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Chapter Text

Year 7

Life at Hogwarts had drifted into something far different than what Dumbledore had once prepared them for. Voldemort had remained in hiding—no attacks, no whispers, no signs of him at all. His presence had thinned to little more than a shadow clinging to the edges of history. Even Harry’s scar, once an angry reminder of danger, hurt less and less as the years rolled on.

Harry and Ginny had finally gotten together a few months ago. Busy as they were—both captains of their respective Quidditch teams—they still made time to wrap Hermione into their warm little orbit, making sure she never felt isolated or forgotten.

Ron, however… was another story.

He was still treating Hermione like some loyal pet meant to trail behind him whenever Harry wasn’t around. The way he spoke to her—carelessly, dismissively—grated on her more than she liked to admit. There had been a time, once, when she thought Ron Weasley might become something more. Someone she could trust, someone to lean on, someone who might actually see her.

But the older they became, the clearer it was: she didn’t like the person Ron was turning into.
Especially not when it came to her.

And so Hermione slowly drifted away.

She spent her time alone, rediscovering herself and others, in quiet corners and late-night wanderings—figuring out what she truly liked, who, and what mattered to her beyond expectations and friendships built on convenience. Ever since her seventeenth birthday and certain moment in year six, something inside her had shifted. Her interests had pulled away from the structured logic of Muggle studies and toward smaller, stranger things… things that felt ancient, ethereal, almost otherworldly.

It started one night in the Astronomy Tower, when the moon caught her attention in a way it never had before. It was beautiful—silver, powerful, haunting. She felt drawn to it as if something deep in her bones recognized it. From that night on, she was hooked. Every spare moment found her perched on the stone balcony, eyes tilted to the sky, tracing the moon’s phases and letting the stars whisper ancient secrets to her.

The more Harry and Ginny were busy, the more Hermione wandered off on her own, leaving Ron behind just as carelessly as he had once left her.

This year felt different.
A soft, electric hum under her skin.
A shifting in the air she couldn’t quite name.

Something was coming.
Something unusual.
And Hermione Granger—so rational, so grounded—had no idea that she was about to uncover secrets buried in her own bloodline.

⁺₊˚.⋆☾⋆.˚⁺₊

Draco Malfoy had his own secrets—ones he hadn’t even known existed until the summer he turned sixteen.

It began on an ordinary Wednesday.

He woke in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, every muscle in his body seizing and twisting painfully beneath his skin. The agony was blinding, primal. He choked on his own breath as he clawed at the sheets, begging—literally begging—for someone to help him. But no one could. And after hours of torment, he realized with cold horror that whatever was happening… he would have to endure it on his own.

The pain returned night after night, building, growing, evolving. He didn’t understand it—why his bones felt like they were splintering, why his skin felt too tight, why his senses were sharpening into something animal.

His parents worried.
Narcissa more than Lucius.

And Narcissa—she knew.

Her family carried a secret that had slept for generations, and it was waking now in her only son. She knew the first time she saw him writhing on the floor, his body contorting unnaturally, strength rippling beneath his skin like something was trying to break free.

That very night, she sent an owl.

Two days later, Draco lay trembling on the cold floor of his bedroom, breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts, when the door swung open. Light flooded in, painful and blinding—until a tall silhouette stepped into the glow.

Draco blinked hard, trying to focus.
A man approached—silent, steady, familiar in a way that tugged at his memory. And then he knew.

“Sirius—Black?” Draco rasped, stunned.

Sirius, his mother’s estranged cousin—the one his father cursed by name, the one Narcissa never quite defended but never condemned either—crossed the room in three long strides. He knelt beside Draco, muttered a spell under his breath, and a warm rush of relief washed through Draco’s limbs. The pain lessened just enough for him to sit up, breathing hard.

Seeing Sirius and his mother in the same room felt impossible, wrong… yet something about it made sense in a way that tightened Draco’s chest.

He should’ve known.
And right now, he was almost grateful.

“Why is this happening to me?” Draco forced out, voice raw, pleading despite himself.

Sirius exhaled softly and sank into the chair beside him. “Incredibly,” he began, “the Black family has a long lineage of shapeshifters. And you, Draco, have been blessed with the gift.”

“Blessed?” Draco snapped, pain igniting his temper. “I’m in agony.”

“That’s because you haven’t shifted yet.” Sirius leaned forward, eyes serious. “Once it happens, your body will stop fighting itself. You’ll feel… more like yourself again. A different self, but your true one.”

