Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The war wasn’t over, just because the Battle of Hogwarts was done and Voldemort was dead. No matter how much Ron, Rita Skeeter, or the Daily Prophet screamed that it was.

In the last few months, the Ministry, namely the Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt, quickly became the face of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (DMLE). He set up a committee that created a mysterious Auror squad of Anti-Death Eaters Unit (ADU) that began hunting down any continued dissent after Voldemort fell. Dissenters were quickly and quietly rounded up; entire prominent families disappeared from the public eye.

When the dust settled in the months that followed, there were murmurs about what the ADU Aurors were allowed to do to achieve this—the Dark Magic and the Unforgivables, the lengths they could go to find Death Eaters, funders, and their sympathizers.

Harry and and Ron laughed with glee, devouring all of this in the Daily Prophet. It was, at least, a welcome change from their war-torn, gaunt faces splashed all over on the covers.

“—Fucking serves them right!”

“—Yeah. Did you see this, ‘Mione? They found Zabini’s family in Greece!”

But something about the news rubbed Hermione the wrong way. She nodded quickly. She already read the article in the morning. They weren’t saying anything new.

As spring turned into summer, the days warmed and life seemed a bit more upbeat. The Golden Trio - as they were called over and over again, but a name preferable to Blood Traitors, child soldiers, or even Dumbledore's army - were still constantly in the news, detailing their everyday comings and goings and commenting on their private lives, however inaccurate. 

The Chosen One Becomes the Chosen Two. 

Brightest Witch of her Age Breaks up the Golden Trio

Potter's Secret Life and Lovechild; Breaks Granger's Heart

These articles were less welcome. Although none of them had any basis in reality, Hermione saw that it bothered Ronald. His name was rarely mentioned, and if it were, his heroics were overlooked in favour of how Harry saved the world; how Hermione was the true brains of the operation; or how Hermione was cuckolding him with Harry. 

The days that stretched into months were quiet afterward. No one quite sure what to do with this amount of time stretched out in front of them. Little structure. Nothing to look forward to. Harry, Hermione, and Ron were still picking up the pieces.

Along with the Hogwarts elves and other students, they helped to clean up the school during the days. At nights, they often met up with the lot — Ginny and Neville of course, Seamus, Dean, Padma, Parvati, Katie, Cormac, Hannah, in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade. Then others came - Cho, Justin, and Anthony, first tentatively, now enveloped into the fold. Sometimes, they would bring others. 

They laughed raucously, regaled about certain parts of the battle - the parts they could stomach - and more importantly, they drank and took potions that Neville brewed, dripping drops into their drinks or downing whole bottles. Sometimes they were invigorating; other times calming; all welcome experiences from the dreariness each Hogwarts student felt. Learning things they were too young to know. The smell of fear, sweat, shit, and blood swirling in the air; how terror appeared in a child's eyes; and what a body looked like when the soul finally leaves its confines. 

They stayed in one bar until they were kicked out. Too rowdy or too drunk. They Apparated from the Leaky Cauldron to Three Broomsticks to Hog's Head, in random order. They didn't much care. They would do it again tomorrow. 

The lines that separated the Houses were less clear now. What was now important was ... well, they weren’t sure, but not that.

From the grapevine of whoever had the gossip, they learned that Hogwarts was going to stay closed for the time being - some work to be done on the stone foundations, the clock, and Astronomy Tower, and additional wards if the rumours were to be believed.

On the days where they didn’t go to a pub or Hogwarts, they were at the Burrow. Harry and Hermione loved it; it was always loud, busy, and bright. Food was always cooking somewhere; a loud explosion every now and again; and Molly screeching at one of her children to be careful. They slept from early evening to early afternoon — all three of them in Ron’s room. No one roused them. They were dead to the world. Ron gave Hermione his bed, and transfigured a couple of stools into small cots for Harry and himself. Each cot flanked one side of the bed. They slept, and slept, and slept.

When Molly or Arthur checked in on them in the morning as they were wont to do, the door was always slightly ajar—a small detail that Hermione never forgot. She was already sleeping and ostensibly living at the Burrow. She wanted Molly and Arthur to be comfortable with her presence in her son’s room.

The Weasleys’ parents found them always as they were, in their respective beds and cots. Even though by now, they knew they would be, Molly always breathed a sigh of relief. Their eyes then drifted down to their son's hands. Most nights, they would find Ron’s hands clasped tightly around Hermione’s, eyes shut but rolling around, and brows furrowed in some sort of feverish dream or nightmare.

After breakfast, Ginny sometimes checked in on them too. Although she wasn't proud of it, she would feel a sharp twinge of jealousy in her chest watching Hermione’s finger curled sleepily around Ron's or Harry’s as they slept. Ginny knew that for now, it was what they needed … to signal to each other that they were alive and safe, even while asleep. She swallowed that bitter feeling and closed the door.

Other nights, Hermione’s hands drifted down from Ron's/her bed, and her finger curled tightly against Harry’s soft jumper or bedsheet. She watched and waited until she saw his chest move. Counting until she was sure it wasn't a fluke. 

Rise and fall.

Rise and fall.

Rise and fall.

She turned over on her back, squeezed her eyes tight - trying to not make a sound - as tears escaped the corners of her eyes. Sometimes she couldn't contain them and broke out into heaving sobs.

Relief. Harry was there. Harry was always here. He didn't reject her. He didn't leave her. Not like Ron. Not like Malfoy. Not like her parents.

This time, it was relief. A cool rush of relief spread over her, touching her wherever her tears fell. Illogical, though it was, that was how it felt. 

Other times, she cried because she was happy. She had them. They survived. They were here. Their warmth, their hands, their breathing, all real. Sometimes Hermione cried because she was still scared; sometimes she cried for what she did, what she had to do; sometimes she cried because her right arm still hurt.

Remnants of Dark Magic, she surmised.

The words were still there: angry, jagged writing in the form of reddish-pink scar tissue. Glamours didn't work on it.

Mudblood.

Raised skin. Ugly. In these moments, she looked up at the ceiling and saw a pair of grey-blue eyes looking down at her. They were torn. His mouth downturned into a painful grimace, as each Cruciatus curse hit her.

She heard her bones crack.

Bile moving up and out of her mouth as she seized.

Blood leaking out of every orifice. 

He recognized them. Within earshot, she heard him.

His voice was small. Like a boy's. He was reluctant but steadfast in his confusion.

In her pained haze, as she was pinned to his Drawing Room floor, she wanted the pain to stop. She willed herself to die.

Please. Let go. 

He watched her, wearing a pained expression on his face. His eyes followed the tear that leaked out of her, and the blood that dripped from her nose and mouth to the floor, pooling around her.

The taste of sharp and salty copper.

But he stayed motionless, as if hexed to the ground, while Bellatrix bit her and carved those lazy letters into her arm, forever etched into her skin. 

She tried to call out his name. To plead with him. To make the pain stop. To kill her. She cried, "Dra—hic—co." sounding out those foreign syllables in her mouth.  But all that came out was ash and more screams. 

He turned away.

In those moments, she felt a fire burn inside her and tears slipped silently out of the side of her eyes. The fire, akin to what she thought hate felt like, threatened to consume her throat and nose, then her chest, until she couldn’t breathe. She sat up, body racking with sobs and convulsions. More than once, she got nosebleeds upon waking or tasted bile bubbling up in her throat as she dry-heaved in the bed.

Sometimes she couldn't make it in time to the bathroom. 

Hearing her cries and retching, either Harry or Ron or both sat up with her through the night. Holding her hand too tightly, so they knew she was here. Pinching her nose to stop the blood. Vanished her bodily fluids. They never said anything. Her back ached terribly from sobbing or retching. They rubbed her back until she laid back down. They reminded her that they were still there.

She hated those moments. She hated having Harry and Ron see them. She hated feeling weak. The visceral, throbbing pain that lit her head on fire extended to her forearm sometimes. She could manage that. As she laid back down, she often thought about that night in Malfoy Manor. She wondered if he thought of her; if he felt the same anger course through her veins. If he saw her in his nightmares. She hoped he did. She hated him.  

Right before she drifted off to another fitful sleep, another tear slipped out of her. If she were honest, those tears were for herself. Of self pity and ugliness. It was the feeling of rejection. Like she was disposable; like she was nothing; like she didn’t matter.

She reminded herself again that she had them, Ron and Harry. They were there, alive, warm, and comforting her. She wasn’t alone. In her nightmares, she reached out to him every time, but every single time, he turned away.

In. Out.
In. Out.

This time, Hermione was able to control her breathing.

In the past few months, she wasn’t the only one to wake up in cold sweats or vomit. Sometimes it was Ron; sometimes it was Harry. Ron dreamt about Fred and her. He would sometimes scream, “Hermione!” as he awoke,  then paw at her body when he awoke. Sometimes she allowed him into the bed. She held him close until he stopped shaking, ignoring his growing erection and reminding him of Harry's presence.

Harry’s nightmares were a mixed bag of his horrors of dying and guilt of having people die in his name. In his dreams, he saw nothing but fast-forwarded destruction behind his bespectacled green eyes: Death in the shape of Voldemort; carnage of the Death Eaters, disintegrating buildings, Lily's wilted body, Hermione's screams, Luna in the cellar, Colin, Dumbledore, Moody, Lupin, Tonks, Severus, etc. All bleeding from their eyes, lined up in front of him. No amount of sleep seemed to help. The numbers of fallen loved ones just kept adding up.

Harry blamed himself. Someone had to. 

While trying to avoid another nightmare, the three of them often sat up together on Ron's bed until dawn. They were solemn and serious. They spoke sparsely, in low tones, and took turns comforting one another.

Shh …

You’re here. I’m here …

Breathe …

It’s okay.

I’m here.

Just because the war was over, didn't mean all was well. Ghosts, monsters, and horror still warred within them. 

With no immediate plans, Harry and Hermione stayed at the Burrow. No one asked why they didn’t head back to Muggle London. They didn’t have the answers.

No one did.

Chapter Text

The first to leave was Hermione.

In the beginning of August, as her bruises healed, her scars no longer weeping Dark Magic, and a split lip barely visible, she headed for Perth.

Although Harry and Ron had more than an inkling of what happened last year, Hermione never wanted to talk about it. In the tent, she would brush away their questions about where her parents were and if they knew where she was. She would placate the boys, saying, “It’ll be fine,” her voice slightly cracking. “We just gotta get through this.”

When Hermione announced that she was going to go to Australia to reinscribe her parents' memories, Harry and Ron offered to go with her. She refused; she was going to go the Muggle way, by plane. She needed some alone time with her parents, tell them the truth, and face any consequences coming to her.

She also needed time away from them. While Hermione loved them dearly-her boys, her Harry, her Ron-she needed space. She trusted them with her life, and they her. They saved her in more ways than one—from her loneliness, from Malfoy’s bullying, and of course, her life. But as time marched on with no end in sight, no news from Hogwarts, no real news of anything, she felt stilted.

As for Ron, she remembered their kiss well. Passionate and fearful. Full of unspoken promises. She remembered thinking they would have all the time in the world when the war was over. When Voldemort was dead. They could learn each other's bodies. Find out what she liked. What he liked. Build something real together.

Viktor had given her a taste. A few sloppy kisses behind tapestries, a frantic handjob, and his thick fingers nestled inside her. Hurried, wet breaths in her ear and licks on her neck that made her shiver. He was patient. Kissed her on the forehead when they finished. He would write to her, he said. And he did. He always kept his promises. 

Of course, Ron didn’t notice that she was listless. Unmoored. He was happy as a clam around her, stuffing his mouth with sausages or whatever Molly had made too much of that day. If Hermione were near, he was content. Always within reach and able to touch her hand or the small of her back. Twirled his fingers around her bushy hair. Listened to her light snores beside him. She smelled nice, like parchment and ink with a hint of florals. He needed her. He needed what he knew when he lost so much of what he had.

Hermione felt the same too ... most of the time. She responded to his light touches with a squeeze or a smile. Ron was steadfast in his affections, always doing something a little more to show that he remembered; that he still wanted her, whether it was pouring coffee for her first or brushing his lips across her forehead to say good morning or before he left for somewhere. She needed Ron; Harry too. A reminder of her chosen family. What she still had. Ron was good. They hadn’t kissed since the battle. Since the infirmary. He knew she wasn’t ready. Maybe he wasn’t too. They hadn’t talked about it.

But still — they should talk.

In July, she stopped sleeping so much, and roused early with the sun. Harry and Ron would find her outside at a picnic table or in the dining room, with books stacked on top of one another or splayed out on the living room carpet. Hermione wrote hundreds of inches of parchment, trying to find the correct spell. She poured through books on Memory charms, on potions, on Unforgivables: Magical Drafts and Potions, A History of Magic, Mama Val's Quick Remedies,  Advanced Potion Making, Magical Theory, and so forth.

Harry only recognized one from second year, The Standard Books of Spells, Gr. 2.

While reading, Hermione would often be lost to the world and time, carelessly twirling her pen or her curly tendrils around her finger. Forgetting to eat or drink until Ron forced her to leave the books for a moment.

She found one passage particularly challenging that described the ingredients necessary for a Reversal Memory potion: seeds of an anthurium sancti.

What the fuck - A rare and nearly extinct plant found in Brazil. Maybe she could harvest some seeds. And some invisible creatures she was certain she heard Luna rattle off. Was she just fooling herself? Nothing felt within reach. But she had to try.

Hermione huffed impatiently. She was getting nowhere. She twirled her tendrils around her hand, forgetting that she was balancing a pen on her middle finger. But as she pulled—Oh bollocks— she managed to tangle her quill into her always-unruly, near-sentient hair. It wouldn’t budge.

She tried to untangle the pen, and kept pulling and pulling only to have more hair catch in the pen’s clip. She yelled, then louder in frustration when she pulled some strands loose. Then tears flowed. Hermione hated how easily she cried nowadays. Everything was too much, too fast, too overwhelming. She ran into one of the Weasleys' common bathrooms, and looked at herself in the mirror. She was a fright to look at. Wild brown hair with a single pen hanging comically out of her—what did Malfoy call it—filthy rat's nest. Big, brown, plain eyes enveloped by dark circles. Skinny frame. Hollow cheeks. An old, ripped T-shirt with ink stains on them. Those stains dotted along her elbows and fingers. She looked like a goddamn blue owl. Sad and haunted. Her eyes followed the stains until her stare landed on the word again.

Still there. Still reddish pink. Scarred. Ugly. Just like her.

She grabbed her wand and started slicing through her hair, first to get the pen out, then she kept going. Hacking and slicing. Hacking and slicing until the hair that had been her defining characteristic, more than half of it, was on the floor. She stilled, looking at her brown curls on the floor.

Good, she thought. Her uneven hair matched her insides now.

Then she stared at herself in the mirror. Her wavy hair now just hit below the chin; her face now more exposed. It was good. She needed a change. She felt lighter, more defiant. Her chin jutted out more. Her cheekbones became more prominent. If her hair weren’t so curly, her hair almost, almost resembled Pansy Parkinson’s. She almost giggled.

What happened to her anyway? Weren’t her parents Voldemort sympathizers? Was she still with Malfoy? Was she coming back to Hogwarts? Was he? Why did she care? Was there a Hogwarts to come back to?

She waved her hand to clean up her mess and headed out the bathroom. Hermione nearly bumped into Molly. Her eyes softened when she saw what Hermione did to her hair. She reached out to touch her curls. Quietly, Molly said, "Can I help with the back?" Hermione nodded dumbly and walked back inside. 

As she felt Molly's hands lightly sweep across her neck, Hermione started to cry.

At other times, when she looked up around her, needing a break from the dry instructions of Memory Charms and Potions and adjusting her eyes, she would find different people keeping a close distance around her. Sometimes it was Molly looking at her with tenderness; Arthur and Harry with curiosity; Ron with shyness, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. To that, she would always greet his stare with a warm smile, assuring him it was okay. Then other times, she would catch Ginny’s eyes. They were always warm, blue, and open like Ron’s … once she remembered. But before she did, Hermione would catch a glint of something that disappeared just as quickly. A momentary flash of blue that looked a little like resentment.

Hermione was gone for almost a month.

Harry and Ginny picked up their quiet conversations in the kitchen, took walks around the Burrow, and to Diagon Alley. Ron, on the other hand, was restless. Some days, he would accompany Harry and Ginny, but he always sensed that they preferred to be alone. Each time, he would give them a squinted stare that lasted a bit too long before leaving them alone in Diagon Alley. Harry was his best mate. Ginny liked him. That was that. On other days, he would sit with her parents, George, and Percy on the porch—all drinking a little too much—and talk about Fred.

When the Floo opened up in green flames at the Burrow, the Weasleys immediately knew who it was. She stumbled out crying silent tears. Molly wrapped her in her arms, flanked by Ginny and Harry. Hermione couldn’t speak, face set in a strange grimace and hiccuping. Ron was outside with Charlie, listening to his braggadocios stories of dragon training when he heard the commotion.

Clink

Clank!

Molly, Harry, and Ginny looked up from Hermione's side. Ron was in the corner of the room. When he saw Hermione, he dropped his can of butter beer. They exchanged silent looks. He wrapped her in his arms and led her to his room.

After they finished, Hermione sat on the edge of his bed, tense and quiet, quickly pulling on her grey jumper. As she pulled her messy hair out from the neck hole, she caught Ron glancing nervously at her under his red bangs. She smiled tightly and leaned over to give him a light brush across the lips, “You made me feel better.”

“'Mione,” Ron reached out to grasp her left hand in his. "Do you—"

"Don't." She let him enclose her hand for a second, but his warmth and closeness made her eyes tear up again. She closed her eyes and shook them away.

Hermione stood and pulled on her underwear, while Ron continued to be transfixed to his place on the bed. His eyes roamed from her shortened hair, to her backside, to the large bloody stain they left on the sheets, and back again. Ron seemed all at once, overwhelmed and relieved. 

When she noticed what he was staring at, her cheeks flushed a little. They held each other’s gaze for a few seconds before she broke the silence, but stuttered when trying to seem overly casual, “Sh-shall I Scourgify the sheets?”

He shook his head, “Nah, I’ll take care of it later.”

She gave a quick nod. She grabbed her other clothes and made her way to the common bathroom, giving one small look around the hallway to make sure no one saw her half dressed.

Hermione stared at herself in the mirror — strange and familiar. Her lower abdomen was slightly sore. She knew she could bleed more, if she had sex again. 

Whatever God cursed them with a hymen played a cruel joke. A visible reminder of her transgressions. Even if they were just in her mind. She couldn't forget her place. Who she was to Harry. To the Wizarding World. Her failures. It's all just a social construct. Both meaningless and not. Was she supposed to look different?

Her hair was a mess, disheveled and wavy but flattened at the back.

That gave it away, she thought unwittingly.

Her face was pallid with large sunken eyes and dark under eye circles. Individual curls stuck to the side of her face, glued there by her tears - from the pain, from her failure, from the aching loneliness she felt even when she was wrapped in Ron's arms.

July 1998
Perth, Australia

When she found her parents in Brisbane, she had been so sure it would work. She read everything she could on Memory Charms; she practiced and practiced her wand movements when the boys went to bed. She went over the spell over and over.

She followed them for a couple of days to get a sense of their new lives and schedule. They looked … happy. Instead of work attire, they often wore shorts now and ugh, crocs. Her parents held hands as they explored local markets, tried different restaurants, and walked their new dog, Audrey — a large goldendoodle with curly dark hair, long legs and a penchant for chasing rabbits. She never caught them, and judging by her gentle demeanour, wouldn’t know what to do if she caught one.

When she was able to find a safe place with them relatively alone in the park, she tried the reversal spell for the first time. They were at a park near the beach, throwing a ball around with Audrey. She kept a safe distance from them, pretending to be a fellow park enthusiast, putting a blanket on the grass, holding a book, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, and resting her spine against a tree. She whispered the incantation she had memorized from the texts. Feeling the magic leave the tip of her wand hidden in her sleeve, the wispy tendrils of light sputtered about halfway before the light dimmed and disappeared.

Hermione waited a few moments before trying again; she must have said the words wrong. She tried again to the same results. Hermione huffed. There must have been something she missed. This was delicate work, memory spells. She would revisit her books tonight and come back in a few days. She couldn’t risk being seen by them and making this worse than it was.

Coming back from her thoughts, she realized she was still staring back at herself in the mirror. Her face round but her cheekbones were still sharp, made all the more striking with her recent haircut. Clothes previously snug now hung off of her. Hermione still hadn’t gotten back her appetite since living with the boys in their tent where they scrounged for each bite of food, and had gotten used to small portions. The last couple of weeks did not help.

She grabbed a washcloth and ran it under the faucet until the water was warm. She looked at herself once again in the mirror, and got lost again in her thoughts until the water got too hot. Hermione let out a yelp.

Good, she thought ruefully. She was supposed to hurt. Deserved it. She should feel pain. Guilt. 

She quickly cleaned off the evidence between her thighs and hips. As she swiped the blood and seminal fluids off her sex, thighs, and stomach, she sighed quietly. It was okay. Ron was kind and loved her. It was gentle, quick, and almost silent. They had to be. But Hermione did not expect this to happen so soon or for it to happen at all. 

Her mind circled around the events of the morning. She was overwhelmed with sadness that the first person she sought for comfort was Harry. Of course, logic prevailed. 

Grimmauld Place
London, England

When Hermione's plane landed in London, she Floo’d first to Grimmauld Place without thinking. He would be there. He would hold her, help her think of a new plan for her parents, and comfort her without asking for more. But when she reached Grimmauld Place, stepping out of the fireplace, she realized it was empty. Her shoes made small clacking noises on the black, marble floor.

“H-Harry?”

No answer.

“Harry?” she tried again.

With a quick pop, Kreacher appeared, “Master Potter’s Mudblood?”

She winced at his word, how easily it rolled off of his little, aged body. Hermione unconsciously covered her forearm, even though she was wearing long sleeves.

Choose your battles, she thought to herself.

“Y-yes, is Harry home?”

“Kreacher has not seen Master Potter for days. Kreacher believes he is with the Weasleys.”

Of course. He would be at the Burrow with Ginny or ... or even the Dursleys. Why would he stay here?

She sighed, thanked Kreachers for the information, and with nowhere to go—Yes, truly, no one and nowhere now—she called out for the Burrow.

The Burrow

Now she was here in the Weasleys’ bathroom, cleaning up blood and fluids along her thighs and crevices. Hermione made a decision she couldn’t take back and wasn't sure if she regretted, to be honest. She sighed. It didn't matter now. A thought snuck in: a whore’s bath. She heard this term somewhere before.

Tick.
Tick.

The sounds from the grandfather clock in the living room reminded her of time passing. She had all the time now, right? It's how it's supposed to be. Her and Ron. She tried to remember where she heard the saying from. Hermione waved the thought away. It wasn't useful. She was still her. She thought of Ron, his warmth, his weight, his hands. She repeated in her mind's eye again:

Ron was good. He was gentle. He loved her. This act didn't take away from her worth as a woman.  This was not a logical thought process. Virginity is a social construct.

She's just agitated. But those thoughts stayed—they happened everywhere, all over, all at once, weighing on her mind and brows until she sneered at herself, turning away from her pallid reflection. [1]

When Ron took her to his room, she was still silently heaving. But when the door closed, she broke down. They sat on his bed—his back against the headboard, the side of her face smashed up against his chest, soaking the front of his T-shirt. He just sat there, arms wrapped around her shaking body, and his legs bracketing hers. They sat there for God knows how long, sobs periodically racking her frame, just like when she woke up from nightmares (memories?) about her torture, about Draco turning away. Hermione didn’t have the words. Ginny came up once, knocking quietly, then she gave her a small hug on Hermione’s other side, and moved some hair stuck on her face and curled it behind her ear. She left them both a hot cup of tea on Ron’s desk.

Tick.
Tick.

The sun moved from one side of the room to the other until it was twilight. Orange and red bled into the room. Hermione’s cries slowed somewhat.

“‘Are you okay? Do you want to talk? Is it about your par—?”

Before Ron could finish the sentence, Hermione fervently kissed him, praying he wouldn’t finish the word. Because if he did, she would break again. The dam had carefully and slowly built up, but it was so, so tenuous.

Their second kiss.

Their second kiss was similar to their first, full of fear, want, and the need to feel something. Only this time, Hermione was desperate not to feel. She wanted to feel anything but this — this black void that threatened to engulf her throat and chest again if Ron finished his question. She felt it again. That pull, that something akin to hate, except this time it wasn’t directed at anyone. She was nothing. She didn’t matter. Again.

As she kissed him and kissed him with increasing urgency, she felt his hands move into her hair, grasping tightly, then slinking down to her jaw, neck, then swept out to her shoulders and arms. To still her movements slightly. “Hermione, this-,” he pants, “-isn’t—what.“

She pulled back abruptly. Her eyes ablazed with defiance. She chose her next words carefully, “I. Don’t. Want. To. Feel. Bad. Right. Now. I’m sick of it.”

Ron looked lost, wide eyed with crumpled hair falling over his forehead. It reminded her a little of Audrey.

He threw his hands up, perhaps in surrender, perhaps as an invitation to hold her, maybe both. Hermione took it. She threw herself against his body again, and he rocked her while slowly moving them down to the length of his twin bed. They were now held up against one another now, both shifting and trying to make room on his childhood bed, with little to no space between their bodies. There couldn’t be. Hermione wouldn’t allow it.

Hermione tilted her head up at Ron again, and their lips met again. It wasn’t wanton, nor was it chaste, something in between, maybe comfort? As they kissed, Ron whispered a locking spell for the door, and Hermione softly gasped at the realization of what was going to happen, what she was going to allow happen, and the hardness she felt against her thigh.

Their clothes quickly came off. They didn’t have a lot of time. She pulled Ron’s T-shirt off, quickly throwing it to the side and palming his chest. It was firm and hot. She let herself savour his warmth for a few seconds before she reached for his trousers. She pulled aggressively at his buttons and zip. He responded in kind, and reached to pull her jumper off. Underneath, she was wearing a tank top and a simple cotton bra. He tried to take her under layer off, but she shook her head.

Was this desire?

She was curious as she worked to unzip his trousers, and wrapped her hand around his cock. It was hard, thick, and smooth. This all seemed to be instinct for her. Hermione moved her hand up and down, squeezing slightly at the base and twisting at the head. But she didn’t look down — too embarrassed or scared. She kept her eyes closed while Ron tenderly kissed her forehead, her eyelashes, her cheeks stained with tears, and finally her lips.

This act, his tenderness replaced that cavernous hole inside of her chest. It made her forget the pain for a few moments, lost in their push and pull, quiet gasps, and gentle rutting against her hips. Strange that the pain was on her left side.

Just another broken heart, Hermione thought bitterly.

“Can I—,” Ron’s hands paused at the top button of her trousers.

She nodded, eyes still closed, focusing on the warmth of his chest and his scent — traces of a spicy cologne, freshly mowed grass, and the sickly sweet and garlic-y smell of his sweat.

Without opening her eyes, Hermione helped him unbutton her pants and pulled them down to her knees. Her knickers stayed on.

Ron’s breathing hitched. They were now lying on his bed side by side, nearly exposed to one another. Ron’s pants were still on with just his zipper down, and his cock hanging out and at full attention.

Hermione then realized, as if stepping outside herself, how ridiculous they probably looked on a too-small bed with Quidditch posters plastered all over his walls, Ron’s angry pink penis, her unruly hair stuck to her face, and her grandma cotton knickers. 

If she knew this would happen, she would have worn something - well, it’s not like she had lingerie. Maybe something pink?

She stifled a disdainful laugh at herself when she noticed Ron looked uncomfortable. Even his cock turtled a little. They weren’t moving or kissing. They were barely touching now except for their knees cradled in one another. She looked back up at him in true tenderness, clasped his frozen hand, and placed it on her waist. He got the message. He grabbed onto the hem of her tank top, roughly lifting it up. His hands then relaxed and slithered up and down her back, calming her pants.

They continued to kiss, but for Hermione, each additional kiss became increasingly hollow. She couldn't turn her brain off. Her thoughts became louder.

She was alone now. No family. Not even a high school graduate. What would she do? What could she do?

Hermione felt Ron's rough hand on her face. "I love you, Hermione."

She smiled, "Me too. You can touch me if you want."

She noticed the pounding of her heart, first it was impossibly loud; then when it finally slowed down, she was able to register Ron’s fingers making their way down to her hips, and then underneath the elastic of her knickers. She gasped.

Ron interpreted the sound as desire and became bolder with his movements, moving lower until he was at the gusset and skated his finger along the length of it. Hermione tensed at this new feeling and shivered.

“Okay, yeah?”

Hermione gave a slight nod, which was all Ron needed. He moved aside her knickers and dragged his finger along her slit. His breathing became ragged, his movements clumsy, but careful and slow. Careful enough not to hurt her. He did this a few more times and then ended with him palming her vulva. She shuddered at the warmth of his hands.

This wasn’t—unpleasant.

Hermione could feel something start to bloom inside of her, stretching across the lower pit of her stomach and tingling inside of her. But she couldn’t shake the feeling of the encroaching darkness, tightening its grip around her throat and chest again.

Ron shifted so that his chest was more on top of hers. One of his hands now moved to grab at her breast over her tank top. He pulled down the strap, then moved the bra cup down, making skin to skin contact. His large hand gave her a strong squeeze. Hermione immediately felt a zap in her body, pulling her out of her haze. She liked this, this warmth, this pressure.

Her eyes snapped open and found blue, open eyes staring back at her. Hermione could feel his cock still hard under her belly, now wet with precum. He started thrusting against her stomach, and she instinctually moved her hips with him.

This didn’t do anything for her.

But it was comforting to have his weight on top of her. To see his familiar face looking down at her with concern and love (?). Maybe. Yes, this had to be love. She loved him.

Hermione wrapped both of her hands around Ron’s neck and pulled him closer. They kissed, but the distance for Hermione seemed to only widen; she could hear everything: his quiet pants; the squeak of his small bed; the sound of birds chirping outside.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

That damned grandfather clock. 

She lowered her head, so they were no longer kissing. She had to concentrate. She pushed the sounds all away. She refused to recognize what was happening. She squeezed her eyes shut. She focused on the sensations. His lips on her forehead. Ron’s firm grip on her waist, holding her tighter.

She angled her body so that more of it laid underneath him. Then she pulled away briefly to shimmy her knickers down to her ankles. Ron helped by lifting himself off of her for a bit. As they settled back on the bed again, Ron asked again, “Are you sure—?”

Again, Hermione shut him up with her kiss. She peppered them along his lips, pleading with him to stop talking, because no, she wasn’t sure. But he knew her. And she knew him. It was familiar. She needed someone who was familiar right now. Perhaps the only thing left that was familiar now.

He slotted himself between her legs, using one leg to push her hips wider apart. He pulled back a little, giving them space while he stroked himself. Once, twice, three times before twisting his hand at the head. Hermione looked on with some curiosity. She had never seen a penis this close before, let alone a man masturbating in close proximity to her.

With his free hand, Ron began to touch her, starting at her stomach—which she hated, no matter how much weight she lost, she still had it— she pulled down her tank top quickly to cover her small pooch. His hands travelled down to her hips, pelvis, finally reaching the destination of her clit. Tentative, calloused fingers rubbed her bundle of nerves clumsily, sometimes over the mound, sometimes under, at which time Hermione would hiss and writhe underneath him. It was far too sensitive; she was far too dry; and he was too rough.

Ron started to rub himself along her slit anew, leaving a small trail of moisture along her folds. Her breathing intensified, and she gave one final nod before Ron thrusted and entered her.

This sharp pain made her cry out. Tears sprung up from the side of her eyes. She hadn’t been very wet. Hermione knew she wasn’t ready, but she wanted this. Needed this to happen.

Was it supposed to hurt this much? Did he do it wrong? Did he use the wrong hole? 

She clawed at his biceps, trying to push him off of her. Ron stilled against her neck and mumbled a Silencio charm.

The stillness gave Hermione a chance to get acquainted with this new tearing sensation within her. It was heat; it was pain; it tore through her lower body; it came and went with each small thrust; but behind it was something else. Potential. Something building behind the rising and receding pain now. That nebulous something that stretched far and low across the stomach and lower back, and along her the apex of her thighs. All threatened to snap, if only she could get the right angle and pressure.

Hermione gritted her teeth and nodded at Ron to move. 

Infinitesimal movements.

In. Out.
In. Out.

With each gentle thrust, Hermione felt pain and pressure, sometimes it was a dull ache; sometimes it was like lightning, a sharp, shooting burn and pinch on her insides. She felt like something was crawling in and up her insides, blowing her wide open. 

Ron rested his chin on Hermione’s forehead, and his thrusts got deeper, his voice lower. He grimaced and held her closer.

This was fine. She could get used to it. She liked it. Kind of. Right?

She liked hearing Ron’s moans, his hands skating across her body. This was good. Hermione did what she knew how to do to quiet her mind. She started to count—1,2,3.

How many times his left hand squeezed her right breast; 3: how many times they kissed since Hogwarts: 5 (4 times today); and finally the number of thrusts before Ron finished.

1
2
3
4
5
6
7

“Mione, I’m comi—“

“Don’t come inside me,” her voice came out a little too harshly.

Hermione pulled away, trying to turn to her side. But he was too heavy, too in the moment. He groaned and pulled out, lifting her tank top and painting his cum over stomach. Hermione was both self conscious and fascinated. The liquid spurted out the head of his cock so quickly and felt warm on her stomach. They both breathed heavily.

There was silence.

Hermione offered a peak at the contents on her stomach, and studied it. The sun that ran across their bodies showed the day was coming to a close, and made the milky liquid on her stomach glittered. Her fingers glistened as she examined the rapidly cooling cum. She wanted to … taste it?

“Ew, don’t do that.” He lifted his head from her shoulder and lightly grabbed her wrists. She was surprised to hear him lazily reprimand her. Her bodily jerk led the pearly liquid to leak down the sides of her stomach onto the sheets.

Ron cast a quick Scourgify across her stomach and her fingers. Hermione whispered a quick contraceptive potion.

Hermione felt a surge of sadness. She was disappointed? No, that wasn’t it. Maybe. Was that what sex was? Maybe. After all, she decided she wanted this. She chose Ron. She liked his smell, his blue, open eyes, the warm, steadying weight on top of her. But she felt like there should be more.

As Ron tried to pull her into a kiss, she turned her face away. She didn’t realize she had done so until she saw the wounded look on his face.

She reached over and brushed her thumb across his lips. Hermione tried to smile convincingly.

As she left to go to the bathroom, she saw the two cups of tea Ginny left undrunk on Ron’s desk, still warm.

When Hermione returned from the bathroom, she made sure to leave the bedroom door wide open. Ron was fully dressed again. He changed outfits into another T-shirt and loose-fitting khakis. They kept their voices low. The small stain on the bed was gone.

“Was it-was it good for you?”, he asked tentatively.

Hermione nodded quickly. “You made me feel better,” she assured him.

Ron flushed, “Good. But it didn’t seem like you …”

“A lot of girls don’t their first time.”

“Yeah,” Ron snorted, almost disbelieving that they just had sex. “We can try again, yeah?”

Hermione reached out to hold his hand, “"I... maybe... yeah." [2]

Pause.

"I've been meaning to tell you. I like your hair like this," Ron tucked another stray curl behind her ear. She nodded.

They sat beside one another on the bed for several minutes in silence, neither looking at one another.

“What you thinking about?”

Sex. My parents. Lavender Brown. Sex. How was she? My parents. Blonde bouncey hair. Blood seeping from Lavender's neck. Was it her first time too? How did she compare to Lavender? My parents. Blonde straight hair. My parents.

Of course, she couldn’t ask those questions.

She sighed, “Did you—did you ever do this before?”

Ron sputtered, thought for a second as he scratched the back of his head. “Uh, yeah with Lavender, a few times,” he said quietly.

Hermione nodded her head.

“Are you mad?”

“No!” Then she realized her voice sounded too defensive. She softened her voice, “No, no. I just wanted to know.”

He gathered her hand in his, “It’s … different with you. I-I love you.”

She believed him. She nodded. “I do too.”

Before they could say more—

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Insistent.

Tap. Tap. Tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap.

Hermione and Ron jumped up and looked in the direction of the room’s window. The sun was setting, beautiful oranges and reds painted the sky. Ron opened the window. Four owls flew in, two dropped three letters in front of Hermione and Ron; two others went in search of Harry and Ginny.

A large gold M on the parchment signified to every reader where the post came from.

By formal decree of the British Ministry of Magic
In association with the Ministry of Magical Education

Dear Esteemed Student:

In these uncertain and trying times, we must unite to build back better, to help build a magical future for generations without prejudice and corruption. The beginning of such a feat starts with proper education of our young and brilliant minds.

With that in mind, we are pleased to announce the re-opening of Hogwarts on January 3, 1999. Classes will begin January 5, 1999. NEWTS will be rescheduled to June 2000.

Along with this joyous news, please join us in welcoming the interim Howarts Headmaster, Professor Minerva McGonagall! She will be a beacon of light and fastidity, as we rebuild stronger.

Conditional offer:
All students who left Hogwarts due to unforeseen circumstances from spring 1996 onward and intend to return to complete their NEWTS must repeat their previous year. It will be an extended 18-month year with multiple pathways and accommodations for witches and wizards alike.

Please note, in order to fulfill the requirements for your Hogwarts’ attendance, all those involved with the events this spring, will be assigned a mandated Mind Healer and attend at least 30 sessions before graduating. Details to follow.

All students who intend to return to Hogwarts must make their declaration by August 31st, 1998.
Please OWL Professor McGonagall’s assistant, Tiberius Umber, of your intent and complete the attached consent form to be matched with a Mind Healer.

Once you are matched, you may begin your Mind Healing sessions, retroactive to September 1st.

We hope that we will see you in the New Year.

A wish is nothing without a deed toward a better tomorrow!

Sincerely,
Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt

A stamped signature, of course.

Knock. Knock.

It was Harry carrying the same letter from the Ministry. He knocked even though the door was ajar. When she saw Harry, she deftly removed her hand from Ron’s. Harry eyed the pair carefully.

“Hermione, you okay? You read this?” He turned to them both.

Ron and Hermione nodded.

“What do we think?”

Silence.

Harry sat back down on one of their cots, arms resting on his knees. As his eyes travelled downwards, he noticed another letter on the floor, “Hermione, did you see this? It has your name on it.” He picked it up and handed the letter over to her. She reached out. It smelled of fresh parchment and ink. Oh! Hermione quickly sniffed it.

With bold, cursive lettering, the envelope read HERMIONE GRANGER. Hermione recognized the handwriting.

She reached out. It smelled of fresh parchment and ink. Oh! Hermione quickly sniffed it.

She broke open the wax seal, and several pieces of paper fell out. It was long.

Dear Ms. Granger,

I trust the last few months have been well and that you have received Minister Shacklebolt’s letter.

It has been truly nice to see you, Mr. Weasley, and Mr. Potter, along with the other students, regularly on Hogwarts grounds, helping out with Hagrid and the other professors to restore our former buildings. You three will always hold a special place in my heart.

As more work is underway to prepare for the grand Hogwarts reopening, our school’s Equity and Inclusion Committee (an idea put forth by you in fourth year!) has decided to hold a Unity Ball at the end of January to signify a year of new beginnings, ideas, and above all else, hope.

Should you decide to return to Hogwarts this year, I would like to unofficially offer you the position of Head Girl and a student representative position on said committee with a direct line to the audience of the Minister. The Ministry has wisely understood the importance of supporting a rigorous and inclusive curriculum with key stakeholders.

As you well know, Head Girl is a highly coveted position that comes with many honours and responsibilities. For your perusal, please see attached for the Head Student contract.

One such responsibility is to begin your semester in December. The Head Students and prefects will be required to be in attendance to help organize the Unity Ball and arrange activities for students during the Sorting ceremony. One may ask, why are we continuing with the Houses if they only serve to divide us? The Sorting Ceremony is a powerful and historic tradition. We must recognize and respect our history, keeping what serves us and discarding the rest. Hogwarts’ stance is that we do not become unified through ignoring our differences, but working toward a singular goal of peace and unity, through our differences, we become stronger. Although the Sorting ceremony will continue as tradition, I cannot stress the theme of the Ball—and in connection, the academic year—enough, that is, Inter-House Harmony.

Next, I admit that I have a related but ulterior motive in writing to you. I want to inform you of who has been offered the position of Head Boy. He is one Mr. Malfoy. Because of your difficult past, I thought it wise to let you know, as you will be sharing semi-private living quarters, and for you to make an informed and timely decision. Mr. Malfoy, young though he is, is a prominent figure in history, as you and your friends are, but perhaps on opposite ends in the court of public opinion.

As has been said many times before, you are the Brightest Witch of your Age. In terms of academics, he was often second behind you in many of your classes together. Your presence and his will help move Hogwarts to the 21st century, and discard tired ideas of the past. As part of his parole sentence, he has already agreed. But I understand that you may be hesitant to agree, and I do not blame you. A history such as yours will take time and work on both of your parts.

To ease your mind, Mr. Malfoy will be restricted from using magic (both wand and wandless) outside of school grounds; his whereabouts will be closely monitored by Aurors from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; and your room will be warded to prevent unwelcome visitors. He understands all such conditions. Although the worst is behind us, there is still much work to be done. I thought it prudent to begin with small steps toward peace and healing, not for him, but for yourself.

Only you can decide if Mr. Malfoy is worthy of your forgiveness. In order to move forward, we must, once again, ask too much of our children. I will end this letter by saying: I suspect it is exceptionally lonely to be Draco Malfoy. He will always be suspected. There is no escaping the past, nor should we ignore it.  They help shape who are we and who we have the potential to be. He's been in an institution for Wayward Wizards and is attending and excelling in Muggle Studies and re-education courses. I hope you, above all others, can see beyond his past. [3]

If you agree, please meet with Mr. Malfoy and me on Monday, Dec 1 at 10:00 in my office to discuss further responsibilities.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours,
Headmaster Minerva McGonagall

Ron nudged her shoulder, “What’s it say?”

“I was offered Head Girl," Hermione left out the Malfoy part.

“That’s great, Hermione!” Harry exclaimed.

A few beats pulsed between them.

Ron broke the silence first, “Have we decided if we’re even going back?”

“What else are you gonna do?” Hermione asked cooly.

Ron scoffed, “I don’t know, but maybe we could all take some time to sleep?! To eat?! To relax? To kiss some damsels? We are, after all, war heroes. We deserve some rest, if not a goddamn gold medallion.”

