the packed sand. Cut the engine.

The silence roared.

They climbed onto the bonnet, shoulders nearly touching but not quite. The sea breathed below them, steady and endless, stars glittering sharp above.

For a while, she said nothing. Just lay there, soaking in the salt air, the sound of the tide, the weight of his presence beside her.

“Let’s forget the war,” she whispered finally. Her voice was hoarse, low, almost lost to the waves. “Just for tonight.”

She felt him turn his head, felt the hesitation in the air between them. But then he exhaled and nodded.

And so they did.

For the first time in months, she allowed herself to just be. Not Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age. Not the girl who bled on Malfoy Manor’s marble floors. Not the friend Harry worried over in letters.

Just a girl on a beach in Marseille.

Her fingers found a loose thread at the hem of his jumper. She picked at it nervously, then stopped, afraid she would unravel something that mattered. “Harry says I don’t sound like myself anymore,” she murmured.

Draco didn’t reply.

She swallowed, the salt air stinging her throat. “The truth is… I don’t know who that is, either. The version of me I used to be—she died in that house. And I don’t know what’s left.”

The confession left her hollow. Raw.

For a moment, there was only the crash of waves. Then, slowly, deliberately, Draco placed his hand palm-up between them.

Hermione stared at it. The moonlight glinted off the pale scars along his wrist, and her chest ached. Still, she laid her hand in his, weaving her fingers through his carefully, as if she might break the moment if she breathed too hard.

When she exhaled, shaky and slow, he breathed with her.

They didn’t kiss. They didn’t move.

They just were.

And somehow, it felt like the most intimate thing of all.

Draco’s voice came low, rough-edged. “Maybe she did die,” he said. “The girl you were. The one who carried everyone else’s light until it burned her hands.”

Hermione blinked, but he went on, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

“But what’s left isn’t nothing. It’s you. The you who keeps walking anyway. The one who still shows up for everyone, even when no one asks how much it costs you. The one who still believes things can be mended.”

Her breath caught, small and trembling.

He turned his hand, brushing his thumb across her pulse. “You don’t sound like yourself because you’re still becoming her,” he murmured. “And I don’t think there’s anything more you could be than that.”

He hesitated, gaze flicking to her face. Then, quieter still:

“You’re Hermione. My Hermione.”

By the time the horizon began to pale, they climbed down from the bonnet, stiff and damp from the salt air. Hermione expected him to ask where she wanted to go, to drop her near the tram or back in the centre of town. Instead, he turned the car without a word, heading along the cliff road she recognised.

The road back to the cottage was quiet, the Citroën humming low as dawn began to lighten the edges of the sky. Hermione curled into the seat, still damp from the sea air, her fingers idly tracing patterns in the fogged window.

She broke the silence first. “Theo and Blaise,” she said slowly. “Are they…?”

Draco’s brows lifted, his mouth twisting in something between amusement and exasperation. “If you’re asking me to define whatever that is—” He shook his head. “Merlin knows. They’ve been circling each other since we were fourteen. Don’t ask me how it works. Somehow, it does.”

Hermione blinked. “Theo and Blaise?” The shock bled into her voice before she could temper it.

Draco glanced at her, smirking faintly. “Why do you sound so scandalised? Blaise would shag anything that moved.”

Her eyes widened. “Draco!”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm. “It’s true. Gender, bloodline, doesn’t matter. Never has. He liked people—or didn’t. Simple as that. Everyone knew it. It wasn’t what was between someone’s legs that mattered to him.”

Hermione gaped for a moment, then let out a surprised laugh, covering her mouth with her sleeve. “You say that so casually.”

“Because it was casual,” Draco replied, matter-of-fact. “He was Blaise. No one questioned it. Well, not if they valued their dignity.” He paused, fingers drumming once against the steering wheel. “But Theo… Theo was different. He was the only one who ever really had a hold on Blaise. They may wander, but they always come back to each other. They’re… committed, in their own strange way.”

Hermione turned to watch him, curiosity sparking in her chest. The way he said it wasn’t mocking, or dismissive. It was almost… respectful.

Hermione studied his profile, the way the rising sun cut lines across his cheekbone. “You sound almost… proud of them.”

He gave a small shrug, as if pride had nothing to do with it. “They were my family, more than anyone in the Manor ever was. We’d been friends since nappies. Theo was the one who patched me up when Father decided my posture wasn’t correct enough for dinner. Blaise was the one who stole the biscuits afterward to keep me quiet about it.” He said it without pause, the kind of memory that had worn itself smooth from repetition. As if fathers striking their sons was as ordinary as table manners.

Hermione’s breath caught, but Draco didn’t glance her way. He only adjusted his grip on the wheel, eyes steady on the road.

“And they stayed?” she asked softly.

“Always.” His voice was quiet, almost reverent. “Through everything.”

“You make it sound like they don’t anymore?” Hermione murmured. 

“Hmm,” Draco let out a half groan. “Well Blaise is out travelling the world alphabetically. He’s at the M’s. Hence why he left this car for me. Marseille. I don’t know where he is now.”

“And Theo?”

“Theo is… Theo,” Draco acquiesced. “He is returning to Hogwarts in September. Something about wanting to finish seventh year with a bang. I dread to think what that means.”

Hermione didn’t press. She had a feeling that Theo’s return to Hogwarts was more about Draco than he cared to admit. 

For a moment, the car hummed with silence, filled only by the soft whir of the engine and the steady rhythm of rain easing against the glass. Hermione felt the sharp ache of understanding settle low in her chest. He saw Theo and Blaise as family—not obligation, not legacy. Choice.

She hesitated before asking, “And Crabbe and Goyle?”

That earned a flush along his cheeks, faint but undeniable. “Stupidity,” he admitted, jaw tightening. “I was a child who thought brawn would protect me. Thought having shadows made me untouchable. Crabbe and Goyle were never more than… armour. Theo and Blaise, though—they were the ones who mattered.” He exhaled slowly, a faint bitterness in the sound. “Took me too long to realise that.”

Hermione’s chest tightened at the honesty in his tone. She remembered the boy in the corridors, flanked by hulking figures who laughed on cue. She remembered his sneers, his superiority—and now she saw the hollowness behind it, the frightened child mistaking muscle for loyalty.

She turned her face back toward the window, hiding the softness in her eyes. She had no words for what it did to her, hearing him admit this so plainly, but she carried the weight of it with her as the cliffs rose again on the horizon.

And for the first time, she wondered if perhaps she was beginning to see him the way Theo and Blaise always had.

Her stomach knotted as the outline of the cottage came into view. The windows were still dark, the roofline sharp against the dawn. She told herself she should object — that she should ask him to let her out, insist on taking a different path. They were not… whatever this was. They weren’t the sort of people who fell into rhythms, who shared cars and silence and sunrises like it was ordinary.

But when he slowed and pulled up by the low stone wall, she didn’t argue.

She didn’t move. She watched his hands rest on the wheel for a moment, steady now, no longer trembling. Watched the way his breath eased out of him like he’d finally found some kind of balance.