Draco swallowed hard. “Shift into what, exactly?”

Sirius’s expression softened into something almost proud.
“Wolves. Our bloodline descends from them. And by the looks of it, your first shift will be soon. Very soon. If we don’t get you to the campsite with the others, the pain will only get worse.”

Draco’s voice dropped to a whisper. “There are more like me?”

Sirius nodded slowly. “Me. You. Many more. You’ll see soon enough.”

Chapter Text

Year 5

There had been whispers of Voldemort—quiet, infrequent, weakening. Harry’s scar hurt only every few months now, faint reminders rather than warnings. The Ministry was still a nightmare, and Dumbledore continued urging them to prepare, to train in secret, especially while Umbridge slithered through the halls.

Still, fifth year had moments of light.

Gryffindor Quidditch thrived that season, which meant victory parties, loud music, and more than a few tipsy nights spent dancing with her friends. It was also the height of Hermione’s brief, shining relationship with Ron. Compliments she hadn’t asked for, flowers every Friday, and dates at least once a month without Harry or Ginny or anyone for that matter. It had been hard to find time alone, but they managed. Hermione’s days were full—school, DA, Ron, her friends. Full enough that she almost missed the slow, subtle unraveling of Draco Malfoy.

Almost.

It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t dramatic.
It crept in quietly.

One afternoon in Potions, Harry and Ron were muttering about Malfoy—calling him vile, awful, the usual. Hermione only half-listened. Something tugged her attention away from their complaints and toward the Slytherin table.

Malfoy looked… different.

He slid onto the bench beside Theodore Nott, and for the first time Hermione really saw him. Deep, raw cuts—not scratches, cuts—ran along the side of his neck and across his cheek. Another peeked from beneath his sleeve when he reached for his book.

Her breath hitched.
Not in worry—at least that’s what she told herself—but curiosity. What was he doing to get injured like that?

She overheard Theo teasing him about the marks. Draco’s jaw clenched, irritation radiating off him, and he growled low under his breath,

“I did them myself.”

Hermione wasn’t convinced.

The next thing she noticed was his intensity. Not his usual sharpness or arrogance—this was worse. Heightened. Volatile. Some days he looked like a storm waiting for a reason to break. She joked silently that he must have his own version of a monthly cycle that turned him into the most dramatic man alive… until she realized it wasn’t funny.

His outbursts weren’t just snide remarks anymore.
They were controlled only by the thin thread of his restraint.

And Ron was often the unfortunate spark.

Then came the moment that truly unsettled her.

It was during Care of Magical Creatures. Malfoy, who once mocked Hagrid’s class relentlessly, suddenly connected with every creature he approached—even the temperamental ones, the dangerous ones. They came to him easily, curiously, like they knew him. Trusted him.

Hermione watched him stroke the mane of a creature known for biting. He murmured something soft, and the creature melted under his touch. Draco smiled—really smiled—and Hermione felt something catch low in her stomach.

Animals didn’t trust bad people.

Animals knew.

And animals adored Draco Malfoy.

It didn’t make sense.

But it lingered with her.

And then came the last incident—the one she couldn’t forget if she tried.

DADA, the final month of school. Snape lectured about OWLs and expectations for sixth year. He said something that clearly rubbed Draco the wrong way. The tension simmered. The class turned to watch.

And then it happened.

Draco’s eyes—cold grey, familiar grey—lit up.
Not metaphorically. Literally.

A bright, piercing silver flared through them, like a shard of moonlight trapped behind his pupils. It was faint, quick, but unmistakable. Hermione gasped aloud before she could stop herself, earning annoyed looks from Harry and Ron.

But she couldn’t look away.

She had never seen anything so strange, so captivating, so… beautiful.

That summer, she saw those eyes everywhere— in dreams, in reflections, in every patch of moonlight she walked through.

They followed her. Haunted her. Pulled her.

And she had no idea why.

⁺₊˚.⋆☾⋆.˚⁺₊

Year 6

Life shifted sharply for Hermione that year. She and Ron had broken up during the beginning of the year — Ron simply wasn’t ready for the kind of relationship he thought he wanted. He was still too boyish, too reactive, too possessive of things he had no right to claim. Hermione refused to spend her sixth year babysitting his insecurities or enduring every mistake he’d inevitably make.