Harry snickered.

“You have time for all of that. Hogwarts isn’t even opening until January,” Hermione reasoned.

“They want our answer now! What about you, Harry? You want them knocking ‘bout in your head?”

Harry shrugged noncommittally, “I—I don’t know. Maybe it would be nice to have a routine again. We’ve been running for so long, chasing after Horcruxes and Tom. It’d be nice to wake up and be normal.”

“But did you read what they said? They want us to see Mind Bogglers! 30 times!”

Harry shrugged again. This time, he didn’t speak.

Hermione tagged in, “You, above all, people need one. Remember when you left us high and dry during a war because you thought Harry and I were —”

“That was the Horcrux’s fault!”

“Regardless, there are clearly some issues you—we all have to work through. We can’t hole up here forever, crouching and crying—”

“I. Do. Not. Crouch!”, both of the boys yelled in unison.

“I have spent too much time here at the Burrow already. While Molly and Arthur are kind, wonderful, and generous, I can’t stay here forever. My welcome is going to wear out, sooner or later," thinking of Ginny's brief expressions that betrayed her. And now that my parents are—, after what happened is permanent, I don’t have anyo—I don’t have anywhere else I need to be. If the government is paying for it, all the better.”

“You could stay with me at Grimmauld Place,” Harry offered softly.

Hermione smiled at him, studying his clear, green eyes. Haunting, really. Awful hair, though.

“I don’t think Ginny would like that too much.” Harry grinned shyly and nodded.

“So you’re going back, eh?”, Ron asked again.

Hermione hummed. “Well I’ve been thinking …”

Ron rolled his eyes, “‘Course you have.”

Hermione ignored him, “Maybe, maybe I want to be a Healer, not the mind. Rubbish, that. Don't want to listen to you bloody whinge all day about girls, Quidditch, and scars. But maybe for magical animals or elves? I keep thinking of Dobby, and how I couldn’t save—”

Both boys tried to cut in.

Hermione continued, “I can’t very well do that without my NEWTs, can I?” She waited a beat, turning around all the possibilities of a future unknown in her mind. She didn’t know her answer until that moment, “Yeah, I think I’m gonna take the position.”

Chapter Text

Mind Healer: T. Lee
Patient: Hermione J. Granger, Session #1

Slow dribbles of water, bubbling and rippling across small rocks in a small, human-made waterfall that led down to a Koi pond. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip. 

Hermione already liked it here. After she completed her consent form, she received a letter notifying her that she was matched with Healer Lee, an enclosed address, some times of availability, and a short curriculum vitae of the Healer’s qualifications and specialities: Post-traumatic stress, relational psychotherapy, general psychiatry. 

So here she was, in an office not too far from Diagon Alley. A receptionist took her name and led her into a small courtyard, surrounded by greenery and the Koi pond. Two comfortable, maroon chairs stood beside the pond. Between them was a small, round glass table. 

Once she stepped inside the courtyard, Hermione felt calmer. She wondered if the office was magically warded. To quiet her mind, she studied the pond and started counting the Kois:

1, 2, 3, 4 …

“Ms. Hermione Granger, I presume? I’m Healer Lee,” a soothing voice rang out behind her. Hermione looked behind her to see a dark-haired, bespectacled woman of about 40 standing a couple of metres from her. They had a closely shaven head with long bangs dyed blue that swooped to the side; wore a smart pinstripe suit and black kitten heels. 

“Yes,” Hermione reached out to shake Healer Lee’s hand. 

“Please, have a seat. Can I offer you a beverage?”

“Some tea would be lovely.” 

With a quick wave, Healer Lee conjured a steaming teapot and two mugs, “Please help yourself.”

As Hermione poured tea for both of them, Healer Lee got settled and smoothed down their suit. In their hands, Lee held a small folder. A quill and parchment hung in the air. 

Hermione brought the steaming mug to her lips, “Oh this is lovely.” 

“Thank you. It’s a personal blend of jasmine dragon pearls and chrysanthemum.”

“Hm.”

“Why don’t I start by telling you a bit about myself?” Hermione nodded. 

“As you know, I’m Healer Tania Lee. I completed my education at Mahoutokoro School of Magic, then did my training at St. Mungo’s. I’ve been practicing Mind Healing for over 15 years.”

Hermione nodded again but remained silent. So Healer Lee continued, “I understand that you may be wary, especially when these sessions are mandated. You and your friends are famous; there is no other way to state it. Your life has been studied, examined, and dissected since you were 14. But I want to assure that there are no ulterior motives in this space. Everything you say and do here will be confidential. I am not here to diagnose you or pass judgement. I am only here to listen and support. Nothing more.”

With those words, Hermione unexpectedly felt a sting behind her eyes. She narrowed them to keep her tears at bay. 

Mind Healer: H. Shah
Patient: Ronald B. Weasley, Session #1

Ron bounced his knees, looking around the courtyard. 

Blimey, those fish were bulbous. 

On the table were two mugs and a pot of tea. Although Ron was thirsty, he didn’t touch the stuff. 

What if it was laced with Veritaserum?

“I’m Healer Shah. You must be Mr. Ronald Weasley,” Ron heard as he sat down.

“Yeah.” 

“How are you feeling today?”

A pause. 

“Hungry.”

Mind Healer: N. Tse
Patient: Harry J. Potter, Session #1

Harry levelled his gaze at Healer Tse and the open folder in his hand. It was rather thick.

“Mr. Harry Potter, I’m Healer Sebastian Tse,” the handsome, young man with sad eyes standing in front of him stated. He couldn’t have been older than 30, 35? He wore a three-piece suit and thick-rimmed glasses.

“Yeah.”

They stood in silence for a couple of moments. Harry deliberately did not step forward and shake his hand.

“Please sit,” an open palm gestured to the table and chairs beside it.

More silence. 

Healer Tse closed the folder and stared at Harry. “The Boy who Lived,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“That’s rather unprofessional, don’t you think?” Harry quipped. 

“What is?” 

“Calling me by what the media calls me. You don’t need a folder of my personal information to tell you that. But that’s not who I am. I do not need a starstruck fan to be my - he thought of Ron's words - Mind Boggler. I also don’t need one. I’m fine. I’m alive. Hermione and Ron are alive, even the Dursleys … They're all fine.”

Harry started to get up.

Healer Tse hummed quietly, “I do not mean to use the moniker in that way. I mean to suggest that it has been an addendum to your name, ever since you began your tenure at Hogwarts … almost 8 years ago.”

“Yeah,” Harry scoffed and paused his movements.

“So perhaps it may have some bearing on how you perceive and carry yourself in the world? I would rather not pretend and lie to you. I think you’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.”

Mind Healer: T. Lee
Patient: Hermione J. Granger, Session #4

"—I sleep a lot … when I can. But I wake up sometimes with these nightmares. I can’t breathe. Sometimes I wake up crying, get nosebleeds or vomit. Maybe all of the above, if I’m lucky,” Hermione laughed ruefully.

“What do you do when this happens?”

“I do the box breathing exercises we talked about for a count of 4. But sometimes it’s not enough.”

Scratch. Scratch.

The suspended quill scribbled furiously on the parchment.

“Do you have any other grounding exercises?”

Hermione hesitates before answering, “I - um, I usually sleep with my friends. If they hear me, they’ll sit up with me or rub my back and remind me to breathe until it passes.”

Healer Lee barely looks up, “It’s not unusual to seek out companionship as a coping mechanism. Normal, even. After prolonged exposure to isolation and wartime stress, individuals can both experience hyperarousal or hypoarousal.” 

Hermione’s face slowly changed as realization dawned her what Healer Lee meant. “Gods, no! It’s nothing like that. It’s strictly platonic. I-I just like knowing they're there. I count their breaths in their sleep sometimes.”

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“You appear conflicted. Can you tell me me a bit about that? Teenagers exploring their sexuality is a very normal thing.”

“I'm not!" Hermione's voice cracked a little. "I know-I KNOW what it looks like, the optics of it. But …,” Hermione trailed off. 

“Relationships can get muddy fast especially during wartime and times of trauma, and it’s okay if it does. You mentioned a ...," Healer Lee looked through her notes in front of her. "A Ronald. You two were in a relationship, were you not?”

Hermione nodded carefully, “Yes, briefly. We’ve known each other since our first year at Hogwarts.”

“And he was with you at the battles?”

“Yes.”

“Say more about that.”

“Ron, well, he’s wonderful, really. I love him. We relied on each other for everything, really. He saved me so many times. Him and Harry.”

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“You’re not together now.” A simple statement.

“No.”

“May I ask why?”

Silence. 

Hermione thought for a moment, “It’s almost like I don’t know him outside of the war. He-They were, are everything to me. The war-it took everything from us. I don't know who I am without him. But when I look at him, I can’t help but see the bodies, the pain ... It can get overwhelming sometimes. I also keep having these nightmares. It's like I can't escape no matter what, awake or asleep. That's not a really good answer, is it?”

“Tell me about your nightmares,” Healer Lee said softly.

“It’s the same one each time. I’m in a-a manor. It’s a dark room. We were surrounded by Death Eaters and Vol—You Know Who. Bellatrix, my torturer pins me down and carves letters into my skin, and it hurts so much that I can’t see straight. I’m screaming and screaming. I'm praying for death. The pain is blinding, and I—I remember vomiting on my jumper. I want to run but my body, my feet are hexed to the floor. I reach out and call Mal—someone familiar. They’re in the room with me. I try to say their name, but no sound comes out. And then, I wake up and I’m crying.”

“Are these dreams real—did the events take place?” Healer Lee corrected.

Hermione thinks for a moment, “The torture did," unconsciously pawing at her arm.

“What aren’t you sure about?”

“I don’t know … If I actually saw them. If they saw me. If I actually tried to call out to them.”

“What did they do in your nightmares?”

“I could only see the back of their heads. I-I think they turned away.”  

“That sounds very lonely. You must have been very scared, Hermione.”

“Yes.” 

A beat hung between them. 

“Hm.”

“What is it?”

“Why did you reach out to this person, regardless if it really happened? Because they’re familiar?”

Hermione looks down at her lap and realizes she’s been tearing up tissues into small and smaller pieces. She searched her mind for an answer. “Because!” she said incredulously. “I thought there was a spark of decency in him, some good or gentleness!” [4]

Scratch. Scratch. 

“This person, you know him well?”

“No. Well, a little. We were at school together. He was kind of the schoolyard bully. My bully. Sort of.”

“Why ‘sort of?’”

“It stopped around the fourth year.”

“Interesting.”

Scratch. Scratch.

“Then he just started ignoring me. Before, he would call me names, ‘Mudblood’ and the like, made sure everyone knew their place, where they stood with respect to the Mal--their family. Harry and him were Quidditch rivals. One time, Harry even--”

Healer Lee gently stopped her with a raised hand, “We’re not talking about Harry.”

“Okay ...”

“So,” Healer Lee, turning over the question carefully around in her mouth, “what made you want to reach out to this boy who treated you horribly in school?”

Hermione sucked in through her teeth and clicked her tongue.

Click. Click.

She didn’t quite have an answer. “Because in the manor, before he turned away, he looked just as scared as me.”

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. 

“Let’s try a little exercise,” Lee said gently.

Another pause.

“Alright,” Hermione said warily.

“What would you do if your … schoolmate was here in front of you right now? What would you say?”

Hermione looked up at the glamoured ceiling of the courtyard, a clear night sky filled with stars and constellations. Their appointment was at 3p but it felt much later.

The sky was calming for most patients, Healer Lee explained once before.

Suspended candles hung around the room, providing light. The flickers softened Lee’s androgynous features. Hermione gave the question some thought and tore up more tissue. Then she looked squarely at Healer Lee, “I’d spit in his face.” 

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Mind Healer: H. Shah
Patient: Ronald B. Weasley, Session #3

Ron stuffs 1, 2, 3 macarons inside of his mouth.

Pretty good, these macaronis. 

In the past two sessions, Healer Shah noticed Ronald often referenced food in his clipped responses to her. So she started with a sort of peace offering, a means to build trust. Shah brought macarons from her favourite French bakery in Muggle London.

“Ronald, what would you like to talk about today?”

“Where you got these would be a start.”

Mind Healer: N. Tse
Patient: Harry J. Potter, Session #5

“They all KNEW! No one told me. They knew my parents were both magical but kept it from me. I lived day in and day out in that godforsaken closet … My aunt, uncle, and cousin all knew Even my neighbour! 

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

1 hour later.

“Then out of nowhere, I realize I’m the protagonist!”

Mind Healer: M. VanDoorn
Patient: Draco L. Malfoy, Session #17

Sitting across from Healer Van Doorn, Malfoy bounced his knee and avoided eye contact. He couldn’t sit still. Today, he was dressed in black pants and a black turtleneck. 

“You seem agitated.”

“I’m not," Malfoy scoffed.

“What’s on your mind?”

“School.”

VanDoorn pushed up his glasses, “Elaborate, please.”

“Hogwarts. What a pathetic excuse for a school. I’m going back just to be the punching bag for all returning students, a laughing stock.” [5]

“Yet you are returning.” A simple statement. Draco's eyes flashed.

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”, he said petulantly.

“Draco, we all have choices,” Van Doorn said quietly.

“Not me, yeah? The boy with no choice. It’s not much of a choice when it’s part of your parole sentence.”

“You had the option of completing your studies via owl, did you not?”

A few beats passed between them. 

Fucker.

Chapter Text

Sometime in October, they tried again. After a raucous night at the Leaky Cauldron, Ron and Hermione found themselves pressed against each other in the alley somewhere between Flourish and Blotts and Rosa Lee Teabag They were drunk, or at least tipsy. Hermione tried one of Neville's potions today. It was lovely. Made her relaxed. The chronic pain in her right arm melted away. 

The stone wall was rough and cold. She was pushed against it, with his hand cradling the nape of her neck and pushing her mouth toward him. He tasted like butterscotch. 

The kisses were fast and urgent. Wet, sloppy, and unmanicured. Crashing teeth. Lips. Tongues. Hot breath against her neck. 

Cold, autumnal wind whipped across their faces. Hermione shivered and leaned into his long arms wrapped around her waist and arse to keep her warm.

Clumsy pulls at each other's hair. Nails dragging across their skins.

Hard denim. Sweaty fingers grabbing the top of her pants.

Small breathy pants in the ear. He groaned.

Palming his erection over his corduroy. Her hand shook as she reached for his zipper. The sound of the zip.

Rough wool. Hot skin. A tongue laved across the shell of her ear and down her jawline. She shuddered.

A small giggle.

Ron and Hermione broke their frenetic kiss, in time to watch a couple of younger teenagers run away from seeing them.

Ron turned back to Hermione, pulling at her green jumper, biting roughly at her neck and shoulder. His teeth poked into her skin. She didn’t like that. Hermione hissed and pushed him away.

Some leaves rustled and blew across the alley.

Ron’s head dipped in again for another kiss, but the moment passed. His breath suddenly smelled sour to her. Hermione stilled her hands on Ron’s chest, bunching up the fabric of his shirt but keeping the distance between them. He sighed heavily, breathing hard but slowing down. His hands squeezed hers, then skated up to her shoulders.

“Sorry, ‘Mione. Sometimes, I get too caught up  in the moment.” Ron panted, pushing his hair out of his eyes. 

Hermione nodded, “Me too.”

“It’s just been a long time since we—” Ron started pushing forward again, leaning his forehead against hers. She pushed back more forcefully against his chest, and he stopped, stepping back.

“I get it,” she said quietly.

More silence.

Hermione looked around the alleyway and breathed in, “Sometimes, I want to too, but then I-I don’t know. I get distracted. And everything is too much. Too much light. Too much pressure. I get scared. I-I think I just need more time.”

Ron cocked his head to the side and reached behind him to scratch his neck. “Hopefully, not too much time, yeah?”, he smiled weakly. 

Her eyes flashed. 

“I’m joking.”

Hermione’s eyes didn’t meet his, “Hm.”

“Let’s go home,” Ron stuck out his hand. She took it immediately. It was warm.

They walked in silence to the Apparation point in Diagon Alley. 

When they arrived at the Burrow, most of the Weasleys were in bed. It was quiet. Hermione didn’t even hear the usual crickets. Harry and Ginny were still at the pub.

Ron and Hermione sat down in the kitchen. “I’ll make you some tea,” Ron offered.

She shook her head, “I just need to sleep this off.”

Ron ducked in for a goodnight kiss but she had already turned away. Lost in her thoughts, she headed up the stairs to prepare for bed. 

When Ron turned in that night, he stood in the doorway, looking at Hermione’s sleeping form on his bed. Ron was a dark figure surrounded by warm, yellow light from the hallway. He paused before tucking himself in the cot beside her. She didn’t move. Ron sighed and tried one more time, “I love you, Hermione.”

Hermione opened her eyes. They both know she was not asleep. She didn't answer, but reached down to hook her finger into his.

Hermione woke up near dawn to find both Harry and Ron snoring beside her. She reached over and brushed Harry’s bangs away from his eyes, then rolled over to stare at Ron. For a few minutes, she just watched him: his open mouth, his bare chest, and orange hair. 

As Hermione rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she decided to spend the day at Hogwarts. She left a note on the door for Ron to meet her there later in the afternoon. Her hand shook as she wrote. 

With each step toward the Floo hearth in the Burrow, it became clearer what Hermione needed to do. Hermione called out “Hogwarts." As the emerald fire surrounded her, she focused on her breathing. 

In through the nose, belly up, 1, 2, 3, 4.

Out through the mouth, belly down, 1, 2, 3, 4. 

And tried not to cry.

Hogwarts

Later in the day, Ron found her sitting near the Whomping Willow, staring out at the Pumpkin Patch now littered with hundreds of carved white, spotted, and brown pumpkins. All of mocking them in twisted, toothless smiles. 

This is where Buckbeak died, she thought morosely. She comforted herself with knowing it didn't actually happen and he was living his best life with Hagrid.

“Third year. I felt so bad for Hagrid,” Ron broke the silence. Hermione looked to find him sitting down next to her. She wasn't surprised he found her. She always had a soft spot for the Black Lake. 

I love you, Ron. She hoped that he could feel it.

“I’m going to move into Ginny’s room before December.”

“What? Why?”

“You know why.”

“That’s because you-we haven’t tried. Properly. We’re going to get better … with time,” Ron reassured her. 

“We’ve had seven years, Ronald. We should have gotten it right by now.”

“That’s because of this damned war! We’re both fucked in the head. We-we’ll get it right this time! I’m seeing the Mind Healer now.”

“What about before? Before all this?”

“I was stupid and blind for most of it! Thinking with my cock!” Ron sputtered. 

“Ronald—“ she pleaded.

“I don’t even know why we’re breaking up!” he said helplessly. “There’s no one else!”

Hermione laughed humourlessly, “Me neither.”

“Then don’t. I need you. And you need me too,” Ron grabbed her hand that was entangled with the grass they were sitting on.

She nodded, “I do. But I don’t want to work at this.” She took in another unsteady breath. “I’m tired.”

In. Out.

In. Out. 

“You’re a good person. You’re kind. Funny. You’re my best friend. Gods, I don’t know how I would have survived the last two years without you. You’re a good man. So, so good.”

Realizing where this was going, his eyes narrowed.

“But I don’t think I want—The last few months, and seeing my Healer—It brought up some things about the war. What we were forced to do. How we acted.”

“Yeah, she brought up some ‘things’? Thinks we’re going too fast?” He sneered.

“Good gods, no!” Hermione laughed. “If anything, they would probably say we were moving at a glacial pace! But just us three, always running head first into everything. Damn everyone else and any consequences. Not knowing if tomorrow would be the day we die. It’s a miracle we didn’t. Sheer luck and stupidity. Living in a tiny tent with two foul-smelling boys. You leaving. Getting tortured. People shouldn’t live like that. Sometimes I think we—maybe we think we’re still in it.”

"Is that it? You hate me for leaving?" 

"No! I just mean.” She sighed. “I don’t know if what we did … what happened to us … if we’re okay. Or if we’re just holding on for dear life again, too afraid to let go or see beyond each other.” 

He grabbed her right arm. She was wearing a pink T-shirt, exposing her forearm. Today, the word looked ghostly instead of its usual pink. Ron ran his eyes over her scars, lifted up her arm, and kissed it. 

“I would have taken it for you. All of it. If Bellatrix had just taken me—”

“I know, Ron!” Hermione said a little too loudly. “I never doubted you! It’s NEVER been about that. I love you for that. I-I love you,” she said firmly.

“I love you, Hermione.”

“I just don’t know if I want—”

“Me,” Ron finished for her.

“No!” Hermione said firmly. “I don’t know if I want us.” A gut punch. The air flew out between them. When Hermione said it, she knew it was the truth.

Ron sat up and started to walk away. Hermione grabbed his hand, “Ron, I—”

“Yeah, what?” His voice was tight.

“Don’t go.”

His hand jerked out of hers. “Stop—stop fucking around. Stop saying that.” 

Hermione dropped his hand, as if scalded.

“You just told me you don’t want to be with me. Now you’re telling me not to go. Which is it?”

“I just-I love you, Ronald!”

“Stop saying that.” Ron repeated and turned toward Hermione, who was now standing up. Hermione had to tilt her head up to see his face, turning darker with anger. He faced her with his palms open and looking so tired, “WHAT.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.

Tick. 

Tick. 

Tick. 

The clock in her mind. Time. Time. We're out of time. 

That’s what this silence felt like. Like time was running out for them.

Hermione looked at him steadily. She owed him a straightforward answer. She chose her next words carefully and slowly, “I love you. I always will. I want you in my life but I don’t want to be with you ... like that.”

The last two words were soft, a whisper. She couldn’t even look up at him.

Ron’s blue eyes cracked a bit, then he stood a bit taller, “Alright,” He looked defeated. He turned back toward the school. 

“Ronald-”, Hermione cried stupidly again after him. But she had no more words to say. 

“Just give me some space, yeah?”

Mind Healer: M. Van Doorn
Patient: Draco L. Malfoy, Session #12

“She’s driving me bonkers. Smothering, really. Owls almost every other day. Artemis is positively boney with all that flying back and forth. But I can’t say anything. She’s my mother. She’s going looney there in Nord. She has no one. She can’t leave the house. Her so-called friends have shunned her. Father is in …”

“Draco,” Healer Van Doorn said softly, meaning to interrupt him.

“That stupid contraption they have on her wand! Also closing her Floo! Like she would risk Apparating. Ridiculous! I should have visited her again before coming back. Made sure she had everything she required.”

“Draco,” the voice firmer now. Healer Van Doorn cleared his throat.

Malfoy looked up. 

“Your mother is on house arrest. She will be for the next 24 months.”

After the war, Narcissa was extradited to France. She held a double passport and the "special Wizarding relationships" between Great Britain and France strengthened after the Second Wizarding War. She was given leniency in that she aided the Order, and Potter wrote a letter of impact in her favour. Malfoy too.

Lucius was tried and sentenced to 5-7 years in Azkaban. The trial was swift, almost too fast. Everyone already decided his guilt, although the evidence against the Malfoys was damning. Being married to Lucius, Narcissa could not be compelled to testify against him, but stood for Bellatrix's crimes of embezzling the contents of the Black Family Vault to fund Voldemort's war and other nefarious purposes.

Since Bellatrix died, there was no one to hang the crime on. But the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Wizengamot were desperate to make an example of the Malfoys. Through a technicality, they tied Narcissa to Bellatrix's actions, and placed her on house arrest for two and a half years to be completed at the end of December 1999.

“Yes, thank you for stating the obvious, Healer Van Doorn,” he sneered. “Your point being?”

“The fact that she is able to live at one of your French estates while Malfoy Manor is being used as evidence in the Death Eater trials is a blessing.”

Draco grimaced, as if his Healer said the dumbest thing ever.

“Your mother is safe for the foreseeable future. She is not in any harm,” Healer Van Doorn reasoned.

He rolled his eyes but reluctantly agreed, “‘Isn’t this the point of these sessions, yeah? For me to vent? Not to keep it up here, so I don’t go off and start Avada’ing everyone?” 

Healer Van Doorn held his gaze, “Do you want to?”

Draco grunted disdainfully but did not respond for several moments. Finally, Draco gave way, “My mother has no one else. Just me. I have to take care of her. She’s my priority. She didn’t deserve any of this.”

“Neither did you. You were 16. Your parents should have protected you.”

“Right,” Draco sneered. "I am the Boy with No Choice, as the Daily Prophet loves to call me." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

"You've seemed to adopt the moniker." 

"I am whatever they say I am. I don't see a point in fighting it. Sometimes it's more generous; sometimes less so. It doesn't really matter." 

Van Doorn tried again, “It's a privilege to not have those opinions affect you and your opportunities."

"How? Why? Everyone knows my business! You're mad if you think it won't affect how I'm treated at school or in a future position."

"I didn't say that. But the public's perception of you doesn't define who you are. We are always changing and shifting as people. Our identity is not just made up of past choices. You can choose what kind of man you want to be moving forward. What kind of son you want to be; what kind of Wizard.”

“My mother has no one else. I need to take care of her,” Draco repeated. "She did what she could with my father, Bella, and Voldemort. It's enough. It has to be." 

“Who takes care of you, Draco?” The question caught him off guard. 

“I-I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I’m fine. Head Boy and all,” he joked bitterly.

“You mentioned a name once, a young woman.”

Malfoy cocked his head in confusion. “Granger? No, that’s not …”

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“I believe her name started with a P. One moment.” Van Doorn flicked through his suspended notes with his wand finger. 

“Oh, right. Pansy. Yes.”

“Tell me more about this young woman in your life.”

“What do you want to know?”

“She’s your - you’re seeing her.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“How would you put it?”

“I’ve known her most of my life. Our families were are close. We grew up together. Our parents had the same allegiances and political affiliations.”

“And she cares for you, Draco?”

Draco shrugged, “I suppose, in her way.”

“How do you care for her?”

“What?”

“How do you care for her?” Healer Van Doorn said more slowly. 

“We meet regularly,” Draco clipped.

“What does that entail?”

“Pardon me? I am not going to discuss my sex life here.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Then what exactly are you getting at?” Draco huffed in frustration.

“Does she make you feel cared for? Safe?”

The dribbling sounds of the Koi pond filled the silence.

“It’s enough,” he repeated.

Chapter Text

Knock. Knock. 

“Come in,” a clear, high voice rang out.

Malfoy entered the new Headmaster’s office on the Seventh floor. The gargoyle glared at him before letting him in. He looked around, still grand with two staircases leading up to bookshelves two stories high and a landing that looked out to the Quidditch pitch. McGongall sat in the middle of the circular room, behind a heavy, ornate wooden desk. She did not look up.

“ Professor Headmaster McGonagall.”

“Ah, yes. I imagine there will be an adjustment period. Mr. Malfoy, come in. Sit,” while she continued to be distracted and muttering over two, nondescript notebooks placed in front of her. 

Malfoy sank down in one of two hard, wooden chairs placed facing McGonagall’s desk.

T hese are new additions.

She still didn’t look up.

“You wanted to see me,” he stated plainly.

McGonagall finally looked at Malfoy, as if surprised to hear him speak. Her expression was unreadable. Her tired eyes wore a slight pink ring around it. She pushed up her reading glasses to the bridge of her nose, focusing on this young man who now sat in front of her. As if seeing him for the first time in years. 

A handsome young man, just like his father.

She taught Lucius too.

Malfoy wore black slacks, a white Oxford shirt too loose on his tall, lithe frame. His face was pale with a strong jaw, a high, aristocratic nose-slightly crooked from Granger's punch-, sharp cheekbones and chin, but with a softer, gentler mouth than Lucius, noticeable without his sneer. His layered hair styled in a modified pompadour, white-blonde as ever, was brushed with a deep part to the left side. His grey-blue eyes, which used to narrow in quick anger and judgement, now were haunted and sad. 

“Yes, how are you? I hope your mother and father are well, given the circumstances. Last I heard, she was in France.”

“Yes, Professor, erm ... Headmaster. My mother is busying herself with the gardens, and Father is as well as he can be,” he said carefully.

McGonagall did not register his slip of the tongue, “Also, I believe congratulations are in order. The new Head Boy present for our auspicious reopening! How was your summer, Mr. Malfoy? Educational, I trust?”

Bitch. She knew exactly how his summer went. 

Draco, along with several of his Slytherin friends, who took the Dark Mark, spent much of the summer performing community service at the Ministry and taking re-education classes involving Muggleborn culture, consent, and conflict resolution. McGonagall knew this. She was at many of the hearings. Some of his parole conditions was at her suggestion in lieu of Azkaban. It was a humbling experience, to say the least. Gathering lunch orders and coffee and filing folders for the likes of Arthur Weasley and his colleagues. 

“I am … doing fine,”  Malfoy unconsciously rubbed his left arm. McGonagall didn’t miss this. She cast a quick gaze at his covered arm, then moved on. He caught her look and turned his eyes downward.

“Speak freely, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Headmaster, surely you are aware of the events that transpired over the past two years,” he paused. When she didn’t answer, he continued, “There are certainly students more deserving of the position than me. I am still on par-”

“Your parole sentence was contingent on your taking up the Head Boy role. You were, after all, underaged when you took the Mark,” McGonagall responded stiffly. 

Malfoy cleared his throat, “Be that as it may, you are aware of my past. The incoming and returning students will be aware of my past. I wonder if it’s wise to offer me this position when it might seem like …”

“Go on.”

“That you are rewarding Death Eater behaviour,” he finished. 

Several moments passed between them. McGonagall barely blinked, as she bore into his grey-blue eyes. She sighed, “Mr. Malfoy, we’ve had this discussion already.”

He nodded in acquiescence, but didn’t say anything. 

“You’ve, you are taking steps to atone for your past misdeeds: community service, re-education courses, donations in your family’s name. You’re also banned from using magic for the remainder of your tenure at Hogwarts, aside from on school grounds, and you’re grounded from international travelling for 12 months-”

“-I doubt that’ll be enough.”

“For whom?”

Malfoy didn’t know. 

McGonagall sighed and pushed her spectacles up again, “I’ll speak plainly, Mr. Malfoy. When you were at Hogwarts, you were a troublesome child. I had my concerns about you. In truth, I still have them.”

Cunt. 

Her statement caught his attention. He looked up.

“You were a bully and mean-spirited. Merlin knows why some professors turned a blind eye to-,” she caught herself. “Regardless, in your personal correspondence and the speech you delivered at your hearing, you convinced everyone in attendance, myself included, that you are aware of your mistakes; the harm they caused; that you are sorry for them; and you aim to make amends.”

“Some wrongs are not so easily corrected,” he stated.

“Right you are, Mr. Malfoy. Nothing erases the past. There is repentance. There is atonement. And forgiveness is never guaranteed. But you do not stop trying.” Malfoy opened his mouth. McGonagall stopped him with her palm. “Do not think me naive. This will not be the fast nor easy route to redemption. There may not even be one in many's eyes. Some students will likely be angry and upset at your return. The optics are another matter as well. But don't forget, you chose to return too.” [6]

“I am your lamb to slaughter; is that it then?”

“Mr. Malfoy, spare me your long-suffering dramatics. You cannot actually believe that some of the students' feelings are not actually justified. Witches and wizards died! Children!”

“And I’m reminded of that every day!” Draco hadn’t meant to raise his voice.

McGonagall seemed to realize that she pushed too much. Her voice softened, “You, too, were a child. You were raised in a den of misdeeds and misinformation. The sins of the father are not to be laid on the children. ”

“Do. Not. Talk. About. My. Father,” Draco said slowly. “Professor,” he punctuated at the end.

“Very well,” she accepted. “Regardless, now is the time to put away childish things—thoughts, ideas,  and actions that no longer serve us. I am not your parent nor your Healer, Mr. Malfoy. I am your Headmaster,” McGonagall said pointedly. “I can only encourage you to become the man that you seem to want to be, responsible and compassionate with an eye toward the future. Beyond that, well, the rest is dust.”

“I don’t know how,” he said honestly.

“We start here. You were a troublesome child-.”

Draco scoffed.

McGonagall began again, “While you were a troublesome child, you also were a formidable Quidditch seeker and a strong academic, excelling especially in, I believe, Potions?” 

“Hm.”

Both paused for a few beats, thinking of Severus. 

She continued, “You know I taught your father too?” 

Malfoy didn’t respond.

“A brilliant student, as well. But there is a gentleness in your soul that I did not see in …,” she trailed off, remembering his earlier outburst. “Regardless if it’s a wish to simply not see the world burn or something more noble, the spark is there. I can only hope you find the means to nurture it.”

Quiet now. Only the sound of his feet shuffling uncomfortably and the creak in the chair.

“There is also a leadership quality to you. And of course, there is the matter of your legacy.”

“My legacy?”

“Yes, you are a Hogwarts legacy, however muddied by recent years. Your participation and cooperation are central to rebuilding what you helped to destroy,” McGonagall said bluntly.  

“I see.”

“You, along with the new Head Girl, will stand as the symbol of Inter-House Unity and the phoenix of the Battle of Hogwarts.” 

“Bold of you to assume that I-we even hold that much sway.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

“Ms. Granger will be arriving shortly,” McGonagall said matter-of-factly.

Malfoy slowly realized the implication of McGonagall’s words. He hadn’t thought much about who would be Head Girl since his summer was filled with parole meetings, multiple Healing sessions, community service, visiting his father in Azkaban, and reassuring his mother via OWL almost daily. No, that was a lie. He did, for a brief moment. But the idea was so ludicrous that he banished it almost immediately.

He opened his mouth in protest, but McGonagall ignored him. “Perhaps you’d like to get settled in your new dormitories first. I have a few more things to attend to here. Please return in an hour.”

McGonagall then dismissed a bludgeoned Malfoy.

After picking up his trunk from the Hogwarts station—he hadn’t seen her on the train—briefly touring the Head Students’ shared living quarters and choosing a room, Malfoy returned to McGonagall’s office. 

When he knocked on the door, the door magically opened. He didn’t sit down this time. McGonagall did not even look up from her parchments. He took in a steadying breath, “Headmaster, with all due respect, you cannot be serious! Gran—”

“I assure you I am,” her voice cutting Malfoy off, indicating to him that she had not forgotten their earlier conversation.

A beat hung between them.

“It would have been nice to know this information in advance, so I could have made an informed decision,” Malfoy said curtly.

“You would not have taken the position,” McGonagall explained coolly, not an accusation. A simple fact.

“Grang-Hermione and I have an unhappy past.”

“Yes, I am aware that you and Ms. Granger have had difficulties, along with Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley.” 

“‘Difficulties’ is an understatement.”  

“Do you care to elaborate?”

Malfoy looked down and stood tongue-tied. He sighed heavily, “No.”

“Well, that settles it then. Ms. Granger has already agreed. You both already signed the Head Student contract. My hands are tied and frankly too busy to fuss with this, whatever this is,” McGonagall warned. “Unless there is a legitimate reason you can give me about why Ms. Granger should not be offered the position of Head Girl, I am afraid that we are at an impasse.”

Malfoy couldn’t help his questions, “She has?! Did she know I was offered Head Boy?”

McGonagall leveled her piercing gaze at Draco. “She does,” she clipped, waiting for more.  

He corrected quickly, “Hermione should get the Head Girl position. It’s me who … should step down.”

“Do you realize that if you fail to fulfill any single one of your parole conditions, including the position of Head Boy, that you will be re-tried as an adult wizard?”

Malfoy looked around McGonagall’s office helplessly, mouth slightly agape, hands clenched in fists. “Maybe it’s what I deserve,” he finally said.

McGonagall finally stepped away from her ornate desk and stepped toward the young man. He was over a head taller than McGonagall, but he felt humbled by her presence. She laid a thin hand lightly on his shoulders. He almost winced at the touch. He glanced down and studied the blue veins underneath his new Headmaster’s hand.

How old was she? A hundred and five?

“Other people’s capacity for forgiveness may yet surprise you,” she said quietly.

Not if you knew what I did. 

Another beat.

In a louder, sterner tone now, “And I trust you no longer use such ugly and bigoted language to describe your classmates.”

“No, Headmaster,” he replied seriously. He then sighed and cracked his neck.

“Very good. Now do I need to remind you about the dormitory rules?” Malfoy shook his head. “Well then, I wanted to show you something I have been designing over the past few months. It’s quite ingenious, really.” 

McGonagall levitated the brown notebooks he noticed between them and began.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Come in!” The Headmaster's voice ran true and bright. 

The doors swung open, and Hermione stepped through them, dressed in a light pink zip-up jumper and jeans. Her hair, usually down to her back, was now just below her chin, still unruly as ever. 

Malfoy almost dropped the notebooks-almost-but his practiced expression of aloofness and disinterest remained in place. He immediately stepped away from the door, putting as much distance between them as he could. Hermione did not register these movements. She could only tell that he had been surprised with the quick flash in his eyes and his slightly opened mouth, now colours muted down to steel grey and mouth pressed into a thin line. 

In the months since Malfoy had seen her—When was it? In front of Hogwarts? No, at St. Mungo’s with the insufferable Weasel holding her mangled arm. That arm.—She stood taller now, but suddenly seemed smaller and more unsteady on her feet when she realized he was staring at her. When they met eyes, he turned his gaze back to the floor.

Maybe she was interrupting something?

McGonagall’s letter said 10a. It was now 10:03a. 

“Hello, Professor!”, Hermione greeted warmly, then clipped, “Malfoy.”

“Granger.”

“Ms. Granger, lovely to see you again! We missed you these couple of months during some of the reconstruction ceremonies.”

“Yes, I was, um, doing some traveling. I went to Australia.”

Australia? 

“How marvelous!”, McGonagall exclaimed. “When we have more time this week, you must tell me more about your travels. It does the spirit good to see the world after all these dark days.”

Hermione almost winced. “Yes, of course, Professor. Actually, it’s Headmaster now, isn’t it? Congratulations!” she said. “The weather is lovely now in Perth. I also got to to visit Rottnest Island. Have you ever seen a quokka? Really adorable creatures. Looks like they’re smiling all the time.”

Australia?

The sounds of Granger and McGonagall’s conversations muffled in the background, as Malfoy tried to think of who Granger knew enough to visit them for several months in Australia. He knew she was an only child.

Krum? No, the brute was from Bulgaria.

He remembered the Weasel discussing Granger’s parents to the once-chubby bastard, Large Bottom, in the locker room after a casual Quidditch game. They were dentists—supposedly some kind of Healers, Nott explained to him once—in Muggle London.

Sounded primitive.

When he refocused, Granger and McGonagall already pivoted their conversation to Head Students’ responsibilities: discussing the different duties of Prefects, hall monitoring, planning Unity activities before and after the Sorting Ceremony, representing the school at public events, hosting the Unity ball in January, etc.

“—You must be positively tired. It is indeed a lot to take in.”

That old bat didn’t seem at all concerned about his mental state 20 minutes ago.

But Granger was enraptured, eyes bright, taking down notes with her quill and parchment floating mid-air behind Malfoy. 

Fucking swot.

“Take some time to rest. Go unpack your trunks. Get acquainted with your quarters. Mr. Malfoy will familiarize you with the way to your dormitories. I will see you at 1p in the Great Hall to abreast you of your other Head Student responsibilities. Some are new and will require more explanation. It’s best to do so in situ.”

McGonagall delivered the last couple of sentences in a way that both students knew it wasn’t a request. She then dismissed both of them with a wave of her hand. 

Malfoy stilled, waiting for Hermione to leave first and leaving enough room so they would not touch. She scoffed-he really wasn’t going to hold the door?- and pushed open the heavy mahogany door. Hermione kept the door open. When he realized what she was doing, he found his feet.

The Hogwarts corridors were empty. Most students would not return until January, and even then, the numbers probably dwindled. 

Hermione turned left and started walking quickly, her Mary Janes clicking rapidly along the cobblestones. Malfoy trailed behind, keeping more than a safe distance. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be showing me the way?” 

No answer.

She huffed and walked even faster. She followed up the moving staircases to the sixth floor, trying to get her bearings. She turned right, then another left, and another one until she ran up against an alcove with beautiful arched windows that peered over the Hogwarts' courtyard, “Um, I thought this was it.”

Silence again. 

Hermione was getting aggravated, “Would you just—”

He clipped, “I thought a proper swot like you would probably already know where the Head Student dormitories are.”

She ignored his light jab, distracted by her misdirection, “Hm, yes. I did read about it in Hogwarts: A History. ”

No response. 

“Well, you’re here.”

“No, the text said it was a set of grey doors with black hinges.” 

“It’s a glamour. The entrance had to be rebuilt after the Tower-”

“After Dumbledore was murdered,” Hermione said bluntly.

Bitch.

“Yeah, the faculty thought it brought back too many bad memories. So they pushed Head Students’ living quarters back to make room for the Astronomy Tower's new foundational stones—to make it more stable,” he explained. “Now we’re across the way from the Prefects’ rooms instead of beside them like before. But those rooms aren't ready yet. Moaning Myrtle is still there, though, in the Prefects' bathroom. Lonely and amorous as ever.”

“Oh, I see," Hermione then realized they would be the only ones on the sixth floor.

Silence. There seemed to be a lot of those between them.

A few more beats and Draco stood next to Hermione, staring out the window, sun glaring at both of their faces.

“It’s really quite lovely, isn’t it?” 

“Mirror of Erised,” he muttered quietly. 

“What?”

[Image: Shifting alcove stones]

The alcove windows shuddered and stone scraped across the cobble floors loudly, startling Hermione, and she forgot what she was saying. The windows folded upon itself and pushed the walls back, revealing a set of grey metal doors that opened to a generous common room filled with a fireplace already lit. Above the fireplace were the French alcove windows. The common room was spacious, and included a black coffee table, a cream-coloured velvet couch, some wooden chairs, and a vintage blue carpet aged to an almost light grey-blue. The alcove windows pushed out into the back of the room, letting streaks of light filter in. On either side of the windows were two narrow bookshelves that reached just as high. On the far right corner was a kitchenette; the left a door to their shared bathroom-she could see the porcelain tub from the entrance- and two more doors appeared at opposite sides of the common room. One open and one closed. Their bedrooms.

“My room is on the left closest to the bathroom.”

“What, so I don’t get to choose or do you suffer from incontinence?”

He ignored the crude remark, “I was here earlier. I wasn’t going to wait around to deign me with your presence before choosing a room.” A beat. “My room is bigger.”