And against her better judgment, against every voice in her head screaming this isn’t safe, this isn’t you, she admitted it: it was nice.

The quiet drive, the salt in her hair, the way he didn’t press her for words. The way, for just a few hours, she hadn’t felt hollow.

When she finally got out of the car, she didn’t thank him. She didn’t know how.

But she did glance back once before shutting the door.

And in the half-light, she swore she saw the corner of his mouth lift — not quite a smile, but close enough that she felt it in her chest long after she was inside.

The cottage was dark when she stepped inside, the faint scent of salt and damp stone greeting her like something she almost recognised. Hermione dropped her satchel by the door, shoving her wet curls back from her face. Her pulse hadn’t calmed from the drive, from the words Draco had offered so matter-of-factly in the car.

She told herself she should retreat to the bedroom, to silence and sleep, but she felt him at her back before she heard him. The soft click of the door, the quiet scuff of his shoes on the floorboards.

Draco had followed her in.

When she turned, the pale outline of him was just visible in the dim light, his shoulders brushing the doorframe, his gaze steady and unreadable.

For a beat, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the low hush of the sea through the window.

And then—Hermione’s eyes dragged over him, deliberate and slow. The damp collar of his shirt clung to the line of his throat. His hands, still loose at his sides, bore faint traces of ink from the day before. He was all sharp edges and shadows, and yet… he was here. With her.

Something primal surged in her chest.

She didn’t know who she was anymore—Harry was right about that—but she knew this: she wanted him. Wanted the way he looked at her like she was whole, even when she felt anything but. Wanted the tremor she caught in his breath whenever she moved too close. Wanted the knowledge that, for all his walls, he wanted her exactly as she was.

Her lips curved, slow and dangerous.

“You shouldn’t follow me,” she murmured, voice low, almost a purr.

Draco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, but he didn’t step back. “And yet I did.”

Hermione took a step toward him, the floorboard creaking under her weight. His eyes flicked to her mouth, then back to her gaze, and she felt a rush of heat coil through her.

He wasn’t running. He wasn’t hiding. And Merlin help her, that only made her want him more.

She reached for his collar, fingertips brushing the damp fabric, tugging him closer—not gently, not sweetly. Her touch was a claim, as though daring him to deny what simmered between them.

“You want me like this,” she whispered, testing the truth of it.

His answering breath shuddered against her cheek, and he didn’t deny it.

And in that moment, with the storm of identity and grief and war still roaring somewhere outside her skin, Hermione found one thing utterly, ferociously clear: he wanted her as she was.

And that made her feel powerful. Alive.

Her fingers tightened at his collar, tugging him forward until the space between them was nothing but heat and breath. Draco’s hands hovered for a moment, uncertain, before settling at her waist, cautious but trembling with the effort of holding back.

Hermione tilted her head, letting her lips graze the corner of his jaw, not quite a kiss, more of a threat. She heard the sharp inhale it pulled from him, felt it reverberate against her. The sound sent a thrill through her, low and heady.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he rasped.

“I think I do,” she countered, her voice threaded with a confidence she didn’t entirely feel but wanted desperately to claim.

Her hands slid down, slow and deliberate, along the line of his chest, tracing the fabric as though committing it to memory. She stopped at the hem of his shirt, her fingertips brushing against his skin, teasing. Draco’s breath hitched, his grip at her waist tightening as though he were anchoring himself.

Hermione smiled against his throat. It wasn’t soft, wasn’t shy. It was the smile of someone who realised she could undo him with a touch—and that he wanted to be undone.

He bent, finally, catching her mouth in his, a kiss that began hesitant but deepened with a desperation neither of them had the strength to resist. It was hungry, messy, nothing like the cautious tenderness they had shared before. This was sharp with need, with the urgency of being seen, wanted, alive.

Hermione pressed closer, letting him feel every ounce of her intent. The sea roared beyond the windows, rain still dripping from the eaves, but all she knew was the warmth of his body and the way his lips chased hers as if she might vanish if he let go.

They stumbled backward together, her laugh spilling out, breathless, as his hip caught the edge of the worn table. His hand found hers, threading their fingers, and it struck her—how even in the heat of it, even when they were both burning, he still sought that tether.

By the time he guided her toward the bedroom, she was dizzy with want, her pulse pounding in every nerve. The iron bed creaked under their weight as they tumbled onto it, laughter mingling with low, urgent sighs.

They didn’t speak, not really. There were no declarations, no promises. Just hands, mouths, breath, the sound of fabric sliding, the ache of two people finding refuge in each other.

And as Hermione closed her eyes, giving herself over to the storm they created between them, one truth sang through the chaos: she might not know who she was anymore, but she knew this.

She wanted him.

And he wanted her—just as she was.

Chapter Text

The rain had come in sideways all morning, needling the windows and rattling the loose latch in the kitchen. Hermione had spent the first hour pretending to read at the table, her tea going cold as she traced and retraced the same paragraph until the letters blurred. When the wind knifed under the door again, she gave up and busied herself with the sort of meaningless order that made her feel like a person: straightening the stack of newspapers, folding the blanket over the back of the sofa, righting the crooked picture frame of a lighthouse that neither of them had hung and neither of them liked.

Domesticity had crept into the cottage without either of them naming it. Two mugs drying on the rack—his chipped blue enamel, her white one with the hairline crack. Two towels on the hook. Two toothbrushes balanced in a glass that had once held jam. Evidence. Small, ordinary anchors in a life that still felt like she might be swept out to sea at any moment.

She carried a small bundle of laundry to the bedroom—his jumper, her socks, the shirt he always shrugged into after a shower. The room smelled of salt and soap and the faint, clean ghost of his aftershave. The storm shoved against the window, rattling it in its frame; she pressed a hand to the glass until the pane quieted.

The chest of drawers stood under the window. She’d started out keeping her things in the bottom one, telling herself she didn’t live here, not really, that she could leave quickly if she needed to. But mornings had come and gone, nights had bled into mornings again, and somehow there had been the small, practical conversation about space—no, not even a conversation. A quiet shuffling of belongings. Socks migrating. A sweater folded in a new place. The way her hand went, without thinking, to the second drawer because that was his, always his, the way his satchel lived by the door and his razor—his Muggle razor now—rested by the sink because she’d said please and he’d said yes and she’d learned the map of his face with foam and careful strokes.

She pulled open the second drawer, smiling a little at the logic of it: second born, second drawer. Ridiculous and sweet. The smile held as she slipped his jumper in, fingers smoothing the wool, and then stuttered as her knuckles knocked something glass.

It rolled against her skin with a soft clink.

Hermione stilled. The storm seemed to pause with her; the cottage held its breath.

She drew the item forward and into the light: a small vial, stoppered tight, the liquid inside an unremarkable amber. No label at first. Then, as she turned it, the ink caught—the simplest handwriting, almost stark in its refusal to cloak itself in euphemism.

Just in case.