But the breakup didn’t mean everything stopped. They still fooled around sometimes, drifting in and out of each other’s orbit without any label. And though Ron had no claim to her anymore, he acted like he did — snapping whenever she spoke to someone else, sulking if she made plans without him. He loved the idea of owning her, of being her first and last and everything. Hermione hated it. She hated feeling like property — especially at sixteen. She wanted space, freedom, the right to have fun and make her own choices. Friends with benefits was supposed to grant her that.

Or so she thought.

As the school year settled in, Hermione realized Ron wasn’t the only one who had changed. Draco Malfoy had too — but in ways that were… startling.

He’d grown over the summer, and not just in height. His shoulders were broader, his muscles defined beneath his uniform in a way that made her blink twice. He moved differently, too — with a coiled strength that hadn’t been there the year before, as though preparing for some battle no one else could see.

If she’d thought he was different last year, this version of Draco felt like a stranger wearing his skin. A stronger, sharper, more dangerous stranger.

But what struck her even more was everything he stopped doing. He no longer laughed with his friends in the corridors. No longer chimed in with Nott or Zabini during lessons. No longer uttered a single word of pure-blood superiority — not even when provoked. He brushed off comments from his housemates, ignored anything remotely Dark, and walked around with a haunted tension in his jaw as though carrying a secret too heavy for a sixteen-year-old boy.

Hermione, despite herself, was speechless… and curious. Something was very wrong — or very different — and she couldn’t yet tell which. She considered writing to his mother, or at least informing a professor. But instead, she kept watching him, unable to look away.

It all came to a head during the final Potions lab of the term. They were paired together — one full week of shared work, quiet proximity, and an unexpected absence of insults. Hermione had braced for sneers, for snide remarks about her Muggle-born status. Instead she received clipped but respectful responses, soft nods, and a willingness — willingness — to follow her lead.

She didn’t understand it.
Not yet.

On the last day of the project, Cormac McLaggen opened his mouth and let out something vulgar — something so degrading about women that half the girls at the table stiffened. Cormac smirked, pleased with the discomfort he caused, leaning into it with another crude joke.

He never noticed the storm brewing behind him.

But Hermione did.

Draco’s posture shifted first — spine straightening, muscles tightening beneath his robes. Then came the insult he snapped back, low and sharp. Then the sudden eruption of fury. He stood, chair screeching, and the room seemed to tilt with the force of his presence.

For two years she’d noticed the changes in him — the tension, the strength, the simmering anger he tried to cage. But she’d never seen him like this. He looked feral. Beautiful, but feral. A man rather than the boy she’d known. Someone who could rip Cormac apart without hesitation.

Hermione should have been afraid. She wasn’t.
Not of him.

The moment spiraled, voices rising, magic humming sharp in the air. And Hermione didn’t know what possessed her — whether it was instinct or something deeper — but she reached out and placed her hand gently over his.

Draco froze.
Completely.

His head snapped toward her, breath catching. His eyes — normally storm-cloud grey — flickered darker, deepening into endless black as they locked onto hers. Hermione’s skin warmed instantly beneath his touch, heat blooming across her palm and racing up her arm.

“Please stop,” she whispered, voice barely more than breath. “Okay?”

His body obeyed her before his mind could catch up.

He sank back into his seat, chest rising and falling in controlled breaths. The fury melted off him in slow, reluctant waves. When Hermione withdrew her hand, her skin tingled at the sudden loss of warmth.

They finished the remaining work in silence.
But something was irrevocably different.

Before this, Draco never looked at her directly — always glancing past her, around her, anywhere but at her.
Now?

She caught his gaze at least eight times.
And each time she turned away first, because the truth became painfully obvious:

He hadn’t stopped looking at her since the moment she touched him.

Hermione tried to move on from that day in Potions. She tried to pretend it meant nothing — that touching Draco Malfoy, calming him with a single whisper, feeling his pulse thunder beneath her fingertips — was simply a strange accident. A fluke. Something she’d laugh about later.

But she didn’t laugh.

She thought about it. Endlessly. Obsessively.

Thought about the heat of his skin under hers, the way his breath had caught, the way his eyes had darkened into something wild and unspoken. His gaze haunted her — that stunned, ravenous look he’d tried so hard to mask.

At night, she replayed the moment over and over, fingertips tingling as though still pressed to his. She’d wake in her dorm with her heart racing, chest tight, Draco's face flashing behind her eyelids. She told herself it was curiosity. She told herself it was confusion.

But deep down, Hermione Granger knew the truth.

She wanted to touch him again.

And Draco Malfoy?
Draco had been avoiding her like she carried the plague.