Hermione almost laughed, “Malfoy, what exactly is up your arse? I came exactly when McGonagall asked me to. I didn’t know you would be there earlier. Did I miss something in the letter?”

“What letter?” Draco shook his head, “Doesn’t matter.”

Another pause. 

It suddenly dawned on Hermione that McGonagall did not tell Malfoy she would be Head Girl this year. Even worse, he didn’t know that they would be ostensibly living together for almost two years. No wonder he seemed shocked when he saw her this morning.

“You didn’t know?”

“Look, Granger, it’s not a big deal. Of course the Brightest fucking Witch of her Age would return to Hogwarts and get Head Girl. I was just surprised to see you, is all. McGonagall offered me the position during … during the summer,” he finished deliberately. “She just failed to tell me we would be having a meeting together this morning. Merlin knows it’s uncomfortable for everyone. It just really isn’t fair to you to find out that you'll be living next to me.” 

Hermione quirked an eyebrow at his almost-kind response. Malfoy didn't seem to register it as such.

She didn’t answer him, nor did she feel the need to tell him about McGonagall's letter. Instead, she explored the common area, trailing her finger across the coffee table, the chairs, the bookshelves, and the mantle of the fireplace. 

“Crookshanks would love to sit on this mantle, looking out at the birds.” 

It was Mafoy's turn to raise an eyebrow, “That thing is still alive?”

“Yes, he’s re-familiarizing himself with the grounds as we speak.”

He sneered in disgust, “And bringing in grime and fleas, no doubt.”

“Crooks is very clean. He bathes himself twice a—”

He cut her off. “Whatever, Granger. See to it that he stays in your room.” Then Malfoy turned and disappeared into his room. 

The common room suddenly felt warmer. 

Hermione walked into now what would be her room for the foreseeable future. It was small but cosy, enough for a double bed, standing mirror, dresser, a chair and desk. What caught her eye was next to a large concave window with a small ledge enough for a person to sit on, and next to it was a corner bookshelf, about 5 tiers tall, carved out of a gnarled tree trunk with branches extending up and out into the room’s walls. She had never seen anything so beautiful.

When Hermione finished her bedroom tour, she realized that the house elves already delivered her trunk to the common room.

How nice.

As she started to drag her heavy trunk back to her room, Malfoy thudded out of his own bedroom.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

He stared at her incredulously from across the way, “You’re going to scratch the floors.”

“I left my wand in the library.”

“Of course that was your first stop.”

“Wingardium leviosa,” and a flick of his wrist. The trunk floated to her bedroom.

“I didn’t need your help, Malfoy.”

“I wasn’t helping you. The sound was atrocious. I was trying to nap.”

Silence. 

“Here.” In a few short strides, Malfoy reached the middle of the room to the coffee table and threw down an inconspicuous notebook with a light brown, leather cover. 

“What’s that?” Hermione couldn’t help her curiosity and stepped forward to pick it up. As she did, Malfoy scuttled back. She eyed him curiously.

“McGonagall gave it to us. It’s an enchanted notebook. I have one too. All Head Students get one," he clarified. "Heads of Houses and McGonagall will use it as a direct line to contact us. Our duties will appear in the notebook, as well as pertinent information like the Prefects’s class schedules, so we can assign them their patrol times. Our dormitory password will also appear in it and change periodically, so our notebook functions as a sort of key too to the Head Student dormitories. Don’t fucking lose it. The current password is, 'Mirror of Erised.'”

She nodded, “Anything else?” 

“McGonagall told me we can use it to communicate with one another. It’s been charmed with each of our magical signatures so that no one else can write inside.”

“Where’d they get our magical signatures from?”

“Probably the contracts we signed,” Malfoy offered limply. 

“Hm, that’s pretty brilliant,” Hermione said quietly. 

“Yeah, genius,” Draco rolled his eyes. “Anyway, Granger, let’s just use this for the bulk of our communication. We don’t need to talk to each other much and we don’t want to spend more time together than we have to. I just want to do my time, graduate, and get out.”

Hermione glared at him, slightly hurt.

How dare he? How dare he act like he was being impositioned? After what he did?

She wrinkled her brows and jutted out her chin, “So why didn’t you?”

“What?” Malfoy was annoyed now, “What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t you ‘get out?’ Why didn’t you go off and hide out in one of your manors across Europe? No one asked you to be here.”

“That’s none of your business,” he hissed. 

Her eyes flashed. Hermione thought of biting back harder, like she would in the past. But she thought of her recent sessions with Healer Lee. She breathed in slowly, counting to 4, letting out to 4.

After what he did? After what he did. Not a question. Of course, he wants to keep his distance.

Healer Lee’s words fluttered in the back of her mind, “Be mindful of who you give your energy to, Hermione. Everyone deserves your consideration, but not everyone has a place in your life.”

Hermione sighed in resignation, “Okay, Malfoy.” She tucked the notebook under her arm and headed to the library. 

McGonagall met them in the Great Hall at 1p. Hermione didn’t return to the room before then. Malfoy knew, because he couldn’t nap. He laid on the bed, turning the morning’s events over and over in his mind. 

The new Headmaster led them through several new renovations, big and small. 

“—There is the matter of the Sorting Ceremony, of course. You will want to have the Prefects help with the Inter-House activities before and after the Sorting.”

“Who are the new Prefects this year?” Hermione asked, struggling to keep up with McGonagall’s smooth strides. “Besides—”

“Well, there is Ms. Parkinson and Mr. Nott from Slytherin, Ms. Abbott and Mr. Finch-Fletchley from Hufflepuff; Ms. Chang and Mr. Goldstein from Ravenclaw; and Ms. Patil and of course, you know, Mr. Potter.”

Of fucking course. Scar Head. 

As if on cue, Harry came through the main doors of the Great Hall, flitting his nervous eyes around the large room. When he saw Hermione, his stupid face lit up and he waved. She waved back, smiling. When Harry’s eyes roved farther from her, he found McGonagall and Malfoy standing close to Hermione. Malfoy glared at Potter and straightened his back to stand taller. Potter immediately narrowed his eyes and gave him the two-finger salute, then huffed away to find a cup of tea and biscuit.

Fucking baby Death Eater scum.

Hermione saw the entire exchange and rolled her eyes.

Harry wondered how many galleons the Malfoys donated to the Hogwarts restoration efforts to keep the youngest Malfoy soft and untouched and out of Azkaban. 

“Headmaster, I thought the Prefects weren’t due back until later in the month,” Malfoy inquired. Hermione glared at him. He ignored her, not blind to the hypocrisy that Pansy and Theo were coming back later today. 

“That is usually the case,” McGonagall nodded. “But Ms. Granger and Mr. Potter are somewhat of a package deal.”

Interesting ...

“Yes, well,” Hermione immediately picked up. “We’ve been staying with the Weasleys all summer. I’m afraid to wear out our welcome.”

McGonagall nodded again, barely listening, “I’m sure Argus can feed one extra student.” She stopped in front of the elevated platform, where the faculty usually ate. Now situated right in front of the platform was a smaller dinner table that could fit perhaps 10-12 people, angled to look out onto the four Houses’ vertically placed tables.

“So you will notice here, a new table. While most students will still sit according to their Houses during breakfast and lunch, as Head Boy and Girl, you will hold court here during dinner.”

A pregnant pause.

Even Hermione couldn’t hold back, “You’ve got to be kidding!” Then she remembered herself, “Headmaster.”

“On the contrary, Ms. Granger, Hogwarts aims to take seriously the theme of Inter-House unity in both thought and deed.”

“Surely—”

“What Granger means to say,” Malfoy cut in, “this seems a little excessive. Every eye will be on us. We are not comfortable with being the centre of attention.”

“—Don’t speak for me,” Hermione hissed out of the corner of her mouth.

“After the events of the last two years, you will understand if greater measures are required, including the importance of symbolism … and optics,” McGonagall quietly challenged. 

“Yes, Headmaster. But beyond that, I don’t think either of us are comfortable sitting alone at a dining table. What about socializing with other Houses’ dinner tables? It is perhaps prudent for us to set an example,” Malfoy reasoned.

“You will be doing just that!” McGonagall laughed casually. “You two will not be sitting alone. The Prefects will join you. How else do we set an example of true inclusion and meritocracy?”

Both Head Students let out an audible sigh. 

“Now if there are no more objections,” the Headmaster eyed them, “the next thing on the agenda will be the Unity Ball. It will take place at the end of January in our biggest ballrooms. Every student is expected to attend. We can talk more in detail about it once the other Prefects arrive. But for now, you two will- another dramatic pause-will lead the Ball off in a waltz. You will then be joined by the Prefects who will invite someone to dance with someone not in their House.”

Hermione and Malfoy dropped their mouths in protest. McGonagall held up her palm, silencing them, “Ms. Granger, Mr. Malfoy, this has already been decided. When you two signed your Head Student contracts, you pledged to help, in reasonable ways, to rebuild Hogwarts’ reputation, structure, and spirit. This waltz is included in that. It’s three minutes of your lives. I will be arranging practice sessions with you and the Prefects, come January.”

The Headmaster continued, “It is time for both of you to put away your childish rivalries. I don’t expect that you will like the decision, but Ms. Granger, I’ve come to know you well over the years. I always figure that you have a grip on the bigger picture.” Hermione nodded, a rosy colour spread across her nose and cheeks.

“And Mr. Malfoy, you will watch your tongue and you will be a gentleman.” Draco, too, nodded silently. 

“Wonderful! Now that’s settled. I almost forgot about your badges," McGonagall took them out from under her billowing robes. Hermione and Malfoy simply stared at the presented pins. "Well, take them! I don't have all day!" 

They both made a grab at them simultaneously, bumping their fingers into one another. He glared at the swot. 

Fuck off.

As little contact as possible. 

Hermione snatched hers quickly and turned away to pin it onto her lapel. The big, proud smile she wore on her face with her proud little chin jutted out high made him scoff on instinct. But it also made him think back to Fifth-Year. When he was part of the Inquisitorial Squad. 

He was just a naive little boy then. 

He sighed and quietly added the pin to his robes.

McGonagall continued, unaware of their little tiff, "Let’s talk about your office hours …”

By the time they finished, McGonagall had taken them through the school grounds, pointing out new additions, wards, and portraits. It was near dinner time when they were finally dismissed. Hermione joined Harry and the Patil twins, who were already here. Draco sat with Theo and Pansy across the room.

When Malfoy settled down with his dinner plate, Pansy smiled warmly at him and rested her head on his shoulder. He gave her a quick caress on her back. 

“So how was it?” Theo asked inquisitively.

“How was what?”

“Don’t be daft. Seeing the Golden Girl after all this time.”

"Why would Draco care?" Pansy's voice lilted.

Malfoy shrugged. “As long as she keeps to herself and doesn’t bother me …”

They ate in silence for a few moments. 

“She lost weight. They both did,” Theo observed matter-of-factly. 

Pansy looked behind her to glare at Hermione, “Granger needed it. She’s still insufferably plain. Merlin knows why Wonder Boy is still hanging off of her.”

Malfoy was not interested in this conversation nor how much the Golden Girl weighed. He rolled his eyes and continued to ravage his plate. His eyes drifted nonchalantly to their table. Hermione and Harry sat beside one another, no doubt laughing at some dumb inside joke. He poured her a cup of tea, and she mouthed, ‘Thank you’ as she lightly touched his wrist.

Wonder where the Ginger sidekick and Weaselette were? 

Hermione looked across the way, and briefly caught Malfoy's eyes. They held each other's gaze for a moment longer. 

After a couple of hours of firewhiskey and bullshitting in the Slytherin common room and a lazy handjob from Pansy, Malfoy returned back to his room. Hermione wasn’t there. Her door remained open.

He got ready for bed, changing into his black, silk pajamas, and waited for the walls to shift and groan. They never did. By the time he drifted off to bed, it was past midnight. 

Pale light filtered into his room around five thirty in the morning. Draco was awakened by the sounds of the stone walls’ movement, quick footsteps, and soft murmurs—one male, one female, and the click of Hermione’s bedroom door closing.

He couldn’t fall back asleep. He listened to Hermione walking through their common room, making small noises. He heard water running—a shower, then the sink in the kitchen, and a final grunt of the common room entrance closing again.

It was near seven-thirty by the time Malfoy dragged himself out of bed. Their dormitories were silent. Hermione’s door was open once again. After he roused himself sufficiently, he made himself a cup of tea and started exploring the left-behind books on the shelves next to the fireplace: The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, A History of Magic, A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, Wandless Magick, and some Muggle shit, textbooks on World War I and II, Lolita, Sexus, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Romeo + Juliet, Hamlet, Macbeth, Julius Caesar, Game of Thrones-a mental note to read that later-and something called Fight Club. 

A nice mixture of magical and Muggle literature, he concluded. As Malfoy reached the end of the far right shelf, he rounded the wall edge of the common room. He found himself beside Granger’s door. He allowed himself a brief look.

Granger’s trunk was open; books already strewn on the floor and stacked on the tree shelf; and some folded clothes on a table. Draco’s gaze lingered on his next sight, only for a moment: Granger’s bed. That fat, orange, pug-faced cat sitting in the middle of freshly laundered bed sheets, stared back at him, almost in expectation, then it blinked at him. 

Fuck. That hideous thing was watching him. 

He quickly backed away and changed into his day clothes of an Oxford shirt and grey slacks. As he dressed, he realized Granger hadn’t slept in her bed last night.

Chapter Text

This went on for almost two weeks.

Hermione and Malfoy set up a kind of uneasy rhythm, working closely with McGonagall in the daytime, then each separating to have dinner and socializing at their respective dinner tables and House common rooms.

With each passing day, more Prefects showed up. When new students would arrive in January, the Prefects would each take ten students for a personalized tour of Hogwarts.They planned a bunch of  “icebreakers” for the incoming students, and several “trust-building exercises” for the returning ones, as Granger called them. They were also tasked with planning an impressive re-opening ceremony and decorating the corridors, library, and the Great Hall. 

Draco and Hermione spoke only when they had to, communicating their schedules and plans mainly through their notebooks. 

Scribble. Scribble. Scribble. 

What do you think of a fireworks display for the opening ceremony?

Do you think that’s wise, Granger? - DLM

What do you mean?

Children soldiers, bright lights, loud popping sounds? - DLM

... I suppose you’re right.

Did the Golden Girl just admit she didn’t think through something? - DLM

Why do you sign off every message with your initials? It’s so weird!

Malfoy spins around and starts stalking around the library stacks to find Hermione standing on a desk and enchanting some candelabras, “Granger, this is ridiculous. You’re in the library, same as me.”

Granger stilled her spell castings, as she watched flashes of annoyance cross his face. Her brown notebook laid open on a table next to her, and her quill quieted. She laughed. A true genuine laugh that was more like a chortle. And even though it was inelegant and loud, Draco liked that sound. He filed it away quickly. They held eyes for a second longer than usual.

“Dra—” Pansy breathes into his ear. “Let’s go to your room.” Pansy was sitting atop him on the couch and he was already hard. 

“Pans, I have a meeting in 20 minutes.”

“You’ll be quick,” she teased.

He smiles into her lips, “McGonagall told us other students are strictly forbidden from entering our rooms.”

Pansy huffs at his use of the word, ‘us.’ 

“Every Head Boy fucks in their dorms. That’s why everyone wants the position!” Pansy starts to kiss Draco anew, starting with his neck. Her lips were full, warm, and inviting. He couldn’t help but kiss back. 

“No, McGonagall said our rooms are warded from visitors, some sort of condition of my parole to make Granger feel safer living next to a Death Eater.”

“With,” Pansy corrected and eyed him warily.

“Whatever.”

Pansy sighed in defeat and got up from Draco’s lap, “Okay, well-” 

Malfoy stood up to smooth out his pants and loosened tie.

She looked around the common room and flipped her hands in disgust, “I guess, I’ll just have to blow you here.”

Malfoy couldn’t help but laugh at his minxy lover, but before they could go any further, the alcove entrance shifted, and the stones on the floor groaned. Hermione and Harry walked in.

“-So this is the common room,” Hermione gestured.

“Right, brilliant. Quite bright.” A twangy voice rang out, and Malfoy immediately grew soft.

The Golden pair eyed Malfoy and Pansy in their rumpled clothes, standing next to his bedroom. Pansy's hands were on the top of his belt. Harry smiled a half-cocked, knowing smile. Hermione scoffed out in disgust.

“See, Draco? The Boy who wouldn’t Die and his Mudblood whore are fucking in the dorms. Why can’t we?”

SMACK.

Hermione crossed the room swiftly and slapped Pansy across the face. The sound of her slap cracked across the room. Pansy clung to her face, in shock and anger. She held her slowly reddening cheek, then lunged at Hermione. Malfoy held Pansy’s elbows. 

“How dare you, you filthy little Mudblood!” [7]

Hermione’s hand was quicker. 

SWICK. 

Hermione’s wand found itself pointed underneath Pansy’s chin.

A familiar scene, Hermione reminisced. She couldn’t help but smile. But this time, Hermione’s aim was true and voice unshakeable.

“Say that word again, Parkinson. I dare you. I’ll have your ass thrown out of Hogwarts so quick. I don't give a shite about either of you.”

Pansy’s eyes widened but did not lower. “Stupid fucking cunt!” she sneered. Malfoy's hands on her tightened. "My parents will-"

“Just try me. Isn't your father still on probation?" Pansy tried to lunge at Hermione again, but Malfoy's grip didn't let up. Hermione, emboldened and eyes blazing, continued, You think anyone will believe one negative thing you say about me or Harry? Don't forget, we’re 'war heroes.' You’re just an embarrassment; an ugly mark to be erased in history. Too cowardly to be useful; too rich to die.”

Malfoy winced at her remarks. The last lines were clearly meant for him. 

That escalated quickly, Harry thought. He rubbed the back of his head in discomfort, pushing his jet black hair over his eyes.

Harry stepped forward and closed his hand around the tip of Hermione’s wand. Hermione glanced back and forth between Pansy and him until she stepped back. Pansy ran out of the common room. Malfoy gave them both a cold stare before following Pansy out in silence. 

When Malfoy returned to the Head Student dorms hours later, he found Hermione sitting on the velvet couch reading Hamlet. His head cocked to the side, as he tried to read the spine.

She sat cross-legged in a T-shirt and joggers with a cup of tea floating in mid-air. When her eyes met Malfoy’s, Hermione raised her eyebrows up in recognition and closed the play, “Malfoy, can we talk?”

“About what, Granger?”

“About today,” she didn’t wait for his nod. “Let’s set up some proper boundaries and etiquette, if we’re to live together for the next while. Ground rules, if you will, for future visitors.”

Malfoy huffed, “I’m tired.” 

But he sat down on the far side of the couch, keeping an appropriate distance from the Golden Girl. Hermione did not move or back down.

“Whatever, Granger. Nothing was going to happen. McGonagall already informed me that our rooms are warded to prevent student visitors.”

She nodded. Her brown eyes were wide and open. From this close distance, he could see that they were flecked with gold.

A true Golden girl, he thought bitterly.

Hermione looked at him appraisingly, as if trying to decide what to do with this information. Malfoy didn’t like that. “I don’t know why you care anyway. It’s not like you’re here at all," he added.

Hermione continued to stare at him, not talking. He really didn’t like that. 

“You’re such a hypocrite. You sleep with Potter in the Gryffindor dorms. The only difference is I brought Pansy back here. You’re only upset that you ran into us when you decided to bring him in for a quick shag.” A few beats. 

“I guess you’re right,” Hermione conceded.

Malfoy felt something inside of him ring when she acquiesced that she was sleeping with Potter. He pushed it down. A moment passed, and Hermione asked shyly, “How’s Pansy?”

“How do you think she is? Livid.”

Hermione shrugged, “Well, I’m not sorry.”

“No one asked you to be.”

“Well, your lot lost. You two would do well to remember your place,” she sneered in a half-mocking tone, reminiscent of Malfoy once upon a time. Draco couldn’t help but give her a small quirk of his mouth.

Malfoy turned his body towards her, incidentally moving closer to her on the couch. Hermione shifted to give him space to sit, and to move her knees back so they wouldn’t touch. He was close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off of her skin now. His eyes roamed to her forearm and saw her mottled scars, spelling out the slur Pansy and Malfoy used with ease. She followed his line of sight and immediately covered them with her left hand.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, waiting for an insult about covering up and being proper. “Glamours don’t work on it,” she finally said.

His chest dropped. If Malfoy could feel anything in that moment, it would be sadness for this unruly Gryffindor. “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes. But I think the pain is more psychosomatic than anything.”

When he cocked his eyebrow up in a question, she explained, “Like phantom pains. Not really there. It’s a mixup of nerve signals.” Draco nodded but didn’t look at her. 

“She shouldn’t have called you that. You may be a bitch but …”

It was Hermione’s turn to smile, “You’re a shite boyfriend, Malfoy.”

“Don't I know it.”

“Well, just keep her out of my eyeline or I’ll smack her again. Next time, I’ll leave a scar on her pretty porcelain skin," she snarled. Hermione wondered why she did that. Why did she feel like she had to turn this quiet moment into something ugly and defensive? She breathed in and out.

“What about yours?”

“Huh?”

“Your Mark.”

“What about it?” Malfoy clipped, knowing full well what she meant.

Hermione snorted, “Does it hurt?! Does the snake move? If it does, can you use it to remove that stick up your ass?” 

Malfoy shrugged, but didn’t look at her. He folded open his sleeve to his elbow, and revealed the black tattoo, “It’s fine. I-I tried to remove it, but same thing. Seems impenetrable to magic.” 

"How?"

"Doesn't matter. Didn't work."

“Does it hurt?” she repeated. 

He nodded, “Yeah, sometimes. It burns like when we were called. My Healer thinks it’s something to do with the residual Dark Magic. It doesn’t dissipate so quickly.”

It was Hermione’s turn to feel ... something . Unconsciously, she reached out to cover his tattoo. Startled, Malfoy almost jumped back, but let her close her hands around his wrist. She didn’t say anything. She didn't know why she did it. His cold skin was calming to her, and Malfoy felt warmed by her hold. He let his eyes linger on her scars and traced them slowly with his finger. Her breath hitched.

It was the first time they touched that wasn't marred by violence. 

Perhaps it was the silence. Perhaps Hermione felt put off by this intimate act. Perhaps she remembered who she was and who Malfoy was. She should be angry with Pansy and him. Nothing could erase their past. After a few brief moments, Hermione moved back to her side of the couch and her body grew rigid. Malfoy’s face grew stoic again and his eyes turned to stone. Hermione said more firmly, “I’m not sorry.”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, shut up!”

Hermione looked shocked at his anger. 

“Stop it with the holier-than-thou act. No one asked you to apologize. She called you a slur and she got whatever she got. Pansy’s just pissed off that you slapped her. It’s human. You can allow her five minutes to be mad at you.”

Hermione shrugged a second time, “I don’t care about her. I would trade a thousand Pansies for Lavender or Colin back.” When Draco didn’t respond, she prodded further, “Maybe she’s mad that you didn’t protect her. Maybe she’s just mad that you allowed a Mudblood to touch her White. Unblemished. Pureblood. Skin.”

“Granger,” he warned. 

But she had to … finish it. “Do you make a habit out of watching girls writhe in pain in front of you?” Hermione laughed. "Is that your thing?"

With that cutting statement, Malfoy stood up. What little colour remained on his face drained out of him. His pupils blew wide open and he was out for blood. “Fuck you, Granger,” he hissed.

Finally getting the response she was looking for, Hermione barked out another hollow laugh. It felt good. This aching feeling in her chest. Feeling like she was the villain for once. She hoped he would yell. Hermione smiled a deranged smile, “Fuck you, Malfoy. You two finally get a taste of your own medicine, and it sucks, doesn’t it? To have no power. No daddy to call. Everyone turning away and no one to help you?” Hermione let the last part drip slowly out of her mouth. He knew what she was referring to. 

Malfoy swallowed and clenched his jaw.

What did Van Doorn say? Walk away? Focus on the problem, not the person? What if she-he was the problem? Fuck that. 

“Granger, stop carrying your scars like a badge of honour. Bad shite happened to everyone. You’re not special. You may be a war hero, but you do not have the market cornered on martyrdom and victimhood" he spat. 

Hermione’s face fell just a little, but she kept her callous smile. “That's rich, Malfoy. A Death Eater telling me how to behave? You want to tell me to keep to my own too?"

"Why do you care what I or Pansy thinks anyway? Don’t you spend every night on Potter’s cock?" Draco deflected.

"One thing has absolutely nothing to do with the other. Ugh,” she blew out a puff of air in disgust. She looked up at the ceiling and thought of the glamoured sky in Healer Lee’s courtyard.

In. Belly up. 1, 2, 3, 4. 

Out. Belly down. 1, 2, 3, 4.

In. Belly up. 1, 2, 3, 4. 

Out. Belly down. 1, 2, 3, 4.

In. Belly up. 1, 2, 3, 4. 

Out. Belly down. 1, 2, 3, 4.

When her breathing steadied, Hermione realized that Malfoy was still in the room, his long arms folded across his chest, looking at her with contempt. She expected him to trudge off and do his brooding thing. She began to speak slowly as if weighing each syllable, “Malfoy, I’m sorry that I threatened you and Pansy. I should have chosen my words more carefully. I spoke in anger.” 

Malfoy didn’t say anything, so Hermione continued, “But I’m not sorry for slapping her. She deserved it. But I shouldn’t have threatened you—anyone with expulsion. Youcantellherthisornot. I don't give a shite either way.” She added the last part quickly, like it was one word, and punctuated the statement with a flick of her hand, as if she couldn’t care less. 

Malfoy's grey-blue eyes muted somewhat. He uncrossed his arms and walked closer to the couch. “Pansy shouldn’t have called you that word,” he repeated. Hermione’s hand instinctively grabbed her right arm. He registered that shift in movement. His eyes glimmered softer. 

A beat followed.

Hermione nodded. 

“I’ll relay the message,” he clipped.

Hermione seemed to want to say more.

Malfoy went on, "I'm finished with this conversation now. If you want to discuss our unsavoury past some other time when you're not trying to get a rise out of me, I'll ... consider it."

Arrogant arse, she thought.

There. That should make Healer Van Doorn croon in praise with his progress. 

"Now I'm making some tea. Do you want some?"

Hermione looked up at him, mouth agape, as if she couldn't believe where he got the audacity. "No," and she stomped out of their common room.

When Malfoy told Pansy what Hermione said-that basically she was all talk-Pansy snorted derisively. “Whatever. She’s a stuck up bitch. Pretty snotty for a Mu-”

“Pans, stop it.”

She clicked her tongue, “No, you stop it! Can you stop pretending? You’re with me. You don’t have to watch everything you say around me.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything. So Pansy continued, “ I don’t believe in this blood purity bullshit either. It was always my father. But it doesn’t mean I have to like her or you living with her.” Pansy had his head in her lap. They were lounging in the Slytherin dungeons with Theo a safe distance away, who was drinking a finger of firewhiskey. 

“There’s a lot between not liking Granger and calling her a 'Mudblood.'”

Pansy snapped, "I'll call her what I like. And that's precisely what she is-a stuck up little Mud-!" 

"SHUT UP, PANSY! Can you, for once in your life, shut the fuck up? Maybe you don't care about staying at Hogwarts, but I do. Goddamit, look past your petty jealousy and don't get all of us thrown out, yeah? Whose side do you think McGonagall's gonna pick if Granger reports you for using hate speech? The Death Eater Three or the war heroes?! It’s not only about you here," Theo's slightly slurred voice rang out.

Pansy turned around to look at her drunk friend and gave him a cold stare, “Why are we still talking about this, her?! I don’t care. I’m bored! This is boring!”

Theo lifted his head to watch Pansy’s tantrum through his ruffled bangs. Malfoy sighed and stopped talking. Theo was right. But he shot a warning stare at Theo anyway. Theo responded in kind and didn't flinch. Malfoy dropped his head down again on Pansy's lap again while she carded her small hands through his hair. It felt nice. He fell asleep for a few minutes, thinking of his mother. 

Malfoy returned to the Head Student dorms once again to find Hermione on the couch, cross-legged and reading, “Still reading Hamlet?”

“Hm,” she said absentmindedly. Then she remembered who she was talking to, “You know Shakespeare?”

“Yes, Granger. I know the classics. I’ve had a well rounded education, being a Malfoy and all.” He didn’t tell her that he only started reading William Shakespeare during this summer as part of his mandated re-education courses. 

“Have you read this play?” she pointed to the cover.

He shook his head and stepped closer to the couch. She shifted to make room for him. Hermione was in her pajamas and had bare feet slipped underneath her lap. 

“Which ones have you read?”

“Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, Julius Caesar, Richard II—that one was absolute rubbish!”

Hermione stirred, as if she couldn’t believe what she heard, “That’s quite a few! I still haven’t read Macbeth,” she turned and looked out the window. It was dark now, the moon shone inside the common room. “I-I try to keep up with the Muggle secondary curriculum, but Hogwarts can be … rigorous.”

Malfoy didn’t know what that meant or what to say, so he just nodded. They sat there for a long time, with Hermione absentmindedly flipping through the play and him trying to find a comfortable position on the couch.

This time, Hermione broke the silence first, “You might like Hamlet. It’s about a Danish prince who wants to avenge his father and is contemplating his sanity, trying to figure whether he’s a pawn or a tragic hero.”

Silence.

Malfoy turned and smiled an ugly smile at Hermione’s words, “I’m not Hamlet, Granger.”

His words hung cold in the air. 

“No, I suppose not,” Hermione said quietly. She plodded heavily to the kitchenette. Before turning for her room, she said in his direction, “Unlike you, Hamlet had the good fortune to die.”

Her words struck him across the face. 

“Good night, Malfoy. If Pansy comes over again, just leave a quill in front of the alcove.” 

She left the play on the coffee table. Hermione headed to her bedroom for the first time ever. 

Since Hermione’s confrontation with Pansy and her conversation with Malfoy, she spent more nights in her bedroom. 

After dinner, Hermione would sometimes study in the library. Other times she would be with Harry in the Gryffindor dorms. And just sometimes, she would go back to the Head Student dormitories and read in silence with Malfoy. He made frustratingly good, strong tea. 

If they had to, they discussed plans for the incoming Hogwarts students. Hermione sat on the rug, playing with Crooks and stroking his belly. Malfoy curled his upper lip at that ugly thing. Crookshanks seemed to know when he was being watched, because he would then turn upright and plod toward Draco. 

Meow.

Malfoy stepped backward, “Granger, your beast is threatening me.”

“Of course, he isn’t. He’s just curious. He likes to climb tall objects to get a better look at his surroundings. I’m sure he is just confused. He hasn’t seen anything that bright yellow that wasn’t a lamp post, and you’re just as tall.”

Malfoy ignored her and whispered to Crooks, “You keep away. Don’t want your fleas all over me.”

MEOW!

With a quick flash of his bushy tail, Crooks turned around and slowly (and intentionally, Malfoy decided) toured the common room, only stopping to raise his back legs and lick his arse right next to his bedroom.

Inspired by Healer Lee’s courtyard, Hermione suggested a night sky show as a welcoming ceremony near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, using enchanted fireflies and Puffapods. Even though they decided against fireworks, the Puffapods made soft, popping noises when they bloomed, and louder still when forced to bloom with enchantments. 

POP. POP.

Hermione loved the purple and pink flowers that smelled like jasmine. She thought it would create a calming environment for the students. 

To make accommodations for any student veterans who were sensitive to any kind of noises, they would commandeer the Herbology Greenhouses and charm them with Silencio, so they could enjoy the sights without the sounds.

Malfoy and Hermione worked well into the late evenings, trying to decide the Prefects’ hall monitoring schedule, “If we put Abbott and Finch-Fletchley on Thursday nights,” Hermione reasoned, “they should be able to make it to Astronomy on time.” A warm mug appeared out of the corner of her left eye. It smelled lovely. 

“Here,” Malfoy muttered gruffly.

Hermione’s face froze in bewilderment.

“Don’t act so surprised. I was already making tea for myself.”

Chapter Text

Plans were officially underway for the grand reopening of Hogwarts. All the Prefects arrived now, all a bit earlier than anticipated: Hannah and Justin from Hufflepuff; Cho and Anthony from Ravenclaw; Pansy and Theo from Slytherin; and Harry and Pavarti from Gryffindor. 

Although fewer than half of the Hogwarts’ student population of the usual ~1000 would be returning, this did not dull the excitement in the air. As the days marched forward, the first snow fell. Hermione loved snow. It always felt fresh, clean, like a do-over. 

Harry and Hermione came to the agreement to taper off their co-sleeping arrangements. In the beginning of December, Hermione spent almost every night sleeping in the Gryffindor dormitories. Ron and Ginny stayed at the Burrow to spend more time with their parents and George and help with the shop. If Ron had any misgivings about Harry and Hermione alone at Hogwarts, he kept them to himself. 

Although other beds were available, Harry and Hermione slept in the same bed, back to back, one on top of the covers, the other under. This arrangement—feeling each other’s warm arses— reminded them of their year in the tent. It calmed them. It was warm and familiar. They giggle at their sad, inside joke. Inevitably, in the middle of the night, they would get tangled up in one another. But when they awoke, they never addressed it and pretended it didn't happen.

With Harry, it was initially very difficult. Hermione woke up in cold sweats, sometimes retching, a nosebleed or a panic attack. If she were really lucky, she could make it in time to the bathroom to vomit. She found herself reaching for Harry’s finger, flipping around to watch him breathe or to swipe his bangs away from his face. Then she remembered where she was. She was alone. In the Head Girl bedroom. Next to a Wizard who loathed her.

Hermione did her counting exercises. 

In. Out. 1, 2, 3, 4.

In. Out. 1, 2, 3, 4.

In. Out. 1, 2, 3, 4.

Sometimes she placed her hand on her chest and visualized the night sky in Healer Lee’s courtyard. Sometimes, she conjured some ice to hold until she stopped shaking and her covers were all soaked in cold water. When nothing worked, Hermione opened her door a crack and peered through it. She concentrated on Draco’s bedroom light underneath his door. She mediated on the focal point of that little slither of light until it turned off. This was her secret to keep.

A few days later, Harry tried to gingerly broach the topic with Hermione, “So that fight with Pansy …”

“What about it?” she snapped.

“Nothing. I-I’ve just never seen you like that.”

“Like what, Harry?” Hermione jutted her chin out, eyes defiant. 

“So angry. Mean. That’s not you, Hermione.”

“What am I like?” she demanded.

“I don’t know. Not like that. I’ve known you for seven years. I’ve never seen you like that. You’re better than them, Pansy, Malfoy, the whole lot,” Harry explained with his hands gesturing expansively. 

“Well, I’m not, clearly. Bellatrix made sure to remind me of that. I have a constant, ugly reminder every day.”

“Hermione-” Harry pleaded. “You can’t let that experience dictate who you are, what you’ll become. It is our choice—” [8]

“—That show what we truly are. Yes, yes, I remember," she said hastily, "You told me about what the Sorting Hat said. So what? What did that get me? 'Brightest Witch of her Age;' so highly logical that it allows me to look past extraneous details; mind like a snare; and all that other rubbish [9]. Still helpless on the Manor floor. Holding onto dead hope that Malfoy, someone, anyone would save me. That there was some good in Malfoy while he watched me choke on my own vomit. That maybe he didn’t mean all those awful words he spewed at me when it really mattered.”

“Hermione, you can’t let one horrible day—”

Hermione sneered, “Fuck you, Harry. Easy for you to say. You get lauded as a hero without so much as a mark on you, save your forehead. You and Ron, both. No one continues to call you slurs even when you helped to win a war.”

“I lost my parents, Hermione,” Harry said quietly.

Hermione stared at him in disbelief. “Me too. And this isn’t a pissing contest of who is more fucked up. If we’re measuring our traumas, I will never win with you.”

“This isn’t about winning.”

“Isn’t it? Don’t you get it? When I was younger, I had to prove that I belonged at Hogwarts, to everyone, to the professors, to my peers, that I was better than all the Purebloods with their lineage, their old money, and private tutors. It didn’t matter that both of my parents were are dentists, highly educated, and I am firmly upper middle class. To them, it doesn't matter how much money I have; what educational background I have; how good I am at Charms, I will never be good enough. I will always be a ‘Mudblood’ to some. And now?!," she scoffed. "Now I don’t even have a right to my own pain when my best friend is sticking up for a Death Eater sympathizer who told me exactly what she thought of me. Even though I-we saved their miserable lives ...” Her face crumbled at the end.

Hermione took a deep breath and tried to stop her hiccups. That was all she had to say. She was tired. 

“Maybe they don’t like being reminded of that,” Harry reasoned. 

“Maybe. But that’s their cross to bear. I have my own.”

Before Hermione left the Gryffindor common room, she turned her head slightly to Harry, “Never tell me how to feel about people calling me slurs ever again. I mean it.”

Harry called out Hermione’s name, but she didn’t look back.

Mind Healer: T. Lee
Patient: Hermione J. Granger, Session #6

Healer Lee sat cross-legged in front of Hermione, their hair now a neon pink colour. Lee reminded Hermione of Tonks. Her heart ached for a moment. 

“So you threatened one of your fellow students?”

“Yes, after she called me a Mu-a slur.”

“How did that make you feel?

“Brilliant.”

Healer Lee pushed up their glasses to the bridge of their nose and waited.

“Shitty, okay? Like nothing I did mattered. I could save the world —which I helped do—and it still wouldn’t matter to people like her. I’ll never rise above the rank of Mudblood in their eyes,” Hermione admitted bitterly. 

Lee paused for a few moments, allowing Hermione to sip her tea, jasmine dragon pearls and chrysanthemum. 

“Did it feel good to hit her?”

“Yes,” Hermione said without hesitation. 

“You wouldn’t take it back?”

“Absolutely not. I only regret—my only regret is … threatening them with expulsion.”

“Them?”

“Yeah, her and Ma-my school bully.”

“He was there?”

“Yes, they are somewhat of an item. And Harry and I interrupted them.”

“What did he do … in that moment?”

“What he does best. Stand there.”

“What would you like him to have done?”

“I don’t know!” Hermione exclaimed in exasperation. “Drag her out?! Tell her to shut up?! Something!”

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“Anything else about that moment you want to talk about?”

Hermione thought for a minute, “Harry thought I went too far.”

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“I see. Hm. Do you think you went too far?”

Hermione huffed in frustration and looked up at the glamoured night sky. The sounds of the running water from the Koi pond trickled next to them. 

“Like I said, I’m not sorry.”

“That’s not the question.”

“What is the question?”

“Do you think you went too far? You threatened two students with expulsion, yes? One, is that something within your purview to do? Second, in your opinion, did her words match with the potential consequences?”

“I don’t know. And yes—YES,” Hermione said firmly. 

“Okay,” Lee said slowly. “But you’re bothered by Harry’s assessment of the situation.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He’s my best friend. Everything he says matters. We’ve been through so much together. I trust him with my life. So if he says—”

“That you may have gone too far—”

“—It’s worth considering,” Hermione finished indignantly. 

After her session with Healer Lee, Hermione Floo’d back to Hogwarts from Diagon Alley in search of Harry. He was on the Quidditch field, doing some practice broom tricks and flips. When he saw her approaching, Harry immediately flew toward her, hovering slightly above the ground. 

“Hermione—”

“Harry—”

They both started simultaneously. 

Harry continued, “I ... er ... spoke out of turn last time. I shouldn’t have told you how to handle Pansy. You’re just, you’re just the smartest out of all of us, and to see you out of control like that. That scared me,” he drifted off. 

“I scared you?”

Harry nodded.

“Well, no, you shouldn’t have. I have to deal with this on my own time, in my own way. We both know we are no strangers to dealing with darkness in, um, untraditional ways.”

Hermione let her words hang between them. A rose tint spread across both their faces.

“No more of that.”

“No more of that,” Harry agreed. “Let’s go for a ride.”

“I don’t know ...”

“I won’t let you fall! I'll have you know I’m actually quite an accomplished Seeker,” Harry smiled his lopsided smile.

“I trust you, not the broom.”

“Just hold on tight. It’ll be fun!”

Harry tipped the back of his Firebolt, so that Hermione could lift her leg over it. She warily straddled the broom, grabbing tightly onto Harry’s waist and robes. Harry then sped off with such ferocious speed and agility, ‘whooping’ along the way. Hermione held on for dear life, with the wind whipping through her hair and slapping her cheeks red. They flew over the Pumpkin Patch, Forbidden Forest, the Shrieking Shack and the Whomping Willow, then back again. She listened to Harry’s whoops and hollers and focused on his smell of sweat, the woodsy aroma from the broom, and the scratchy wool of his robes. Although Hermione was terrified, she didn’t want the ride to end.

She knew when she came down off the broom, she would lose what was left of their private world. As the days moved into January, Ginny would return, and Harry would be with her.

As he should be. 

But they couldn't continue behaving like they were. Yes, Harry would be with Ginny, and Hermione would be left with her scars, her panic attacks and nose bleeds, and the knowledge of Malfoy, her childhood bully, living across from her.

As they did several more rounds over Hogwarts, Hermione realized she was crying. Tears bled down her cold cheeks, partly because of the wind, and partly because she knew once school started again, her nights with Harry wrapped around her would cease to exist. 

Hermione’s shortened, curly hair was even more of a disaster than usual, not only wild and unmanageable but tangled inside were some leaves. She looked at herself in the Head Students' shared bathroom, and decided she hated it. This. All of it. Her hair. Her gaunt appearance that was staring back at her. Her hollow, haunted eyes. Her living arrangements. Pansy. Malfoy. Even Harry to some extent. 

He was leaving her … to go back to Ginny. Of course that wasn’t true. He was never hers to begin with.

Hermione didn’t hear the alcove entrance shift or Malfoy entering the common room. When he saw the state of her hair as she walked out of the bathroom, he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re even more beautiful than usual today, Granger,” he teased.

“Sod off, Malfoy.”

“How does Potter keep his hands off of you?”

“He can’t. We just got back from flying.”

Silence. 

“Ah, of course.”

“Please refrain from making comments about my appearance and love life, and I’ll ignore the little mouse you’re fucking, lest people know the rumours are true — that you’re into beastiality.”

He broke out into a wild smile. This infuriated her. 

“You’re funny, Granger.”

“Don’t act so surprised.”

Hermione liked his smile. She saw it so rarely. He flashed his white, perfect teeth. His cheeks rounded out and his face turned cherubic. He also had two deep dimples on either side of his cheeks when he smiled like that. 