Her body knew what it was before her mind permitted the thought. Something in her chest dipped as if the floor had fallen away beneath her feet. She sat down hard on the edge of the bed, the mattress groaning, the vial held between her forefinger and thumb as though it might burn her.

“Just in case,” she said aloud, and her voice had no place to live in the room. It skittered, small and brittle.

Hermione had read about potions that were quick. She’d read about the ones that were gentler than wands, the ones that would swallow the body’s panic before it could bloom, the ones that would slide a person into nothing as easily as closing a book. She had never brewed one. She had never written the ingredients list in her meticulous hand because it scraped at something sacred in her. And yet here it was, smooth as a river stone, tucked in Draco’s drawer beside a neatly folded pair of socks, as if it were a practical thing. As if it were a torch. As if it were a spare key.

Her hand began to shake.

She placed the vial on the coverlet without trusting herself to hold it any longer and stared at it until the sound of rain came back into focus, loud and relentless. Something hot crawled up her throat, sour with old fear.

It’s about you, the worst part of her whispered. It’s about everything he can’t bear. Another part answered, vicious and smaller and more honest: But you wanted to be part of what he could bear. You believed you were.

She stood abruptly, the bed springs squealing, and paced the small length of the room, fingers digging crescents into her palms. The second drawer gaped, innocent. Shirts. The smell of cedar from the sachet she’d tucked in as if to make his clothes smell like a home that did not exist. Just in case glinted on the bed like a threat.

When the door opened below and the cold came in with him, she heard it as if from far away. She heard the wet shake of his coat, the soft thud as he set his satchel down carefully the way he always did. For a moment—for one single, dangerous moment—she imagined walking out to him and telling him about the storm, about the window that wouldn’t stay shut, about the tea she hadn’t made. She imagined ordinary things. She imagined reaching up and touching the wet at his temples with her fingertips, pulling him toward her by the lapels and tasting rain on his mouth.

Instead, she picked up the vial and stepped into the hallway.

He was halfway out of his boots, hair damp and curling, when he looked up and saw her. The relief that crossed his face—small, private, like a light in a window—flickered and died as his gaze dropped to her hand.

He didn’t say what’s that. He didn’t say where did you find it. The quiet acknowledgment that moved through his expression was worse than a lie.

“Your drawer,” she said. It came out too calm. It made something ugly and reckless in her want to smash the glass against the wall just to hear it shatter. “Tucked under your socks. Domestic, that. Practical.”

His boots were off now. He straightened slowly, hands at his sides, palms open. “Hermione.”

“Don’t.” The word cut. She heard the knife in it and couldn’t sheath it. “Don’t say my name like it will make this smaller.”

He looked past her into the bedroom, then back at the vial. A muscle jumped in his jaw; she knew precisely where it tightened because she had kissed that line a hundred times. “You know what it is.”

“Of course I know what it is.” She laughed, a single sound, terrible and humorless. “Do you think I’d keep my head in a war and not recognise this?”

He closed his eyes once, brief, and then opened them. “It’s not—”

“If you say ‘it’s not about you,’ I will throw it at your head.”

Silence widened between them, filled with rain. The cottage ticked. Somewhere, the kettle settled with a soft pop as it cooled.

“It isn’t about you,” he said anyway, but very quietly, like confession instead of argument. “It never was.”

Her hand tightened around the glass until her knuckles blanched. “No? Then what is it about? Control? Exit strategies? The comforting thought, as you wash your face at night, that you could opt out of this life if it bruises you one shade darker?”

His throat worked. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough. “I cannot go back there again.”

Hermione blinked, the words landing strange in her chest. “Back… where?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The way his eyes went distant, the way his jaw locked—it was answer enough. Azkaban. The looming hearing. The shadow that trailed him into every room.

But Hermione, raw and hurting, heard something else. I’d rather die than live in the world we’ve made together.

The misfire between them cracked like lightning.

Something broke open in her chest. “Do you understand what this is?” She shook the vial once, the liquid sliding against the glass with a soft, obscene hush. “It’s a promise you made to the worst day you will ever have. It’s a vow you keep to your fear. And you put it where we keep your socks.”

“Hermione,” he said, pleading threaded through the syllables. “Please.”

“Please what?” Her voice rose and split and she didn’t care. “Please be reasonable? Please be understanding? Please accept that the man I—” She bit down so hard on the word that copper bloomed under her tongue. But it was too late. The floor had already given way; she was already falling.

His face changed. She watched it happen, slow as weather. “Say it,” he whispered, as if the word itself could change the chemical structure of the room.

She hated him then, for asking, for knowing, for making her carry a truth that heavy and still expecting her to set it down gently. She jabbed the air with the hand that wasn’t holding the vial and heard herself say, savage and shaking, “That the man I love is planning how not to be alive.”

The sound of the storm seemed to rush inward, filling her ears. The cottage tilted. Draco’s mouth parted as if he had been struck. He took one step toward her and stopped, fingers curling into his palms like he didn’t trust them not to reach for her.

“Hermione.” Her name broke in his throat. He looked at her as if each of them were a cliff’s edge and the drop between was unforgiving. “Hermione, no—”

“Don’t you dare tell me I don’t mean it.” She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth as if she could force the word back down, but it was out now, warm and bright and terrible between them. Tears stung, furious and hot; she blinked them away so hard the room smeared and cleared, smeared and cleared. “I didn’t plan to—Merlin, I didn’t plan any of this. But I wake up and you’re there and the worst places in me are less loud. And the idea that none of it matters because you’ve already decided there is a door you can walk through when you’ve had enough—”

“It isn’t—” His voice scraped. He lifted his hands as if to show they were empty. “It isn’t about you. It’s about… the days when the air feels like stone. The hours when I can’t tell if I’m awake or still shut inside—when I can hear the bolts slide, feel the walls pressing in. And the mornings I look at my own face and think if I could just change one thing—” He broke off, swallowing hard. His next words came in a rush, almost desperate. “It’s the only way to make the room bigger when it closes. To know I won’t… go back.”

Hermione’s stomach lurched. Back. To this. To her. To them. Her laugh splintered into something ugly. “A bottle on a shelf doesn’t make the room bigger, Draco. It makes the walls look like mercy.” She stared at him, willing him to understand the language she was speaking, the one that had been carved into her in a different house by a different cruelty. “You keep a promise to your pain and ask me to live in its shadow. What role do you imagine for me in this script? The girl who doesn’t open that drawer? The girl who pretends she doesn’t see?”

His eyes glistened, and for a moment the wind outside sounded like the sea in her ears. He shook his head once, sharply. “I don’t want to die,” he said, fierce and low. The words sounded pulled out of him with a hook. “I don’t. Not like that, not like anything. But sometimes the wanting is a theory and the not-wanting is a fact. Sometimes—I need the option so I can keep choosing not to take it.”

She closed her eyes because the truth of it was so bare she couldn’t look at it. When she opened them again he was still there, and the vial was still in her hand, and nothing had become easier.