Not the cruel, arrogant avoidance she’d once known from him — no sneers, no cutting remarks, no muttered insults as he brushed past her. No, this was different. This was panicked avoidance. Darting around corners when she approached. Quickly grabbing different seats. Leaving rooms the moment she entered.

Once, during a passing period, she caught sight of him down a hallway. The second his eyes met hers, he froze. Just long enough for her stomach to twist — before he spun and vanished like a gust of wind. As though being near her was dangerous.

At first it annoyed her. Then it confused her. And then… she noticed the signs.

The slight tremor in his hands when she walked too close. The way his shoulders tensed when he accidentally caught her scent — warm vanilla, a hint of rose. The flicker of silver in his irises before he forced himself to look away.

Whatever was happening to him, it was getting worse.

He was fighting something. Fighting himself.

And Hermione had no idea that it all came down to her.

Because Draco didn't fear her. He feared what he became around her.

Around Hermione, his transformation surged — instinct, emotion, dominance, all clawing their way up his spine. His senses sharpened uncontrollably, her scent hitting him like a physical force. It wrapped around him, sweet and maddening, tugging at something ancient and feral buried deep in his bloodline. His skin felt too tight, like he was seconds away from splitting it open. His bones ached with the need to shift, his muscles coiled and trembling with restraint.

He wanted her too much. Wanted to be closer — dangerously close.
Wanted to protect, touch, claim, scent-mark—

He shook the thoughts away every time, horrified by the intensity of them.

He couldn’t shift in front of her. He couldn’t lose control. And Merlin, he would lose control.

So he kept his distance. Not because he hated her. But because one inhale of her scent made his wolf rise beneath his skin like a storm, demanding what Draco himself was terrified to want.

But no matter how far he ran from her in the corridors, how quickly he escaped classrooms, how fiercely he avoided her eyes — She never left his head. She never left his senses. And she never left his thoughts. Hermione Granger had become his greatest danger. And the only thing that could soothe him.

Chapter Text

The summer was long and isolating.

Harry and Ginny had finally gotten together, and although Hermione was happy for them, it left her stranded at the Burrow with little to do but read in corners or help Fred and George test their ridiculous inventions. She felt out of place there—an intruder, almost.

She and Ron had broken up, and somehow that single fact shifted the entire house against her. The warmth of the Weasleys cooled into something stiff and polite. Conversations dimmed when she walked into a room; Molly’s motherly attention turned blunt, perfunctory. Even Ron avoided her unless he wanted something.

Hermione couldn’t ignore the truth: she wasn’t welcome there anymore. And she would not stay where she felt unwanted.

The next morning, before anyone else woke, she packed her trunk and Apparated home. Only two weeks of summer had passed, and she was already alone again.

Her parents worked long hours, and she had no friends in the Muggle world who understood her well enough to fill the silence. And so her mind wandered—too often, too easily—to someone she shouldn’t be thinking about.

Draco Malfoy.

She wondered what he was doing at that exact moment. Was he at the Manor? Flying? Training? Fighting with his father? Did he still have that sharp, restless tension in his shoulders? Did he still watch people with that unsettling focus?

She told herself it was curiosity—just curiosity—but there were moments, minutes at a time, when she’d stare at nothing and imagine him. And each time she’d snap out of it, heat would crawl up her neck because that wasn’t normal. She shouldn’t be thinking about him at all.

And then the dreams began.

They came on soft summer nights—always the same time, always the same moon suspended overhead like a watchful eye. She dreamed of walking through a forest, shadows shifting between trees, the scent of pine and cold wind brushing her skin. Sometimes she stood on a wooden porch overlooking dark woods; sometimes she was barefoot in the grass.

But every dream ended the same way:
a pair of bright, silver-grey eyes watching her from the shadows, unblinking, electric, alive. And then a tall, broad figure would emerge into her periphery—never fully seen, never touching her, but close enough that she felt warmth radiating off him.

She always woke breathless. Unsure. Wanting.

What Hermione never considered—not even once—was that those dreams weren’t hers alone.

While she lay tossing in her sheets, Draco Malfoy lay curled in the tangled remnants of his own transformation, wrestling instincts he barely understood. And every week—sometimes every night—he dreamed of her too.

Except Draco’s dreams weren’t the vague, shifting shadows Hermione saw. His were visceral. Consuming. Wolves and moonlight. Her scent heavy in the air. Her gaze pinning him down harder than any chain.