She scooped up her texts and notebooks, and left for the library.

As she was reading Magical Drafts and Potions: Advanced Edition to prepare for the winter semester, the brown notebook next to her glowed. She opened it up to find a message from Draco. 

Granger, I made tea. - DLM

Good for you.

Must I be so explicit? - DLM

No answer.

I made enough tea for two people, a teapot if you will. - DLM

Hermione looked at the time. It was almost 8p. 

It’s too late for tea.

It’s peppermint. - DLM

If I agree to tea, will you tell me why you sign off every message with your initials?

It’s not that deep, Granger. - DLM

A few minutes passed.

Tea or no? - DLM

No.

But of course, soon after Hermione sent the message, the new librarian, a serious Black woman named Clove Willows with long limbs and a penchant for the rules, shooed her out. Hermione had to walk back to her dorms with her tail between her legs. When the alcove entrance shifted, Malfoy was sat on their couch with a smug look on his stupid face.

“The library was closing.”

“Of course.”

Hermione sat on the couch beside him, and without a word, he conjured two cups. They drank their tea in silence, then he got up to leave. Malfoy didn’t say anything and closed his bedroom door. Hermione sighed, and she cleaned their cups without magic. 

Later that night, Hermione wrote in the notebook.

Thanks for the tea, Malfoy.

She fell asleep with the notebook sprawled open across her chest. When she awoke in the early morning, it was glowing. It was too early for the sun to be up. Hermione rubbed the sleep from her eyes.

I sign off every message with my initials, because my Mother taught me to stand behind every word I write. She said it is befitting what a proper gentleman with my upbringing and background is expected to do. - DLM

Hermione snorted, and she fell asleep again with a small smile on her stupid face. 

Malfoy woke up and looked at his calendar. It was Christmas Eve, the end of the month. He got up and sighed. 

His notebook was still open from last night. No response from Granger after he told her about his Mother’s words. He wasn’t expecting one.

Was he?

He plodded to the bathroom and found Crookshanks sitting next to the door. “Get.”

Meow.

“No.”

Meow.

Crookshanks was getting more insistent. 

“No, I don’t have anything to eat. Go bother Granger.”

MEOW.

YOWL.

Louder now, more demanding. 

“Alright. Alright! I’ll find something,” Malfoy searched through the kitchenette’s cabinets and found a few cans of cat food Hermione stocked up on. He opened up a can with his wand and heaped a large pile onto a small plate. 

“There you go, you fat bastard,” he sneered as he watched Crookshanks devour the wet food. Malfoy think he left the orange monster content, as once it finished eating, it lifted its back leg to once again gain access to his butthole in full view of Malfoy's gaze.

Absolutely no shame at all!

Malfoy sighed and readied himself for the long day ahead.

Shower first.

A day in late December, Hermione awoke to silence. She roused to a warm common area with fire embers slowly dying in the fireplace. Malfoy's bedroom was empty and his door slightly ajar. She got ready for the day: some finalization notes on which Prefect would greet which train at the Hogwarts station; a runthrough of the opening ceremony, and sketching out the theme of the Unity Ball. 

McGonagall, Malfoy, and Hermione settled on a Masquerade theme. A symbolic way for students to move beyond their appearances and Houses and conjure who they would like to be, Hermione reasoned. McGonagall agreed.

The day passed quickly, but Malfoy never showed up. He missed all their Head Student/Prefect meetings. Hermione was not the only one who noticed. Although nothing could dampen McGonagall’s mood, she pointed out ‘Mr. Malfoy’s absence at such a crucial time.’ Hermione shrugged, “I am not privy to Malfoy’s schedule. Perhaps Pansy is the more fitting keeper.”

Pansy crossed her arms and huffed. “I’m looking for him too,” she finally admitted. Hermione gave her a wan smile; Pansy sneered back. 

After having dinner with Harry, Hermione ran into Malfoy whispering to Pansy in one of the corridors. He missed dinner. She turned the other way.

When she made her way back to her room, she half-expected to find a quill in front of the Head Students’ alcove.

That was fine. She preferred to sleep next to Harry.

Then she remembered their agreement to stop. 

“Mirror of Erised,” Hermione whispered quietly.

The alcove windows moaned open. She walked in to find Malfoy fast asleep on the velvet couch. His body laid along the length of it, calves and feet hanging off the rolled arm. On his chest laid open their brown notebook—their modus communiqué—and in his drooping left hand, a dog-eared copy of Romeo and Juliet . 

Hermione shuddered at this poor book etiquette. As she surveyed the quiet scene, Hermione allowed herself this moment. She allowed her eyes to roam over Malfoy—the tall, lithe man asleep in front of her—as a girl would who didn’t have their history. He never called her ‘filthy;’ he never called her a ‘Mudblood.’ He never turned away from her in his Drawing room. His aunt never carved those letters in her arm. Her arm never burned. She never flashed her eyes when Pansy’s lips and arms reached around him. She never imagined what it felt like to touch his white-blond hair. And she never looked at his grey-blue eyes and felt warring emotions of seething anger and want. 

Malfoy's eyes were closed but fluttering. He was dreaming. As Hermione closed the distance between them, she Accio’d a blanket from his room. She removed the play and notebook from his grip and placed them closed on the coffee table. She then elevated a cup of tea and a dinner plate she’d collected for herself from the Great Hall, enclosed them with a warming charm, and set them down next to the other items. 

While completing these domestic tasks, Hermione noticed that on the back of his hand was a black stamp in magical ink. The words swirled back and forth between “Visitor” and “Malfoy.”

Asleep, Malfoy looked both young and old. His face was stretched tight, jaws clenched, and lips pulled in a thin line. But at times, his mouth would loll open, and his lips would soften. Then Hermione would see the cherubic boy she fancied for a brief moment once upon a time. A long time ago. Before he opened his stupid 10-year old mouth and wielded the nastiest words at her. Like a weapon.

Hermione sighed. Malfoy was beautiful. Working with him wasn’t horrible. Sometimes, he was funny. He made her tea. He finally told her why he signed off every message with his initials, “A proper gentleman like him with his good breeding should always stand behind his words."

Or some rubbish like that.

Whenever Malfoy made claims like that, he was often completely serious and adopted a haughty diction. it always made Hermione freeze in an expression that he would later describe as a constipated blowfish. He snickered endlessly at her inability to stop showing off. She smacked him in the shoulder like she did with Ron or Harry when they both forgot who they were and the War between them. 

When Hermione had bad days, either from her panic attacks, nightmares, or one of the lovely associated symptoms, she sometimes found herself admiring his pale beauty, his long eyelashes, dark eyebrows, and his tall frame. Unbeknownst to herself, her eyes would search him out in rooms second after Harry. His hair made him an easy sight. Or in her room when she couldn’t sleep, she would meditate on his bedroom light that flickered underneath the door to ground herself until it turned off. 

Sometimes, Malfoy caught her eye, as if he was already watching her. Hermione carried a small, nervous frame with a wide stance, as if she needed to tell the world she belonged where she was. She wasn’t afraid. She held his gaze openly. During those moments, she felt it. A thud in her chest. Like someone took a hammer to it. When Hermione looked back, her chest and throat would close, and her eyes would seethe with anger. At him. At herself for looking for him. At the world for making everything so difficult.

As Hermione prepared for bed, she absentmindedly tried to tie her hair up, but found she didn’t have enough hair to. She liked her long hair more. It was better suited to her round face and features.

She thought of a recent exchange between Malfoy and her: 

Apropos of nothing, he remarked, “You cut your hair.”

“What?”

“You cut your hair.”

Hermione laughed, “Oh, so I did!”, pawing her hair self-consciously. “A spur of the moment thing, really.” 

He didn’t say anything. 

She continued, “I want to grow it back. Feels better, but Ron seems to like it shorter.”

Malfoy grunted and walked away, apparently finished with the conversation. 

It doesn’t matter. 

Hermione wiped her thoughts away and started to wash her body. Her mind travelled again to Malfoy on the couch, as her mind was wont to do. It went to his sleeping face, his clenched jaw, and finally to his hand. There was a signature on the swirling ink. She saw it before. 

As Hermione shampooed her hair, her eyes shot open. 

Malfoy was in Azkaban today.

Even though the Dementors no longer guarded Azkaban since the Second War, the prison was a dreary, unhappy place: a fortress on an island in the middle of the North Sea, always moist, moss growing on the walls and dirt everywhere. Lucius would sneer and thumb his nose down at everything in the prison, from the meagre portions to his accommodations, but now this was his home for the next 5-7 years. 

Malfoy visited Lucius every month. Each time, Lucius looked thinner and weaker, relying more on his cane. The only thing the Ministry allowed him to keep, disenchanted of course. 

Their conversations were difficult and tense. Lucius first asked about Narcissa, always without fail. He made Malfoy promise to write to his mother regularly and visit once his parole allowed. Then Lucius asked about his community service, their donations to Hogwarts and other non-profits, and finally about school. 

“You are due to start Hogwarts next month.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I hear you’re Head Boy. I suppose I should say ‘Congra-’”

“How did you—”

“I have my ways, son. Who is the Head Girl?”

Silence. 

“Granger, Father.”

“I see,” Lucius’ words dripped from his lips like poisoned honey. “I trust you’re getting along with the … girl.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. See to it that you do. They’re testing us, Draco. Don’t give them an excuse.”

“No, Father.”

“Very good,” Lucius straightened and changed the subject. “Mr. Parkinson visited last week. He told me that Ms. Parkinson is quite eager to start your nuptial arrangements.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, he wanted to move up the negotiations.”

“I’m not ready, Father. After this, all this, I want some time to be on my own. Travel—”

"You can do those things with a proper wife by your side!" Lucius hissed at him in clenched anger. His fists pounded on the table. The Auror near the door shifted quickly.

Malfoy looked at his father, wide-eyed at his outburst but tired of it all. He didn't respond. Lucius's ire slowly drained out of him, and he raised his palm to signal to the guard that he was calm.

“You need to sow your wild oats,” Lucius finished, both a statement and a command.

Malfoy gave a noncommittal shrug. 

“Very well. I will stall talks until you finish your parole sentence,” Lucius eyed him carefully, privy to something even Draco did not have access to. “Get it out of your system, whatever it is, Draco. Then you can take your proper place within the Sacred 28 as the true Malfoy heir.”

Malfoy supposed he loved Pansy, if he could ever love anyone. Pansy, a tiny, tightly wound girl with straight black hair styled in a short, blunt bob, striking blue eyes, and full, soft lips. She followed him around since second year. They kissed in third year, amongst other things. They had sex for the first time after the Yule Ball. They got better at it over the months. 

During their first time in the Slytherin dungeons, Malfoy used a Silencing charm around his bed. He lasted all of a minute. Pansy pretended to be more experienced than she actually was, but he saw the pain in her eyes. If he could feel fondness for someone, he felt it then. 

They regularly saw each other. He learned how to go down on Pansy until she writhed and panted his name. He taught Pansy how to touch his cock until he came all over her hand and stomach. She learned how he liked to have a girl’s mouth around him. Their sex life was good. They found time and spaces between classes to snog and claw at each other, with his knee parting her legs. 

Pansy was witty, hot-tempered, and fiercely loyal to him. Malfoy liked having her around. She was comforting. Her hands wrapped around his; his head on her lap; and her fingers dragging along his hair. All of these things felt good. Yes, he loved her. This was love. 

During the summers away from Hogwarts, Draco saw other witches. He suspected that she saw other wizards. Although he didn’t like it, he didn’t care to ask or confirm, there was no need for unnecessary drama. When school started again, Pansy took up her place next to Malfoy in the corridors, slipping her hand through his, like it never left. 

Then Sixth Year happened: You-Know-Who living at the Manor throughout the summer, Malfoy taking the Dark Mark to save himself, his family, and the family name. Every night, he heard screams as Nagini ate muggles and Blood Traitors alive. His mother comforted him at night, pulling his head onto his lap and carding his hair. Just like Pansy did.

Lucius despised this. He thought Cissy made their son soft. After a firewhiskey or a few too many, he pulled Malfoy down to the Drawing room and made him watch. She cried out after him, “But he’s just a boy.” [10]

“He’s not a boy anymore. And I intend him to make into a man,” Lucius answered gruffly, dragging Malfoy down to the Drawing room. The first time, he ran out of the room and vomited. Lucius followed him out into hall and looked at him in disgust.

Malfoy sometimes heard his mother’s voice when he startled up from his nightmares. 

He barely slept that year. His only reprieve was Hogwarts and his Slytherin bed. Pansy tried to slip through any cracks she perceived, quietly climbing into bed with him and giving him a morning blow job. It worked a few times, but each with diminishing returns. Pansy threw tantrums, cried, yelled, and accused him of not loving her and cheating. All were true, but he never responded. He didn’t care anymore. He was so tired.

When he finally told Pansy that he took the Mark, she understood. She looked scared. They had sex that night. It was mechanical and almost joyless. After she snuck out of Madam Pompfrey’s infirmary, Malfoy headed to the Astronomy Tower and changed the history of Hogwarts forever. 

Blaise and Theo took the Mark too, Blaise because he actually believed in blood purity, and Theo because his father did. The Greengrasses and Parkinsons stayed neutral. 

When Narcissa called to Malfoy at the Battle of Hogwarts, his feet felt glued to the stone floor. He didn’t want to move; didn’t want to declare his loyalty to You-Know-Who, because he wasn’t. His loyalty didn’t belong with him. He wished he could disappear from sight, but he followed his mother’s voice. That’s who he was loyal to, not his father, not Voldemort. When he looked back at his schoolmates—a chasm between them now—his eyes flitted from Lovegood, Cormac, the Patils, Chang, Goldstein, Potter, the Weasel, and finally landed on Hermione. He watched her with a strange interest. He was far enough to be safe. 

Hermione was staring back at him. She was crying.

When the war was over, Lucius, Narcissa, and Malfoy huddled together in the Hogwarts’ infirmary, unsure if they actually belonged with the Order’s survivors. 

That was when he saw her again, sitting with the Weasel, her right forearm mutilated with Bella’s lazy handwriting. It was weeping blood and hot pustules of Dark Magic. The Weasel shot daggers at him. But what stayed with him was Hermione’s eyes. They were no longer fiery and defiant; they were empty and hollow, looking at him and through him.

He dreamed of those eyes often. He cursed them. He cursed himself for not being a braver man.

Their trials were fast, many witnesses and damning evidence. Draco, Blaise, and Theo got parole sentences, because they were minors at the time. Lucius and Theo Sr. got 10-25 years in Azkaban, depending on behaviour. Blaise’s mom was found in Greece and extradited to Italy. 

The Malfoy Manor was confiscated as evidence for war crimes. Narcissa was put on house arrest for two and a half years in France due to her double passport and the close alliance between the British DMLE and the French Magical Defence. Several of the Malfoys’ vaults were emptied and its contents donated to war restoration efforts and non-profits, including Hogwarts.

Draco, Blaise, and Theo or the Death Eater Three, as they were being called in the Prophet, were ordered to complete 500 hours of community service at the Ministry, 100 sessions of mandated therapy, and finish re-education courses by the end of the parole sentence, which coincided with their graduation.

Sometimes, Pansy came with them to the Ministry for a laugh; sometimes Daphne did. Pansy saw the eyes Daphne made at Malfoy. Daphne, of course, feigned ignorance. They had words. Draco didn’t care. They could fight over him. He was tired. 

A couple of months later, Luna came with Blaise to the Ministry. She was a breath of ethereal air. Quiet but perceptive, she only spoke when spoken to. When asked how they met, Blaise would never answer. He simply said, “School.”

Theo kept mostly to himself: a shy, handsome young man with tentative and sad green-blue eyes, depending on his mood, and a drinking problem. 

By the end of July, Pansy broke down most of Malfoy's defences and they resumed their sexual relationship. Pansy was pleased. He was satisfied. 

Malfoy was never mean to her. He didn’t raise his voice. They had good, efficient sex, knowing each other’s bodies by the book. He just wasn’t very present. After sex, he always left or turned away. Pansy never said anything about it. 

Pansy was whip-smart. She regaled Malfoy, Blaise, and Theo with topics on fashion, Hogwarts gossip, potions, the Sacred 28, or the war. But no matter which topic and how interesting, Malfoy's mind drifted, nowhere and to no one in particular ... until his mind’s eye inevitably settled back on Granger’s haunted eyes and her mangled arm.

When Malfoy woke up, he found his blanket on top of his body and a warm meal next to him. It was almost 230a. 

Granger’s door was closed and her night light turned off. As he inhaled the meal, he continued reading Romeo and Juliet. “Rubbish children’s tales,” Draco muttered to himself. The characters knew each other for all of three days and made all sorts of messes, acting against their family wishes and causing mayhem in Verona.

When the sun just started to filter through the common room, Draco finished off the play and headed back to his room to sleep. 

When Malfoy and Hermione crossed each other in the Great Hall that morning, he said it first, “Happy Christmas, Granger.”

Hermione turned his words inside her head, searching for traces of sarcasm or bite. Finding none, she relaxed and gave him a genuine smile, “Merry Christmas, Draco.”

She walked away, not realizing she used his given name. He looked at her as she walked away to sit with Potter. His chest did that thing again, just like when she nodded to signal she’d been spending her nights with Potter. 

He inhaled sharply. He would find Pansy tonight and bed her. She usually acquiesced but since her fight with Granger, she was less willing and prone to bouts of jealousy and rage. Malfoy did not have the energy to fight with her. He was tired.

He was always tired, Pansy complained. 

Pansy seemed to recognize his dour mood when he sat down at the Slytherin table. She watched him carefully before saying, “Merry Christmas, Draco.” 

“Merry Christmas, Pansy.”

Theo watched the two Slytherin idiots out of the corner of his eye, as he lowered his coffee to his side of the bench and added more firewhiskey to it. 

“It’s 9am, Theo!” Pansy reprimanded. 

“All the more reason to get started,” he quipped. 

None of them had homes to return to for Christmas. Theo was not on speaking terms with his father. Malfoy's father was in Azkaban; his mother in France; and he couldn’t travel until next year. Pansy decided to stay to be with Malfoy. 

When Malfoy returned to the Head Students’ dormitories, Hermione was sitting on the couch. She looked up to see him standing in front of her, open and waiting. If she could put a word to his stance, it was vulnerable.

Actually, it was quite endearing. 

“Malfoy, has anyone told you that folding down the pages of books is insane?! Can’t the Malfoys afford sticky notes?”

He chuckled, although he had no idea what sticky notes were, “Yes, but where is the texture? Where is the history? Reading notes in the margins from previous readers. That’s part of the charm.”

“Hm,” was Hermione’s response. “Alright, I’m going to read Advanced Potion Making aloud and you can annotate it for me with your valuable insights. I remember you being passable at potions. You do know what annotation means, don't you? Anyway, I will be using sticky notes. You'll see. It makes a world of difference. It'll also help you study better. A much more efficient and aesthetically pleasing way.”

Malfoy almost smiled, “I’ll make some tea.”

Malfoy woke up with a mouthful of orange fur. He’d fallen asleep again on the velvet couch, but this time, there was another person next to him: a bent calf, small feet tucked into a warm body, and light snores. The moon was full and set high in the sky. He'd been asleep for hours.

After his struggle with certain orange death, he slowly stood up to realize Hermione and him fell asleep together in the common room. They were on opposite ends of the couch, but still. It was the first time he slept with someone for a prolonged period of time. Not just anyone. Granger.

Crookshanks jumped to the floor and blinked at Draco. 

Meow.

“What now?”

Meow.

“You hungry? Wait for your swotty mistress to feed you.”

Meow. 

Then with a dramatic swish of his fluffy tail, Crookshanks stomped to Hermione’s room, showing Draco his underlying white-fur and proud buttocks. 

Malfoy levitated his blanket to cover the snoring Head Girl. He headed for a shower. As he let the hot water trail down his tight muscles and hair, he thought of Hermione’s hollow eyes and mangled right arm. He dreamt of this scene often, her shaking and vomiting on his Drawing room floor.

But then his traitorous mind shifted to his sights today, Hermione sleeping peacefully with her shortened curls spread out on the arm of their couch, mouth slightly open, snoring, and one strap of her black tank top fell off of her shoulder. 

He started to reach down and grab himself, starting at the base and tugging and twisting from the top. Just thinking about her, her smell — parchment, ink, and jasmine. That was the smell. He was close. She looked soft, warm, and inviting. 

One more tug and twist, and he was done. He shuddered into the shower and rinsed himself off. Malfoy felt guilty. He looked at himself in the mirror, face serious and almost gaunt. 

Why did he do that? 

He double checked the shower wall to make sure he banished all traces of his ejaculate. 

Then he heard a hippo.

It sounded like a hippopotamus, or maybe like a car engine starting. Wearing nothing but a pair of black trousers and wet hair, he ran out of the bathroom and found the culprit of the sound. Hermione, wheezing like an angry hippo in heat, Draco’s eyes widened. She was having a panic attack. 

Her eyes were fearful, pupils shrunk and struggling for air. She put her hand on her sternum and tried to count, but she couldn’t focus. She heard Malfoy’s voice in the distance— no, closer —next to her ear. 

“Hey, hey, breathe.

It’s okay. You’re okay. 

I’m here.

Breathe, come on, breathe. Come back. Come back. 

I’m going to touch your hands, okay?

I’m going to count with you.”

Hermione’s hot, clammy hands were suddenly wrapped in a cool envelope of Malfoy's fingers. They were cold and perfect. Hermione shivered. 

In. Out. 1, 2, 3, 4.

In. Out. 1, 2, 3, 4.

In. Out. 1, 2, 3, 4.

In. Out. 1, 2, 3, 4.

In. Out. 1, 2, 3, 4.

Hermione’s eyes started to focus. She focused on wet, white-blond hair, concerned grey-blue eyes, and felt his cold hands holding hers. Her eyes trailed from his hands, to his Dark Mark, to his stomach, and finally to his boxers. Hermione’s eyes lingered, and she blushed. Her breathing was now steady.

Malfoy followed her eyes and started to pull away his hands when he saw that she was studying his Mark. She stilled his movements.

“Did it hurt?”

“What, Granger?”

“The Dark Mark.”

“Horribly. Wanted to die.”

“Hmph.”

Malfoy roamed from her eyes to her shoulders to her fallen straps to her scars again. It was the second time he’d seen them up close. Hermione was aware of the lack of distance between them, and their lingering stares. She bit the insides of her cheeks until she tasted blood. She turned away from him, and a stray tear escaped from the corner of her eye.

Perfect. She was going to cry in front of him too.

As her eyes welled up, Hermione looked down. Instead of the rug, she watched a red stain bloom, slowly growing in size, splattering all over the floor. Hermione realized her nose was bleeding. 

Bollocks. 

Hermione ran to the bathroom, leaving Malfoy crouched on the floor. He cast a quick “Scourgify.”

She tilted her head forward and pinched the bridge of her nose over the sink. As the bleeding slowed down, Hermione looked at herself in the mirror. In the reflection, she saw Malfoy standing behind her. His eyebrows were knitted together with concerned. He watched her pinch her nose, wanting to say something. 

She was a bloody mess. “So sexthy,” she muttered in a nasal voice. He smiled. A. Real. Sad. Smile. 

Hermione walked toward the bathroom door and smiled up at him, “Thanks.” Then she closed the door. 

When Hermione came out clean, Malfoy was gone. 

“Are you ready for tomorrow?”

Malfoy and Hermione stood at the foundation stones of the Astronomy Tower. The weight in the air was great, as they looked up at where the war started.

“Yeah, we went through all the Prefects’ schedules and activities three times. Should be fine.”

“We can’t go up there yet,” Hermione observed. He raised an eyebrow, signalling his slight interest in the conversation. 

“I think they’re still warding it off to make sure it’s impenetrable."

The answer seemed to satisfy Hermione.

Once all the Prefects arrived in early January, McGonagall scheduled their first waltzing session in their largest ballroom right away. Everyone eyed each other warily, backs to the wall or stiff against the chairs.  

The Headmaster flicked her wand at the gramophone placed on a table to the side, and music began to play. She stepped forward into the middle of the room.

“Now I understand that some of you may feel awkward, but this is a non-negotiable for Head Students and Prefects. We are here to set a positive example of what Hogwarts strives — will be: inclusive and welcoming. It is a simple dance that travels around the room, using 1,2,3 counts. When the waltz starts, Head Boy and Head Girl will begin, followed by the Prefects who will choose a partner from a different House.”

As the Headmaster said those words, Draco and Hermione flashed each other a nervous stare. Hermione felt heat on her cheeks. Malfoy's eyes were set in stone.

McGonagall eyed each and every one of them, then called out, “Mr. Nott, would you be so kind as to accompany me?”

Theo stepped forward, eyes on the ground, and mumbled, “Yes, Headmaster.” He was unsteady.

A few snickers were heard in the background. Even Harry couldn’t hide his smile.

“I will practice with each one of you, but it’s really quite simple. Right hand on my waist, Mr. Nott. Left hand clasped in mine. Step closer. I don’t bite.”

Pansy shrieked in laughter. Hermione swallowed a smile.

Theo’s jaw was rigid and his throat bobbed. He slid his right hand under McGonagall’s arm, and she started counting. 

“That’s it. Step forward with the left, side with the right, and close with the left—Ouch!” 

“Headmaster, I’m so sorry!” Theo grumbled. 

“That’s quite alright. Again, Mr. Nott.”

“Step forward left, side right, and close left. Now switch! Then back with the right, side with the left, and close left foot to your right foot. Repeat.”

After a few clumsy tries, Theo seemed to pick up on it. McGonagall and him waltzed for several minutes, then she stopped them as they moved to a far corner of the room. She spoke quietly to him, and Theo nodded, then left the ballroom. Draco's eyes followed his movements.

“Where’s Theo going?” Pansy asked loudly. 

“He has some business to attend to. Mr. Nott will return ready to dance at next week’s session.”

“Alright, everyone, pair off. Remember, step forward with the left, side right, and close with the left foot. Then reverse.”

Harry quickly stepped forward to ask Hannah to dance, avoiding Cho. Pansy went with Anthony; Justin with Pavarti. Cho was partnerless without Theo. She looked slightly embarrassed. 

“Don’t worry, Cici. I’ll save the next dance for you,” Justin winked. Cho smiled warmly. 

McGonagall stared at Malfoy and Hermione, “Today.”

He sighed, and pushed himself off the wall. He stalked toward Hermione and held out his hand in that proper way she hated, “Granger.”

Hermione looked up at him from her chair; she shuffled stiffly and her ears burned. She hated that. Both Harry and Pansy eyed the duo carefully. Every Prefect did. 

She took his hand, and it was cool to the touch. She almost forgot that. Hermione let out a shaky breath, and said, “Okay Malfoy,” and felt his hand reach the small of her back, their chests almost touching. 

Once they started moving, Malfoy and Hermione both stepped forward, with him landing squarely on her trainers and their jaws almost crashing. Hermione cried out in pain, “Goddammit, Malfoy!”

Harry immediately left Hannah’s side to Hermione’s and shot Malfoy an angry stare. He sneered, “You are awfully clumsy, Granger.” Pansy’s mouth quirked. 

“Language, Ms. Granger!” McGonagall called from a distance. “Try again.”

So they tried again, stiffly at first, slowly doing the box step. Hermione’s heart beat wildly. When they finally got a slow rhythm going, she dared to peek up at Malfoy. His jaw was tight, looking forward. She heard him breathe deeply. 

A noticeable thaw took place between Malfoy and Hermione after Christmas. They seemed to come to a mutual, unspoken truce. What prompted it? They didn’t know.

After Hermione’s nosebleed and their quiet moments together, he found himself in the Slytherin common room, drinking with Theo. 

Theo, always a quiet and observant young man, asked nonchalantly, “So how is it working out?”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“It’s fine. Granger’s not as annoying as I thought.”

“The dancing’s pretty fun. You seem to enjoy holding the Head Girl.”

Malfoy snorted, avoiding Theo’s gaze, “Hardly. Her hand is slippery as an eel, and she has no coordination. I practically have to drag her along. No proper breeding at all.”

Theo sipped on his firewhiskey, hiding a smile. 

“Where’d you go the first time?” he asked, desperate to change the subject. 

“McGonagall said she could smell the firewhiskey on me, and told me to come back when I’m sober,” Theo took a long, loud sip from his tumbler.

“So you want to slow down on that, yeah?”

“We’re not dancing now, are we? Or do you want to pretend I’m Granger?” Theo’s eyes met his with defiance. 

The conversation was over.

When Pansy entered the dungeons later that night, Malfoy followed her into her bed. Theo left the common room. 

It was a losing game. He thought of Hermione’s scared and sunken eyes. Her panicked breathing. Her tank top strap. He blamed the firewhiskey. Pansy sniffed and turned away from him in the bed. He sighed and left for the Head Student dormitories. 

The following days went by quickly, as more and more students began arriving. Head Students and Prefects were required to be at Hogwarts station to welcome the incoming train. 

Hermione spent more time in the Gryffindor common room when the Weasel and the Weaselette returned. Malfoy watched from a distance, as her face broke into a wide smile when she saw them get off the train. She ran into their arms. 

Ron enveloped her with his lanky arms, “Hi, ‘Mione. Miss me?” She smelled like home to him: parchment, ink, and some flowers.

Hermione’s eyes twinkled when she looked at him, “Of course, Ronald. I can finally breathe now.” 

Malfoy turned away in disgust, and found Pansy watching him angrily, and Theo with interest. Blaise stepped off the train with Luna. The Slytherin snakes were back together.

During dinner in the Great Hall, Hermione sat next to Malfoy. Despite her explanation, Ron shot the Head Table glares. But everyone at school also turned to look at this new development. Ginny squeezed in beside Harry. 

In the evenings, Malfoy and Hermione sat around the coffee table, planning more daily activities for first-year students, first a tour of the Courtyards and Quidditch field, then the Whomping Willow and the Shrieking Shack, and the Enchanted Forest. 

Hagrid was happy as a clam to meet new students and to introduce them to different magical animals. First-years’ eyes went wide as they met Fang, Mosag, and his colony of Hippogriffs. 

Sometimes, they would take a break and they would take turns reading from Hamlet, As You Like It, Romeo + Juliet, and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, to name a few. Those were the times that he liked the most. He would make fun of her cadence and intonation, of course. 

In those rare moments, Crookshanks would come out of Hermione’s room and position himself on his Muggle familiar’s lap. Hermione would pet him absentmindedly while listening to Malfoy read. The ugly, orange thing would look at him too, as if enjoying his voice. Other times, Hermione would dangle her Gryffindor tie in front of Crookshanks, and he would flop on his back and bat at it. 

Malfoy eyed the dumb thing, “Seriously, Granger, are you sure it's half Kneazle?”

“He. And of course.”

“You would think such an activity would be below the intellectual level of a Kneazle.” 

“We all deserve to have some fun. Even you, dear Hamlet. Not everything has to be so serious. Here, try,” Hermione offered her tie to him. 

Malfoy eyed her carefully and took the tie gingerly as if touching something Gryffindor would burn his hand. He started swaying it in front of Crookshanks. Crookshanks' eyes widened and his furry paws readied himself. His furry arse twitched and he lunged at the tie, missing and leaping onto his face. Malfoy fell backwards onto the leg of the couch.

Hermione laughed, a loud, boisterous one. She beamed at both Crookshanks and Malfoy. Her smile was like the one she reserved for Potter and the Weasel. He allowed himself to feel a moment of levity. He felt warm. Safe. Just for a second. 

“Alright, back to work. I’ll make some tea,” Hermione smiled.

“Your tea’s shite, Granger. I’ll do it.”

Chapter Text

Hogwarts was awash with nervous, adolescent energy, as everything seemed to be bigger and brighter than before. More light filtered in through the Gothic castle; more moving staircases; more portraits making conversation with First-Years; more everything. With the new renovations, all classrooms now magically expanded and held laboratories. 

As the first week drew to a close, Friday night was reserved for the grand reopening ceremonies. After dinner finished in the Great Hall, McGonagall and the returning faculty, Flitwick, Pomfrey, Slughorn, Sprout, Trelawney, and a couple of new faculty members led the student population into the Pumpkin Patch. Some students stood in the field and some inside the Greenhouse.

McGonagall stepped up onto the makeshift podium and cleared her throat. Using wandless magic, she broadcasted her clear voice across the Hogwarts grounds. The students fell silent. 

"Welcome or welcome back to Hogwarts! My name is Headmaster McGonagall, and I am pleased to see familiar and fresh faces in the crowd. 

We have overcome much in the last two years, and whether you were too young to fight or faced unimaginable adversity in the Second War, we have a place for you here at Hogwarts. It is a feat to return in and of itself. 

I would be remiss not to discuss the circumstances that led to the Hogwarts' closure and necessary renovations. He Who Must Not Be Named-Voldemort-cum-Tom Riddle and his vision of Blood Purity—"

Some students still gasped at the mention of his name.

"— is a harmful and hurtful doctrine that led to death and much suffering. These hateful ideas stole much of your older classmates’ childhoods and created divisions where none should be. These ideas and any associated hate speech will not be tolerated at Hogwarts and beyond. We are working in close conjunction with the Ministry to stamp out Death Eaters and their sympathizers, to build a rigorous curriculum of both Magical and Muggleborn content and culture. Our vision is a simple one; we aim to build a magical school that is inclusive to all witches and wizards, Purebloods, Half-Bloods, and Muggleborns."

Cheers, whooping, and claps came from the audience. McGonagall held up her hands to continue.

"Tomorrow is the House Sorting Ceremony. It is an important and historic tradition of Hogwarts. Make no mistake, each House contains a rich and varied history, of which every student should be proud to be a part. It does not mean — a pregnant pause — you only fraternize with only those in your Houses. There will be activities before and after the ceremony to promote Inter-House Harmony, and all students are expected to participate."

Some murmurs rustled through the captive audience. 

"Now that the formalities are out of the way, the Hogwarts faculty along with the Head Students are pleased to present a celebratory show as a sign of our warm hospitality and as a pledge of things to come. As we move toward the 21st century, I emphasize hope, love, understanding, and unity above all else. This will be your home for the next year. We hope you will consider it as such."  

Hermione and Draco climbed up the platform silently. Some students jeered at them. Seamus yelled out from the crowd, “It doesn’t change anything, ya bloody Death Eater!” McGonagall’s voice boomed throughout the yard, “Silence.”

“Draco—” Hermione murmured, inadvertently using his given name. 

“I’m fine!” he hissed. His eyes Occluded into a stone grey.   

The faculty’s wands pointed to a common focal point in the clear night sky, at the ready. Draco and Hermione took out their wands crossing them with McGonagall's and the other faculty, in a surprising intimate act. Hermione felt a shiver across her shoulders. Hawthorn met vine wood. 

Periculum ascendio. 

They all spoke in unison. White, red, and silver sparks flew from their wands and wisped around the students. First-Years giggled gleefully as their young eyes followed the magical lights. Enchanted fireflies shot out from the Forbidden Forest, dotting the sky in blue, white, and yellow glimmers, Magically morphing from constellations to animal shapes to encouraging words, and back again. 

Cricket-like sounds filled the Hogwarts courtyards, and the students watched the show in silent awe. Hermione’s eyes gleamed.

So beautiful!

She finally looked away from the indigo sky to find Draco already staring at her. She smiled until her eyes crinkled. 

After several minutes of the show, Hermione lifted her wand again in a faint shiver of a tip and whispered a quiet incantation.

"Herbivicus duo!"

Suddenly, the field bloomed around the students, Magically changing the green meadow from a sea of pink and purple Puffapods. 

POP. POP. POP. POP. POP. POP.

The scent of jasmine filled the night. Students inhaled with quiet appreciation. Even the naysayers were stunned silent, at least for the moment. 

“RAVENCLAW!” 

“GRYFFINDOR!” 

The Sorting Hat cried out, one after the other. Hermione noticed its voice had become a little older and drier. 

Even Magical objects felt the passage of time.

And this went on for most of Saturday night after dinner. Draco and Hermione sat at the Head Table, along with the Prefects, picking at their food and looking bored. 

A few more students left. Everyone was tired.

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“GRYFFINDOR!”

“—Why do we have to be here?” Justin moaned. “I’m tired!”

“—Yes, I do have some reading to get to,” Cho agreed quietly. 

“—To set an example of ‘inter-House unity,’ ” Harry used his best, high-pitched McGonagall voice. “Besides, don't you want to know who’s gonna be the next Tom?”

“That’s absolute rubbish,” Pavarti said as she twirled some pasta onto her fork. “We already have him sitting across from us,” she deadpanned, nodding in Draco's direction. 

Draco raised an eyebrow and quirked a smile, “If I were, you’d think I’d be here with you sad lot, Scarhead to my right, and the Golden Girl on my arm?” Harry gave him the finger. 

“I am not on your arm, Malfoy!” Hermione hit him on his shoulder.

“McGonagall said differently,” he teased. Everyone laughed except Pansy. 

“It’s just jokes,” Theo whispered to her. He tried to stroke her hand in comfort, but Pansy pulled away. 

“SLYTHERIN!”

The last student, a short, blonde girl with a cherubic face and a true Draconian sneer, jumped down from the stool beaming. Theo exclaimed, “Look, there’s your mini-me! If she weren't 11, I'd might ask if you remember your Contraceptive spells, Malfoy.”

“Oh gods, one is plenty!” Hermione responded. The table broke out in small laughs.

Draco glared at Theo, but he didn't care. "It means you're a slut, Malfoy."

As the blonde student left the stage, a sea of paper cranes descended from the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall-some green, some blue, some yellow, and some red-flying to each new student, respectively. A memento for this occasion. [11]

Hermione’s eyes twinkled and her mouth dropped, “Ohhh, this is wonderful!” 

Draco smiled into his goblet.

In the second week of January, classes began in earnest.

Hermione’s schedule was filled to the brim: Advanced Potions with the Slytherin lot and funnily enough Luna, Divination Pt. 2 and Care of Magical Creatures Pt. 2 with Harry and Ron, Arithmancy Pt. 2 with Cho and Luna, Advanced Herbology with Neville and Malfoy, and Apparition for fun. 

Draco, on the other hand, had slightly more flexibility, taking only five courses: Advanced Potions, Advanced Herbology, Muggle Studies Pt. 2, Flying, and The Study of Ancient Runes Pt. 2 as his elective.

Furthermore, all Seventh-year and Eighth-year students were required to take Defence against the Dark Arts Pt. 2 and the new, preparatory course for the mock NEWTs coming up in June. Hermione chose a focus on magical healing, while Draco chose advanced potions and brewing. 

Somehow in between all of that, they were expected to go to McGonagall’s waltz sessions, hold office hours, and schedule the Prefects’ hall monitoring schedule every month. So many nights, the Head Students collapsed on the couch, waking up to find one or the other’s blankets on them a couple of hours later.

On rare free afternoons, Harry and Ron, along with Cho, Katie, Cormac, and Ginny, and whomever wanted to join, played pick-up games of Quidditch, weather permitting. Sometimes even Draco joined. Hermione took a book and watched them play.

A strange scene.

How it should always have been, Hermione thought before getting lost in her book again.

Ron and Hermione went on regular walks around the school grounds to catch up. She missed having him around. She missed his floppy hair and kind, open eyes. Sometimes, Ron reached for her hand, and she allowed it for a few seconds before pulling away. It was a tentative peace for them. Neither wanted to broach the subject, so they let it hang in the air. 

“So how’s the waltzing going?” 

“It’s not bad. Really awkward at first. I really have two left feet.”

He hesitated before asking the question they both knew was coming, “And dancing with Malfoy?” A few beats.

“He’s um,” Hermione scrounged for the word, “professional.”

“Do you … like it?”

“It’s a job. We’re Head Students. We have to set an example.” Hermione shrugged.

“A pretty big ask, if you ask me.”

“Ronald, I agreed to it.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t tell me.”

“We weren’t exactly on speaking terms at the time.”

“You can always talk to me, ‘Mione.”

Hermione was indignant. “Can I? Or only when I do the things you want me to do?”

“He’s a Death Eater. He let werewolves in Hogwarts. He started the War.”

“I’m aware of that,” she crossed her arms.

“Then how can you be so calm? He didn’t even help us … or you at the Manor!”

Hermione’s eyes flew open, “Yes, I know! Believe me, I know! I think about it every day. You keep telling me things that I know as if they’re brand new. But I was the one on the floor. Not you. Not Harry.”

Ron was silent for a few moments. “How can you stand to be around him?”, he muttered finally, not bothering to disguise his disgust.

Hermione took a deep breath, trying to steady herself for the conversation she knew was coming since she found out Malfoy was Head Boy, “You remember when we left Hogwarts?”

Ron laughed tentatively, “How could I forget? Sixth Year. Still ballsy, stupid children. We didn’t know what the hell we were doing.” 

“No, we didn’t,” Hermione admitted. “But we did it anyway. We didn’t know if there would be a tomorrow, if we would die. But we believed in what we were doing, believed in Harry. We believed that a better world could—”

Ron sighed. “You’re rambling. None of this has anything to do with Malfoy." Hermione shot him an annoyed look. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt your soliloquy." Ron's hands raised in surrender.

She began again, “I want the next Muggleborn witch to come into a world that welcomes her. A world where she doesn’t have to constantly re-earn her right to be there and isn't treated like she’s a second class citizen. Where people don’t throw slurs at her, as if she isn’t wanted or doesn’t belong. Where being Half-Blood or Muggleborn isn’t automatically seen as a flaw to be overcome. I grew up with all those experiences. I don’t want the next generation to go through the same things. She’ll grow up and she’ll never have heard of the word, ‘Mudblood.’ I want to help create the world I wanted to live in.” [12] 

“And you think dancing with Draco Malfoy the Death Eater is the way to do that? Now who's being naive?”

Hermione turned to him. Man really was thick in the head! Anger flashed in her eyes before they melted into some semblance of understanding, “No, of course not. I’m not naive. But as two people who were prominent faces of the Second War—and on opposite sides, no less—it says something to the Wizarding World. If we can stand to be around each oth—”

“None of it is real, though.” He looked up, searching and hoping for clues in Hermione’s face to confirm this.

“It doesn’t need to be. We just need to convince the world that Muggleborns and Purebloods can co-exist peacefully. Hogwarts is the most prominent Wizarding school in Europe. All eyes are on us to set the example.”

Ron grumbled, “That’s rubbish, playing politics."