“You are asking me,” she said quietly, “to love you in a room where there is always a trapdoor.”

He winced. “I’m asking you to forgive me for not being whole.”

“I never asked you to be whole.” Her voice softened for the first time, a tenderness that hurt like pressing a bruise. “I asked you to be honest. I asked you to meet me where I am.” She lifted the vial, the glass catching a thin vein of light. “This… this is you keeping a promise to a future in which I cannot reach you. It isn’t honesty. It’s contingency.”

The storm did not let up. Rain battered the panes until the glass shivered in its frames, and the kettle had long gone cold on the counter. Hermione had lost track of how long they had stood in the kitchen—arguing, pleading, circling the same truths until they frayed.

At first, it was sharp. Her voice cracked like thunder. His came back raw. 

Then came the quieter rounds, voices low, closer to begging than fighting.

“Please, Hermione.” His hands trembled where they gripped the chair.

“Don’t ask me to be gravity and mercy both.”

He reached once, the way he always did before pressing her knuckles to his mouth. She pulled back. The look on his face undid her—not anger, but hurt.

Her tears had dried hours ago, leaving only salt on her cheeks. The storm outside blurred with the storm between them until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

But that was the thing that would drown her. Not Harry or Ron’s disappointment. Not war. Not even Azkaban. That. Loving him so much she would live for him until nothing of her was left.

So instead, she said the only truth left that was hers. 

“I have to leave.”

The silence after that was not like the others. It was inevitable. Final.

He sagged against the counter, a sound leaving him that might have been a laugh or a sob. She didn’t wait to parse it. She turned, left him with the vial glinting between them, and walked down the hall.

The bedroom yawned open, dim with the thin light of morning fighting its way through the storm. The second drawer was hers now—or had been. She pulled it open, her hands shaking, and began to pack.

By the time her body ached with it, she almost broke. She almost said, I’ll stay. We’ll figure it out. She almost pressed the vial back into his hand and promised she could hold the trapdoor shut. She saw herself doing it, and her whole chest ached with longing.

Her toothbrush went in. Her hairbrush. The shell she had picked up on the beach three mornings ago, when he had kissed the top of her head and said the water was too cold for swimming but she looked like she belonged in it anyway. She pressed it between jumpers so she didn’t have to see it.

The sound of the drawer sliding shut felt like finality. She hated the way her hand lingered on the wood, as though some foolish part of her still hoped it might open again and reveal a life she could step back into.

Behind her, the doorway shifted. She didn’t have to look to know he was there, barefoot and silent, the air between them taut as wire. She refused to lift her head.

“Hermione, please.” His voice broke, raw and unguarded. “Don’t go like this. Don’t leave with—,”

She didn’t turn. “I already am.”

“You don’t mean it.”

Her grip tightened on the strap of her bag. “I do.”

“You love me.”

Her throat closed. “Yes. But I won’t love you for you. Not in place of you. I won’t survive it if I try.”

The storm rattled the windows. Neither of them moved.

At last she hefted the bag. Too heavy. Far too heavy. She crossed the room without looking at him, because if she did, she would falter.

At the door, she paused. The sea wind pulled at her hair. She turned one last time.

“This wasn’t just a summer, Draco.”

His eyes caught hers, wide and wrecked.

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t.”

And that was all.

She stepped into the mist. Each breath, each step, was a choice for herself. She told herself not to look back. She told herself she was strong enough not to.

But when a gull cried thin and lonely overhead, she turned once. He was still in the doorway, a shadow framed in fog, watching her until the morning swallowed her whole.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts: December 12th

The hospital wing smells like antiseptic and steam—the sharp bite of dittany layered over boiled linens and something metallic that never quite washes out of stone. Hermione stands at the foot of a third-year’s bed, noting bruising patterns the way Madam Pomfrey taught her, quill scratched blunt from overuse and tucked behind her ear when she needs both hands.

The doors lift on a hinge and slam against the stopper. A shuffle, a stagger, the dull scrape of heel against stone. Theo Nott’s voice, pitched low and urgent: “Help—someone—”

Hermione looks up.

Theo is half-carrying him. Draco’s weight drags, head bowed, hair wet where sweat has glued it to his temple. His shirt is torn at the bicep—ragged cotton blooming darker and darker red.

Draco.

Her body reacts before her mind can: stomach lurch, pulse hammer, throat closing.

Pomfrey is already moving, wand aloft. “On the cot. Quickly. Mr. Nott—step back.”

Theo bristles. “He needs—”

“What he needs is steady hands,” Pomfrey cuts, sharp but not unkind. “Out. I’ll call you when we’re finished.”

Theo looks like he might argue, but Draco sags hard against him, and Pomfrey’s voice leaves no room. He releases Draco’s arm reluctantly, squeezes his wrist once, then shoulders past, shooting Hermione a look that feels like both trust and accusation. The door swings shut.

Hermione is moving before she realizes it. Clipboard down. Sleeves rolled. Apron strings tugged tight.

“Let me see,” she says, stepping to Draco’s side.

Up close, the wound is worse. The cut along the bicep, the swelling at the shoulder, the shallow heave of breath. His jaw trembles. He doesn’t look at her.

Good.

“Stitches,” Hermione says aloud, not magic. Not this time. Her wand hand trembles too much. Pomfrey nods, already focusing on the shoulder.

Hermione threads the needle, steadies her hands. Motion keeps her from unraveling.

The first stitch always feels like trespass. He hisses when she pierces the skin. She keeps her voice calm, professional. “Hold still.”

The world blurs to a collection of sounds: Pomfrey’s muttered charms, the soft snap of a bandage, Draco’s uneven breath. Hermione stitches, inhabiting the tiny world she can control.

And then it slips out before she can stop it. “I still think about the car,” she murmurs. “The wine. The rain.”

His throat works, a strangled sound, but she cuts him off before he can form her name. “Don’t. Let me do this first.”

In, through, out. Tie. She keeps stitching. Madam Pomfrey straightens, wiping her hands. “That will hold. Granger—fetch Mr. Nott. He may sit with him now.”

Madam Pomfrey turns and heads to the office to complete the incident form and Hermione stays seated next to Draco for a moment.

“You made me feel something I didn’t want to feel again,” she whispers, eyes on the wound. “You made me feel safe. I hated you for that.”

His reply comes ragged, unsteady: “You made me want to live for something. You made me feel… anything. I hated myself for that.”

Her breath catches, but her hands don’t falter. She ties the last knot, smooths salve over the stitched skin, lays her fingers gently at his wrist—not because she must, but because she can’t not.
For a moment, it feels like the tide itself is holding them still.

“Don’t do that again,” she says, voice breaking despite herself. “Don’t make me find you like that. Bleeding. Cold. Wanting it.”

He flinches, but he doesn’t look away. “I’m not trying to die,” he says hoarsely. “Sometimes I just want everything to stop.”

Her throat burns. “It doesn’t last.”

“I know.”