He didn’t know he was projecting those images outward, binding their subconscious together like two threads drawn toward a single knot. He only knew that when he dreamed of her, he woke with his heart pounding and his skin burning—and something inside him clawing desperately to be closer.

And Hermione, unknowingly tethered to the wolf she had touched once in a moment of instinct and tenderness, became obsessed with understanding the symbols slipping into her sleep.

Forests. Wolves. Phases of the moon.
Stars bursting across a sky she swore she had memorized before.

She poured herself into Astronomy like a woman possessed, mapping out every correlation she could find. But the more she studied, the more impossible the coincidences became.

Because each dream aligned perfectly with Draco’s shifting cycles. Each moon phase matched the pull in his blood.

But neither of them knew that yet.

They only knew they were being drawn—slowly, steadily, inevitably—back toward each other.

⁺₊˚.⋆☾⋆.˚⁺₊

Hermione watched him more than she should have.
Far more.

Every time she entered a classroom, her gaze drifted—almost instinctively—searching for pale hair, sharp shoulders, the familiar tension of him. But Draco Malfoy was harder to spot this year. He stuck close only to Blaise and Theo now, occasionally Pansy, and the rest of the time he seemed to vanish into shadows of the castle she had never learned to navigate.

Still, she looked for him.
Still, she felt him.

It wasn’t just her mind that betrayed her—it was her body too.
Every time he passed by, even without looking at her, that same sensation from their touch last year would flare through her veins: the sudden stillness, the tightness in her breath, the quiet, electric awareness that narrowed the world down to just the two of them. Hermione shouldn’t crave that feeling. She knew she shouldn’t.

But she did.

And she hated how easily she remembered the exact way his eyes had blown wide the moment her hand brushed his.

Draco, of course, noticed her watching—because the second he entered a room, his gaze went to her too. He was just faster at hiding it. But Merlin, her scent…
Her scent was a war.

It wrapped around him, pulled at him, teased every instinct he’d tried to bury. It made his magic restless, his control thin, his breathing uneven. Being near her was torture—slow, exquisite torture—and staying away was the only chance he had at keeping himself from unraveling.

But fate didn’t care what Draco wanted.

Every time he walked through the castle, aiming deliberately away from wherever she might be, he would turn a corner and nearly collide with her. The first time he thought his senses were malfunctioning. The second time he considered the horrifying possibility that she was following him. By the fourth time he realized the truth:

He was broken.

The castle was saturated with her. Every path led back to her.

It drove him mad.

Even deep in the Slytherin dungeons—far below the corridors she usually walked—he paced like a caged animal, hands in his hair, breath ragged as he tried to force his instincts down. He could smell everything she did. Every emotion. Every shift in her mood. And it was too much. His control snapped like brittle glass; magic flared and the room exploded into chaos, objects levitating, books flying, chairs slamming.

The early pains of his transformation surged back—sharp, clawing, debilitating.

Blaise and Theo rushed out of their hallway the instant they heard the crash.

“Whoa—are you alright, mate?” Blaise said, grabbing Draco’s arm and dragging him to the couch while Theo steadied his other side.

“No,” Draco snarled through clenched teeth. “And I don’t know what’s happening.”

He winced, gripping his chest. “You’re going to have to knock me out.”

“Excuse me?” Blaise blinked. “What the hell is going on?”

“Seriously, dude—we’ve known you our whole lives.” Theo added. “Just tell us.”

Draco exhaled a shaking breath, agony twisting through him. If he didn’t tell someone, he was convinced he’d tear the room apart—or himself.

“My mother’s side has shapeshifters in their bloodline,” he said tightly. “And I’m one of them. A wolf.”

Theo opened his mouth, but Draco snapped, “Don’t. Not one word.”

“And right now,” he groaned, “I’m smelling someone who is driving me absolutely fucking insane.”

His confession seemed to ease the pain slightly—his breaths slowing, muscles unclenching just enough to breathe.

“Do they smell bad?” Theo asked, utterly serious.

“No, mate,” Draco said, exhausted.

“Are you wanting to hurt them?” Blaise asked, voice low.

“NO.”

The word ripped out of him.

He dragged both hands down his face. “I’m feeling like I want to peel the skin off every man that comes within five feet of her.”

Both Blaise and Theo froze.

“And because I can smell that fucker next to her right now,” Draco growled, leg bouncing violently, “and there is nothing I can fucking do about it.”

He stared into the fire, chest rising and falling too quickly.

“What do you mean you can’t do anything?” Blaise asked carefully.