“There are more things at stake than how you or I feel, Ronald. Do you think re-building this world is going to be all magical flowers and enchanted fireflies? Sometimes it entails making difficult decisions and putting aside … whatever it is I may be feeling,” her hands waving away at something invisible.

“That’s putting too much on you! That’s not fair.”

“We’ve always had too much put on us. When has ‘fair’ played a role in life? You, above all people, know that.”

A beat. 

Hermione reached out and clasped Ron’s hands, “I miss Fred too.” Ron nodded, letting his red fringe fall in front of his eyes. Then as if remembering who they were, he pulled his hands away roughly. They reached the edge of the Black Lake and sat down in silence.

“Hermione …”

“Don’t, Ron.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

She let out a heavy sigh. “Sure, go ahead.”

“I’ve had some time to think over the past few months. And I really think we should give it another go. You and I, we’ve had some space. I-I still want to be with you. My Healer says I’m doing well. I have fewer night terrors.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“And you?”

“They’re about the same, maybe a little less. Healer Lee—”

“Hannah asked me to the Unity Ball,” Ron interrupted quietly.

“What?” she turned sharply at the redhead whose freckles disappeared under his blush.

“Hannah asked me to the Unity Ball,” Ron repeated. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”

“We—” Hermione looked around haplessly. “We can’t keep having the same conversation. You should go if you want to.”

“Won’t you be hurt or-or jealous?”

“Ron, you’re not … mine. My feelings are inconsequential. Even if I don’t like it, you’re free to date whomever you want.”

Ron grabbed onto her shoulders, turning her to face him. “I could be. Just say the word.”

“Ron—”

“Stop it! Stop rationalizing everything with your big stupid brain! Turn it off for once. It doesn’t make you better or more mature than the rest of us. You’re only hiding; too cowardly to tell me and yourself the truth.”

Hermione looked out onto the lake and finally acquiesced, “Yes, I won’t like it. Yes, I’ll be jealous. But I’ll deal with it.”

“There is no reason why we can’t be together unless … there’s someone else.”

“There isn’t!” But Hermione’s mind’s eye immediately conjured a set of cool grey-blue eyes. She didn’t want him. He didn’t want her. He’d left her to die. And yet he was who she immediately thought of. She felt betrayed by her own mind. 

Ron scoffed, “I don’t get it, Hermione. Why do you have to make life so difficult? Do you want to be miserable?”

Hermione’s voice shook, but she wasn’t going to cry, “I’m not. I’m just not giving you the answer you want to hear.”

She dusted off her outfit and headed back to Hogwarts.

Harry and Hermione were studying late in the library near the Restricted Section. It was an unusually quiet night with few demands from McGonagall. 

“Fucking Divination!” 

“It’s barely even a subject,” Hermione agreed readily.

“How do we study for a quiz when we don’t even know when it is?” 

Each class, Trelawney kept forgetting they had a quiz and subsequently changing the topics. 

Around dinner time, Ginny found them in the library, “It’s time to go, Harry.”

“We’re not done, Gin.”

“The library is closing,” she persisted.

“Go on, Harry. I just need to grab a couple of extra books,” Hermione reassured him. She didn’t, but she understood. Ginny smiled warmly at her. Harry stood up to go and grabbed Ginny’s hand. 

“Night, Hermione.”

Hermione spent a few minutes, rummaging around her school bag for a sugar quill, and realized her brown notebook was not with her. A loud sound hit her table.

PLOP!

Two items flopped into her line of view: a copy of the most recent Daily Prophet and her brown notebook. It was glowing.

“HMMM!” Hermione exclaimed in appreciation with her mouth full, “I wasth looking forfth fthat!”

When she saw who it was, Hermione realized she was expecting to see Draco or maybe someone else. But not her. 

Pansy fucking Parkinson.

“So it is yours,” Pansy drawled with feigned disinterest.

A couple of beats.

Pansy could feel the anger knotting in her throat. “You left it in the Great Hall,” she said bitterly.

“Um, thank you?”

Pansy kept staring her down, as if assessing her features and her body. Hermione felt very uncomfortable, “Is there more?”

“I read your messages.”

“They’re private,” Hermione sniffed, even though there was nothing inside of interest to Pansy.

“How else would I have known who the notebook belonged to? And only Malfoy would be pretentious enough to sign off every message with his initials.”

Hermione bit her lip to keep from smirking. Pansy continued to stand in front of her study table, eyes flashing.

“Have you come for round 2, Pansy?” Hermione sneered with as much gusto as she could. Her mind's eyes pictured her notebook and flipped through the pages.

Why was she upset? There was nothing incriminating inside. Old Unity Ball plans. McGonagall’s instructions. Prefects’ schedules. And a few pages for their notes to one another. Nothing was untoward. They'd joked around about his signing off with his initials once or twice. Hardly anything scandalous.

For a few moments, Hermione allowed herself to roam over Pansy’s face and body, just as she did with Draco when she found him asleep for the first time. In almost every objective physical measure, Hermione thought she fell short when compared to her. Where Pansy’s hair was a shiny black, sleek and in control, hers was a mousey brown, wild and tangled. Pansy had clear blue eyes, and Hermione had common brown ones. While Pansy was petite, she was shapely with full breasts, a small waist, and thin legs. Hermione now was thin as well; but not where it mattered. Her breasts were small, and chest boney. No matter how much weight she lost, she kept a small stomach pooch and had large thighs. Her hands were plain, and Pansy’s were always perfectly manicured. Hermione found herself studying the back of her hands marked with quill ink when she heard Pansy speak again.

“You talk to one another,” Pansy clipped.

Hermione said firmly. “We are Head Boy and Head Girl. We talk about Head Student responsibilities.” 

“Spare me.”

“Whatever you read, nothing is meant by it. Nothing is going on. Nothing will happen,” she repeated.

Pansy ignored her, “Did you see the Daily Prophet?” 

Obviously, Hermione hadn’t. She dragged the copy closer to her on the table. On the front page was a large enchanted picture of the opening festivities at Hogwarts, fireflies spelling out constellations in the sky. The headline read, “Hogwarts’ Reopening a Great Success!”

“Isn’t that what we wanted?”

“Fuck, Granger. Does that innocent act really work on Potter and the Weasel?” Pansy huffed in disgust. 

Hermione took a longer look at the newspaper and saw in the corner, a short column piece by Rita Skeeter that read “Former Death Eater and Current Golden Girl heat up!” She winced at the dig. There was a mundane picture of Malfoy and Hermione together. Hermione was looking up at the enchanted fireflies, and Malfoy was looking at her.

“Pansy, you know as well as I do, the Daily Prophet is hardly better than gossip rags.”

A beat of silence. 

“He doesn’t talk that way to me,” Pansy lamented, a non-sequitur if Hermione ever heard one. She looked to the raven-haired Witch that stood in front of her in confusion. For the first time in all the years that Hermione had known her, Pansy looked vulnerable and lost. And Hermione felt something. Empathy, yes, but also vindication. She was a petty, petty, petty, witch. Pansy continued, “He’s not … silly with me.”

The library clock ticked, counting the beats of silence between them.

“Now I’m really not sure what you’re on about.” 

“He was mine, you know?” Pansy said quietly, almost resigned but filled with yearning. 

“What?”

Pansy cleared her throat, “He was mine,” louder and more definite now.

It was now Granger’s turn to scoff. They weren’t anything, just friends, not even that. They tolerated one another.

“You already won Granger, your lot, your insufferable Golden Trio. No need to drive the point home and take him too.”

“Pansy, I—we are not …”

“Right.” Pansy turned on her heels and left Hermione alone in the library. 

Click. Click.

Hermione stared at the spot where Pansy stood a few moments ago, listening to her heels gradually drop farther and farther out of earshot. She flipped open her glowing notebook and found several messages from Malfoy tonight. 

Make some tea. It better be piping hot. Or the Kneazle gets it. - DLM

—Granger, where’s my tea? - DLM

—TEA! NOW! - DLM

—You really have no sense of humour. - DLM

—The Kneazle is alive and well. He just swatted at me. Must take after you. - DLM

Hermione couldn’t help but feel a painful thud in her chest.

When Hermione arrived back in the Head Students’ dorms, Draco was on the couch, reading. 

“You ignoring me now?”

“Oh, I left my notebook in the Quidditch stands. Just found it, actually," she lied easily.

Draco didn’t say anything in response. As she headed to the kitchenette to put on the kettle, Hermione grabbed the book from his hand. “Act II, Scene II. 'Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern ...'” 

Chapter Text

To spend more time with Harry, Hermione, and Hannah, Ron decided to sit in on the waltz sessions. He even convinced Ginny to come along, who could not be less interested in dancing and watching her boyfriend touch another Witch. The Headmaster agreed as long as they kept out of the way and didn’t disturb the others’ practicing. McGonagall guided them toward the side, next to the covered tables not in use. 

In the last week leading up to the Unity Ball, McGonagall became more demanding, adding a lift and a dip to their dance repertoire. As the Unity Ball date grew closer, the weekly sessions became daily ones. She declared that important who’s who of the Ministry of Magic —including Shacklebolt himself! — and the Department of Magical Education. All of Europe’s major newspapers would also be in attendance. She kept repeating that they needed to set an example as the most prominent Wizarding school in Europe. Hermione suspected it gave McGonagall immense pleasure to say that. 

When McGonagall flicked on the gramophone, the Head Students and Prefects slowly dispersed out in search of their partners’ hands — with the exception of Harry and Hermione. Harry was still whispering sweet nothings into Ginny’s ear, while Ron rolled his eyes and made vomiting noises, "That's my sister, Harry! Steady on!" Hermione and Draco continue to give each other challenging stares from across the room, daring the other to move first.

Old hat now, the Headmaster mused as she looked out onto her students and the ballroom floor.

Theo held Cho’s back at an appropriate level, shyly smiling down at her with his hair falling down to cover his eyes, which were green at the moment. He’d been sober for the past few days at McGonagall's insistence, and it showed in his attention to detail and graceful movements. Cho’s hand immediately felt clammy and a pink tinge spread across her round cheeks. 

“Granger.” Malfoy gave in first as he always did. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

“Malfoy.”

He held out his hand, and Hermione took it with a satisfied smirk. Although her heart still beat rapidly, she was getting used to being close to Malfoy and his now-familiar smell of mahogany, leather, and spearmint. They continued with the box step, but Hermione had trouble with the reverse. 

With a fourth try and a fourth time that Hermione stepped on his loafers, he let out a frustrated huff, “Truly, Granger. You’re as graceful as a hippopotamus and you step on me like one.”

Hermione blushed, “Not everyone was so blessed to have a personal dance instructor for their Pureblood galas,” though her comment was without true bite. They didn’t seem to mind the other’s gentle jabs. 

Ron’s eyes flashed and his throat bobbed. He pushed his unruly hair out of his eyes to focus on the other dancing couples. 

I am fine. I am fine. This is okay. This is okay.

“We’ll be working on your twirls and dips,” the Headmaster proclaimed. “Mr. Potter! Be my partner today, if you please.” Harry got up quickly. “Now twirl me,” she commanded as she made a flourish with her hands. Ginny held back a giggle. 

“1, 2, 3. 1, 2, 3. Right foot forward, to side, close. Back. BACK, Mr. Potter!”

As the first and then second waltz came to a close, everyone separated for a quick break. Justin covertly flicked his wand over the gramophone to play a fast, upbeat song. 

Hermione danced with Anthony next, giggling. Draco danced with Pansy; Theo in a friendly thruple with Hannah and Pavarti. Harry pulled Ginny into the fray. They all danced easily with one another, laughing gaily. 

“C’mon Cici! I told you I would save a dance for you,” Justin sidled next to Cho. She chuckled heartily and took his hand without hesitation. They whipped around the room. Cho was a true natural. 

The song tapered off.

McGonagall clapped to get the students’ attention. “Alright, back to formation! No more silliness. Continue with your original partners.” 

Malfoy spun Hermione, and she fell over laughing. Everyone seemed to be having fun except Ron, sitting on the side table and eyes flitting between the group and Hermione. A heat rose to his neck and chest. 

This scene was a little too familiar, feeling left out and unimportant. Doubts and insecurity pricked the back of Ron's mind, the same ones from their year in the tent. 

No one wants you. The least loved son and tagalong in the Golden Trio. Not even a Prefect. First Harry, now Malfoy, never you. 

Ron kept his eyes on the dancing couple as they practiced another waltz. He didn’t like the way Malfoy grabbed her waist to keep her from falling; he didn’t like the way Hermione’s eyes twinkled at him; and he most certainly didn’t like the way Malfoy guided her hand to keep her from stomping on his stupid feet. Ron glowered, feeling the heat move from his neck to his ears. He swallowed, trying to calm himself down. Ginny followed his line of sight, and whispered, “Don’t.” She put her hand on his shoulder, but he jerked it away. 

Before he could stop himself, Ron stalked toward Hermione. Seeing this, Harry immediately stepped away from Hannah. Malfoy shifted imperceptibly away from Hermione to place greater distance between her and Ron.

“Ron,” Harry warned.

“Fucking move, Harry.” Ron gritted his teeth and his fists clenched.

“Leave it.”

Hermione moved out from Malfoy's grip and hissed at her friends, “Harry, I don’t need you to protect me! And Ronald, don’t ruin everything! It's just a dance.” A couple of snickers scoffed out in the background.

Eyeing the escalating, testosterone-filled confrontation, McGonagall acted quickly, “Out, Mr. Weasley.”

Ron’s eyes moved from Harry to Malfoy and Hermione to the Headmaster, but didn’t budge. 

“NOW. I will not repeat myself. This is no place for your dramatics,” McGonagall then turned to the group and clapped her hands in dismissal, “Everyone, continue to practice. I will be back shortly.”

Minerva guided Ron out to the corridor, “This is precisely why I was hesitant to have you sit in on the waltz practices.” 

Ron was sullen and silent.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Mr. Weasley?”

A beat. 

“Very well then. 10 points from Gryffindor.”

He shrugged, “Who cares?”

McGonagall’s voice peaked, “20. POINTS. FROM-”

“I can’t believe you would encourage this,” Ron interrupted, turning his head away from the Headmaster.

“Speak up, Mr. Weasley.”

Ron raised his head up in self-righteous anger to meet the McGonagall's eyes, “You’re parading a Death Eater around on school grounds, as if nothing has happened! Having him twirl my-Hermione on the dance floor. Do you know what he did to her?!”

McGonagall’s eyes flickered, “As I said, Mr. Weasley, this is no place for your dramatics.”

“Has Hogwarts really sunk so low? What won’t you do for good press?” Ron continued, throwing everything he had at the Headmaster, consequences be damned. He couldn’t stop his word vomit. “As long as Hogwarts gets their funding and stays open, yeah? The school looks great now with their renovations. I read the papers, Headmaster .” Ron’s voice dripped with sarcastic venom. 

“Mr. Weasley!”

Ron huffed, “You really don’t care about us or her, do you? If you did, if you saw, you’d never put her within 100 feet of Malfoy.”

Minerva’s eyes softened and reached out to place her a soft hand on Ron’s shoulders, “I don’t pretend to know everything that happened during the War.”

Ron jerked his shoulder away and let out a scornful breath.

“Mr. Weasley, you, perhaps above others, feel the pain of war more acutely.” She paused. “Fred Weasley was a beautiful soul with a wit and ambition to match,” McGonagall said softly. He avoided her gaze and kicked at a stone that wasn’t there. “But others, too, may have their own cross to bear.”

“I don’t care about all that. I don’t care about anyone but ‘Mione,” he grumbled.

“I don’t expect that you do.”

“Then why did you say that, Headmaster?”

Minerva paused in thought, “You’re right. I shouldn’t have. I did not mean to diminish your pain.”

Ron’s eyes blurred in confusion at the Headmaster’s admission. 

“But you’re no longer a child. You haven’t been a child in a long time. So I will not speak to you like one.” McGonagall continued, “There are bigger things at work than you or me. Bigger forces; bigger ideas. We cannot stay stagnant.”

“Ideas are dangerous,” Ron muttered, avoiding her steadfast gaze.

McGonagall nodded, “Precisely, Mr. Weasley. But they also have the power to unite and bring forth hope. That is what I aim to achieve here at Hogwarts.”

“With a Death Eater,” Ron stated simply. 

“And with Ms. Granger, and Mr. Potter, and with you. You three hold special places in history ... As does Mr. Malfoy,” Minerva said pointedly.

“Are our childhoods not enough?!" Ron growled. “You and Dumbledore and Lupin and Sirius! You’ve already asked too much of us! Just because Hogwarts is now in kahoots with the Ministry doesn’t mean we all have to fall in line.” 

It was McGonagall’s turn to raise her voice, but still barely above a harsh whisper. “Are you so naive to believe that just because the War has ended, society is fixed?! That the festering fault lines in Wizarding society will magically repair itself when the chasm has been laid bare?! No! Those lines are only further entrenched now by those who believe in Blood Purity and apartheid." A pregnant pause. "If you all work together, what greater message can you send to the public than one of hope, forgiveness, and redemption? What changes for good could you mobilize? What power will you all hold to reknit the fabric of the post-war magical society? What stories may yet be told?”

“Is that the same spiel you gave ‘Mione? One of fairy tales and courage? ‘Put on a brave face. Fuck your feelings and your trauma?!’ This sounds all well and good, but we are not your pawns to be sacrificed. We already did that,” Ron ended with his arms crossed. "We barely made it back."

McGonagall’s expression soured at his profanity but did not comment on it. “I don’t expect you to be.”

“That’s not what it looks like,” Ron said bitterly. “You’re asking for a lot, Headmaster. These are people’s lives here.”

“Yes, Mr. Weasley,” Minerva readily agreed. “I am.” Another pause. “I have been nothing but transparent with my intentions and goals with Ms. Granger. She knew everything walking into the Head Girl position. I will not repeat the mistakes of Albus Dumbledore. I will not hide.”

“You didn’t give her much of a choice.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Weasley. Ms. Granger made the conscious choice with all the information presented. She has always been highly cerebral and held the bigger picture in mind.”

Ron shuffled, “This isn’t right.”

Several moments passed.

McGonagall finally sighed, “Perhaps. I don’t pretend to know all of Ms. Granger’s thought processes and motivations. But don’t you think the decision is best left up to her?”

The Head Students and Prefects continued to practice, albeit a bit less carefree than before. 

Hannah looked dejected. Harry was distracted. Ginny’s brows furrowed and sent Malfoy and Hermione some hard, suspicious stares. 

Although Malfoy witnessed the pissing contest between Potter and the Weasel that took place, he regarded Ron with a slight quirk of his mouth and feigned disinterest. He knew that only served to incense the Weasel more.

I could take him.

Granger's eyes widened and he could hear her breath hitch against his chest when Ron stomped toward them. Malfoy's arm had tightened around her. In instinct, he told himself. It meant nothing. He felt her crest fall when the Headmaster’s voice thundered, and quickly escorted the Weasel out. Although she let out a sigh of relief, her body later became like lead in his arms. Her easy laugh and demeanor left her then. He had to drag her along for the next few waltzes. He could see that Granger's mind was turning and she felt guilty. Her touch on him was lighter; and she put more distance between their bodies. 

He didn’t know what to say or do, so he infinitesimally rubbed her back with his cool hands. No one noticed the small movements but her. Her back initially stiffened, but slowly relaxed into them. Hermione gave him a weak smile. When she looked up at Malfoy, he was staring at a point above her head. She followed his line of sight.

Pansy was looking at them with a pained look in her eyes before she quickly turned away.

Fuck. FUCK. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. I fucked it.

Malfoy spent the afternoon with Pansy in the dungeons, soothing her jealous rants. He told her that his comforting Granger was just for show; that he needed to act friendly with her; show he truly changed and no longer harboured Death Eater sentiments. Sometimes he even believed what he was saying. It wasn’t as though Malfoy was lying. He just didn’t care either way. Pureblood. Halfblood. Mudblood. Muggleborn. They were all just words now. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. What mattered was his and his family’s continued safety and survival; he got half of it done. 

Another thing he failed at.

For so long of his life, he played pretend. He’d practice all of his life. This was just another game.

As Malfoy tucked a strand of Pansy’s hair behind her ear, he wondered if you could betray something if you had no loyalties; if he ever had loyalties to anything larger than fear and self-preservation … and his mother. When he last saw his mum, her hands still trembled. She tried to hide it from him. But it was evident when she poured him tea. Did he ever really believe in Voldemort’s cause, or only in his own desire for safety and superiority? 

Was he betraying Pansy now? Her body was warm and welcoming, as close to a home as he could remember. Pansy’s eyes regarded him with anger and suspicion, but quickly melted into an almost feral desire to be loved by Malfoy. Yes, he loved her. He had to. Malfoy Occluded, blocking any hesitations or second thoughts. 

As they undressed, he thought of the summer and his re-education courses on consent, conflict resolution, and Muggle culture. Again, he didn’t care. It was a means to an end. He knew what the Ministry was trying to do by showing them heavy handed films like Schindler’s List and Shawshank Redemption. By the end of summer, Malfoy learned about some of the canonical aspects of Muggle literature.

They weren’t all horrible.

He even enjoyed some of it, but he would never tell Blaise or Theo that, even though he suspected Theo already knew. After all, they watched the Godfather trilogy together on a Muggle “tee-vee,” as they called it. Theo related to Edward Scissorhands to a worrying degree and cried at Forrest Gump, but hid his tears in a long sip of his tumbler. Malfoy liked Henry Miller, the Graduate, despised the Great Gatsby and Andy Warhol, and possessed a book of Kawabata’s short stories. 

That afternoon, Malfoy and Pansy made up slowly in her four poster Slytherin bed; her roommates, Millicent and Tracey sent each other knowing glances before leaving the dorms. He pulled her close, smelling her expensive perfume behind her ear. He tilted her chin up for a kiss, and she responded in kind. Her kisses became harder and possessive, as she muttered Silencio over them and a contraceptive charm. 

Pansy gripped Malfoy in her arms and her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, as if she were afraid he would let go of her. She let out a cry of relief as he came. A white-hot flash of light bloomed behind his eyes, shattering his Occulumency. He shuddered, collapsing on top of Pansy, and held her close, smelling again her perfume.

In that split second of oblivion, he saw the black strap of a tank top falling off a shoulder. 

Later that evening.

As Malfoy made his way back to the sixth floor, he passed by Ron, heading downstairs. Hearing the shifting of stones across the floor, Draco deduced that Ron just came from his the Head Students’ common room. The alcove entrance closed with a loud moan. Ron eyed Draco with a hard stare. 

“Problem, Weasel?” he sneered.

Ron scoffed, “We all know what you’re doing.” Malfoy ignored him, plodding forward. Ron reached out and grabbed him roughly.

“Let go of me,” Malfoy rolled his shoulder back and growled. “I won’t say it again.”

“You’re such a bastard, you know. You think you’re fooling anyone? You may have duped McGonagall. You may have even convinced ‘Mione to feel sorry for you, but I know what you really are.”

“What is it that you think I’m doing? Enlighten me, please. I am always interested in what a weasel thinks. Pleasantly surprised that even lower animals can form polysyllabic words,” he drawled.

Ron’s voice barely contained its disgust, “It’s all just self-interest, ‘innit? Because it’s more convenient for you now to not be a Death Eat—” [13]

“You don’t understand a damn thing,” Malfoy interrupted.

“I understand you’ll do anything to save your own neck. And you know what?” Weasley raised his palms, as if washing his hands clean of him. “Fair play. Do what you like. But don’t drag ‘Mione into this. Don’t let her think for one second that you’ve changed.”

“You think Granger can’t make up her own mind, Weasley? That she needs your help telling her what to think? Merlin, you’re even dumber than you let on.”

Ron sputtered a bit. 

“Are you quite done? You feel like a big man now? I don’t much care what you two do for foreplay, but leave me out of it.”

Ron let out a humourless laugh, “She always had a bleeding heart for lost causes.”

“What is it that you want, Weasel? You want me to be like you? Throw my whole life away for a goddamn cause ? You think I give a flying fuck about what you think about me?”

“No, Malfoy," Ron pointed at his chest, "You give a fuck. This is all a game to you. There's never any real consequences for you and your lot, like always. I think you only think about yourself.” Ron’s voice rose to a yell. He looked around and realized he was still only steps away from the Head Students’ dorms and tamped down the volume, his voice still trembling with fury. "But it all just went away for you, didn’t it? You think by being at Hogwarts, that everything’s back to normal, eh? Well, it didn’t go away for me and my family. My brother died, so you fucking baby Death Eater scum could get a second chance you didn’t deserve. And it didn’t go away for-”

“It’s called surviving, you fuck wit! If you think nothing happened to me, then you're even dumber than you look. What do you want from me? For me to get on my hands and knees and offer some sort of grovelling apology?”

Ron crowded into Malfoy's space. “That’d be a start. You think waltzing with Hermione at a ball actually means anything? You think it changes anything? You think your family’s money can buy your way into the public’s good graces and our forgive—”

“I don’t want your anything!”, Malfoy snarled.

Ron finally stepped back from him, “Pointless. Absolutely fucking pointless. Be whatever awful kind of person you want to be, Malfoy. But leave Hermione alone.”

With that final word, Ron pushed past Malfoy and rushed down the moving staircase. 

When he finally made it into the Head Student dormitories, Granger’s door was closed. As he surveyed the common room looking for anything out of place, he felt a familiar thud in his chest when he knew that the Weasel was just here. He Occluded and went for a shower, scrubbing the Weasel and the day off of him. 

He stepped out of the bathroom with wet hair and in his pajamas. Malfoy found Granger sitting on their couch with a pink rim around her eyes, as if she had been crying, and pretending to read The Dream Oracle, a required text for Divination Pt. 2.

“I can’t make heads and tails of this book. What does a falcon actually look like in tea lea-”

Malfoy ignored her inane comments and honed in on his indignant anger at the Weasel yelling at him, the Weasel touching his things, the Weasel being here in this room, “I was just given a scolding to by your boyfriend. It looks like he may have given you one as well.”

“There’s no need for that tone. He’s just being protective; that’s all,” she huffed.

He curled his lip, “Right. It’s because he cares about you that he left you looking like a swollen blowfish.”

“You should know about making girls cry,” Hermione retorted. Malfoy narrowed his eyes at her. She sighed and closed her book, “Ron is difficult, yes. But when he sees you, he can’t help but see his brother.” 

“Which one?”, he asked snidely. Hermione gave him a long stare until he found himself speaking again. Malfoy added in resignation, “Well, there’s not much I can do about that, is there? You know the Weasel is so busy acting all aggrieved on your behalf, because he just wants to impress you, right?”

“Hardly. We’ve broken—” Hermione stopped herself, as Malfoy turned his head in half-cocked interest and sat down next to her. “No, Malfoy, we’ve not been together for several months now. If he’s angry at something, it’s probably me and what he perceives as a betrayal.”

Malfoy pondered her words for a second and nodded, “I suppose Scarhead is the smarter choice, being the Wonderboy and all. Besides, I’m pretty sure the Weasel was angry at me today.” 

“For what?”

“For existing, probably,” he muttered under his breath. 

“You don’t get to do that, Malfoy.”

“Do what, Granger?” he asked coldly.

“Act one way for seven years and throw a tanty when people still see you like that. It will take time.” 

Malfoy shot her a contemptuous look, as if he couldn’t believe she implied he was acting childish. Her silence and one raised eyebrow urged him to continue, “I am trying. My family has donated hundreds of thousands of Galleons to war restoration efforts, Hogwarts, even the Organization for Displaced Elves (ODE), for Merlin’s sake. I’m Head Boy. I’m going to the Unity Ball with you, name and social ranking be damned …”

As he recounted these items, Hermione found herself growing increasingly angrier. The tips of her ear grew hot as she felt prickles behind her neck. “Just because you’re Head Boy doesn’t make you a martyr. Stop congratulating yourself. You’re not exactly popular right now. So don’t act like there isn’t something in it for you. And don’t pretend like being seen with me isn’t helping to repair the Malfoys’ tarnished reputations.”

“Of course, Granger," he drawled. "The perfect role model. I wonder how long it would take for you to bring it up. The shining example of Muggleborn witches and great war hero to show me the error of my ways.”

Hermione stomped, “I didn’t want this! I didn’t ask for this! You think I like having all my actions scrutinized and dissected since I was 14? But I have been made an example, so I live with it.”

“So have I, only my image is a cautionary tale for anyone who dares not to have a bleeding heart. ‘Be careful, or you’re gonna end up like Draco Malfoy: Disgraced Death Eater.’”

“I’m sorry that my kind being extinguished is so exhausting for you. You talk about the War and its fallout as if it’s an inconvenience. People died, Malfoy! The war was six months ago. You’ll have to excuse people if they haven’t forgotten yet. It’s not just something that you can make go away with money. People died and people suffered and-and-” Hermione began rambling, thinking of herself and her parents and her arm, Ron and Fred and Molly and Arthur, and Harry, and Tonks and Lupin and Teddy. She willed herself not to cry again.

Malfoy crossed his chest, “People are allowed to feel more than one thing at once.” 

What did she know? All Granger saw was a scared, if reluctant, mini-Death Eater, but a Death Eater, nonetheless. Did she know that he’d been happy to take the Dark Mark? That it meant that he was special, in control; that he was chosen, just as much as Scarhead? That nothing bad was going to happen to his family? That his father would be released from Azkaban? That his mother would be safe? That he could restore the Malfoy name and reputation to prominence and he would be the one to do that? Did she also know that he would make the same decision again if it meant it saved his mother from taking the Cruciatus curse over and over for him? 

When Hermione didn’t respond, he finally uttered, “I just want my life back. Is that such a crime?”

“We all do,” Hermione said coolly. She regarded him then, her eyes moving from his mouth to his chest to his hands, and finally to his hair. His wet fringe had fallen over his forehead, and a couple of stray blond hairs stuck to the side of his face. “But sometimes there is only one right choice, and that’s why some people are still mad,” she said quietly.

Malfoy scoffed, “Maybe for you. But my life is a bit more complex than that.”

Hermione stood up then. She put her hands on her waist and widened her stance, “Yes, why don’t you tell us all about that—what a tragic hero you are, the boy with no choice, is that right?”

“I never said that, Granger. Don’t confuse me with your insipid fairy tales. Real life is hard. It’s filled with difficult decisions that you might not necessarily like but have to live with.”

Her hands balled up into fists near her thighs, “That’s rich. You’re telling me about difficult decisions, Malfoy?!? I’m here!” 

He felt a new wave of defensiveness rush over him. “Yes, and you and your self-righteous friends never fail to remind me of that fact every chance they get. It must be nice for Gryffindors to lead such good, admirable lives and have simple, black and white morals, so you can judge the rest of us who fail to live up to your impossible standards. And fuck anyone who makes any kind of mistake, right? You say time passes as if it’s so easy, so easy to be hated and openly scorned?”

“Yeah, I know a little of what that’s like,” Hermione’s eyes didn’t leave the ground. “Besides, you wouldn’t need all of this if you didn’t support Voldemort—”

“I didn’t support him!” Malfoy spat out angrily, but he realized he revealed too much.

Thick tensions hung in the air. 

Hermione was the first to speak, gingerly, “People can’t just throw away years of suspicion and unhappy history. Harry thought you were a Death Eater for all of Sixth-Year, and you proved him right.” 

“I don’t give a fuck about what Potter thinks,” he spat.

“Well, regardless of your reasons ...” She didn't finish her thoughts. She had none, for once. Hermione was still turning Malfoy's words around in her head. 

“I’m tired, Granger. Nothing I do will be enough. I’ll never be good enough. So let me just do my time in peace and get out. You know as well as I do, I’m not the hero in this story.” He fell back defeated on the couch, and lolled his head onto the headrest.

Hermione didn’t look angry anymore. “Right,” Hermione nodded.

Silence again.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t know what else to say. They both were exhausted. Hermione supposed this fight was inevitable. They pretended for the last two months that things were normal; as if they hadn’t just been through the War; as if they were just classmates coming back from a prolonged vacation, but both of them were always just a hair trigger from setting on an angry path of thinly veiled comments. 

Just another one of those moments. Doesn’t change anything, Hermione deduced. 

They sat on opposite sides of the couch, an ocean between them instead of inches. Malfoy had one hand rubbing his temple, the other clenched in a fist on his thigh. Hermione sat cross legged, drawing in ragged breaths and hiccuping slightly. They sat in furtive silence. 

MEOW. 

Crookshanks jumped in between them and made a few small circles before settling down.

Malfoy couldn’t remember who got up first. Maybe it was Hermione who went to prepare a meal for Crooks. 

When she returned from the kitchenette, he was holding a nondescript black box, no bigger than a shoebox, “I don’t want to have the same fight over and over with you, Granger. We—I want to be civil. We have a long year ahead of us. And my Mind Healer advised me to-”

“You have a Healer?!” Hermioned asked incredulously.

“Yeah, terms of my parole sentence and whatnot,” Malfoy said. “As I’m sure every returning student does,” he added quickly.

Hermione supposed that was true. But the idea of Malfoy spilling his feelings and secrets to another person seemed so foreign to her. 

“Remember when I said that we could have a conversation about what happened?” Hermione immediately knew what he meant. She nodded silently. “Here,” he muttered, passing the box to her.

“What is it?”

He was cryptic, “Some things.”

“Things? Honestly!” Hermione laughed disbelievingly. Then she waited.

Malfoy waited too. "Yeah, after you see them, come find me if and when you wish to talk,” he said quietly, avoiding her eyes.

She nodded dumbly again. Hermione accepted the box carefully, as if it might bite her, “You need to give an apology box to all of your flatmates?”

"No one called it an apology box!", he snarled. Hermione bit her lip to suppress a giggle. 

Then he grew thoughtful and uncertain, "Can you do me a favour?” Hermione looked at him but didn’t answer, still dazed by the box he placed in her hands, “Just—just don’t open it right now? Wait until I’m not here, yeah?”

He was walking away when Hermione called after him, “I don’t need grand gestures, Malfoy.” He raised an eyebrow and waited for her to explain herself. “They ultimately don’t mean anything. You said it yourself; life isn't a fairytale. If you’re going to be in my life in any capacity, I just need you to show up and be consistent.”

Malfoy's eyes widened slightly.

“Do we understand each other?” Hermione continued.

He nodded slowly. Then he strode into his bedroom and closed the door a little too hard.

As Hermione got ready for bed, she placed the box on her vanity. She shook it. It was rather light with some loose items rustling inside.

She stared at the box until she fell asleep.

Mind Healer: H. Shah
Patient: Ronald B. Weasley, Session #11

“I don’t get it. She says there’s no one else.” 

Healer Shah gave Ron a small nod of acknowledgement to continue. 

“We are meant to be. I know it. There’s no one else for me,” Ron concluded.

“Hm. You agreed to a date with another young woman, yes? Don’t you think that’s sending mixed messages?”

“Well, Hermione said no!”

Scratch. Scratch.

“As is her right.”

“So, what, am I supposed to be miserable for the rest of my days because she’s madder than Barnabas the Barmy?! She’s absolute bonkers.”

“That’s not what I said. Remember what we talked about regarding black and white thinking?

Ron bowed his head slightly, “And then I saw her, laughing with a De—, her childhood bully! He called her foul names. He even made her teeth into fangs! Then they were just — As if we weren’t — as if nothing had happened the last two years. Dancing and touching like they were old pals! Like she didn’t care.” He scoffed in disgust, gesturing as if whipping away the memory. 

“Care about what?”

“Me! Us!” he exclaimed. 

“You know that’s not true. The stories you’ve told me about your ex-girlfriend — you’ve shown me that she cares deeply for you.” Ron turned abruptly at Healer Shah’s use of the term, ‘ex.’

“That’s not what it feels like.”

“Let me ask you some questions, Ronald.”

“’Kay,” he said warily. 

“When you saw Hermione dancing and laughing with her bully, where were they?”

“In a ballroom.”

Shah nodded, “So in public?” Ron acquiesced. 

“Who was there?”

“Bunch of other students, Harry, Gin, and our new Headmaster.”

Shah nodded again, “What I’m hearing you say is that Hermione was acting pleasantly to her past bully in a public setting. Was he being rude to her?”

Ron wrinkled his brows and cocked his head slightly away from his Healer, “N-no.”

“And this dancing, it’s part of her responsibilities, you said?” Healer Shah tapped her quill.

Ron sighed, “Look, I know what you’re getting at.”

“You can’t expect people to carry around the weight of their pain and anger all the time. It’s not practical.” 

“I know,” Ron conceded. He looked up at the courtyard’s enchanted night sky. “I just thought—we’d have more time. That she’d want to spend more time with me. She’s not the only one who went through the war. I don’t need—I don’t want any space or time from her. I just want her.”

“We all cope differently. She’s not you, Ronald.”

He didn’t say anything. 

“You love Hermione, yes? Who she is as a person?”

He agreed without hesitation.

“Then you need to learn to accept the parts that may not fit into your idea of them, difficult as it may be.”

Chapter Text

Even if Hermione wanted to contemplate Draco’s strange black box longer, she had no time. She woke up to the sun in her eyes and immediately shot up. Today was the day of the Unity Ball.

Hermione took in a deep breath before girding herself for the day. Draco was already gone. There was a slight anticipation that buzzed in her stomach, but she pushed it away. She pulled on a thick red jumper made for her by Molly and a loose skirt, before grabbing her heavy cloak and running to the Great Hall. 

As she made her way through the Hogwarts corridors, she noticed that snow was falling thickly upon the castle and its grounds now. The chill in the air put an extra pep in her step and a cough in her throat—no time now —as she made her way for a quick breakfast. 

With McGonagall supervising, the Prefects began their preparations in the Hogwarts’ Ballroom. They couldn’t help but feel the familiar pull of déjà vu and a silent longing for days past. Before the war, before all the deaths, hurt, and nightmares, once upon a time, there was the Yule Ball. 

No one said anything. A sombre mood fell across the students, each thinking about what they had; what they lost; who was lost. They worked in relative silence, save for the occasional magical charm. 

When Hermione arrived at the Ballrooms, Draco was already there, standing beside McGonagall and Clove Willows, the new librarian. McGonagall turned an exacting stare on her not-quite-Hogwarts-compliant outfit, but was too busy to make a comment. It turned out that Clove had a great eye for décor. The theme was Masquerade, so in keeping with the theme, the colour scheme was dark and moody with a hint of opulence. Using wandless magic, Clove levitated white gold chandeliers to the vaulted ceilings. The dance floor was transfigured into a cool ice blue that looked like a frozen lake lit up from underneath. Ice sculptures that sparkled like diamonds were placed at each end of the room. They were enchanted to not melt. The largest one was placed in the middle of the dance floor. Hermione went up to study the sculpture. 

Ew. 

It was them or something in their likeness , Harry, Ron, and her standing together.

She’d seen this image before last year in the Daily Prophet when reliable news was hard to come by and they glamored themselves to sneak into a nearby town to get provisions. She passed by a newspaper stand. The headline read ‘Undesirables No. 1-3 on the Run!’ and she had lingered on this mundane picture. Hermione wondered who took it. 

By the time they were finished, the Ballrooms were the image of opulent splendour, like a shimmering mirage layered over their grey reality. The walls were dusted with a silver frost, with hundreds of white lunaria branches crossing the twinkling ceiling. Enormous silk banners hung from every wall, bearing the Hogwarts “H” and its coat of arms: lion, eagle, snake, and badger. Every table was decorated with several fairy lanterns and a large floral centrepiece. 

Justin and Cho focused on some extra Cleaning charms as they walked through each Ballroom, while Anthony conjured a dozen or so Venetian masks for everyone to take. Draco flicked a wand when necessary. 

When they were done, the Head Students and Prefects dispersed to their dormitories to get ready for the night ahead. Hermione left with Ginny and the other Gryffindors to “tame down her locks.” Her hair was longer now, nowhere as long as before, but just as unruly. 

Padma and Pavarti Sleek-Eazy’ d her hair, just as they once did before … once upon a time. They tried to put her hair up in a chic chignon, but Hermione resisted. She would keep it down. Makeup supplies spread all over their vanities. A kind of muted excitement fell over the girls. 

When Hermione stepped back from the mirror, her eyes were darkened and slightly smudged with a warm pink colour painted across her lips. She tried not to feel guilty, and let out a breath.

1, 2, 3, 4.

Hermione looked different, even pretty. For the first time in a long time, she could look at herself in the mirror without hating her reflection or quickly dismissing herself. Her cheeks looked less grey and hollow, helped by her friends’ aptitude with blush. But her heart still ached, as if she shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be celebrating. She wondered if anyone felt the same way. 

1, 2, 3, 4. Inhale. 

1, 2, 3, 4. Hold.

1, 2, 3, 4. Exhale.

Ginny floated in from her room. She changed and looked beautiful in her emerald green ball gown and a thick, silver necklace set in the middle of her cleavage. Before Hermione could change her expression to one of awe, Ginny saw her forlorn look and gave her a small squeeze on her forearm, “It’s okay.” 

Before she could respond, the other Gryffindors streamed into the common room. Padma in a beautiful, dust blue A-line lehenga and matching bust, embroidered with gold thread, showing just a slip of skin at the waist. Parvati was dressed in a scoop neck, asymmetrical navy blue dress adorned with beautiful beading and lace panels. The asymmetry of her dress revealed a gold lace underlining that matched her top. 

After the appropriate platitudes, Hermione headed back to her room to change. When she arrived, Draco’s bedroom door was closed. For a second, she pondered if he would chicken out.

Would she?

She shook those thoughts away. 

We’ll find out soon enough. 

The Unity Ball would begin at 7pm. As Hermione readied herself, she gave herself one more look in her floor length mirror. She hoped this would be … sufficient. Her heart began to pound heavily, but she took a few more grounding breaths. 

Her choice of dress was black with a sweetheart neckline with a low back. Throughout the dress littered sparkly sequins that mimicked the night sky she so often looked to for comfort. The fabric spread out to an “A” and pooled at her feet. She slipped on a pair of black heels and murmured a Cushioning charm. Plain but exceptional, just like her, she smirked at her reflection.

When she opened her bedroom door, Draco was already there waiting, made up of lean muscle and long lines, expertly crafted by expensive and exquisite tailoring. He was in his formal dress robes of a black variety, a dark dress shirt with steel-grey cuffs and collar, and hair gelled into some sort of modified pompadour.

Looking dapper as always. No difference. Wizards have it so easy. 