She lets go. Steps back. Armor snapping into place.
She scrubs her hands at the basin, the blood already drying tacky on her skin, then slips into the corridor.

Theo is pacing just outside the doors, fists jammed into his pockets. He stops when he sees her, sharp-eyed. “Well?”

“He’ll be alright,” Hermione says, forcing steadiness. “Stitches, splint, bruised ribs. He’s stable now.”

Theo exhales, long and sharp, dragging a hand over his jaw. For a moment he looks younger, stripped of his usual composure. “And his head?” he asks quietly.

Hermione swallows hard. “That’s the part I can’t mend.”

Silence stretches, filled with the hiss of rain against the windows. She feels his gaze on her, sharper than she wants to bear.

“Don’t give up on him,” she blurts. The words tumble out before she can stop them. They sound like begging, like a confession.

Theo’s eyes narrow, studying her. His voice, when it comes, is steady, certain. “Never.” He steps closer, lowering his tone.

He tilts his head, watching her the way someone watches a puzzle finally click into place. “It’s you,” he says quietly. Not accusation. Not surprise. Just recognition.

Her breath stutters. “What?”

“It’s you,” Theo repeats, eyes never leaving hers. “I knew there was someone. He wouldn’t say who. Not to me, not to Blaise. But I’ve seen the way he—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “Merlin, Granger. I should’ve known. Who else could make him look like that?”

Heat floods her cheeks, shame and longing tangled together. “We… it was a long time ago,” she whispers. “It’s over.”

Theo’s mouth twists, almost pitying. “You don’t look over it.”

Her fingers curl into fists at her sides. “It doesn’t matter what I look like. He—he doesn’t love himself enough to let anyone else—” Her voice splinters. She forces it back into shape. “I can’t carry both our lives.”

Theo studies her for another long, unbearable moment. Then he nods once, like a soldier accepting a truth he doesn’t like. “Fair. But don’t pretend you’re not the reason he’s still here.”

Her chest aches. “And if I can’t be?”

“Then I’ll stand in the gap,” Theo says simply. “But he’ll always want you in it.”

The words hollow her out. She turns her face toward the rain-dark window, blinking hard. “Please—just don’t give up on him.”

Theo’s expression softens, only a fraction. “Never,” he says again. Then, quieter: “Neither should you.”
He slips past her into the hospital wing, the door swinging shut behind him, and Hermione is left alone in the corridor, pulse thunderous in her ears, feeling both seen and undone.

The hospital wing settles into its usual hush after curfew. Lamps burn low in sconces, casting long shadows across neat rows of beds. Hermione tells herself she stayed because Pomfrey needed the extra hands — reorganising tinctures, checking charts, anything but the truth. Anything but the fact that she couldn’t make herself walk away.

Her quill scratches quietly in the ledger at the nurse’s desk, though she’s copied the same sentence three times without noticing.

Then: a low murmur. A familiar laugh, hoarse but unguarded.

She looks up.

The curtain at the far end of the ward has been pulled partway back. Draco sits propped against the pillows, pale and bandaged but awake. Theo is in the chair beside him, long legs sprawled, arms folded across his chest. They’re speaking in low voices — words Hermione can’t catch, but the cadence carries. A joke, a retort, the soft kind of laughter that isn’t meant for anyone else.

It steals her breath.

Draco’s head tips back against the wall, a faint smile curling despite the split in his lip. For a moment, he looks younger — not unscarred, never that, but less weighted. Like a boy she remembers from Marseille, teasing her about sea air and chocolate frogs.
Hermione tells herself to look away. She doesn’t.

The sound of his laughter — real, not brittle — slips under her skin like warmth. Her fingers curl tight around the quill until ink smudges her palm. The ache in her chest is both knife and balm: because she loves him, still, impossibly, and because loving him means knowing how close she came to never hearing that sound again.

Theo leans forward, says something she can’t hear. Draco nudges his shoulder with his uninjured arm, a lazy shove, and the two of them laugh again — softer, this time. Familiar. Family.

Hermione watches, unseen, until the tightness in her throat forces her to stand. She busies herself with stacking ledgers, blotting the ink, anything to keep her hands from trembling.

But even as she moves through the motions, her pulse whispers the truth she cannot escape:
No matter what she’s told herself, no matter how she’s tried to leave it behind — she is still in love with him.

And watching him now, laughing with someone else, steady under another’s care, only makes it sharper.
The ward quiets again after curfew. The low murmur of Draco and Theo’s conversation fades into nothing, until the steady rhythm of Draco’s breathing threads itself into the hush. Hermione keeps her head bent over the ledger, copying numbers she’s already checked twice, quill scratching steady to disguise the way her thoughts unspool.

When the silence has stretched long enough to fool her, Theo’s footsteps scrape softly against the tile. He stops on the other side of the desk.

“They’ve written,” he says. No preamble. No softening. “The Wizengamot. A hearing about the duel.”

Hermione looks up, heart jolting. “Already?”
Theo nods. “They’re circling. Can’t resist a chance to prove themselves right about him.” His mouth twists. “I can’t let him walk into that room alone. And neither can you.”

She grips the quill tighter, ink blotting the page. “Theo—”

“You did it once. Spoke for him. It worked.” His gaze is sharp, but underneath it she sees the strain. The plea. “Do it again. Please.”

Hermione’s breath hitches. She wants to refuse. She wants to say she’s done. But the image of Draco crumpled in the hospital wing door, blood soaking his sleeve, steals the word from her tongue. “I’ll speak for him,” she says finally. The admission scrapes her throat raw. “But I can’t mentor him anymore. I can’t—be near him like this. It’s too much.”

Theo studies her for a long moment, then inclines his head. “Fair.” His voice is quiet, steady. “Doesn’t make you less. Doesn’t make what you’ve already done less.”

She looks away. The ink has smudged her hand, staining the heel of her palm. “I feel like I’m abandoning him.”

“You’re not.” Theo’s voice softens, just slightly. “You’re surviving him. Blaise and I—we’ve had to learn that too. You can’t drown just because the person you love won’t stop wading into the tide.” His mouth quirks, half a smile, half an ache. “Doesn’t mean you don’t go back for them. Just means you learn how not to sink.”

Hermione swallows hard, unable to answer.
Theo doesn’t press. He just gives her one last nod, then turns back to Draco’s bedside. He lowers into the chair again, stretching long legs out, posture loose but watchful. Settled. Steady.

Hermione waits until Theo has gone, before she lets herself drift closer. The ward is dim, torches guttering low, shadows soft at the edges. Draco lies deep asleep, deeper than she has ever seen him—his face slack, his breath even, untroubled for once.
She hesitates. Then, carefully, she reaches for his uninjured hand.

His fingers are cool against hers. She presses them to her lips, eyes closing, the taste of salt and antiseptic thick in her throat. She allows herself one final moment of tenderness, one final act of care she will not get to offer again.

“I love you,” she whispers, so softly that even the ward doesn’t hear. “So much.”

She lets his hand go.

And then she turns, disappearing into the corridor before she can betray herself further—before she can forget what she’s promised.