“I mean I don’t know what would happen if I tried. If it would hurt her. And I would never—” His voice cracked. “I would never risk that. Not when this… whatever this is… is already hurting her just by existing.”

Blaise sat there speechless.
His best friend was a wolf. His best friend was in pain. His best friend was losing his mind over a girl.
It was a lot.

But Theo, entirely lacking timing, still asked the most important question:

“So… who’s the girl?”

Draco’s head snapped toward him, jaw tightening.

He said nothing.

His body twitched, instincts flaring, and then he abruptly pushed himself off the couch.

“I’m going to bed,” he muttered, fleeing down the hall before either of them could blink.

Because he couldn’t say her name. Not when even thinking it sent a shiver crawling up his spine.

Not when he didn’t understand what these feelings meant—or why a single touch from her last year had changed the entire direction of his life.

⁺₊˚.⋆☾⋆.˚⁺₊

Hermione normally dreaded sharing classes with Malfoy. For six years she’d met his sneers, his jabs, his childish insults with gritted teeth and a forced calm. There were days she’d genuinely considered asking McGonagall to move her schedule just to avoid him.

But now?

Now she found herself anticipating their shared lessons.

Something in her warmed—low, deep, embarrassingly alive—whenever she knew she would see him. She tried not to make it obvious. A few subtle glances. A slow walk past his desk. Once, a deliberate brush of her shoulder against his arm that sent heat sparking under her skin.

Hermione waited for something to happen again.

But while she grew patient, Draco turned into a storm barely contained.

His temper was a live wire. His posture sharpened. Every sound seemed to grate on him. Students moved more cautiously around him than ever, sensing something simmering beneath his skin, something dangerous, something other. He was coiled tight, as though he had to consciously hold himself still.

And Hermione noticed. She noticed everything.

The way his jaw clenched when someone brushed too close. The way his nostrils flared as though scents bothered him. The way his eyes—those mercury-gray eyes—kept tracking her like she was the only thing in the room worth watching.

She tried not to think about the way he looked at her. She tried not to think about the dreams. She failed.

Draco tried too—but he failed worse.

Watching her flip her curls over her shoulder, straighten her back, or cross her legs all neat and proper—it was torment. Worse still was when she leaned forward to whisper to Harry or laugh with him. Harry didn’t bother Draco; he was safe for her, predictable.

But Ron?

Ron frayed every nerve in his body.

Especially now, when Ron’s voice rose loud enough for Draco to hear—on purpose.

“I just think some people don’t deserve to live in our world still,” Ron said carelessly to Cormac and Seamus, all three of them laughing. Hermione’s head snapped toward Draco before she could stop herself.

Draco leaned forward slowly, like a predator acknowledging a challenge. “I think you should shut your mouth, Weasel,” he called back, voice low, steady, dangerous. That steadiness scared her more than the shouting ever had.

Ron scoffed and stood. “Or what? You going to hit me?”

“Yeah,” Draco said plainly, standing as well, towering without effort. “I think I am.”

Blaise grabbed his arm before he could take a step.

“Always violence,” Ron muttered.

“And you’ll always be the sidekick,” Draco shot back, eyes narrowed. “Harry Potter’s best friend—nothing more. That is all you will ever be.”

Hermione didn’t even realize she’d stopped breathing until Ron lunged at Draco and Harry had to hold him back. Flitwick’s high-pitched reprimands rang through the room, but Draco’s attention had already drifted elsewhere.

To her.

“Accept it, man—you’re a fucking loser!” Draco barked one last time.

And then he froze.

Hermione stood there, lips parted, eyes burning into his. She wasn’t angry—she was worried. Confused. A little hurt. Something in him reacted to that instantly.

She mouthed, Please… stop.

And gods help him—he did.

It wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t reluctance. It was instant. Her silent plea cut through the haze roaring in his head when no one else’s voice could even touch him.

He stepped back as if pulled by a string only she controlled. His friends stared, bewildered, as he grabbed his things and strode out of the classroom before he could betray himself further.

Only when the door shut behind him did Hermione inhale again.
Her pulse throbbed at her throat. Shame, confusion, and something warmer—more dangerous—spread through her chest.

Why her? How could a single look from her stop him when shouts, commands, and threats couldn’t? Why did he even look at her that way?

And worst of all…

Was he feeling the same unspoken pull that had been haunting her since summer?

Hermione swallowed hard. She wasn’t going to stop until she found out what was happening to Draco Malfoy.

Whatever it was… it was connected to her.