Malfoy breathed in sharply when he turned around and saw Hermione, whose eyes fluttered back and forth apprehensively at him through her black lace mask. She didn’t like eye contact with him.

He wasn’t used to seeing the Golden Girl nervous, but he rather liked it. Hermione gave him a small, nervous smile, “Well?” His eyes travelled down her body until he noticed something a little different around her arm. Her scars were muddled, not entirely gone, but as if something had blurred the skin, “I thought glamours didn’t work on it.”

Hermione followed his gaze, and self-consciously covered her arm, “Oh, it’s foundation!” When he quirked an eyebrow, she explained hurriedly, “It’s Muggle cosmetics designed to hide or enhance a particular aspect of a person’s face or body.”  He nodded. 

Then they regarded each other in silence for a few moments. “Your hair’s longer,” Draco said finally.

As close to a compliment as she’ll ever get.

She nodded curtly in response. 

Draco fixed his own white mask around his head, then stuck out his elbow, “Shall we?” Heat spread around her ears, and her skin prickled at the back of her neck. She took a deep breath, then his arm. 

A long hall led to the ornate oak entrance of the main ballroom. A central large banner floated in front of the entrance written in gold characters, 1st Annual Hogwarts Gala for the Celebration of Magical and Muggleborn Unity. Hermione couldn’t help but let out a scoff.  

McGonagall looked harried when Hermione and Draco approached the group of awaiting Prefects, her tartan bonnet off to the side. She gave both of them a look that meant “You’re late. No matter. Off to the races.”

All of the Prefects were already present and huddled together. They eyed the couple heavily, with passing, downward glances at their arms hooked around one another. Pansy shot daggers at Hermione. Hermione returned with a cool, unwavering stare. Dressed in navy dress robes and adorned with silver cuff links, Harry came up to her quickly and kissed her on the cheek, “You look lovely.” She smiled in thanks. Most of the other Prefects echoed his sentiments. 

The Head Students and Prefects were to enter through the rose garden and open the Ball with their long-practiced waltz, starting off in sequence with Hermione and Draco, followed by the others. As McGonagall impatiently shooed them off to the side entrance, Theo passed Draco with Cho—who looked posh and ravishing in a white-silver shift dress and cape—in tow. Even Harry stole an extra long side glance. “Well done, mate,” Theo whispered.

Malfoy had absolutely no idea what he meant, or pretended not to. 

Girdled by Anthony, Pansy cricked her neck to look at Draco and Hermione for a brief second before he pulled them away into formation. Pansy looked sartorial in a red, off-the-shoulder dress that reached her calves and complemented her black hair and pale skin tone; her expression, hard and unreadable. 

Hermione felt a slight pang of empathy in her chest, but she shoved it down. She was good at this now. Her eyes glanced sideways at Malfoy, but he kept his head down. 

When they reached the side entrance, McGonagall rearranged them several times: Draco and Hermione first, then Harry and Hannah, Theo with Cho, Justin with Pavarti, and Pansy with Goldstein. When she appeared satisfied, McGonagall clapped her hands and the doors swung open. 

The Ballroom gleamed like sparkling snow. The orchestral music swelled brightly and filled their senses. They were quickly led to the middle of the Ballroom, next to the Golden Trio’s ice sculpture. McGonagall then swept away, her red tartan robes billowing behind her. The look on Hermione’s face was so ridiculous that even Draco let out a low chuckle.

“Ready?” Draco asked in a low voice.

Hermione looked back to see a sea of dim faces in masks—some animal, some devils, and she even recognized a Phantom of the Opera mask—eyes all on them. Before she could answer, the rapid clicking of several camera drowned out any of Hermione’s response, so she just shrugged. 

Ron sat with Seamus, Neville, and Pavarti at one smaller table, not so covertly adding firewhiskey to their drinks. Hermione’s eyes found Ron’s and gave him a smile, and he returned it weakly. His eyes lingered at where Draco and Hermione’s arms were joined, but he quickly looked away, taking a deep drink from his cup. 

Hermione was guided by a cool hand and set into place. The music dinned again. She felt herself being pulled and pushed, then lifted and twirled across the dance floor. Hermione responded just like they practiced, counting the steps and trying really hard not to step on his, no doubt, very expensive dragonhide shoes. They caught each other’s eyes a few times, but looked away quickly. 

The rush of music and movement and Draco’s hold—an amalgamation of sensations that she could barely process. She felt light and heavy. Dizzying but grounded. Hot but tempered by Draco’s cold hands. When the music stopped, she felt herself gingerly reaching the floor again. 

The Head Students and Prefects took a bow toward the crowd. 

They then made their way to the front of the main Ballroom where their long table was set on a dais. While smaller tables were set on the edge of the dance floor, the Head Students flanked McGonagall, other faculty members, and the Prefects, looking out toward the dance floor.

Malfoy pulled out Hermione’s chair. She froze, mind immediately grinding to a halt. He waited for her expectantly and finally broke the silence, “Granger, close your mouth.”

Hermone’s expression darkened and she sat down quickly. “I can get my own chair!” she hissed. 

“Just because you spend your time around Gryffindor plebs doesn’t mean I have to act like one,” he returned. 

Once everyone settled at their tables, Hermione took in the scenery. Fluffy, sparkling snowflakes fell from the ceiling, but never hit the floor. The ceiling was high and arched, and along one wall was a large hearth where a long, low fire was simmering. Next to it was a set of dark French glass doors that led out to a balcony. From the smaller tables, many eyes behind masks flitted between her and Draco. She felt better not knowing who they belonged to.

The cutlery and utensils were a glittering silver, with small menus placed in front of them. Ah, she remembered this charm from the Yule Ball. “Salmon,” she chose, and the meal appeared in front of her. Soon, other students followed suit. 

Malfoy and Hermione ate in relative silence, sipping wine from their goblets, taking conservative bites from their plates, and engaging in bland pleasantries. Hermione barely tasted anything.

As soon as their meal was over, McGonagall stood up from the table and gestured. “Come now, time to—what is it, Ms. Granger, that Muggles say—network?”

Hermione tried not to grimace.

The rest of the night was all business. 

Many politicians were in attendance with place settings near the dais. Hermione and Draco, along with Harry and a few other Prefects were dragged along to meet with the Ministry guests. Malfoy noticed security detail placed inconspicuously at each corner of the Ballrooms. Hermione nudged Harry; they recognized Reginald Cattermole, Amos Diggory, taking a deep drink from his goblet, and Griselda Marchbanks. While some Hogwarts students were eating; some were talking in groups, the politicians were noticeably crowding around the Head Students, anxious to have a picture taken with them.

The next generation of Wizarding society, they repeatedly called them, ushering in a new world of hope and unity between Purebloods and Muggleborns. 

All for show, really, because no one actually cared how they were, and more distracted with how they looked and seemed.

“Looking healthy, Ms. Granger.”

“Glad to see you back on our side, Mr. Malfoy. The perils of youth.”

Everyone was moving around; anxious eyes flitting to and fro in their masks, and networking. 

Guided by McGonagall, the students made their way through the multiple ballrooms, greeting various dignitaries from different departments. It wasn’t until the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, stepped forward, greeting them with one of his mysterious looks, that they were able to stay in one position for longer than a few minutes. “Ah, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, lovely to see you again.” Kingsley’s focus was clearly on them, but his dark eyes gave away nothing. The Prefects dispersed, eager to socialize with their friends. “Are you finding the Hogwarts renovations to your liking?” 

“Brilliant, er, Minister,” answered Harry. “Much brighter and more moving staircases. Have less of an excuse to be late for my classes now.” Shacklebolt gave him a curt smile.

“And the new Firebolts for the Quidditch teams?” 

“We haven’t had a chance to test them out yet since it’s been so cold, but looking forward to try—”

“Oi! Harry, haven’t seen you in a w—while,” Percy rushed in between Harry and Hermione, putting Harry in a rough armhold and mussing up his slicked back hair. 

Harry smiled sheepishly, “H—hey, Percy. Been a while.”

“Let’s go find my worthless little brother and get him drunk!” Percy was clearly not aware he interrupted a conversation between Harry and the Minister, having too much Pear’s Dazzle already. Then he sloppily dragged an apologetic-looking Harry away toward Ron’s table.

Kingsley turned to the remaining duo and gave them a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It reminded Hermione of a salamander. “Some of us deal with the fallout of war differently. Mr. Weasley has … changed a bit since his brother passed,” speaking to no one in particular.

Hermione nodded. Before the war, she knew Percy to be a very serious and studious man and never the type to get smashed at a work function.

“Oh and Mr. Malfoy, of course. I am very pleased to see you here. How are you adjusting?”

“Quite well, Minister.”

“I trust your summer was … educational?”

“Quite.”

Hermione looked back and forth at both men to explain further, but neither did.

“I must admit that I am a little surprised at your participation in Hogwarts’ restoration efforts.”

“Surprised that I am part of a silly student waltz? I think you know as well as I do that my involvement is selfish at best and not exactly voluntary,” Draco added dismissively. 

Hermione's frown turned into a scowl.

Kingsley’s eyes narrowed.“Yes, well,” he smoothed down his robes. “It is important that the Ministry knows where your loyalties lie, Mr. Malfoy.”

“They will lie wherever they must.”

Kingsley huffed and began walking, his deep purple robes floating behind him. It was clear that the Head Students were to follow. 

“You say these words but you stand different than when we last met.” —Malfoy knew Kingsley was talking about his trial— “Not quite changed, but calmer, less warring within. Your presence and alliance with Ms. Granger is already proof of that.” Shacklebolt pushed through the Ballroom’s balcony doors and turned, as if he just realized Malfoy and Hermione were there. 

Hermione wrinkled her brows and looked to Malfoy to add something, but he didn't. 

Kingsley continued, “I’ve been told my desire for fundamental social change in the Wizarding world is idealistic. But Ms. Granger and Mr. Malfoy, you represent the potential of what we can become as a society if we build bridges, instead of burning them down.” [14]

Malfoy let out an exasperated sigh, “As appealing as it sounds, Minister, living my life as an abstract concept is stifling.”

Kingsley watched both of them in silence; their puffs of breath visible in the crisp, January air. “People see themselves in other people, not ideas. Thus, we need people to lead by example.”

Hermione’s loud coughing fit broke the silence. 

“What of your parents? They are well, given the circumstances?” Hermione thought Kingsley just ignored Malfoy outburst until he carried on. “I’ve heard the accommodations in Azkaban have deftly improved since the Aurors have taken over. No longer so stifling.”

“They are as well as can be expected. Thank you, Minister,” Draco responded. She watched Malfoy's jaw clenched. 

Kingsley leveled his gaze at Malfoy, as if daring him to say anything different, “Wonderful.” His tone denoted anything but. “The Wizarding world, as we knew it, is no more. Our society has shattered into a million little fragments, unknown if those pieces were already there before the War. Yet you believe this to be a superficial solution for a societal problem. You think this is all—,” he waved his hands around him, gesturing to the Ballroom and its decorations, “optics.” Kingsley did not wait for confirmation, “... And to some extent, you are correct.”

No one spoke. 

“You know,” Kingsley sounded thoughtful, “Despite being one myself, I never subscribed to the Pureblood way of life. Due to how I was raised, I was taught certain aspects and others were left behind.” From the set of his jaw to the hard glint in his eyes, Malfoy looked impatient at the turn of the conversation.

“Beyond that, I am a keen student of human nature. What I garnered from my youth and experience is that culture and beliefs are not ingrained, they are learned. It is derived from one's social environment rather than a foregone conclusion. Humans, regardless of their blood status, learn through observation, modelling, and attention. The magical society in Britain is not large, but it is the most influential. You have the Wizarding world on their knees at this important juncture in time. The question is, what will you do with it?” [15]

Hermione stepped in, not liking that she was being spoken about without being addressed. 

“Please forgive my ignorance, Minister, but I ask you to speak plainly. As the Ministry and Headmaster McGonagall have repeatedly pressed upon us, our image is necessary to sell the idea of peace and forward momentum. May I ask what has the Ministry put forth in terms of bills to help catalyze this change? I fear if we don’t make some kind of substantial change soon, history will be bound to repeat itself.”

“Ah, yes, Ms. Granger,” Kingsley folded his hands in front of him. “It actually has been quite an uphill battle to truly build back better. Passing laws is a notoriously painstakingly long process with multiple stakeholders. We’ve been creating committees and—”

“Understandable. Even with all of these delays, you managed to be instated as the Minister of Magic for the foreseeable future, as a permanent position. I seem to recall previous Minister stayed on for a maximum of four terms, wasn’t it?” 

Draco’s expression was stoic, but his raised eyebrows marked his disbelief. More cameras snapped, following them around like annoying Cornish pixies. 

Kingsley sighed, “The Minister is elected by the Ministry. As long as their confidence in me is sound, I may choose to remain in my position. We actually model our governmental processes after the Muggle British Parliament. Do you need a Social Studies lesson?” 

Hermione’s eyes flickered. She hated being corrected. She pressed forward, “Have there been updates to the Magical Education curriculum? Speaking as a student, I have not seen any.”

Kingsley’s mouth pursed, the only indication of any annoyance, “The arrogance of youth speaks through you, Ms. Granger. You may be a war hero, but you have little knowledge of how much time it takes to turn a ship.” 

“Perhaps a true education will be useful then,” Hermione quipped. “As far as I know, Muggle Studies is still an elective at Hogwarts. That could be a tangible starting point for the Department. Also-”

“Very good ideas, I’m sure,” the Minister cut her off, “I’ll make sure you have an audience with the Department of Magical Education.” 

As if on cue, a beautiful witch with luminous honey-glazed skin and a sharp stare floated to the balcony. The woman introduced herself in a lilted voice, “I’m Selma Shafiq, the new Senior Undersecretary for the Department of Magical Education. You must be Ms. Granger.”

If Hermione could be intimidated by anyone, it would be her. Hermione curtsied. 

“You’re so young to be the Secretary!” Hermione blurted out without finesse. “And so, so-”

Selma let out a luminous laugh, “Oh not so young. Just glamours. When we finish this laborious night, you must tell me where you got your dress.” She winked. Hermione nodded quickly, a blush spreading across her cheeks. 

“And you are Mr. Malfoy, I presume. I know a lot of the Malfoys. Your reputation precedes you,” Selma’s eyes glittered at him. 

“Ms. Shafiq,” Draco said with a quick nod. 

“You two make quite the couple. I can see what Minerva was talking about. Hmm, an exercise in contrasts, I suppose. ” Selma tilted her head at Kingsley's knowing look before turning her gaze on them again. “Isn’t that what fairy tales are made of?" She sighed dreamily. "Well, I hope to continue our conversation soon, but you must excuse me.”

Without warning, a camera flashed much too close to Hermione’s face, and everything blurred. When the sparks behind their eyes cleared, Malfoy and Hermione found themselves alone on the balcony. 

“Do you need a drink?” he asked after a second.

Hermione exhaled sharply, “Please.”

When Malfoy returned, they drank in silence.  Hermione looked out onto the rose garden, lined with winding, ornamental pathways, large stone statues, and fairy lights twinkling in the bushes. The cold air reinnervated her, but also filled her lungs with another coughing fit.

As she collected herself before going back inside, Malfoy’s familiar drawl rang out, “You lack any kind of subtlety, Granger.”

Hermione was flummoxed at his words. “Butwhoat—” was all she managed.

“Don’t lose the plot. Don’t make Shacklebolt your enemy.”

The music began to swell again. Before Hermione could ask any further questions, Draco stuck out his palm for the second time that night. “C’mon. Let’s finish strong.” 

She arched an eyebrow and took his hand. He led them inside to the centre of the dancefloor. Hermione stiffened at his touch on her exposed back, but slowly relaxed into his hold that was no longer leading her into a waltz, but a soft sway. Her mind was turning. 

“Stop thinking so hard, Granger.”

She craned her neck up at Malfoy. Her gaze, serious and confounded, “Thanks for playing nice tonight, Malfoy, even after our disagreement. It’s surprisingly decent of you.” Hermione spoke the final words into his chest, her voice sounding hollow.

They moved slowly to the orchestra music, his hand cold to the touch and placed delicately—appropriately high—on her back. After a month of intense practice, they were familiar with each other’s bodies. A couple of cameras flashed again. 

“Yes,” he paused. “It’s been relatively painless. You’re usually such a little swot.”

“I’m serious. Thanks for putting on a good show. ”

“I’m not pretending,” Draco replied curtly.

Hermione looked up at him again, and they held each other’s stare for a moment longer than necessary. Her chest bloomed with a traitorous heat.

“I’m aware ... of who I was, am—how I treated you—“ 

Pressure grew in her throat. Hermione knew what he meant. She hummed her agreement.

“Have you—?” One blonde brow lifted.

“Not yet. Not enough time in the day.” 

Draco nodded. They danced in silence. 

 “Maybe if we were different people—” Draco whispered hoarsely, then cleared his throat. “Maybe if I’d been a better one, we c—”

“—could have been friends,” Granger finished for him. She nodded quickly and squeezed her eyes tight. Hermione let her head fall on his hard plant of his chest for just a second long, and she heard him breathe deeply. She felt his chin lightly rest on top of her head. 

The song stopped and they stepped away from one another, clapping and bowing for the crowd.

A few more bulbs flashed, momentarily blinding Hermione. “Smile, Granger. They love you,” Malfoy murmured from her side. 

Yet another performance. 

After the festivities waned, Malfoy and Hermione walked back to their dormitories in silence, each still contemplating the last two days between them and listening to the click of their shoes on the pebbled corridor in step with one another.

“Mirror of Erised,” Hermione said when they reached the alcove. She made a move to enter, “Do you want tea? I could use a cuppa.”

Draco remained still, searching her face for something, and looked down, “I’m going to —” He trailed off and his head made a movement away from the dorms. 

“Oh, OH! Right, right, of course,” Hermione quickly turned, embarrassed at her presumption. “Good night, Malfoy,” she said a little too gaily. 

A cord of tension stretched between them. She expected to find annoyance straining around the edges of his eyes or see the hardening his jaw—like she usually did when they talked to one another—but he continued to hold her gaze, impassive and expressionless as ever. “Night, Granger.”

As the alcove entrance closed, she let out a large shuddering sigh.  

When Draco returned from the Slytherin dungeons in the early morning, Hermione was still awake. She had quickly torn off her dress and washed her face and body, eager to scrub off the night and her accompanying embarrassment. After she was done, her skin was pebbled and almost raw. 

Good, she thought. 

She listened to his quiet footsteps, the running water, and finally the click of his bedroom door. Hermione turned and looked up at the ceiling, trying to picture the courtyard in Healer Lee’s office.

A single tear that she pretended to be part of her long yawn fell out of the side of her eye.

Chapter Text

Draco passed by dirty, dead-eyed groups of students and their families, who fell silent or hostile as he walked past. Suspicious eyes and hushed whispers. He passed by bodies he once knew: George Stebins, one of the Weasley twins, Lavender Brown—the red headed git’s ex-girlfriend, Phillipa Beute—they dated briefly one summer, and Colin Creeve —a Mudblood Muggleborn child lying on a bare cot, looking even smaller than he remembered. 

He stared at Colin for the longest time, whose eyes were now blank and his blonde curls laid flat. Colin looked cold. Draco bent down to pull up a thin blanket over his chest. 

Stupid, really.  

It wasn’t until Seamus’ voice broke through Draco’s daze that he realized he was in one. He launched at Draco, eyes running over with rage and tears. Seamus’ sneer was ugly. “You fucking did that, yeah? Don’t you forget it, you filthy Death Eater. Look at what you did!”

Seamus pulled back his fist—everything happened in slow motion—and Draco stood there. He would not fight back. He was too tired and too spent of magic. 

But Neville—that dogooder-plant-freak—tapped Seamus on the shoulder.

“Leave it,” he said softly.

Just as suddenly, Seamus deflated. He nodded and made to follow Neville back to their section. Draco didn’t know what caused him to call out, but he did, “Yeah, do what you’re good at, Finnigan, grabbing onto Longbottom’s dress tails.” 

Seamus screamed and lunged. He got one good punch in. 

CRACK. 

Seamus’ fist connected to Draco’s jaw. The world shifted for a second. A tremble in his muscles. Sharp pain in his teeth. His legs unsteady. Draco watched as bits of blood and spit splattered onto his black trousers and the stone floor. His mouth grew wet and coppery. 

Draco spat out blood and phlegm, then smiled obscenely at the Irish gnome, making sure to click his teeth. Seamus, enraged, yelled out, damning the Malfoy line. But Neville caught his arms along with two other stupid Gryffindors. Dean and Cormac, whose glares echoed Seamus’ rage.

The burning. The dark pit growing in his stomach. The flap of skin inside his mouth that he ran his tongue against over and over. The dull, pounding ache in his head. It felt good. Earned.

Draco continued his walk along the beds in the Hogwarts’ infirmary. He crossed paths with Madam Pomfrey’s intern — Was her name Hestia? — who strolled purposefully in the opposite direction; the seas of patients parting for her. She waved her wand over his quickly-bruising face, barely even pausing. She had more important things to do than see if her spell took. 

As he further explored the infirmary, Draco happened upon Granger. Face smeared in dirt and ash. Matted straw hair. The Weasel and Granger huddled together on a single chair, with his arm wrapped around her.

He told his parents that he needed some fresh air away from the sights, sounds, and smells of smoke, blood, shit, and viscera. It was a half-truth. The bodies, the maimed limbs, and the painful moans did disgust him, but he needed out from the hollow stare of Granger and hateful glares from his classmates. His parents didn’t question his reasons. His father was tending to Narcissa’s trembling hands, massaging them, as if his were any steadier. 

Draco didn’t stop walking until he reached the singed school grounds. 

As he walked through the smoke and the rubble, Draco noticed the Clock Tower’s face had crumbled.

Merlin, when’d that happen? 

He found the broken pendulum in the middle of the courtyard. 

He thought of his parents. He thought of Goyle and Crabbe. The heat pressing against his skin. The green fire that chased him. He thought of Potter who pulled him out. 

He wondered if anything would have changed if he didn’t take the Mark. He thought of those eyes again. The last time he’d seen her, she was across the courtyard. Crying. Staring at him with those owl eyes. 

She wasn’t looking at him. She couldn’t have been.  

Granger was just delirious or in shock. 

Or in pain. 

It didn’t matter now. Potter won. The world now knew he and his family were the bad guys. 

As if they had any misgivings before. 

Everything in front of him looked so grey now: Hogwarts, his future, his family. 

He turned a corner and found Harry and the Weaselette, dingy and sullen, sitting on the ground in quiet conversation. The Weaselette whispered something to Potter, and Potter’s eyes found Draco’s. Harry got up slowly, as if approaching a wild animal. They stood about three feet apart, staring at each other for several minutes.

“Malfoy.”

“Potter.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fuck off.”

“I guess I’ll, er,  take that as a yes.”

“Are you expecting a 'thank you?'” 

“What? Um, no, no. But you didn’t want me to die either.” Harry gave a low chuckle.

Draco turned away from Harry. He couldn’t stand this.

“You didn’t answer me from before, Malfoy.”

“What now?”

“Why you didn’t tell them. You knew it was me. You didn’t say anything.” [16]

“I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Malfoy—”

“You know, your mum found me … in the forest. She knew I was alive, but lied to Voldemort’s face. Said I was dead.” 

Malfoy’s brows wrinkled, and he pressed his lips together. He looked annoyed at this new information. 

“Now, I know you’re off your rocker. My mum would never do something as stupid as that. She’s not me,” he added bitterly, 

“So you do admit it.”

“Look, your side won. You and yours are alive. Well done. Best tend to Granger and leave that underaged Weaselette alone, lest the world knows the Chosen One likes little girls.”

“You’re disgusting, Mal—”

“Just leave us be to pick up the pieces, okay? … What’s left of it.” Malfoy looked out to the vast mountain range that now felt so suffocating. Bits of ash flew across the courtyard, like some kind of bitter joke, a mournful approximation of winter. 

“Hermione’s fine, y’know? Her arm is just scarred up.” Harry called out. He kept talking as if he needed to convince himself. “She’s in the hospital right now. Ron’s taking care of her.” 

“Right, people get hurt in wars all the time,” Malfoy said flatly. Harry didn’t know who this statement was for. 

Without saying anything else, Malfoy headed back for Hogwarts. Harry wanted to say more, but no words came out. 

Before the end of the week, the Malfoys were arrested in their Manor. The Aurors made quick (and ample) use of Legilimency and Veritaserum, taking little consideration of the law. By month’s end, Lucius was in Azkaban; Narcissa sent to France; and Draco locked in a 8’ x 8’ room at the Magical Juvenile Detention Centre for Wayward Witches and Wizards. 

February 1999

Hermione rubbed her eyes. She laid in bed, but sleep would not come. She tried her breathing exercises. She tried speaking in low, comforting tones to Crooks. She wanted to bury herself in his fur. But he just blinked at her from her vanity. The cat sniffed at the box next to him.

The box Draco gave her. 

She took a deep breath. 

The box, no bigger than a shoebox, held only papers. Some parchment and newspaper clippings. Overall underwhelming. 

She sat back down on her bed to read, as the early morning rays peaked through her curtains. 

May 1998

Granger,

I am in this hellhole. They call this a centre. They want us to write letters. They call it ‘meaning making.’ This is probably my fifth try. Everything sounds rubbish. 

They say at the end I’ll feel better. I don’t want to, though. I shouldn’t.

I keep seeing you. 

You were in my home. You were tortured by my aunt. The Cruciatus. 

I did it once too. Rowle and Doholov. 

I watched. I didn’t do anything. 

When I close my eyes, I see you. I hear your screams. I hear you retching. I hear your bones crack on the marble floor. I wish I didn’t. 

I don’t wonder if things were different. I know I would make the same decision. Because of my father.  That’s a lie. Because of who I am. 

I don’t want your forgiveness. I want you to hate me. 

Draco Lucius Malfoy

June 1998

 

Granger, 

Nothing has changed. I’m still at this centre. We were given Veritaserum. When I Occluded, they performed Legilimancy on me. We never stood a chance. I suppose we deserve everything we got. 

Sleep comes easier now. Every morning, we are forced to down a Draught of Peace. At night, we are dosed with Sleepless Draught to keep us quiet. It’s a short reprieve from your owl eyes, tears, and screams.  

Draco Lucius Malfoy

 

July 1998

 

Granger, 

They let us out during the day. Working for the Weasleys at the Ministry. The irony. 

The night in my Drawing room seemed further away when I took Sleepless Draught. So I stopped taking it. We now have a choice. Imagine that.    

Draco Lucius Malfoy

Hermione read the short letters over and over. Each time, her hands shook and she wiped away more tears. 

When she sufficiently creased the parchments, Hermione looked through the newspaper clippings. They were from different years, 1994 onward. Collected from The Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly.

Rita Skeeter interviews Harry Potter; 

Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache; 

Purebloods and Muggleborns: Wizards All?; 

Harry Potter: Undesirable No. 1; 

Brightest Witch of her Age?: Hermione Granger’s Secret Life; 

All that Glitters isn’t Gold: Not-so-Golden Trio on the Run!; 

Fugitive Wizards Wanted; 

The Marriage of Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacoeur; 

Golden Trio Wanted for Questioning about the Death of Dumbledore; 

Muggle-born Register into Effect; 

Muggle-born Registration Commission Formed; 

Muggle-borns Wanted for Ministry Interrogation; 

Golden Trio Spotted in Forest of Dean!

Each clipping mentioned her or included a picture of her. Malfoy kept these articles about Harry—about her—through all these years. 

The birds started their early morning calls. Hermione wiped her eyes, barely noting that she did not sleep. She put the items carefully back on her vanity. Her body was overheated, but she still found herself shivering. She dressed quickly in her school robes and left the dormitories. 

In the hazy light, Hermione walked aimlessly through the Hogwarts’ grounds until she arrived at the Black Lake. Each breath hung like a small cloud in the cold, crisp February morning. She forgot how she arrived there.

The lake water’s ripples gleamed in the rising sun. A ghostly mist hovered just above the body of water. Hermione’s body was burning up. Her back and lungs ached from a wracking cough, which only seemed to worsen overnight. She had no idea what compelled her.

She stepped into the lake. 

The cold immediately hit her, boring into her skin like a thousand, hot needles. 

Her wool robes immediately soaked up the icy waters, making Hermione’s body impossibly heavy and pulling her down. She felt like she was suspended in space. But there was no peace. 

As she plummeted deeper, each breath became more agonizing. 

The light on the surface was dimming. Hermione tried to reach for the long fingers of yellow and blue that penetrated below the lake.

Blood bloomed in her chest.

The pressure built behind her eyes and ears, creating a sharp, stabbing pain. 

There was no reprieve. The sinking only added to the burning sensation spreading across her back and lungs. 

As Hermione opened her mouth—trying to speak or scream—more and more water rushed in. 

Dark spots clouded her view. Her vision was fuzzy now.

She felt her heart beat in her ears. Muted colours and a million little dots pulsing in her vision. 

Then black. 

Flashes of objects and colour whizzed passed her: algae, moss, purple, rocks, a strong grip. 

The arm squeezed roughly around her stomach and made her retch. 

A rush of freezing air. 

A messy splash.

The sun was harsh and cold. 

Hermione was propelled to the surface. She gasped for air. Shivering, choking, and propped up by her shaking arms. On her knees. She retched again. Only bile and lake water came out. 

She tried to hold herself in a vain effort to warm her frozen body. 

As she looked back at the lake, Hermione caught a brief glimpse of a giant purple tentacle slinking back into the calm waters. 

Hermione treaded slowly back to Hogwarts, each step made an awful sound.

THWAP.

THWAP.  

Her loafers squelched with algae and water. Her wet robes weighed down her body and made her steps sluggish. With hooded eyelids and magic draining out of her, she eventually made her way to the Hospital Wing. 

The infirmary was dark and quiet. Few students were up, let alone in the Hospital Wing. Before Hermione could cry out for Madam Pomfrey, her hacking cough made her presence known. 

Pomfrey suddenly appeared from behind some curtains, initially looking annoyed at being disturbed, that is, until she saw the sad state of Hermione: wet, shivering, and coughing. She immediately cast a Drying and Warming charm over her. 

“What do we have here?” Madam Pomfrey stood with her hands on her hips. 

Hermione was unable to keep her teeth from chattering, “I f-fell in the lake.” 

Pomfrey did not buy it, but did not ask her to elaborate. She led her to a bed with scratchy, white linen sheets. “And what were you doing up so early?”

“I went for a w-walk to c-clear my head.” 

Not a lie.  

“And your wand?” 

“F-forgot it in my room.” 

Again, not a lie.  

Hermione started coughing again. Pomfrey stared at her for a long time, then sighed. “Very well. I expected more foresight from the Head Girl. Let’s get you out of those clothes. I’ll find you a hospital gown. Take this,” handing Hermione a Sleepless Draught potion from the cupboard.

She pulled the curtains shut around Hermione’s bed. 

Draco awoke to nothing in particular. It was Sunday. No light. No noise. No coughing. No classes. His curtains were closed. 

He ruminated over the events of the Unity Ball. 

After walking Granger to the dorms, he headed back to the Slytherin dungeons. 

Pansy was happy to receive him. So was he. The sweet scent of her perfume and pliant body of Pansy. 

But he didn’t have sex with her. He didn't feel like it. None of that headiness he’d grown accustomed to. No pull or twitch in his trousers. No familiar knot in his stomach. He kissed her without want or purpose. 

Draco was distracted again. Pansy did not like that. Rather than get into another fight, he left her room and spent the rest of the night with Blaise and Theo in the common room, downing finger after finger of firewhiskey. 

None of them had changed out of their formal robes yet. As Theo offered Draco a tumbler, he said, “Nice night.”

Draco took a long drink and enjoyed the burn in his throat, “I suppose.”

“Granger actually looked presentable tonight.”

Draco shrugged. 

Blaise perked up, “Yeah, none of that usual matted, straw hair. Though, Granger is looking more and more like a Muggle scarecrow. You live with her. Get her to eat a meat pie or something.”

“I’m surprised you were even at the Ball, Zabini. Haven’t you been shacked up with Loony Lovegood, catching Whatsits by the sea or whatever the fuck? What is it actually like to put your cock inside a nut—”

Blaise’s expression immediately soured and he made to stand up.  

“Steady on, boys,” Theo cautioned.

Draco turned back to the fire. With an indignant stare at both Theo and Draco, Blaise sat down. They drank in silence for a good while. 

When Draco finally got up, it was mid-morning. Granger was gone already, only leaving that ugly, orange thing pacing around their dorms. It blinked at him from the counter top. He sighed and opened a can of tuna from the cupboards.

Draco decided he would go flying-even in the freezing weather-to clear his hangover, then head to Hogsmeade for errands, Honeydukes if he was truthful. He would have to fill out a report for his probation Auror, and have his wand checked, of course. But it was worth it to get out of this suffocating hellhole for a few hours. He’d go with Theo. 

Theo was blurry-eyed and still drunk when Draco knocked on his door, but perked up at the possibility of continued drinking at the Three Broomsticks . 

The night came early in February.

When they returned to Hogwarts for dinner, Granger was not there, not in the Great Hall, not in the dormitories. He pushed any kind of worry out of his mind— because he absolutely didn’t care —and focused on his singular dinner of Shepherd’s pie. He could only manage a few bites. He thought of Blaise’s comment. Granger's absence left a space open for Pansy to sit beside him. 

Potter called across the Head Table, “You seen Hermione anywhere? We were supposed to study together today.”

“How the hell would I know?” 

Harry’s eyes flashed but he sighed, “I’ll check the library.”

“Good for you,” Malfoy muttered under his breath.

Pansy smiled at him and hooked a finger into his hand. He smiled back.

After dinner, Draco returned to the Head Student dormitories. It was still empty.  

No matter. 

He needed to study for Potions anyway. Draco settled on the couch and opened his textbook of A Collection of Three Hundred Receipts, Cookery, Physick, and Surgery. He needed to memorize at least 50 of the receipts for his exam next week. 

As the hours ticked by, Draco grew more and more antsy. He didn’t know why. He couldn’t sit still. He kept watching the alcove entrance. The words in his book began to blur together. He made tea, but forgot to drink it. Granger had not responded to any of his notes for her to return his first edition One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. 

Stupid Granger. 

That edition was priceless. Draco made a mental note to never lend her his things again.  

He started pacing around the common room. 

YOWL. 

The orange, flat-faced terror jumped out of nowhere and flicked his tail derisively at Draco (he concluded). Crookshanks plodded forward into Granger’s room, pushing open her door. Draco followed it, standing outside and observing the state of her room. Crookshanks jumped onto her unmade bed, made several circles, then curled into a fur ball. 

Granger must have left in a hurry. Books strewn about. Her Unity Ball dress was left in a crumpled heap next to her vanity. He noticed his black box still sat on her vanity. 

Closed. 

Next to it, her glowing notebook—Oh—and her wand.

The scene made Draco uncomfortable. 

The swotty little witch would not go anywhere without her wand. 

Him caring to look made him even more uncomfortable. His throat bobbed. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. He snarled at nothing in particular and stormed out of the dormitories. 

The mattress creaked. 

Draco grabbed onto the headboard, driving both of their bodies farther into the bed. 

Pansy panted beneath him. She felt the familiar cord of tension building in her stomach. Draco was rough and hard and exacting, as he pushed into her. He thrusted into and against her. Pansy tilted her hips upward to meet him thrust for thrust, raising her hips to meet his. She grabbed onto his sweaty torso. She missed this, his body, his lips, his grey-blue eyes on her, hooded by a stormy expression that only she knew. Only now ... Only now they were closed, and his eyebrows twisted in concentration.

“Look at me,” Pansy breathed into his ear. He groaned. “Look at me! I’m gonna come.” 

Draco opened his eyes, and briefly saw brown flash across his mind’s eye instead of the blue ones in front of him. “Fuck, Pans!” Draco rolled off of her to her side. 

Hot. Sweaty. Frustrated. Embarrassed. His breaths came ragged and hard. Draco looked up at the emerald green canopy. 

He’d lost his erection.

Pansy brought the covers over her body. She wasn’t cold. 

They laid in the bed in silence. 

Without looking at her, Draco got up stiffly to pull on his boxers. 

She gathered up her courage, “Y’know, I’m not just a hole for you to fuck whenever you feel like it.”

“You’re not, Pansy,” Draco said without affect. He really didn’t want to have this conversation right now.

Pansy snorted and crossed her arms, covering her breasts. 

Draco sighed. 

Merlin, why can’t anything be easy?

“It’s not you; it’s me, Pans.” 

"Obviously," she muttered under her breath.

Draco continued dressing, pulling up his trousers.  

Pansy tried to still him. She reached out and touched his arm gently. He bristled and pulled away. 

“Why can’t we be like before?” A plea barely above a whisper.

Nothing has been the same for two years, maybe more.

“We’re fine, Pans.”

“No, we’re not.”

“What do you want, Pansy?!” Draco’s voice came out louder than he intended. 

Pansy moved back to brace herself against the headboard, “To fuck! Like we did! All the time! Wait-Stop! STOP! Can’t you just talk to me?!” More shuffling of clothes. A clink of his belt. “Draco, don’t run away. Please! Tell me what’s going on. You can tell me. For Merlin’s sake, I’m going to be your—”

“What? What exactly are you going to be?” His gaze was cold and steady now, daring her to speak.

Pansy was afraid to continue. “I just want it to be like before—”

“It’s fine, Pans. We’re fine. I’m just tired.”

“No, it’s not. We’re not. C’mon, stay. We’ll try again.”

Draco let out a loud groan, “What do you want, Pansy?! I said I’m tired. Can’t you just fucking leave it?”

“Why can’t we try? I-I can try harder. I love you!” 

“Try what?” 

“THIS! Don’t leave. I love you.” 

“Stop saying that like it means anything,” Draco spewed.

“Why not? What, you don’t love me anymore, is that it?” Her voice grew irritated and louder.

Draco groaned again, “What? Just stop. I don’t want to fight.”

“Just stay here tonight. We don’t—we don’t have to do anything. Just stay.” Pansy pleaded.

Draco didn’t answer and continued buttoning his shirt. 

“Do you close your eyes because you want to see that Mudblood bitch?! Is that it?”

Silence. 

“Pans—”

Out for blood, Pansy continued, “She’s a fucking Mudblood slut, and she’s fucking everyone but you: Potter, Krum, Longbottom—”

Draco did little to hide his frustration. He paced. He impatiently raked through his hair. He just wanted her to stop talking.

“-the Weasel, Cormac”

He grabbed her wrists roughly, “You want to know what I see when I close my eyes?! Burning bodies. People being eaten alive. Blood. Shit. Guts. Vomiting. Screams. Dead and hollow eyes. All of it because of me. Because I. Let. Them. In.” 

Pansy’s eyes widened.

Draco exited her room without looking back.

The Slytherin common room wasn’t empty. A couple of younger Slytherins were playing wizard’s chess, but promptly left for their dorms when they met Draco’s scowl. 

Of course, nothing could ever be fucking easy. 

Blaise was sitting on a tufted, leather green couch, lazily playing with Luna’s fingers, who was flanked between his long limbs. Theo sat on the alcove’s ledge, staring into the lake and sipping on—what else? —firewhiskey. 

Draco marched up to Theo and grabbed his bottle of Ogden’s. He downed half of it in three gulps. 

Theo drawled, “Mate, you really need to remember your Silencing charms.”

The crackling fire and Draco’s noisy gulps were the only sounds that filled the room.

Theo continued, “The fucking. The fighting. We heard everything.”

“So you did,” Draco quipped. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The room was spinning already. 

No one spoke.

“You shouldn’t talk to Pans like that,” Theo said quietly. 

Draco glared at him, “You seem really concerned with Pansy, mate.”

Theo shrugged, “Someone needs to care about her.”

“Tell you what. If you care about her so much, why don’t you go inside and finish her off? She’s positively aching for it. That is, if you can get it up, you fucking pissant drunk.” 

Draco immediately regretted what he said, but he couldn’t stop it.

Theo scoffed in disgust, “Malfoy, we always knew you were an idiot, spouting off Daddy’s words as if they were your own. But we never thought you were a monster.”

Until now.

Draco took another drink before speaking, “Well, get used to being wrong all your pissed life.” 

Blaise’s handsome features raised a fraction from the couch. “Mal—” he warned.

Draco stood up, filled with false bravado and ready for a fight. All of the past few days' frustration were building to this point. 

He took a step forward.

Luna’s voice rang out, dreamy but clear. “Don’t be so hard on Draco, dears. He just needs to clear out the Wrackspurts from his head, is all,” 

It was Draco’s turn to scoff. 

Fucking loon. 

He opened his mouth, but instead of speaking, he quickly left the dungeons. 

Draco returned to the Head Student dormitories. 

Still empty. 

He got ready for bed, and slammed every door and surface he could on the way, causing Crookshanks to hiss at him. 

Muttering to himself, Draco looked up at his bedroom’s ceiling, seeing hollow, brown eyes, until he fell into a fitful sleep.  

Monday morning came not with a whisper, but with a vengeance. Draco’s head pounded. His eyes were red and dry. His cracked lips hid an even fouler smelling mouth. The sunlight that streamed into his room offered no reprieve. 

He forgot to close his curtains. Fuck. 

He headed to the kitchenette and downed a Pepperup potion from the cupboards. The effects rushed over him slowly as he took a shower and steadied himself for the day. 

His shirt was wrinkled. Tie undone. Hair barely combed and slicked back. His natural cow lick appeared. Draco barely noticed.

Classes came and went. 

Even Slughorn, usually his favourite, went after him, “Merlin’s beard, m’boy! Concentrate on your cutting. Even, thin slices! Don’t let the sloth brain go to waste!”

Draco was thrown off-course. A nervous energy spread around his body. He couldn’t focus.

There was a Head Student meeting with McGonagall after classes. 

The swot had to show up then. There was no way she would miss their monthly meeting with the Headmaster.

Hermione didn’t show up. 

McGonagall discussed with Draco their February duties: the monthly Prefect hall monitoring schedule; helping to clean up the magical residue in the Ballrooms and rose garden; sending out weekly student reminders to sign up for Healer sessions; and notifications of prep class locations for the upcoming mock NEWTs. Draco half-listened, head twisting at every sound in the Headmaster’s office and bouncing his knee. 

Twitchy, she would say.

“Problem, Mr. Malfoy?”

“No, Headmaster.”

“You seem … distracted. Is there somewhere else you would rather be?” 

“No, Headmaster.”