She doesn’t sleep. The castle hums beneath her, alive with ghosts and choices. When she finally moves, her feet carry her upward.

The door to the Astronomy Tower sticks the way it always has. Hermione leans into it with her shoulder and it gives, wood groaning, mist sliding past her ankles like breath. The night is cool and clean; the kind of cold that makes everything feel edged—stone, sky, thoughts.

He’s there.

Draco is perched on the low parapet as if the wall were a bench, as if the drop were nothing but air and rumor. Knees drawn loosely up, arms looped around them, his profile pressed sharp against the dark. The fog has caught in his hair, beading it with silver. He looks, absurdly, like a statue that has forgotten how to be stone.

Her heart stumbles in her chest, an old instinct flaring. She hears herself speak before she’s chosen the words. “You’re not going to jump, are you?”

It comes out half a joke and half a plea. It’s all she has.

His head turns, the motion slow, like waking. He blinks, sees her, and something in his face loosens by a fraction. “Not tonight,” he says, and the wry curl of his mouth is an apology he doesn’t know how to make.

Her throat unlocks. She crosses the tower, each step set carefully on the chill flagstones, and sits beside him on the parapet. Not touching—she’s learned that lesson too well—but close enough that she can feel the heat of him through the mist. The edge of the world opens below them in black and silver. Above, the stars are pinpricks in velvet, the constellations he used to name without looking.

They don’t speak. The silence between them is dense and familiar, stitched with other silences: salt air and market laughter and the iron bed that squeaked when they shifted. The hospital wing’s hush. The kitchen’s rain. The second drawer.

She is the one who breaks first. She always is. “Do you ever wonder why I came back?”

He huffs out something that might be a laugh if it weren’t so tired. “Because you’re you,” he says, eyes still on the sky. “Because you can’t help yourself.”

She shakes her head. “No.” The word fogs in front of her lips. “That’s not it.”

He glances over. There’s a flinch in his gaze he can’t hide fast enough, like the reflex of someone who expects a blow.

“I came back,” she says, steadying her voice, “because you love me.”

The mist seems to thicken at once, curling around their ankles, their knees, their ribs. He goes very still.

“Hermione—”

“You do.” She doesn’t look away. She won’t. “You can call it whatever you need to at three in the morning—mistake, weakness, madness—but you love me. I know it. I felt it in Marseille. I felt it in your kitchen. I felt it in the hospital wing when you looked at me like I was oxygen and a knife at the same time.” She exhales, a thin sound. “You love me.”

He swallows. His hands tighten around his knees until the knuckles pale. When he speaks, it’s soft, startled, bare. “I do.”

“Then let that be enough,” she breathes, slipping her hand into his. “Let me be enough.”

“I love you,” he murmurs, bringing her fingers to his lips. “You said it before, in a fight,” he drags his gaze up to meet hers. “You called me the man you loved. I held it with me.”

Her chest aches at the memory, at the cruelty of truth spoken with blood still drying on both of them. “I meant it.”

“I know.” It sounds like it hurts him to admit.

She nods once. The next words have been pressing against her lungs for days. “And I still love you.”

He flinches like the sentence struck him. “Still,” he repeats, the syllable hushed.

“Yes.” The tightness in her throat burns, but she keeps going. “After everything. After you left that vial where we kept your socks. After I found you bleeding in a doorway and had to pretend my hands were steady. After I walked into this term and sat at the back of rooms you were in and learned how to breathe without looking at you. I still love you.”

The wind lifts a damp curl against her cheek. She tucks it behind her ear with fingers that tremble. “Do you know why?”

He opens his mouth to deflect—she sees the motion start, the old muscle memory of dodging—but she shakes her head and he lets the answer die between his teeth.

“I love you because you’re infuriatingly precise,” she says, and the mist makes her voice sound closer to him than she is. “Because you carry a quill like it’s a weapon but will sit for an hour with your tea going cold if you think it will keep me sleeping. Because you pretend you don’t care what anyone thinks and then adjust your cufflinks twice when you do. Because you always notice when I’m about to cry and you say something cutting to make me angry instead, and I want to hex you for it, and it works. Because you hate being touched when you’re overwhelmed but you let me rub circles into your wrist anyway.”

The words won’t stop now. They’re a tide and she’s given herself to them. “Because you let me see the cracks. Because you let me hold your nightmares. Because you don’t know how to say sorry with words so you do it in small things—moving chairs into pools of sun, placing tea you think I won’t notice near the edge of a table, a blanket folded over the back of a sofa that neither of us liked. Because you looked at me on a beach and put your hand palm-up in the space between us without asking for anything.”

He is watching her like she’s pulled the stars down and is handing them to him one by one. His eyes are wet. Her own blur in sympathy and she blinks hard.

“And most of all,” she says, and it feels like stepping into cold water, “because I choose to. Because it isn’t an accident. Because it isn’t a spell. Because every day I wake up and tally the reasons I shouldn’t and the reasons I should and I choose you. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. I choose you.”

For a heartbeat there’s only the wind and the faraway rush of the lake against the shore and the sound of both of them breathing. He looks young suddenly. Not unscarred—he never will be—but less armored. His hand lifts toward her face and stops, hovering in indecision.

She feels the hesitation like a physical thing. He wants to kiss her. He does. But he doesn’t trust himself to want something that isn’t a blade.

“Draco,” she says, and her name for him is the softest thing in the night. “Kiss me.”

He makes a sound, helpless and small and real.

“Please,” she adds, because she knows he will deny himself for her before he will deny himself for himself. “Before I drown in all the ways we’ve tried not to.”

He moves. Not a lunge, not the frantic heat that marked the most reckless parts of their summer. He closes the small distance like he’s crossing a border. His lips brush hers once—question—again—prayer—and when she answers by sliding her fingers into the damp silk of his hair and tugging him closer, something breaks and remakes itself in the space between them.

It’s not goodbye this time. Not apology. It is slow and warm and deliberate. It is a kiss built of choices. He kisses her like she is air he’s allowed to breathe. She kisses him like he is truth she’s allowed to speak.

The world narrows to the press of his mouth, the tremor he can’t hide, the way he exhales as if he’s been holding his breath since September and has finally remembered how to let it go. She tastes salt—mist, memory, the ghost of hospital antiseptic still living at the back of her tongue—and something like tea gone cold on a kitchen table.

When they part, their foreheads rest together. His breath stutters against her lips. She feels his mouth curve. It feels like light.

“Do you believe me now?” she whispers.

He nods, the motion small, reverent. “I believe you.”

“Good.” She swallows, then laughs—a fragile thing, surprised to find itself. “Then believe this too: we’ve been together, and we’ve been apart. And apart is worse. Always worse.”

He closes his eyes like the sentence hurts and heals at once. When he opens them, there’s a steadiness she hasn’t seen in months. Not certainty. Not cure. Hope, thin as new skin and twice as tender.