McGonagall’s cool blue eyes regarded him for several seconds. Draco grew uncomfortable at her gaze and the encroaching silence. He roughly rubbed the back of his neck, “Um, shouldn’t we wait for Granger, erm, Hermione?” 

The Headmaster’s eyes flickered, but her expression remained impassive. “Ms. Granger has been ill. She spent the last few nights in the infirmary under Madam Pomfrey’s care.”

Draco’s shoulders both stiffened and relaxed at the same time, if such a thing were possible. He let out an audible sigh. 

“Now if there are no further questions ...”

Mind Healer: M. VanDoorn
Patient: Draco L. Malfoy, Session #37

Draco called Healer Van Doorn for an emergency session. 

He sat in the courtyard across from Van Doorn, with his elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Periodically, Draco massaged his temples and carded through his hair, messing up his perfect coif. But he was silent.

“So you called,” Van Doorn began slowly. He knew Draco Malfoy well enough to know that he would not be the first to speak.

Draco let out a deep breath, “I fucked up.”

Chapter Text

After a few days in the infirmary, Madam Pomfrey determined that Hermione was well enough to be released. She sent Hermione on her way with a bunch of medicinal potions, Sleeping Draught, Healing Potion, Cough Potion, Wiggenweld , each more foul tasting than the last. 

When Hermione was in the infirmary, she alternated between high fever and consciousness. Pomfrey gave her potion after potion that sent her off into much needed but fitful sleeps. 

Who got into my vaults?! Who stole it? Who?!

A shadow. 

Curly, dark hair.

Please. Please. I didn’t take anything! 

Screams. 

Blood. 

Drip. Drip. 

Bones.

She could feel them shifting underneath her skin. Poking up and down in unnatural positions.   

Cracking.

HERMIONE! HERMIONE! 

Screams. 

It’s just a fake! 

Retching. 

Copper and acid in her mouth.

Drip. Drip.

Blood.

Terrified grey-blue eyes. 

White-blonde hair. Turned away.

Screams.

[Image: The back of Draco's head.]

She woke up with nausea and intense muscle pain, barely feeling any better, save for the Warming charm surrounding her body. Her body wracked with coughs. The Matron watched her throughout the day and didn’t allow any visitors. Her face was stoic and weathered. Her pursed lips were the only indication of her worry. 

The last couple of days, Hermione was well enough to walk up and down the isolated corridors of the Hospital Wing. In those few solitary moments, she thought about the events of the Unity Ball and was mortified at her own dramatics. She thought of Draco and the box he’d given her. 

Why would he give that to her? Regret? Atonement? Why would he ever reveal anything personal to her? Did that change anything? Did that change the years he treated her with open hostility and bullied Harry and Ron? Did it change the multiple times that he called her ‘Mudblood?’ Did it change anything about his beliefs? 

When did the shift happen? Was there even a shift? Maybe Sixth Year? When she noticed he looked ill and wore an increasingly haunted expression? The dark rings around Malfoy’s eyes and his rapid weight loss on his already slight frame. Or before? He started collecting articles about her from years before. Why? Curiosity? Obsession? Guilt? Love? [17]

Even Hermione laughed scornfully at that.

When she got back into her hospital bed, she looked up at the vaulted ceilings of the infirmary. Wondering what to do.

On Wednesday, Hermione managed to convince Madam Pomfrey that she was better. Her fever broke. She could keep down food. Only her annoying cough and muscle weakness remained.

With reluctance, Pomfrey discharged her, but not before informing her professors to give Hermione the remainder of the week off. Hermione tried to argue with the well meaning Matron,“B-but I have an upcoming Divination exam! And the prep for my mock NEWTs!”—but she wouldn’t listen. 

“Remember to take all the potions! Rest! You live with the Head Boy, yes?” 

Hermione groaned, “Next to.”

Madam Pomfrey’s eyes flashed. “Sometimes, I don’t know what Minerva was thinking …,” she trailed off. “Well, nothing strenuous, physical, or stressful.” She eyed her carefully and crossed her arms, so Hermione knew she was serious. A slow blush spread across her cheeks.

With her arms full of potions, Hermione headed upstairs to the sixth floor alcove. Even after Pomfrey’s Scourgifying charm, her clothes felt stiff and still smelled like lake water. She steeled herself. She was not in a place to discuss what happened or his letters.  

Draco was sitting on the couch, textbooks spread out over the coffee table, and looking perpetually annoyed. He immediately stood up when he saw Hermione. His body was stiff and his gaze roamed over her, studying her. Then his familiar scowl fell back into place, and he sank back down. 

“Hi,” Hermione squeaked. Her voice strained from coughing fits and lack of use. She cursed herself for sounding timid.

“I heard you were ill,” Malfoy offered slowly.

“Yes, I’m getting over it.” Cough cough

“You smell like a rotten egg, Granger.”

“The fall in the lake didn’t help.”

“You fell into the lake?” Draco asked incredulously. 

“Do I have to repeat myself? Or have you gone deaf? Yes, I was clumsy,” she shrugged. “And I forgot my—cough cough—wand. Squid helped me out. Have to remind myself to send him some bread. But while I was recovering from almost-certain hypothermia, I forgot to consider your delicate sensibilities and to ask Ginny to bring me a fresh set of clothes.”

Draco didn’t respond. He gestured to the books and scattered parchment on the table. “I have your course work. McGonagall told me to,” he added quickly. “But Pomfrey didn’t want any one giving you work.”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile, “You picked up my homework for me and you tried to visit, Malfoy? Are you going to walk me to class next?”

He sneered but without any real bite.

She sighed, “I best get started—cough cough –I’ve been wasting too much time lying in the infirmary.”

“You were sick,” he said blandly. 

“Yes, but the NEWTs wait for no one!” She yelled behind her, as she scuttered to her bedroom.

“They’re a mock exam this year, Granger. Remember? The war, child soldiers, and such? It's the least Hogwarts could do.”

“Regardless, I plan on getting— cough cough— all Os this year and the next. This’ll be a good practice run,” Hermione said, as she emerged with a new set of clothes and a towel on her arms. 

Malfoy’s gaze followed her, still scowling. She slammed the bathroom door.

After a long shower and sufficiently ridding herself of the lake smell, Hermione appeared from the bathroom with wet hair tied up in something that approached a pony tail and dressed in a blue pajama set with white cats printed on them. 

Crookshanks greeted her from the top of the refrigerator. She scratched behind his neck and prepared a dish of wet cat food for him. 

Malfoy was gone. On the kitchenette counter was a warm cup of tea.

After the pomp and circumstance of the Unity Ball, Hogwarts headed into a soft lull. The cold weather and the steadily falling snow slowed down their world to a snail’s pace. Harry was grateful for that. 

They’d come back to the school in full swing with so many competing responsibilities that it caused whiplash. But it was hard to adjust. It was hard to care about curfews, course schedules, House points, and NEWTs when he’d just come back from two years of fighting, starving, and not knowing if he’ll live to see tomorrow. He didn’t know what to do with himself. 

Harry felt like he was playing a role most of the time. A much younger, less jaded version of himself, who was supposed to care about witches and snitches. 

Healer Tse tried to assuage his worries, “You never had a childhood, Harry. And the one you did have was mired in secrets, resentment, and abuse.”

Harry shuffled in his seat. He was uncomfortable when people talked about the Dursleys like that, even though he knew it to be true.

“You grew up too fast. And then, you were told you were special every day of your life. How can one not feel like school life doesn’t compare?”

Harry looked exasperated, “I feel like I should be the happiest man in the world. I have my life ahead of me. I’m alive. My best friends are alive. My scar doesn’t hurt anymore. I’m a … ugh … war hero. I don’t need to worry about money. I … er … have Gin. I don’t want to feel this way. ”

“And yet you do. That’s okay. Our work together is not about avoiding the difficult emotions, but it’s to be curious and sit with them without judgment.”

Harry nodded but didn’t seem entirely convinced.

“The last few years have been about life or death for you. Every decision felt momentous and every emotion was heightened. It’s easy to romanticize it. We can get addicted to adrenaline, and sometimes we want to chase it—the chaos, that high. The important thing is to not forget that there is joy in the everyday too. In the mundane.”

So he tried. He tried for Gin; for Ron; and most of all, for Hermione. 

His restlessness made him acutely aware of how fabricated everything was: You-Know-Who , Hogwarts, House divisions, him. He wasn’t the Chosen One; he was the one they chose to call the Chosen One, a false prophet. It could have just as easily been Neville. Hermione understood this at the age of 11. 

It took him seven years to catch up. 

When Hagrid first approached him, Harry jumped head in. He just wanted out of that house. He just wanted to belong. He just wanted to be loved.

Madam Pomfrey said “No visitors,” but that meant nothing to Harry. He snuck in anyway with his trusty Invisibility Cloak. Asleep, she looked too pale and too thin. It reminded him of their year in the tent. When they huddled together to keep warm. When they had to scrounge for every scrap of food. 

When she suddenly awoke, attuned to his presence, her eyes met his. Whether through instinct or tenderness, he almost got into bed with her, wanting to comfort her. But the memory of their agreement passed through their gazes, which slowed his movements. Harry wiped away some hairs stuck on Hermione’s forehead from her face. He left without a word. 

Hermione also dove headfirst back into Hogwarts; she worked too hard and put too much pressure on herself. After what happened with her parents, she wanted things to return to normal as quickly as possible. Harry suspected that’s why she was so eager to return to school and take on the role of Head Girl, even if it meant working with Malfoy. To ignore the fallout of the war for as long as she could. 

If Harry were honest with himself, he hated the idea of Hermione living with Malfoy as much as Ron. Whenever he tried to talk to her about it, she would only wax lyrical about future generations and the importance of symbolizing Inter-House Unity. He hated it. He hated that she proffered herself up as some beacon of virtue—something that would never be asked of him or Ron—because she still felt like she had something to prove. Because she never felt like she was good enough. Because she was Muggleborn. And Malfoy was one of the main reasons for that. 

He also hated that there was a sick fascination in the small, gossipy Wizarding world to prop Hermione and Malfoy as some deranged version of Romeo and Juliet. He read the Witch Weekly and the Daily Prophet articles. 

Another thing continued to nag at him. Ron and Hermione were in a bit of an ice storm. After agreeing to dance with Malfoy, something tantamount to betrayal in Ron’s eyes or as he put it, “sticking up for baby Death Eater scum,”  their friendship/relationship/situation-ship cooled. 

Harry was aware that they broke things off last year, but in his mind, they were always going to end together, as an inevitable truth. Even Ron seemed convinced of it. But now, he wasn’t sure what Ron and Hermione were. He was afraid to ask too many questions. Ron would snarl at him. Hermione would dismiss him. 

Harry noticed that instead of the quiet turmoil that he and Hermione internalized, Ron grew increasingly ill-tempered and lashed out at everyone around him. His drinking increased. He spent more time with Finnigan and McLaggen. 

During dinner, Ron shot glares at the Head Table, where both Harry and Hermione sat at the Headmaster’s behest. Ginny would join sometimes. 

Harry tried to involve Ron more in casual quidditch games, but the winter weather prevented any kind of regularity. Ron became increasingly angry; his eyes often flicked suspiciously between Hermione and Malfoy. 

Harry tried to convince Hermione to spend more time in the Gryffindor common room or study with them in the library. Lately she declined more often, saying she didn’t want to get anyone else sick. When she would be around, Ron’s hackles would raise and he’d often snap at her. 

Last week, they worked on their Divination homework together in the librarya rare outing for Hermione. She tried to read Ron’s tea leaves. 

Lord knows she was trying.

Hermione hated Professor Trelawney and the subject with a passion. But she needed the second credit for her NEWTs’ focus. 

“Um, it looks like a bird? Maybe a falcon?” Hermione finally said, squinting at the cup.

Ron tapped his feet and rolled his eyes. 

Harry tried to be supportive. “Brilliant, Hermione! Let’s see." He flipped through his well worn Unfogging the Future text. 

Ron scoffed, “Leave it. She doesn’t have the aptitude.”

“And how would you know, Ronald?—Cough cough—Your marks are average at best.”

“I’ll have you know I got an E in Divination Pt. 1,” Ron said smugly. She couldn’t believe she was drawn back into Fourth-Year arguments with Ron. 

One step forward, two steps back.

“So tell me what it is then if you’re so competent!” Hermione jutted her chin out defiantly. 

Ron roughly grabbed the cup from Hermione and turned it counterclockwise twice. He paled. “Um, yeah … Maybe, like a falcon,” he muttered.

Harry tried to smooth over the tension. “Wonderful! It means you were both right! It says ‘a great enemy,’” he smiled sheepishly. “Sorry about that, mate.”

“Maybe Divination is all rubbish then. Can’t think of anyone else ‘cept old Voldy,” Ron offered a goofy smile that made Hermione’s stomach warm. “Let’s see what yours says.”

Hermione handed him her cup. Their fingers touched briefly. Ron felt his cheeks warm. He missed her touch.

Ron turned her cup around twice counterclockwise and cleared his throat, “I see a club. And a sun, which means—"

“That means happiness! I remember it when you first read mine,” Harry exclaimed. 

“What about the club?” Hermione pressed. 

Harry consulted the text, “Uhh, an attack.” 

“So it means …"

“It means you’ll be attacked, but be happy about it.” Ron nodded with finality. He gave her another goofy grin, one that hadn’t been seen in a while. [18]

Hermione pretended to be cross with him, but returned a smile that crossed her entire face. She blew her bangs out of her eyes. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, ‘Mione. Couldn’t be helped!” 

Harry observed his two friends and a steady calm washed over him.

It was a frosty day, as the Advanced Herbology class filed into the greenhouse. The glass quickly filled up with fog, blocking the view of the Hogwarts grounds. 

Hermione was surprised when she learned Draco was taking the class too, that Draco would deign to take such a “fluffy” course. 

“For the potions, Granger.” he drawled, as if she should have known. She wondered if all First-Year Slytherins took lessons in perfecting that bored drawl.

Of course, the potions. 

“Come! Come!” yelled Professor Sprout. “Let’s gather ‘round here! Come closer. Come closer.” She waddled to the centre of the greenhouse, where several long, wooden tables were set up. Set upon them were hundreds of mature plants and seedlings. 

As the class huddled together, she incanted a Warming charm. “We are in luck, because it is the season for us to collect Alihosty. A gentle reminder: never eat the leaves of an Alihotsy tree! They can cause uncontrollable laughter.”

“We could use some of that now, eh?” Neville whispered to Hermione.

She smiled faintly. 

Professor Sprout lifted up the red and green polka dot plant from the soil, some bits and pieces falling haphazardly to the ground, “Who can tell me what this plant does?”

Hermione’s hand immediately shot up, “If you harvest it correctly and finely chop up the leaves—but not the flowers—and brew it for precisely four hours, the potion, or more precisely, the Alihotsy draught—”

Someone snickered in the background. 

—The recipient may drink it or inhale its strong fumes—cough cough— to induce hysteria. The potion is tasteless. So if used for nefarious purposes, it can be used to cause group hysteria, historically seen in the Witch Trials in Salem.” 

In the weeks that followed her stint in the Hospital Wing, Hermione’s cough didn’t seem to get any better. Not worse. Just not better. 

Sprout smiled, “Very good, Ms. Granger! What else?”

Hermione panicked, “Erm, uh ...”

Malfoy stepped in with his long stride and smug, stupid face, “It’s also one of the main ingredients in the Memory potion, along with Eels eyes, Jobberknoll, and peppermint, to name a few. You could increase its potency with by adding silver dragon claw.”

“Er, well done, Mr. Malfoy,” Sprout nodded begrudgingly, eyeing the arrogant, young man up and down. “Five points to Slytherin.”

Hermione glared at Malfoy and whisper-yelled, “I was just about to say that!” 

“No, you weren’t.” 

Hermioned crossed her arms, and Malfoy pressed a bit more. “Just admit it. I knew something that the Golden Girl didn’t.” 

Then he smiled that dimpled smile that made Hermione flustered. She hid it in a coughing fit.

Professor Sprout commanded, “Alright. Time to get into pairs. You there, Mr. Longbottom, pair with Mr. Malfoy. Ms. Davis with Mr. Goyle. Ms. Granger with Mr. McLaggen. Ms. Greengrass with Mr. Fletch-Finley. Mr. Nott with Ms. Patil. We are going to harvest the Alihotsy and then sow some new seeds in the soil. It goes faster with a partner!”

The students shuffled around. 

Soon the class fell into an easy rhythm; one person took their wand to cut the stem; their partner used their wand to blast a small hole in the soil and plant a few new seeds. 

Hermione always enjoyed working with her hands. The damp smell of the earth, the sharp tang of freshly cut greenery, and the slight electric hum of magic reminded her to be present. The air smelled and tasted like pennies. She smiled at Cormac, as they worked side by side in silence. Regardless of their past, there was a comfort in working with him. She didn’t need to walk on eggshells around Cormac. 

She almost forgot she was in class until Cormac out-of-the-blue transfigured one of the seeds into a bouquet of red peonies with a firm snap of his fingers, and held it in front of him. They were so fluffy that they covered his head, and she cocked her head to see what magical slipup happened.

Cormac smiled a toothy grin at Hermione. She met his smile, “What’s up? Did you drop your wand?”

“For you, Hermione.”

“Oh, oh, they’re lovely. But whatever for?” Hermione took the bouquet awkwardly.

“I did some reading on Muggle traditions in a circle philia and found out today is Valentine’s Day.”

Hermione wracked her brain to make sense of the sentence. 

Cormac continued, “As is custom in the mating ritual, I present you with flowers to signal my romantic interest. Then I believe you will present your hind quarters that are supposed to be a lovely shade of red.” He ran his hands through his curly hair and looked away, “Look, I don’t pretend to understand your culture, Hermione, but if it’s custom …” 

Hermione’s face blushed wildly. 

She took the flowers, “This is a lovely gesture. Really, it is. Thank you for looking up Muggle traditions in an encyclopedia . But um, perhaps, some of the pages were lost or got stuck together?”

Cormac looked confused. Someone cackled in the background. She was pretty sure it was Theo. 

Hermione quirked her lip, “I think one of the sections was about Valentine’s Day, and perhaps the other was um… about the mating rituals of baboons, perhaps?”

“Ah yes, that would make sense. It was a really old edition,” Cormac muttered thoughtfully. “Some of the sentences did not ...” he trailed off, his face turning beet red, “Well, keep the bouquet.”

Hermione had a broad smile plastered to her face for the remainder of the class, catching uncomfortable glances from Cormac when their hands touched. 

When Professor Sprout dismissed them, Cormac left the greenhouse quickly in embarrassment. Neville and Hermione walked out, whispering and laughing together. Draco strolled out with Theo, whose gaze kept flitting between Hermione and her bouquet. 

Theo smirked.

Fucking idiots.

Draco and Hermione sat across from each other in their common room. 

Hermione was sitting cross-legged on the rug, with her books sprawled out, and notebooks on the coffee table. Draco sank into the couch, reading through Chapter 3 of Magical Drafts and Potions. He kept flipping through the pages and huffing, eyeing the red bouquet in the middle of the table. Hermione placed the peonies in a clear jar with some water. 

They’d taken to studying together on some weeknights: “when the library was too full,” Hermione explained as she dropped her bag on the ground; or when Draco shrugged, “couldn’t concentrate in the dungeons.” 

And then they just nodded and went about their business.

Tonight, Hermione entered the alcove to find Malfoy stirring a teacup in mid-air with a textbook on his lap. Without any words or even a look, he conjured up another mug for her. She took the tea and smiled warmly at him. He grunted.

Since reading his letters, her tolerance for Malfoy increased some. 

She suspected that Malfoy liked having her around too sometimes. She could usually help him with his homework, especially Muggle Studies or Ancient Runes . Hermione decided not to ask why he continued taking Muggle Studies.

In a rare instance, he could recall a fact that she couldn’t, which frustrated her. In earnest, it was nice not having to be the one with the answers all the time. 

But tonight, he was an asshole extraordinaire. He picked on her answers. He was short with her. 

“What is that doing on the table?” Draco finally asked, pointing to the flowers.

“Oh, these? It seemed a waste to throw them away.” Hermione shrugged.

Draco headed to the Slytherin dungeons for Potions. He was nervous. 

Draco Malfoy didn’t do apologies. But Healer Van Doorn suggested that taking responsibility for his words and any hurt that they caused was the first step. No excuses. No deflection.

It didn’t guarantee forgiveness, Van Doorn told him, which irked Draco. He never made any moves without knowing what would happen next. 

“No one is obligated to forgive you, Draco. Don’t mistake an apology for repentance or atonement.”

Draco let out a heavy sigh. 

Things had been chilly between his friends and him as of late. Potions was quiet, even though Luna tried to engage Blaise and him in conversation. 

“Blaise, dear, maybe you should help Draco with his Cough Potion. He’s got Wrackspurts all up inside his ears again.”

Blaise grunted a non-committal response. 

The Potions Master, Horace Slughorn, circulated around the room, looking excitedly into each of their cauldrons and clapping his hands. Although he wasn’t Snape, he wasn’t entirely inept, Draco concluded. 

“Very well done, Mr. Malfoy. It’s coming along nicely.” Slughorn took a sniff, “Lower the temperature. That’s it, m’boy. Then bring it to a slow simmer. But I think it’s missing something.”

Draco scowled, as he finely chopped up the last bits of Chelidonium Miniscula . He racked his brain for an answer. 

“Honey,” Blaise drawled. 

“Excellent, Mr. Zabini. Five points to Slytherin!” 

Draco watched as Luna gave Blaise a quick kiss on the cheek when Slughorn’s back was turned. Blaise’s face reddened and he looked at Luna with a soft expression, something that Draco had rarely seen before. 

After class, Draco stayed behind to clean up. He wordlessly hooked his hand into Pansy’s elbow, stilling her movements. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Luna scooting Blaise and Granger out of the classroom quickly. 

Perceptive little thing.

Pansy gave him a nervous stare, but then beamed as he whispered his apology. He was sorry he yelled and that he hurt her. He meant every word of it. She forgave him readily with a strong hug around his waist, eager to forget that night. He kissed her temple chastely.

But something still was left unsaid between them. It hung in the air, like an imperceptible ward that only shimmered when approached. In their glances that didn’t linger. In their more tentative touches. 

As they emerged out of the dungeons, Luna and Blaise were sitting outside in one of the alcoves. Blaise wore a practiced bored expression on his face.

Ever the master of good timing, Luna’s soft voice called out, “Pansy, can you help me find some Moon frogs? I was trying to catch some by the lake the other day, but they seemed to have disappeared.” 

Pansy was about to haughtily decline this blonde loon’s request when she noticed the tension between Draco and Blaise and the furtive glance Draco gave her. So she allowed herself to be led out of the stone corridor, giving Draco one more longing look before leaving. 

Blaise and Draco studied one another for several moments. Draco opened his mouth, but Blaise nodded and waved him off, “Whatever, mate. Don’t make a habit of it.”

As they walked in silence through the gloomy corridor and out to the Entrance Hall, Blaise added nonchalantly, “Theo’s in the kitchen,” before heading off to find Luna.

Theo was indeed in the kitchen, sitting on one of the granite countertops. His uniform was ruffled, tie loosened and shirt untucked. Hair dishevelled and eyes blurred. He was swigging from yet another bottle of firewhiskey and talking animatedly to one of the Hogwarts house elves, “Meat pies and blood sausages?! Oh dear, Winky, you do spoil us!” 

Winky blushed and curtsied. 

Theo then grabbed a pear from the fruit platter set next to him. As he bit down, his eyes travelled to the lithe, white-blonde wizard standing at the other end of the hall. He squinted to make sure it was him. Theo had known Draco his whole life; he could tell that Draco was uncomfortable. Theo’s eyes narrowed at the ferret but he threw him an apple. 

A peace offering. 

Draco took this to mean that he could approach. It was awkward. He fussed with his own tie and carded through his hair.

He didn’t know where to start, so he just stood next to Theo, crunching on his fruit. Moments passed before Theo offered him his firewhiskey. Draco took a sip, savouring the familiar burn down his throat. 

“Theo—”

“You should talk to Pansy,” he interrupted.

“I did.” 

“She forgave you?”

Draco nodded, his body suddenly feeling heavy. 

Theo hummed, “Well, she was always an idiot when it came to you.”

“I don’t want to talk about Pans. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was—” 

Theo shrugged, “You’re not wrong. I do drink too much.” He took a deliberate slurp for emphasis. “It numbs the burning … and the nightmares. I prefer oblivion.”

Draco nodded again. 

“You still get them?” Theo asked. 

“Yeah. I put up a Silencing charm.” 

Then Draco pulled the bottle from Theo’s hand and finished it, “We have another one in the dungeons.” 

The Slytherin common room was quiet tonight. Most students were in Astronomy with Professor Sinistra. Theo and Draco settled into the deep leather cushions and drank in silence for the most part. 

Draco started. “I barely see you in classes,”

“McGonagall determined that I’m on an alternate pathway. I get—fuck, what’s that called—'assimilations,'” Theo slurred, fingers in quotation marks.

“Accommodations?”

“Right! That! My presence is also not required as often as the Head Boy.”

More silence.

“So you and Cho, eh?”

Theo looked almost offended by Draco’s question. “Me and nothing,” he said flatly. “Cici deserves more than—She’s extraordinary. And I’m—She deserves more than an ex-Death Eater with a drinking problem.”

“Hm," Draco said noncommittally.

The hearth popped and hissed with a low, simmering fire. They both stared into it for a long time.

Theo broke the silence first, “What about you?” 

“What about me?”

“Stop it with that rubbish, mate. Stop acting stupid. It’s not only unbecoming, but more than that, it's unattractive. ” Theo appealed to Malfoy's sense of vanity.

Draco sent a cutting gaze to Theo. “You visit your father?”

Theo’s head swivelled sharply at the unwelcome question. “Nope,” Theo punctuated the ‘p’ with a loud, wet pop. “I know you do, though, little Malfoy.” He lifted his bottle to cheers an invisible person.

“Every month.”

“That’s precious. But I don’t need further confirmation to know my father’s a rather big bellend.”

“He won’t be in there forever. What then?” he asked.

“Hopefully by then, he’ll be dead or I will.”

“Theo—”

“Fuck off with these questions, Malfoy. You were oh-so-happy to take the Dark Mark if it meant rescuing Daddy from prison. Have you ever considered he might belong—” 

Draco scoffed, “You don’t know anything.” 

“I hesitated. So you wanna know what Nott Sr. did? Added a few more scars. As if the ones from before weren’t enough. He made them permanent. Sectumsempra, You’ve heard of it, yeah? One for every year I’ve been a pathetic disappointment, he said.”

Theo pushed up his sleeve, 16 long, jagged lines ran across his forearm where his tattoo laid. They were pink and still tender. They stood out from his pale skin. 

Malfoy's throat bobbed, “Snape was there?”

Theo didn’t answer, just knocked his friend’s shoulder with the bottle, handing it over to him. 

“It’s clear to everyone, especially Pans, you know.”

Malfoy stopped drinking, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about.”

“I must admit the irony is delicious. You Pureblood Death Eater falling for the Muggleborn Golden Girl. They might write a book about this. Maybe even several.” The last sentence was muffled by Theo’s deep drink from his tumbler. 

He grimaced, “It’s not like that.”

“You’ve carried a hard-on for her since the Yule Ball. Maybe even before. You laugh when—”

He interrupted Theo's train of thought. “She’s insufferable. Fucking sick as a dog and still clamouring to be first in class. Did you see her hand shoot up to answer Sprout’s questions? You would think by now she’s grown out of that know-it-all posteuring. We were in a war, for fuck’s sake. She’s also annoyingly opinionated. Self-righteous to the point of lecturing me on ethics of dragonhide shoes!” Draco’s words came fast and furious.

Theo chuckled into his drink, “She is surprisingly easy to care for; even I noticed that. This must be a wet dream come tr—”

“Shut the fuck up. It's nothing.” Draco snapped. His tone even surprised himself. He let a long suffering sigh and stared up at the ceiling again. “I’m just—I'm trying to get out of here. Start over after all this, without the war, without people knowing my name. Everything else is a distraction.”

Theo looked at Draco, eyes growing serious and wide. He waited a few beats before speaking, “We can run, but we can’t run from ourselves.” He leaned forward and put his hands on Draco’s shoulders, then busted out laughing. 

“Listen, just fuck her and get it out of your system. The will-they-won’t-they is not as interesting as you think it is,” Theo waved his hand dismissively. 

“You sure want to keep talking about it. Or maybe you just want an opportunity to fantasize about where I put my cock?" Draco smirked, "Dear Theo, all you needed was to ask.”

“I’ve seen it, mate. It’s not that impressive.”

“Now I know you haven’t seen it.” 

They both gave a low chuckle. Theo sighed, “Cho and I won’t work because I will always choose oblivion over her. Over everything. But …” He poured the rest of the bottle into his glass, as if to prove his point.

Theo gave him a finger gun and a wink, which annoyed Malfoy, “But you watch her.” 

Merlin, he really wished he could smack Theo.

Draco didn’t respond. He nursed his glass, keeping his eyes on the dungeon’s hearth and listening to the snap of the low burning fire. 

“You know what I did. I’m not—” he muttered. It felt like too much of an admission than Draco would like.

Theo nodded, “She does too. She was there. And she’s here.” He sighed. “You’re not a monster, Draco. I know you want to be. It would make things simp—”

“Several prominent wizards disagree.”

“Oh, sod off! No one’s scared of your scraggly arse except First-Years who are too dumb to know better. I could even take you in a duel.”

Malfoy almost laughed. 

“You’re quite good at Potions, Malfoy,” Hermione proffered. 

“Hm.” He didn't look up from the cauldron.

Draco and Hermione commandeered Classroom Eleven, a disused classroom to practice for their upcoming Advanced Potions exam. Malfoy reluctantly agreed to help her make a Wit-Sharpening Potion for extra credit, but he made sure she knew it. 

They brewed in silence for an hour. 

“Do you want to be a Potions Master? After Hogwarts?”

“Concentrate, Granger. Now what colour should it turn when you add the armadillo bile?”

“Blue.”

“Okay and how many pieces of ginger root do you add now?”

“Four. So?”

“What?” He sounded annoyed. “Back up, Granger. Don’t drop the rat’s nest that you call hair into the brew.”

“What do you wanna do after Hogwarts?”

“I don’t have to do anything,” he drawled.

“Obviously, Malfoy,” Hermione mimicked his drawl. “But what do you want to do? Create some new cutting-edge potion? Cure Wizard Welts? Or Dragon Pox? Teach Potions? ”

“I doubt Hogwarts would hire an ex-Death Eater,” Draco muttered.

“There’s always Dumstrang. They love Pureblood lineage. I’m sure with your family’s name, they’d love to hire you.”

He sighed, “I don’t know. I never thought about it, Granger. I never thought I’d lived past the war.” Malfoy kept looking into the cauldron, detailing the colour changes. 

“Well, you did. So what are you going to do after?”

“Merlin, you really don’t let up! There is such a thing called tact.” 

Hermione crossed her arms “I don’t really see the point of it. It only delays getting to the answer.” She tapped her foot impatiently, “So?”

Malfoy huffed in exasperation, “I don’t know. France, maybe. Spend some time with my mother and—” He stopped himself. “Don’t forget the newt spleen.”

One, two plops. 

“Why France?”

“Why anywhere?”

“I’m just curious—cough cough—You’re not completely moronic.”

“I’m touched. You’re still sick.”

“Worried, are you?”

“Not at all. Just don’t want your germs all over me.”

“Since when do Purebloods know about germs?”

“I know enough. Stir. Now what colour is it gonna turn?”

“Light green. Why France?”

“Merlin! I just want a fresh start!” He snarled, grabbing the ladle from Hermione. “As far as I can get away from people knowing my name and who I am, the better. Believe it or not, France was not very involved in the Second War.”

Hermione scoffed, “Some things don’t change across Muggle/Magical borders.”

“Also, my mother’s there.”

“Oh?” Hermione turned her curious eyes at him. 

“She’s in one of our estates in Nord.”

“Oh.”

“Plus, I speak French.”

“Oh?” A strange lilt in her voice. 

“Yes, I have a very privileged upbringing and my strict, private tutor to thank for that.”

“I see.”

Hermione watched Malfoy stir in silence for several minutes.

“No more personal, invasive questions about my future and career plans?” Draco asked without looking up.

She shook her head, “I suppose you could always teach at Beauxbatons if you go to France.”

“Yes, and marry one of the Frenchie Veela beauties? Who was that Beauxbaton champion?  Fleur, was it? Didn’t one of the Weasels snatch her up?”

Hermione’s eyes flashed at the mention of Fleur’s name, “Yes, Bill. They’re very happy.”

“Are you trying to plan my life for me? Granger, as charming as that is, I’ve had enough of that done for me to last several lifetimes. Turn your dogooder attention to your hapless friends. Without you, they probably would have died a long time ago.” 

“They’re not hap—" Hermione took the ladle back and considered Draco’s casual compliment.

“I intend to do very little after Hogwarts. Make as few decisions as possible.”

“Then what’s the difference between that and what happened in Sixth-Year? Seems like a similar fate,” Hermione said indifferently.  

Malfoy glared at her. “Can’t I just be good at making potions? Can’t I just enjoy it? Not everything has to be monetized or a measure of your worth as a wizard, you know? ” 

“Says the boy with a hundred million Galleons.”

“Touché. But I already know what you’re planning to do. Healer, am I right? For the small and helpless?”

“That’s the plan.” She looked insufferably proud. 

“Oh, to be such a romantic.”

“I’m not romantic, Malfoy. I’m logical. I see a problem, and I can take the parts apart and try to put it back together again, make it better or fix it.— cough cough—If I can, I must.”

“That would be a lot more convincing coming from someone who could heal themselves,” Draco said curtly. “And maybe it’s not your job to fix it. Maybe … all you can do is not be crushed by the weight of the wheel.” 

“It’s easier to think you’re a victim when you believe you have no choice—”

“I didn’t have a—” 

"At least Harry, Ron, and I chose something. It takes courage to make a decision, choose something and know that you might be wrong or fail, but you do it anyway.”

Hermione turned her stupid, owl eyes on him. Brown and gold accentuated by the cauldron’s flickering fire. 

“Subtlety isn’t one of your strengths, Granger.” 

She wore the expression of a constipated hippo on her face, her arms crossed, looking fully like the insufferable know-it-all that she was.

“Besides, your hero complex is appalling. Courage is something you Gryffindors wax lyrical about. You keep reminding everyone around that you have it, as if it’s the greatest attribute one could possess. You know what’s another word for courage? Stupidity. Individualism. Arrogance. Thinking you know better than everyone else.”

“That’s ten words, Malfoy. Why must everything be so difficult with you? I’m curious. I'm only trying to under—”

“Why is everything an inquisition?! I’m not one of your pet projects, Granger.” His attention went back to the cauldron. “Keep it on low heat and mix in the porcupine quills.”

They’d forgotten to take out the quills. 

“Ugh, fucking idiot! The ingredients are time sensitive!” Malfoy paced up and down the classroom.

The potion turned pink, instead of yellow. Tendrils of smoke curled out of the brew, hissing and bubbling. 

Malfoy glared at her, and strode deliberately over to the cauldron. Never taking his eyes off of her, he slowly tipped the cauldron and its content all over the floor. 

“You utter, absolute prat! That was two hours of work there!”

He glowered at her, “Correction. That was my work and my time. And it was wasted the second it turned pink. I’m going to say this once, Granger. I don’t need you to champion for me. Whatever happ—whatever decisions I made and their fallout, they’re mine to deal with. My life, what’s left of it, is mine. It’s not for you to twist into some neat narrative, so you can feel good about yourself.” [19]

Malfoy flicked his wand and vanished the liquid wordlessly. Without looking back, he left Classroom Eleven.

“Crooks, get it! C’mon!”

Crookshanks looked from his mistress to the tie. He focused. Pupils dilated. His backside twitched back and forth. His tail flicked rapidly. His aim was true. 

He bravely leapt onto that neon blonde’s stupid dozing face, trying to catch that damned, green fabric taunting him.

“What the fuck?! FUCK! Ow! Get off me!”

Granger was next to the couch, cackling on the ground. Wrapped around her hand was his tie.

“Don’t be put out. I was just training Crooks to do some target practice.”

Draco had fallen asleep on the couch for just a minute, and apparently that was enough for the hideous, orange thing to plot his demise.  

Crooks huffed and hissed after being pushed off the couch. He took Malfoy's tie as his consolation prize. 

Right bastard.

Granger kept laughing until a coughing fit overtook her, turning her entire face red. 

After a long day of classes, Theo and Draco headed to the Head Students’ dormitories. Draco had a copy of Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms that Theo wanted to borrow. Draco whispered the password and led the way.  

“I have no idea why I took Ancient Runes. Professor Babbling is straight-up barmy.”

As Theo stepped into the alcove, he forgot about his rant on faculty members. His usually-sad eyes lit up, “I can’t believe you haven’t invited me over before.” 

“Been a little busy.”

Theo immediately relaxed onto the velvet couch. He undid his robes and loosened his Slytherin tie.  “C’mon, Malfoy, give us a drink, will you? I know you have some good stuff hiding here.”  

Draco sighed at his sot of a friend and headed to the kitchenette, plucking open a new bottle of Blishen’s and bringing over two glasses. 

Theo took his drink and looked around, “Much brighter than the dungeons. Warmer too. I can see why you don’t come down often,” he smirked.

Draco chose to ignore that comment. He grabbed the text that Theo wanted from the common room bookshelf and threw it onto the couch. Theo quickly made himself at home. He rolled up his sleeves and flipped through the book before raising his glass to him, “Cheers, mate!”

Draco continued to stare at Theo expectantly. 

“If I didn’t have such thick skin, I’d say that you want me out of—”

As if on cue, the alcove entrance shifted and Granger appeared, arms full of books and parchment. Her hair was fuller than usual, almost sentient. 

Granger looked surprised, eyes darting back and forth between Theo and Malfoy. “Oh, hi!” Then her face changed to a more serious expression. “Don’t mind me. I’m not going to disturb boys’ night. I’m just here to let Crooks out and grab some more books.”

“I already let him out,” Malfoy said. 

Both Theo and Granger turned to stare at him. 

“What? He was yowling.” 

Behind Malfoy, he heard Theo chuckling. Malfoy glared at his friend.

Theo stood up and bowed, “Ms. Hermione Granger, as I live and breathe. War hero, brightest witch of her age, great Muggleborn beauty. I am humbled by your presence.” He laid it on really thick.

Granger’s face grew pink. 

“Come, come, Granger. Sit with us. Surely, you can spare a half hour. I’ll pour you a drink,” Theo made ridiculous, slow, seductive circles on the seat next to him. 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. Granger laughed out loud. The inelegant one that he liked. 

“Um, thanks, but I don’t think so. I have so much to catch up on.”

“What kind of host are you if you leave me alone with such horrid company?” Theo gestured to Malfoy.

Granger smiled broadly, “He’s not so bad.”

Malfoy lifted up an eyebrow. 

Cough. Cough.

“Did you know firewhiskey is great for a cough?”

Granger looked to Malfoy for a second as if asking for permission, then stiffened her back. She said defiantly, “I suppose I could … I’ll stay for just a moment. Plus, you’re much nicer than Malfoy’s last guest. Easier on the eyes too.” 

Theo guffawed. Malfoy scowled.

“I’m going to grab my books first.”

“Brilliant!” Theo quickly stood up and headed for the kitchenette. 

Draco huffed and acted exasperated. 

In a few moments, Granger emerged from her bedroom with even more books, if that were possible, floating them with her wand. She walked over to Theo, who handed her a tumbler. Her magic floated her books by the door with a loud PLOP. “Gods, what happened?!” 

Draco immediately shot up. Granger was holding Theo’s arm, eyes wide. Theo’s sleeves were rolled up casually, revealing his Dark Mark.

“That, my dear, is the mark of a failed Death Eater. The idiocy of youth.”

Granger rolled her eyes, “You know what I mean.”

“Ah, yes. Sectumsempra. Parting gift from my loving father.”

“Oh, um. I’m sorry,” Granger’s brows knitted together. “I know that spell,” she said quietly. 

They made their way to the couch, and she explored his arm again, “It’s still red! I have some Essence of Dittany.” Draco noticed that Granger didn’t drop Theo’s arm while rummaging through her ugly beaded bag, “Ah ha!”

“Yes, well, Nott Sr. took his sweet time before incanting the counter. Stitched me up but not much of anything else.”

Granger laid Theo’s arm gently onto her lap and rubbed the drops into his skin. Draco sent another glare to Theo who smiled at him suggestively. He wiggled his bushy eyebrows at Draco. He hated the sudden pounding of blood in his ears.

“None of this sad pouting! Tell Uncle Theo how you came to know of this curse. It’s quite advanced, dontcha know?”

“In Sixth-Year. Er, Harry used it,” Granger’s eyes flitted to Malfoy who looked visibly annoyed. 

“Yes, I was fine, by the way,” Draco nodded toward Theo. “Potter just got in a dirty shot.” 

“He shouldn’t have used it regardless! Not against a fellow classmate!”

Theo cocked his head, “Wait, so those scars are those scars?” 

Granger ran her fingers absentmindedly over Theo’s raised skin while looking at Malfoy with a question in her eyes. Theo's scars seemed less angry now. 

Theo poured some firewhiskey into her glass, and she took a tiny sip. 

Draco shrugged. “Potter was right, after all. I was a Death Eater,” he said dismissively.

Granger looked conflicted. She continued to study Malfoy openly. She opened her mouth to speak when Theo flirtily cut in, “I quite like you worrying about me.”

Granger barked out another awkward laugh. Then as if putting something together in her mind, her eyes narrowed at Theo. She did not look amused. She stiffly got up to stuff her neverending bag with books, “You can keep the Dittany, Theo. I’m going to go study.” 

When she left, Draco snarled, “What the fuck?!” 

“I’m just trying to prove my point.” Theo smiled into his glass.   

Draco found himself staring at Granger absentmindedly sucking on a sugar quill while reading a textbook. When she looked up, his eyes quickly moved back to his book, muttering “This is such insipid writing.” 