He draws back enough to see all of her. His hands come away from his knees; he scrubs one over his face, the gesture almost boyish, and then he finds her hand on the stone and covers it with his own. His palm is damp with mist, warm where hers has gone cold.

“Hermione,” he says, and the way he says her name is a vow. His mouth works like he’s not sure which word should come first. He picks the only one that matters. “I love you.”

It lands differently than it did in the argument, when it was a shape and a challenge. Here, it’s simple. Present tense. Unspectacular and enormous.

She smiles, because there is no space left inside her for anything else. “I know,” she whispers, the answer he once begged and wouldn’t let himself have. Then, because she wants to give him the same gift he’s just given her—words that are not a cliff but a step—she adds, “Say it again.”

“I love you,” he repeats, a little stronger, like a spell he’s learning how to trust. “I love you.”

“Good,” she says, and the word is laughter this time. “Then hear me clearly, Draco Malfoy: I still love you. I choose you.”

She sees the sentence strike him—sees it pass through all the places fear once lived and lodge somewhere truer. He leans in, not to kiss her this time, but to press his cheek against hers. The scrape of stubble is familiar and beloved; she thinks of the afternoon with the razor, of her own hands shaking because she was holding something brittle and precious. He smells like night and wool and the faint, bitter warmth of the hospital wing’s potions.

“You’re mad,” he murmurs, and there’s a grin in it, stunned and crooked.

“Frequently,” she agrees, turning her head to kiss the corner of his mouth, the place split by some careless fall. “But not about this.”

He huffs a breath that might be a laugh if it weren’t soaked in relief. “What happens after tonight?” It’s barely a question—more like the end of a thought he’s been afraid to have.

She sits back enough to see him. The fog has haloed his hair. There’s a line of dried salt on his cheekbone he hasn’t noticed. She wants to lick her thumb and wipe it away. She wants to learn his face again with both hands. She wants to take him into the future and say look—there.

“We do it,” she says simply. “We keep choosing. We talk to McGonagall, or we don’t, and we suffer the whispers, and we let people be wrong about us if they need to be. We throw away the vial. We keep Theo close and we make Blaise pretend he’s not smug. We have bad nights and better mornings and we fight and then we fix it. We go slow. We don’t pretend we’re whole. We don’t pretend we’re not tired. We don’t pretend anything.” She squeezes his hand until he squeezes back. “And when the room closes, we make it bigger together.”

He stares at her like she just charted him a constellation. “Together,” he echoes.

“Together,” she confirms, and the word steadies her like a railing.

He dips forward again and kisses her, quick, like punctuation. Then he pulls back with a breath that ghosts warm over her lips. “You’re sure.”

She thinks of a cottage that smelled like soap and rain. Of a drawer that held socks and a small glass trapdoor. Of Theo’s voice in the corridor—Don’t give up on him. Of a car bonnet warm from the day and stars that told stories and the taste of melted chocolate stolen from a glove compartment foul with Zabini’s sins. Of a hospital bed, of a wrist under her fingertips, of Don’t do that again said like prayer. Of salt air. Of red wine staining the inside of a mouth she’d kissed raw with apologies they never learned to say.

“I’m sure,” she says. It feels like truth all the way down to bone. “I choose you.”

He exhales and she watches some tension she didn’t know how to name leave his shoulders. Not all of it. Enough. “Then I’ll try,” he says, earnest to the point of ache. “I’ll keep trying.”

She nods. “That’s all I asked.”

They sit like that for a long time, shoulder to shoulder on cold stone, hands twined in damp air, the castle breathing quietly around them. He tells her—haltingly, and then with more ease—about the hearing: the looks, the questions, the way his mouth dried and his hands shook until a steady voice he couldn’t look at held him to the world. She tells him about Pomfrey’s ledger and the third-year who will absolutely play King of the Hill on the staircase again because he is thirteen and therefore immortal. He laughs, a real one, and she tucks the sound away for the next bad night. He points up, out of reflex, at the long line of stars with the square at the top. “Draco,” he says, as if he needs to prove he remembers himself. She follows his finger, just to show she remembers too.

When the tower bell hums the warning for curfew’s deep hours, she shivers. He notices instantly and shrugs out of his cloak, draping it around her without ceremony. It smells like him. She thinks of two towels on a hook, two mugs drying—his blue enamel chipped, her white with the hairline crack. Evidence. Anchor.

“I’m walking you back,” he says, and it’s not a question.

“You’re stitched,” she counters, because someone should be sensible.

“You stitched me,” he says, mouth quirking. “I trust your work.”

The warmth that moves through her is almost painful. She stands, cloak snug at her throat, and he steps down from the parapet with care she appreciates more than she’ll say. When he sways once, only a breath, she reaches out and steadies him with a hand on his sternum. He looks down at her fingers there and then up at her face like the contact is as miraculous as the kiss. He covers her hand with his without thinking. She lets him.

They take the stair in companionable silence, the spirals familiar. On the landing with the mullioned window that always rattles, he stops her with a soft “Hermione?”

She turns. In the moonlight he’s all edges and softness at once. “Mm?”

“Say it again,” he says, quiet as the fog. There’s no arrogance in it, no manipulation. Just a boy who’s been cold too long and found the exact fireplace that remembers his name.

She smiles, helpless, because she is no better. “I still love you,” she says. “I choose you.”

He closes his eyes. When he opens them, he looks like himself and someone new. “I love you,” he answers, as if the night requires the exchange to be even.

On the next landing, he pauses again, lip tugging at the stiches when he tries not to smile. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“If I forget,” he says, serious now, as if handing her a key, “if it gets loud—will you tell me that you chose me? Out loud. Even if I don’t deserve it that day.”

She could cry for the simplicity of it. “Every time,” she promises. “And when I forget, when the room shrinks, you’ll remind me that together is bigger.”

He nods, once, like a vow, and this time it is.

They keep walking.

At the corridor where they must split—her staircase right, his left—they stop in the pool of light beneath a torch that tries to sputter and thinks better of it. He leans in as if to kiss her, hesitates before he remembers, he can. 

“Goodnight,” he says, softened in a way she used to think impossible.

“Goodnight,” she echoes, and the word is the first one in a new language they’ll learn as they go.

He turns, takes a step, hesitates, and looks back. She’s already looking. It makes both of them laugh quietly, in the way of conspirators who have just decided on the world.

“Tomorrow,” he says.

“Tomorrow,” she confirms.

He goes. She watches until the dark swallows his shoulder, his hand, the line of him. When she finally turns toward her own staircase, her chest feels bruised and bright at once. She presses her palm briefly to the stone, cool and damp, and thinks of trapdoors and rooms and the small engines of choice.

Down below, somewhere, the lake hushes the shore. Above, Draco the constellation keeps his long watch. In between, the castle breathes, and so, for the first time in too long, does she.

She is still wet with mist by the time she reaches the corridor outside her rooms. She stops there, alone, and says it once more into the empty air, for the girl who left and the woman who returned and the boy who waited on a tower: “I choose you.”

Then she goes inside to sleep, and for once, the door doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like a beginning they chose.

Chapter Text

6 Months Later

The morning heat came early in Marseille, slipping down the narrow streets before the baker had finished dusting flour from his hands. Hermione threaded her arm through Draco’s as they turned off the quay and into the lane with the blue shutters. The air smelled like coffee, thyme, and ocean.

They hadn’t planned to stay this long. A week had become two, and two blurred into “after graduation, just until we’ve learned how to breathe without counting.” They didn’t name it, but they were both thinking of Graves — the steady voice, the too-bright office where the air always seemed thinner, the homework of unclenching fists and finding words before silence ate them alive. It wasn’t everything. But it was a start.

Now there was a key with a red ribbon on it, a kettle that rattled when it boiled, and a way the light landed across the kitchen table that made Draco say, every afternoon at four, that this was the hour when even the ghosts took tea.

“Left,” he said, steering her with his hip. “The tomatoes you like.”

“You mean the tomatoes you declared beneath your dignity until you ate half of mine.”

His mouth twitched. “I’m evolving.”

“Slowly,” she teased, and he bumped her shoulder, which was answer enough.

The market opened like a story they already knew—bright cloth rippling, towers of fruit, fish gleaming like coins on ice. Hermione pressed a two-euro coin into Draco’s palm just to watch him sigh.

“You’ve got a one, a two, a five—and then ten is flimsy paper? This system is chaos.”

“It’s perfectly logical,” Hermione said, slipping her fingers into his. “You just haven’t learned the pattern yet.”

They were nearly at the boulangerie when a sound cut through the street—a thin, pitiful whine. Hermione stopped short. “Did you hear—?”

Draco’s head tilted. A flicker of wariness crossed his face, then softened into something she recognised: reluctant curiosity.

They followed it down the alley beside the bakery. Shade pooled there, boxes stacked against a wall, a bin pushed half under a shuttered window. Behind the boxes, something shifted.

Hermione crouched first. What emerged was not dangerous—only desperate. A scruffy, long-legged dog, ginger-brown with burrs in his tail and ribs showing like a cruel sketch. His eyes were enormous, liquid with hunger and hope.

“Oh,” Hermione breathed. Her chest pinched. She extended her hand, slow and open. The dog thumped his tail once, hesitant, then pressed his head into her palm as though he’d been waiting all morning for the chance.

Draco crouched beside her, linen trousers kissing the dust. “Well, you’re a tragic sight,” he said, voice caught between disdain and something far more tender. He unbuckled his belt, looped it carefully, and slid it over the dog’s neck. The animal didn’t resist—he only looked up, ears cocked, as if Draco had given him orders he was willing to follow.

Hermione scratched gently behind his ear, untangling a burr. “Someone left you,” she murmured. “And you survived anyway.”

Draco glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “We can’t keep him.” He said it like someone pointing out that rain fell downward.

Hermione shot him a look. “We absolutely can.”

The dog wagged his tail once, as if seconding her.

Back inside the bakery, the owner took one look at them and fetched a bowl. Within minutes, the dog was slurping water, crumbs of bread tumbling from Hermione’s hand. She tore the end of a baguette for him, smiling as he wolfed it down.

“You do realise,” she said, “this is straight out of Lady and the Tramp.”

Draco frowned. “Out of what?”

“The Disney film. With the dogs. The spaghetti.”

Blank stare.

Hermione gaped at him, delighted. “You’ve never seen Lady and the Tramp?”

“Granger, I grew up in a manor that thought chamber music was a raucous indulgence. If you think anyone was sneaking in moving pictures of… pasta-eating dogs—”

“They’re not just eating pasta! They’re in love. It’s iconic.”

Draco’s mouth twitched. “If you say we’re reenacting a children’s cartoon, I’ll leave you here with him.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Hermione replied, stroking the dog’s head. He leaned into her touch. Draco didn’t deny it.

When the baker asked the dog’s name, Draco surprised them both by answering instantly: “Marlowe.”

Hermione blinked. “Why Marlowe?”

“Because,” Draco said, as if that were reason enough.

The baker nodded sagely. “Bien sûr.”

They left with the baguette, a paper bag of madeleines, and a dog who trotted between them like he had been born into the space. Draco’s hand held the makeshift lead loose, like trust. Hermione slipped him half her baguette; he took a bite, broke another piece for her, and muttered, “Dogs aren’t supposed to eat bread.”

“We are,” she said, and he conceded.

The market unfolded again—stalls of cheese and olives and bright scarves. Hermione reached for tomatoes; Draco bought olives entirely by colour. The woman at the cheese stall laughed at something dry he said, and Hermione’s heart did its ridiculous Marseille-flip.

Then: “Ah! Les fiancés!”

Hermione startled. The vendor from last summer leaned across his crates, grin wide. “The girl with the brave mouth. The English boy with the sad eyes, who could not count.”

Draco stiffened. “My eyes—”

The man waved him off. “Not today. Today they are different. Less winter. More sun.”

Hermione felt the words land. Draco tried for a scowl but the vendor was already measuring apricots.

“Trois euros,” he said slyly. “For the fiancé who can count to three.”

Hermione dropped three coins into Draco’s palm. “He’s evolving,” she said lightly.

Draco muttered about indignities all the way to the end of the market, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

By the time they reached the sea, the sun was high. Marlowe padded into the shallows, first uncertain, then delighted. Hermione slipped off her sandals, laughing, and Draco sat on the warm stone to watch.

When she rejoined him, dripping, he tilted his head toward the dog. “So we’re keeping him.”

“Obviously.”

He sighed, resigned. “You realise this means we’re domestic.”

She bumped her shoulder into his. “Evolution.”

He huffed — the smallest, fondest sound — and leaned in to kiss her. It wasn’t a dramatic thing; just a quiet, familiar press of lips, sunlight caught between them. When she drew back, he looked at her the way he had that first morning they’d dared to stay — as though he was still astonished by the fact she hadn’t left.

She brushed her thumb across his jaw. “You’re getting sunburnt.”

“Occupational hazard,” he murmured, catching her wrist and kissing the inside of it. “I live with you.”

She laughed softly. “Tragic.”

“Entirely,” he said, but the word was wrapped in a smile.

They stayed there for a while, the sea breathing in and out beside them. Marlowe dozed between their feet, one paw twitching in dreams. Hermione rested her head on Draco’s shoulder and thought of the vendor’s words: less winter, more sun. She believed them. Because this — this was what choosing looked like.

Later, as the sky melted toward gold, Marlowe woke and bounded back to the water’s edge, barking at the waves. Hermione rose, brushed sand from her dress, and reached out a hand.

“Come on,” she said. “Left — the tomatoes you like.”

Draco smiled, slow and quiet, and took her hand. Together they walked into the sea — the dog splashing ahead, sunlight painting the surface copper.

The tide came in around their ankles. The city hummed behind them. And somewhere between the waves and the laughter, it felt like the world had finally decided to let them stay.

Less winter.

More sun.