There were rare moments when they forgot about studying and Head Student duties altogether. Sometimes, they talked. But usually, they fought:

• over elves’ rights — yelling at each other until they were red in the face or until Dobby was brought up; 
• over Patronuses—Malfoy’s was a ferret; it had to be. He never corrected her; 
• over wizard chess—another thing he bested Granger at;
• over Hermione’s tea-making abilities (or lack thereof);
• over Magical London versus Paris—Hermione had never been to Magical Paris, only Muggle Paris; 
• over stupid Muggle movies—Hermione had a Muggle projector hidden in her beaded bag. She charmed it to work within the presence of walls of Hogwarts. Complex Magic, Malfoy knew, but would never tell her. Hermione swore she caught Malfoy tearing up at the end of Before Sunrise;
• over the correct way to brew Polyjuice potion—Hermione knew better, having actually done it; 
• and so forth. 

And they played with Crookshanks, even though Malfoy often fought with him too. He also knew the Kneazle stole into his room when he wasn’t there.

He just knew it.

They also continued to read to one another, picking up where the other left off. An unspoken tradition. Both unwilling to call it by its name. 

Tonight, it was Julius Caesar.

She dreamt tonight she saw my statue,

Which, like a fountain with an hundred spouts

Did run with pure blood.

 

The air was tense. Draco snapped the book closed. The reading was over. 

Draco reminded himself to put up a Silencing charm before he went to bed.

“So you two are friends now?” Ginny asked in an almost mocking tone. 

Ginny and Hermione sat in the Gryffindor common room, snacking on candies that Gin brought back from her most recent trip to Honeydukes . Harry’s raised eyebrows signalled that he was listening, but he pretended to be enraptured by the most recent edition of Seeker Weekly.

Hermione stuttered, “Well, not exactly— cough cough— We spend a lot of time with each other, y’know only because of our Head Student responsibilities. But I wouldn’t call it friendship. It’s like a truce or ceasefire. He’s just ... unexpected.”

“You should really get that cough looked at. How?”

“I’ve seen Madam Pomfrey already. She gave me a bunch of medicinal potions. Just need to rest up.”

“C’mon on now. How is that little tosser ‘unexpected?’”

“Um—cough cough— He’s smart. He’s good at Charms and brewing potions. It was the only subject I didn’t beat him in,” Hermione said with a little smugness. “He’s kinda funny, I guess.  Very dry. Somewhere between self-loathing and being an entirely arrogant arse. But when he’s not being an absolute prat, he makes me t—.” 

Harry looked up from his magazine. 

Hermione avoided his inquisitive stare. “He makes it tolerable. He reads a lot. In fact, we’ve been reading—”

No, that was too personal.

“What?” Ginny asked with her mouth full of a Pumpkin Pasty, some bits spilling out. Gin reminded her entirely too much of Ron at this moment.

“Oh, we’ve just been reading some of the same textbooks. We have a couple of classes together, Advanced Potions and Herbology and all that.”

“Well, as long as he keeps his slurs to himself, I won’t have to beat up that fucking ferret.”

Harry immediately jumped in, “Hermione made quick work of that. Parkinson’s face was red for a week! I had a right mind to add a Stinging jinx too.”

A few beats of silence. 

“Have you seen him naked?”

“Ginny, no!” Hermione was aghast. “Well, there was that one time he just got out of the shower—”

Harry burst out coughing. “La la la! La la la! I absolutely do not want to hear about Malfoy’s cock!” Harry yelled, as he left the vicinity of his girlfriend and best friend. 

Ginny ignored him and faced Hermione with a mischievous cackle. She held up her hands in the air as if holding an invisible ball, “Tell me when it's Malfoy-sized,” slowly lengthening the space between them.

After Herbology class finished, Malfoy noticed Hermione talking intensely to Cormac in the back of the greenhouse. She smiled up at him, while Cormac nodded in earnest. 

Ugh. Disgusting.

Granger was eating a sugar quill yet again.

Malfoy was getting increasingly frustrated. He slammed his book closed, which startled Granger from her own studies. He had to ask, “Wouldn’t Potter be jealous? Or is the Weasel now that he’s come back?” He couldn’t stop the words coming out of his mouth.

“Huh? What on Earth are you talking about?” 

“I just figured that you need to make a decision is all, Granger. I saw you two getting chummy with one another in the back of class the other day.” Draco taunted her. 

“Who? What are you even on about?” Then Hermione’s back stiffened, as she put the pieces together. Malfoy was talking about Cormac. “Why do you care who I spend my time with?” 

“I don’t.” Draco crossed his arms. 

“You sure spend a lot of time thinking about it.”

“It’s merely a question,” he spouted earnestly.

Hermione’s haughty voice shook a little, “I’ve already told you about Ron and me. As for Cormac—Wait, never mind. I do not need to explain myself to you.”

Draco glared at her.

Hermione tilted her head and studied him thoughtfully, as if he were a specimen. Her eyes, calculating and cool. She tried to mimic his practiced facial expression of perpetual boredom, “You’re jealous.” A statement. Then she gathered her books and walked off in the swotty way she did before he could reply. 

Draco looked up at his bedroom ceiling and steeled himself for what he needed to do.

“Lumos.”

Draco took Pansy for a long walk that ended up in the Clock Tower. Their hands grazed each other's every so often, but he kept his hands in his pockets for most of the night. As they climbed up the Tower, their footsteps echoed off the cold, wet stones. Wearing heels, Pansy almost slipped once. Draco immediately reached out and steadied her. Her smile that she usually reserved for only him was her thanks. 

Draco, being a man of few words, was even more quiet than usual. She was so excited when he came to meet her after class. He looked like he belonged on the cover of Witch Weekly, leaning against one of the empty classroom doors. His hair adorably tousled, white dress shirt, grey vest, and his tie slightly loosened. 

Things would get better. She knew it. 

He had apologized to her a couple of weeks ago; and since then, things were quiet. No drama. No arguments. He would kiss her briefly at breakfast and in the Great Hall after dinner to signal good night. Even though they hadn’t had sex in a week or so, Pansy knew tonight was the night. She would make him remember how it was, how good they were together. He led her up the tower, so they could be alone. They were going to have Tower Sex; they had a few more to check off. The Clock Tower being one of them. 

When he said the words, she almost asked, “Pardon me?”

“Wh-what?” was all she could manage. 

Draco looked drawn out, “Pans, I’m sorry. I think we should stop this.”

Pansy cocked her head, trying to gather the feelings circling through her. Surprise. Anger. Jealousy. Sadness. Betrayal. Shame. Shock. Incredulity.

“Because of her?!”

“No.”

Was that the truth?

“You’re lying!”

“Pansy, we’re not working,” Draco’s eyes were steel grey. He was Occluding.

She panicked, “Yes, we are! I love you. I love you. Please, just try. I can be better. I can be more —. Stay! Don’t leave me!”

“Pansy, you don’t want this.”

“Yes, I do!”

“Pansy…”

“Stop saying my name!”

“What?”

“Stop saying it like you’re pitying me!”

“I’m not. You’re cra—“

“Don’t call me ‘crazy,’ Draco Lucius Malfoy. I know you. I’ve known you since childhood. I love you! I love you more than any of those other witches. You think I didn’t know? I didn’t say a word! I just let you have your fun. I wanted us to be together. I just wanted to be your, your—” She couldn’t make herself say the word. 

“I’m sorry, Pans," Draco said again, almost helplessly.

"What's my father going to say?! You’ve just been stringing me along all this time?”

"No-no, I just don't want to pretend anymore. I don't think it's fair. Pretend that everything is still the same."

"To you or to me?" Pansy asked sharply.

He had no response.

She cradled her head in her arms before looking up, “Don’t you fancy me anymore?” [20]

“... Of course.”

“You’re lying. I know you love that Mudblood bitch. I knew it for so long. I just pretended not to see it.” 

Pansy paced back and forth along the tower. Then her eyes rolled back to Draco, “Whyyyy her? Why’d it have to be that fucking Mudblood?!”

“P—,” Draco stopped himself. “Don’t call her that.”

“I will call her whatever the fuck I want! That stupid fucking cunt! Fucking Mudblood.” 

Draco avoided her eyes and sighed, “You can’t possibly still believe in all that. We’re not children anymore.”

Pansy laughed derisively, “Of course, it would be her. My worst nightmare. I asked you! I asked you over and over again!” She stamped her feet. 

I didn’t know. 

Pansy stared at him. Draco stood in front of her, tall, lean, impossibly handsome, and hers. 

This man, this boy was hers. Had always been hers. Promised to each other since they were in their nappies. 

He finally spoke, “It’s not about her.”

“Then why?”

“I’m tired. I’m so tired, Pansy. I’m tired of fighting with everyone. I’m tired of the looks and the whispers. I’m tired of Seamus wanting to fight me every time he lays his eyes on me. I want to know what it’s like without all-without this weighing on me. I want, I want to start over.” 

“You can’t do that with me?” Pansy asked weakly.

His Occlumency suddenly dropped. Draco looked at her with such tenderness that Pansy wanted to run to him, if only she knew he wouldn’t pull away. Pansy began sobbing. He looked defeated. He didn’t speak. He only shook his head and she shuddered. 

“I’ve known you all my life. You’re my first–” 

“Look at where that got me,” she said bitterly.

“Pansy, you are intelligent and so, so beautiful. I’m sorry I’m not—”

“Stop.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s disgusting is what it is.” 

Silence.

“They’ll never accept you, you know?” Pansy sneered.

“I know.”

She continued, “Just because you say the right things and act a certain way doesn’t change anything.”

“I know.”

“You’ll always be a Death Eater to them.”

“I know.”

“Do you know how many nights I had to hear you scream? Held you through your panic attacks?”

“Yes.”

“Rub your back? Dry your sweat? Vanish your sick?”

“Yes.”

"You were mine."

Pansy stepped toward Draco, closing the distance between them. Draco tensed, bracing himself for a slap or a punch. But she only asked, “Will you hold me?”

Draco placed his hands around her back and smoothed down her hair. She stood on her tiptoes, clawing at him, trying to make him stay. Her face fell onto his chest and started shaking silently. Draco only knew she resumed crying when the front of his shirt fell wet.

A tiny voice came out, “No one will love you like I love you. No one will know you like I know you.”

Draco sighed, “I know.”

“Why then? Why am I not enough for you?”

Pansy had tears streaming down her face, eyes desperate and eyelashes heavy, beautifully sad like a painting. 

[Image: Alice Pagani as my Pansy Parkinson]

“Did you love me?”

A beat. 

“I think I did,” he finally said, smoothing her hair.

Pansy let out a hollow cry, like an animal in pain.

As she cried and cried and cried, Draco placed his chin on her head and held her through her sobs. He sounded sad too. He didn’t know what to say, so he said, “I hate hurting you.”

Pansy cried even harder then, “Then why are you?!”

Draco knew his intent didn’t matter. It didn’t matter then. It didn’t matter now.

Malfoy didn’t come back to the dormitories until late. She heard him slam his bedroom  door. Hermione checked the time. It was 3:17am.

Hermione woke up in the morning with sunlight dancing across her room. When she left her room, she noticed Malfoy's door was still closed. When she left for classes, his door stayed closed. She didn’t see him in the Great Hall or for the rest of the day.

Hermione decided to stay with Ginny in the Gryffindor dorms for the remainder of the night. 

When Hermione returned late to their common room the following day, far past curfew, Malfoy was awake sitting on the couch, reading. It was Hamlet. They finished it last month.

He cranked a dark eyebrow up.

“You’re back.” That’s all he said.

“I thought you wanted to be alone.”

Malfoy did not respond. He kept his eyes on the book.

She gingerly walked around the table to inch closer to him. Then Hermione thought better of it. She sighed, “I’ll make some tea.”

He got up. “No, I’ll do it.”

Chapter Text

Hermione made notes. They were colour coded.

Everything seemed so stupid.

Thank you for sharing your box, feelings?

Thanks for the mementos?

Thanks for stalking, keeping tabs on me?

Did she forgive him? Could she? Malfoy didn’t even really apologize.

Malfoy had been in a rotten mood for the last couple of weeks. 

Hermione tried to drum up the courage to speak to him. She knew she’d been avoiding the conversation for far too long. But she didn’t know how Malfoy would react. Maybe he’d forgotten about the box? No, that couldn’t be true. Maybe he didn’t want to have that conversation anymore. Maybe anything. She tried to steady herself. Her hands were trembling so much that she almost dropped her index cards. 

She started counting:

1, 2, 3, 4. Inhale. 

1, 2, 3, 4. Hold.  

1, 2, 3, 4. Exhale.  

Okay, she could do this. 

Then Malfoy slammed his bedroom door and left the dormitories before she could even get up from her vanity.

Hermione sighed.

Maybe this week wasn’t the week.  

She tried twice more. But it was never the right time. 

Coward. Gryffindor, my ass. 

Hermione tried once more. She had her index cards with her. She did her breathing exercises. She tightly gripped onto the cards that had become somewhat of a security blanket. She walked with purpose into the common room. 

Malfoy sat on the couch finishing a ten-feet parchment about the usefulness of flesh-eating trees and other plants across the world. He was deep in thought when he noticed the swotty Golden Girl walk out, looking distracted. She kept a safe distance away, gripping something in her hands. Malfoy quirked an eyebrow up, “You’re staring, Granger.” 

“Wh-what?”

“It’s distracting.”

“Oh—OH! Sorry. I was, I was thinking about something.”

“Clearly,” he drawled. As she came closer, Malfoy gestured to her index cards. “Study notes?”

“Hm?”

“Those cards. They’re colour-coded in that swotty way you do. You’re holding onto them as if your life depended on it.”

“Um … oh, yes! These.” She looked down and realized that her hands were basically wringing the cards out of nerves. “For Divination,” Hermione lied quickly. “It’s so damned difficult. But I need it; it’s a requirement for Healer training. Gods know why.” 

“Never had the patience for such a wooly subject,” Malfoy agreed. 

“Well, it’s ridiculous. I’m supposed to dissect a dream I had and find out what it foretells. Ron said that I don’t have the aptitude. So I’m not sure if I’ll get—”

Malfoy scoffed, “Why do you listen to that red-headed wanker about anything anyway? I’d give him an “Exceeding Expectations” if he could tell his brothers apart.” 

“Malfoy …,” Hermione warned. 

“Admit it, that was funny.” 

She bit her lip, suppressing a smile. “I’m off. Have to snatch up The Dream Oracle from the library before someone else takes it.”

Malfoy opened his mouth to say something else, but seemed to think better of it.

Hermione turned and left the alcove. 

She didn’t know how to do this. She didn’t know how to broach the subject. She couldn’t talk to Malfoy, not about anything serious anyway, Hermione decided. She couldn’t do this. 

She let out a heavy sigh and ripped up her index cards. 

Hermione was alone in the dorms. There was never a right time to bring up the box. There was always school work, exams or Head Student duties or one of Malfoy’s shite moods or her inability to find the words … 

So she decided this was the best way. It would forego any awkwardness. She didn’t have to wait for the right moment. And most importantly, she didn’t have to talk to him. 

She held the box in her hands. A tremor passed through them. Her right hand still shook when she was stressed. Her Healer said it was a longterm side effect from the curse. Hermione crossed the common room to Malfoy’s bedroom. She’d never even looked inside. The door was ajar, so she took a peek.  

Malfoy’s bedroom had a similar layout to hers. Rectangle in shape. Double bed. Big window on the far side of the wall facing the bed. Study desk and chair. Floor-length mirror. Closet. Large dresser. He wasn’t lying when he said it was slightly bigger. There were small differences. Instead of red and gold bedding, his was (of course) emerald green and black. Other than that, there was little in the way of decoration, almost spartan. No pictures. No sentimental trinkets. Hermione hung pictures of her friends, simple art on canvas, movie posters, and fairy lights across the blank wall in her room.

He was also neater than Hermione. Some clothes and towels folded neatly atop his dresser and a jacket and tie hung on the back of his chair. Except for his desk, which was filled with multiple stacks of books and parchment. It was messy and very cluttered.

So he isn't perfect.

But the most notable difference, Hermione realized, was that his room lacked her bookshelf tree. In its place, a small fireplace, much smaller than the one in the common room. 

Hermione filed a thought away. 

YOWL!

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin. She dropped the box on the floor, spilling its contents on the floor. 

Crookshanks was behind her, pacing back and forth.

“Crooks, you scared me half to death!” 

As she kneeled down to collect the papers, Crooks passed by and plodded deliberately toward Malfoy’s door, flicking his proud, bushy tail. 

“No, Crooks! You’re gonna get—”

He was too fast for her. The wards hummed and pulsated, like a clear ripple on a calm lake, but it let Crookshanks through. 

Hermione’s jaw dropped. Instinctually she ran and tried to grab him. It was too late before she realized her mistake. Her outstretched arm already crossed the room’s barrier. The wards shimmered. Her arm froze in mid-air. But nothing happened. Hermione slowly retracted her hand. 

It had to be a mistake. A flaw in the ward’s Magic. McGonagall explicitly said no visitors were allowed in the Head Students’ rooms.  

Hermione frowned. She looked nervously to the entrance, as if Malfoy might barge in any second. 

Nothing. Of course that wouldn't happen. If she weren’t mistaken, he was in Muggle Studies right now. 

She let her hand tentatively touch the invisible barrier again. Again, the hazy thrum of magic filled the air, but it didn’t reject her. She watched Crooks as he made himself at home on Draco’s unmade bed. One, two, three, four turns before settling down. 

Hermione gathered her courage. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fully crossed the threshold, expecting an electric shock or worse. But like Crooks, the wards trembled but let her pass through. Her eyes grew wide at this new discovery. A tiny tingling sensation but nothing else. 

Hermione let out a long held, shaky breath. She looked around Malfoy’s room. It smelled like him—mahogany, leather, and mint. It was dark. Malfoy didn’t open the curtains. She scanned her surroundings and took this opportunity to get a closer look at his belongings. His closet door was half open. Parchment, quills, opened books on his desk and bed, Advanced Potion Making, Ingredient Encyclopedia, Hamlet, and Magical Drafts and Potions, and some other titles she didn’t recognize.

She wasn’t going to tempt fate. She placed the black box onto his desk and quickly left. 

She hoped it was enough. 

Mind Healer: T. Lee
Patient: Hermione J. Granger, Session #15

Trickle. 

Trickle. 

Trickle. 

The sound of the koi pond. 

Hermione grew to love the sound. It soothed her nerves.  

Healer Lee raised an eyebrow, “What else would you like to talk about today, Hermione?” 

Today, Lee’s short, pixie hair had silver-grey highlights that shimmered under certain lights. It reminded Hermione of Malfoy’s eyes. 

She almost liked coming to therapy just as much to see what changes Lee made to their hair every few weeks. 

Hermione opened her mouth but a coughing fit took hold. 

“You’re sick,” her Healer noted.

“I am, but am taking potions prescribed by my Matron.”

Healer Lee nodded, “Very good. Have you been taking care of yourself?”

“I spent a couple of nights in my school’s infirmary. I had a fever but it broke. I suppose I was burning both ends of the candle, and I had to pause.”

“That’s unfortunate. Hermione, you push yourself very hard. You shouldn’t feel guilty about resting or taking less on.”

“I know, but it’s hard. I’m so used to—”

“Yes, but does it serve you?” 

“It makes me feel strong, capable. Like I’m good enough …” she trailed off.

“At what or whose expense? What are you getting out of it besides a weakened immunity system?” 

Hermione shrugged. Her right arm suddenly hurt. A sharp stinging sensation, down to the bone. She closed her eyes to focus on the sounds of the koi pond. 

Scratch. Scratch. 

“Are you okay, Hermione?” 

“My arm hurts.”

“The one with the scar?”

Hermione nodded. “Yeah. I’m not sure if the pain is remnants of— cough— Dark Magic or if it’s psychosomatic. Glamors don’t work on it. My Healer said tremors are a longterm side effect of the Cruciatus, amongst other things. It's particularly when I'm stressed.”

“Hm. How do you feel about the scar?”

“It varies. I hate seeing the word, but most days, I’m numb to it. It’s become almost—” Hermione searched for the word. “—matter-of-fact. Rationally, I understand that your mind can only hold so much anger or bitterness. It’s unsustainable.—Cough cough— I heard the word often enough in my youth. I stopped letting it have so much power over me. Sometimes I wish the scars would go away because of the questions it can bring on. But on really bad days, it makes me feel ugly, like I’m dirty.— Cough cough— It reminds me that I’ll never be good enough in the eyes of the Wizarding world, no matter what I do. In those moments, I want to carve up my arm again or cut it off if it meant I never had to look at that word. Sometimes, I think I might, if I were sure I would never feel this way again.” 

Scratch. Scratch.  

“Most days, though, most days it’s just there. But that also hurts because I know my mind is adapting. And I’m angry at myself … for adapting. I know that doesn’t quite make sense. But I’m angry that I’m rationalizing everything. For feeling numb to it. Everything has started to feel like it’s … less.” 

“What’s ‘everything?’”

Hermione cleared her throat, “Um, as you know, I’m Head Girl and I’ve been living with, next to the Head Boy …”

Lee’s kind gaze told her they remembered.

“Well, um, I don’t know if I told you the Head Boy was my childhood bully.” Hermione flushed. She didn’t know why she felt embarrassed, only that she knowingly withheld this information. 

Lee looked at her but didn’t speak. They didn’t need to; their suspended quill was still going. “No judgment here. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Hermione.”

“I-I know, but I purposely withheld the information.” 

Her Healer nodded, “May I ask why? It would seem pertinent for our work together.”

Hermione agreed, “I-I thought I could handle it on my own.”

“And how has it been going?”

“He-he hasn’t been y’know … Well, he hasn’t been bullying me, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m only interested in your wellbeing. I’m always on your side.”

Hermione knew that. “It’s strange. We work together a lot. We fight. But for the most part, the fights are harmless, funny, even. We get along. He’s not entirely unpleasant when he’s not being a total jackass.”

“Hmm.”

“He also, uh, makes me tea.”

Lee’s quill stalled in mid-air. Hermione suddenly found the hems of her sleeves fascinating. 

“Well, that’s nice of him,” Healer Lee paused. “I wonder … and this is just an exploratory question, if things are going so smoothly, what is it that’s bothering you?”

Hermione took in a sharp breath. “That’s just it. Not much. He’s not awful. He hasn’t called me a ‘Mudblood.’ But I get angry at myself, because am I just accepting the bare minimum? He’s not a complete asshole to me anymore, so does that mean we’re fine? That I don’t hate him anymore? That we’re friends?! I don’t know if I can accept that.” 

“There’s a lot between ‘hatred’ and ‘friends.’”

“Right. But where is my anger? My indignation? He was an awful, awful boy.”

“You said it yourself. The mind adapts.” 

“BUT THAT’S NOT OKAY!”

Healer Lee’s quill halted. “Why not?” They asked as gently as they could. “Could you not interpret this as healing, moving on?”

“Because! Because I should—I should hate him. I should be angry at him. All the time. But I’m not. Like I said, everything has started to feel … less. I can’t hold onto that anger anymore, even if I tried.” 

“Perhaps that’s a good thing?”

Hermione pondered her next words, “So I’m like a balloon, right? And I can hold ‘X’ amount of air in me, but I have holes.”

Lee looked at her with a long-suffering smile. 

“Right,” Hermione continued. “And because of these holes, I can’t hold onto that air anymore, even though I want to. Even though I should. I’m deflating. I’m deflated. I'm broken. I'm not a balloon anymore. I-I’m just tired. I’m just so tired.” She bowed her head between her hands.

“We can get caught up in what we think we should or shouldn’t feel. But no one is actually here, measuring us, weighing our good against our bad. The word ‘should’ operates on an ideal, not reality.”

Hermione nodded. 

Lee carried on, “Your feelings are your own. And you are allowed them, even if others might not understand it or even if you think you should feel differently. Shame is often predicated on what we believe we should and shouldn’t do or feel. But it isn’t a particularly productive emotion. It can keep us tied down in the shallows and prevent us from exploring how to move on or forwa—”

She blurted out, “We had a fight last month. It was pretty big. We both said some things we needed to get out.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No.”

“So what I’m hearing you say is that you confronted him.”

“Yes. Well, we confronted each other.” 

“Go on.”

“At the end of it, he gave me a box. Mementos of sorts. From last year and years before.”

“What kind of mementos?”

“Letters he’d written to me, only they weren’t necessarily for my eyes.”

“But he gave them to you.”

“Yes. And other things too, newspaper clippings.”

“Newspaper clippings?” Lee quirked an eyebrow up.

“Yes, of me and Harry and Ron when we were on the run. Other stuff from before, like interviews and even gossip rags from Fourth-Year.”

Scratch. Scratch. 

“I see. Do you mind me asking what was in the letters?”

“It’s kinda hard to describe. They were like journal entries, but addressed to me.”

“So he let you into his private thoughts and feelings.”

Hermione let out a little laugh, “I suppose if you want to call it that. I’m not sure Malfoy-um, if he is capable of any deep introspection.”

Healer Lee noticed her slip of the tongue, “Your childhood bully is Draco Malfoy? The youngest Death Eater?” [21]

Hermione winced, “Um, yes?”

“He’s the one who watched you being tortured?” 

“He addressed that in the letters.” Hermione felt her back stiffen and suddenly felt strangely defensive of Malfoy. She hated herself for that.

Healer Lee collected themselves so quickly that it was almost imperceptible. “I apologize, Hermione. That was unexpected.”

“None more so than me.”

“Hmm. How did the letters make you feel?” 

“Overwhelmed. Conflicted. Sad. Terrified. Confused.”

“Why sad?”

“He was devastatingly honest in the letters.”

“Who are you sad for?”

“Him. Me. Everyone.”

“Why?”

“Because of the war. It burned so much out of me. Innocence. Joy. Family. Maybe, maybe it hurt him too? But then I get angry at myself again, because why do I care what Malfoy feels? He was a bully to me and my friends. And he was on the wrong side!”

“Empathy is never wasted.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, as if she didn’t believe them. 

Lee continued, “People can grow, learn, and change. Perhaps,” They weighed their words carefully before speaking again. “Perhaps for Draco Malfoy, this was a first step. An olive branch of sorts? It couldn’t have been easy for a person like him.”

Several moments passed. 

“Do you forgive him?”

Hermione considered this question carefully, “I … don’t … know.”

“That’s okay. Forgiveness isn’t cut and dry. It can start and it can retreat. It’s like the work we do here. It’s okay to be proud of your progress even if it stills sometimes. Nothing is linear, even though we would like it to be.” Lee continued, “You don’t need to answer right now. We can revisit this later. It’s okay if you do. And it’s okay if you don’t.”

Hermione nodded again, but felt herself close off. She wasn’t sure who she was upset at. Herself. Lee. Or Malfoy. 

She looked up behind Healer Lee’s head to the clock, “Time’s up.”

Hogwarts

Malfoy was in the common room, arguing with Crookshanks, “No, you’re not allowed into my room.”

MEOW. 

“I don’t care what your reasons are.”

MEOW. 

“McGonagall said no visitors.”

YOWL. 

Hermione held back a smile. She sat on her bed reading, but her bedroom door was open. Malfoy’s voice travelled. She let out another rough cough. Since her stay in the infirmary, her muscle weakness had improved, but lately her stomach was bothering her. She figured it was just nerves. It had been more than a week since she put Draco’s box back into his room. He hadn’t mentioned it. She was on edge, feeling increasingly anxious around him, but also annoyed by his indifference and silence. 

Had he seen the box? Maybe he didn’t. That was impossible. She left it on his desk. Why didn’t he say anything? Did he just not want to talk about it? Malfoy had been in a bad mood for a few weeks now. Maybe he just didn’t feel up to it. It took her more than a month to do anything with the box, to drum up the courage to approach him, and she didn’t even really do it. She just left the items in his room, like a coward.    

Hermione coughed again and left the safety of her room. In her doorway, she watched as Crooks and Malfoy battled for dominance. Crooks blinked slowly at Malfoy, which only enraged him further. He threw up his hands in frustration, “You’re impossible. I don’t even know why I bother!”

MEOW! 

“What did you say to me?!”

They continued to stare at each other in a locked stalemate. She thought they were both being ridiculous. A warm feeling rose up in her chest. 

Affection.  

Hermione stiffened at the thought, pushing the feeling down and out. She didn’t. She couldn’t. She was very agitated now.  

Malfoy’s head turned toward her, noting her presence in the doorway. He looked annoyed, “Granger, tell your Kneazle to keep his fleabag arse out of my room.” 

“Crookshanks is quite capable of understanding you.”

“Clearly not. I found orange hairs on my bedspread. I’ve let it go on long enough. It’s like this flat-faced monster deliberately flouts the rules. But this will not stand. Last night, I found its hairs on my pillow.”

“God forbid anything untoward defile your silk sheets, Malfoy. Have you ever thought that perhaps you brought those hairs in from the common room, from your clothes? You do play with him quite a lot.”

Malfoy sharply looked up at her, “I do not!” He crossed his arms.

“You aren’t even willing to consider that very logical possibility?”

“Rubbish is what that is.”

“Well, you have no solid evidence, only circumstantial. I would appreciate it if you didn’t blame Crooks for everything. He knows the rules better than you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that Crooks knows enough not to go where he’s not welcome, unlike your girlfriend.” 

The mood in the air shifted. Malfoy scowled, “That’s none of your fucking business now, is it?” 

Hermione shrugged, “It’s not. But I don’t want to have to walk in on you two rutting like rabid dogs in the common room again.”

Malfoy sneered, “You are absolutely crass, Granger. If you weren’t so thick and itching for a fight, you’d notice Pansy hasn’t been here since—Never mind!” 

Hermione was momentarily taken aback, but retorted, “I am not looking for a fight, Malfoy!” 

“Really? Then why’d you bring up Pans out of nowhere?” A slow creeping realization spread across Malfoy’s stupid face. She wanted to smack the smugness that radiated off of him.

“Fuck off. ”

“What? Did I touch a nerve? I’m flattered but you’re not my type. And another thing—”

Hermione saw red. “Your type? You mean, a Mudblood?”

He scoffed. 

“I know what you mean even if you don’t say it. You don’t have to. I know you would never deign to lower yourself to be around me if you weren’t forced.”

Malfoy’s voice is loud and almost sharp, “Your words, not mine, Granger. Merlin, if you weren’t so fucking frigid and unappealing—”

“I’m unappealing, Malfoy?! I disgust you, do I?” 

He didn’t answer but looked away. She looked down at herself, glancing quickly at her scars. Today, the word felt like a punch to the stomach. Hermione smoothed down her wrinkled skirt. “Well, don’t worry about it,” she said quietly.

She stormed out the alcove. As the stones shifted closed, Hermione noticed her hands were shaking. She stood outside of their dormitories for a long time.

What the hell was that?! Why did she start a fight? Why did she feel the need to mention Pansy? Why did she care if Malfoy still thought of her as a Mudblood? Wasn’t that what she thought all along? Why should she care if he didn’t find her attractive? 

Hermione felt foul. Empty. Ugly. She ran her fingers over her scars again. She needed another session with Lee.

By the time Draco returned to the Head Student dorms, it was well past dinner time. No one was there. Not even Crookshanks. 

Ever since Malfoy and Hermione fought a few days ago, she’d been avoiding him. And he her, to be honest. Granger unexpectedly mentioned Pansy, a still-sore spot for him. She accused him of still thinking that she was beneath him, a Mudblood. He didn’t even use the word. She did. Then she ran off. He didn’t even know what they were fighting about. Just that their delicate truce had been broken.

Merlin, Granger was off her rocker. Being around her was getting more difficult for some reason.  

For the next week, they barely crossed paths, only hearing each other’s footsteps, water running, rustling around the kitchenette, and her coughs. Or more accurately, Hermione’s coughing fits. Draco used the new sound to determine when he should or shouldn’t enter the common room. She was still sick. He didn’t like that he thought about it.

Malfoy fell asleep, thinking he heard her cough in the far recesses of his mind.

When Malfoy awoke the following day, Hermione wasn’t in the dorms. She wasn’t in the Great Hall.  She wasn’t in class. Any of her classes. Draco deduced that she was in the infirmary. 

Good, he thought. She’s getting that taken care of before she gets us all infected with that Muggle virus. What a dirty lot.  

Malfoy immediately felt a twinge of guilt for thinking that, but pushed it away, much like his breakfast. Goyle eyed his leftover sausage until Malfoy handed it to him without so much as a question. He had no appetite.

He scanned the different House tables, but didn’t see any bushy haired swots. When his gaze returned to the Slytherin table, his eyes briefly met with Pansy’s. If possible, she looked both sad and hopeful when she looked at  him. Her typically smoked-out eyes and light pink lip colour were gone. Her face was bare. She quickly looked away. Malfoy felt a hollow pain in his chest.  

He hastily stood up and left the table. 

Tonight, she didn’t come back to their dorms. He was fine. 

Fine. 

Malfoy had other more pressing things to keep his focus and work on. Only about four upcoming quizzes and assignments due in the next two weeks! 

She was probably in the Gryffindor Tower or still in the infirmary. That’s all.  

He finally called it a night around midnight. Hermione still didn’t come home. 

Home? What the fuck?

Draco tried to sleep. He tossed and turned, trying to shut his mind off. After an hour or so of feigned sleep, he sat up in his bed, eyes squinting in the dark. He wasn’t worried. He couldn’t be. Malfoy dangled his long limbs on the side of his bed and stared out into the darkness. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. Nothing. Just the shape of his bedroom door. Light slipping in from underneath the crack. And his desk to the side.  

Parchment. Quill and ink. Books. 

His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. An image slowly began to take shape. Rectangle. Dark. Jutting out behind some papers and his stacks of books. 

Draco realized the box he’d given Hermione a few weeks ago, now sat back on his study table in his bedroom. 

How long has that been there?  

Malfoy’s eyes widened at the realization. He shot up from his bed, pacing now.

What did it mean? Did she read what was inside? Did she even open it? Was she okay with it? Why didn’t she talk to you about it? You asked her to. Maybe she would have if you hadn’t yelled at her, calling her frigid and unappealing. Now she doesn’t want to be around you. Who cares? You don’t want to be around her. She’s just a uptight, bitchy Mud—No. Who the fuck cares what you call her? She already knows what kind of person you are. Why are you stressing out over this? It’s nothing. She could never forgive you anyway. How’d she get the box in his room? She must have Accio’d it inside. That little swot. 

Suddenly, he knew where to go. 

Hermione was exactly where Malfoy thought she would be—in the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts Library, except fast asleep, snoring, and drooling a bit on a study table. As inelegant as she was, Draco felt his heart thud at finding her after not seeing her for several days. The candles made her skin look luminous with her curls spread out on the table, hands bracing her face. He smiled upon hearing her soft snorts. Her face softened when she was asleep. 

Not quite so swotty. 

Malfoy asked Filch to let him into the library. He said he forgot a textbook he needed for a test tomorrow. That was a boldfaced lie. 

Draco called out, “Granger,” and shook her shoulder. Hermione didn’t respond. So he said her name again, this time a bit rougher, “GRANGER.” She shot up, first bleary eyed, then surprised, and finally settled on irritated. She tried to speak but let out a cough instead. 

“Malfoy! What are you doing here?” Hermione sputtered, trying to regain her dignity and wiping the dried drool from the corner of her mouth. 

“I was going to ask you the same thing. You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I fell asleep. Cough cough.” Hermione wiped her cheek again. The hair on the side of her head that she fell asleep on stood up like a bushy antennae. She tried to pat it down. Some strands of hair still clung to her cheek via dried spit. He tried not to smile. She had been avoiding Draco, staying in the Gryffindor Tower until her welcome wore out, then studying in the library for as late as she could. She couldn’t face him after the fight. A fight that she started for no reason. She was embarrassed. 

But today it wasn’t about Malfoy. Hermione was so sick that she begrudgingly went to see Madam Pomfrey again. She gave Hermione a Sleeping Draught and some medicinal potions. Then she headed to the library to study. Hermione even set up a Notice-Me-Not charm, so that others wouldn’t find her, especially Filch or Librarian Willows. It must have worn off when she dozed off. She also may have mixed up the different medications. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Malfoy.

“Granger, come on, I’ll walk you back.”

“No, thanks, Malfoy. I’ll stay here-Cough-I have an exam tomorrow.” 

Draco looked slightly wounded, then covered it up quickly with annoyance. “Look, I was having a really rough couple of days-weeks. And Pans and I—”

“That concerns me how?” Hermione asked incredulously. 

She didn’t know why she couldn’t stop being so difficult. The mere mention of Parkinson annoyed her. He was already apologizing.  

“I don’t care what goes on in your love life—Cough cough—I am not your mother or your therapist. Get your shite together.”

Malfoy acquiesced, “Look, you’re sick. Just go back to your room and rest. I’ll … go to the dungeons or something.”

“You’ll go to the dungeons?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Fine,” Hermione got up and gathered her books inside her beaded bag.

“I … apologize, Granger,” he said behind her. Hermione could hear him gritting his teeth. His own throat resisted the words. “I raised my voice. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. I shouldn't have called you ... I didn’t mean—”

Malfoy apologized.  

Hermione abruptly turned her head to Malfoy and self-consciously rubbed her scars. His eyes followed her movements, and he felt slightly sick. She eyed him warily, “Don’t you dare do it again. I will not be made a punching bag for your bad days.” Malfoy gave a slight nod. Hermione sighed, “I was itching for a fight. I-I don’t know. I think I’ve— cough cough— been under a lot of stress and sick. I still haven’t gotten better. I ju-just overreacted.” 

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. He stepped back away from the table. Hermione and Malfoy looked at another for a few moments before she realized this action meant he was making room for her to get up. 

Poncy arse.  

“Make me some tea when I get home,” she demanded.

He gave her an amused smile, trying not to linger too much on the word, ‘home.’

They walked back to the Head Student dormitories in silence. It was now well past 1am. They listened to the sounds of crickets and slow creaks of the moving staircases. 

Hurried footsteps clicked around the corridors, first faraway, then headed closer. 

Several sets. How many? Two? And a couple of hushed voices. 

As Draco and Hermione rounded the corner, theyliterallyran into Cho and Anthony, doing their rounds. 

“Oof!” 

“Ow!”

“Hermione!” Cho exclaimed, her cheeks rosy and out of breath. “What are you doing up?”

“Malfoy,” Anthony said curtly. Draco nodded in recognition. “It’s well past curfew,” he added.

Hermione coughed and smiled faintly, “I fell asleep in the library.”

“What’s Malfoy doing here then?” Anthony asked pointedly. 

“I don’t need your permission, Goldstein. I’m Head B—”

Hermione cut in, giving Malfoy a look. “Willows found me and wrote me up. She called Malfoy to retrieve me, because I’ve been ill. Didn’t want me fainting on her watch.” She mustered up a little laugh. 

Who would have guessed it? The Golden Girl was adept at lying.  

Draco nodded, giving a quirk of his mouth, “I’d just gotten to sleep too.” He pretended to yawn. "10 points from Gryffindor if I get anything less than an E on my test tomorrow."

Another coughing fit. This time it shook Hermione’s whole body. 

“Hermione, are you okay?” Anthony’s hands closed around her shoulders and rubbed her back. Draco’s eyes flashed. 

“I’m fine. I went to see Madam Pomfrey today. I got some Cough potion. It must have worn off by now.”

“Would you like us to walk you back?” Cho asked with worry in her eyes. 

“No, no,” she coughed. “Malfoy can do it. He owes me that at least. Oh so sorry-cough-to have disturbed your-cough-beauty sleep, Prince Hamlet.”

“Granger, your insults would be considerably more biting if you weren’t hacking up phlegm every ten seconds. You got a little dried spittle on your cheek.” He pointed to her face. 

Hermione’s face soured. Cho and Anthony looked confused. 

“Well, if you’re sure …” Cho trailed off.

Malfoy and Hermione walked into their common room. The alcove’s stones shifted close. They sent each other a nervous glance, but Malfoy was first to break eye contact when he promptly headed to the kitchenette. By the time he returned to the couch with a pot of steaming peppermint tea, she was asleep on the couch, snoring yet again with her mouth open. 

He sighed and Accio’d a blanket from his room. When he finally went to bed, it was almost 3am. 

Draco had no trouble falling asleep this time. 

Early April 1999

“P-please! I didn’t take anything!” 

Screams.  

Her arms flail. Bella bites her to keep her still.  

“No, no, I don’t have it. It’s a fake!” 

CRACK.  

Her bones against the floor. 

Retching sounds. 

Her eyes.  

He hears tearing sounds across flesh. Burning smells. 

More screams.  

The smell of vomit and blood hits his nostrils.  

She looks at him. A single tear falls out of the corner of her eyes.  

Malfoy woke up to his sweat-drenched sheets. He sat over the side of his bed and willed himself not to throw up. He put his head between his knees and took in sharp, ragged breaths. Gripping his hair, memories of how he’d turned away when he watched the girl he’d known since they were 11 seizing and vomiting on his Drawing room floor. 

He retched again. 

Then fell back into a dark, fitful sleep.

When Malfoy woke again, it was 1:27am. He quickly Vanished the sick on the floor. He needed a shower and a clean mouth; his now tasted sour and bitter. 

As he made his way to the bathroom, he noticed Granger’s door was open and the room was dark. 

It was empty. 

When he left the bathroom, Granger still wasn’t back. 

He grabbed a Calming draught from the cupboards and made his way back to his bedroom. He stared up at his ceiling, doing his counting exercises. 

Sleep would once again prove to be elusive that night. 

Hermione and Malfoy built back a tentative truce. 

He was more careful around her. She noticed that Malfoy often commented on her persistent cough, and even handed her a few Cough potions he’d made in class (for extra credit, he said). 

Another night, another nightmare. 

No, not a nightmare. Memories.  

Malfoy was glad he remembered his Silencing charms. 

This time, Granger’s mouth opened wide as if to say “help me.”  

But he didn’t. He never did.  

Instead, he stood frozen. He watched.  

Black blood and bats spilled out of her mouth.  

When Malfoy Vanished the sick off his floor again, he looked at the time. It was after midnight. He needed to rinse his mouth out and take another shower. 

This time, instead of getting up, his bleary eyes flitted around his bedroom, looking for something to ground him. Sleep still hung onto his body. He always kept his room dark. They kept away the headaches. He sat on the edge of his bed, hanging his head between his legs. His eyes got accustomed to the darkness, then slowly focused on the black box sitting atop his desk. He Accio’ d it to him. It sat unopened since he found it back in his room. Granger never brought up its contents with him.

He let out a tight breath and opened it. 

His unsent letters. He shuddered at his words.  

Did she even read them?  

His secret habit of collecting newspaper clippings about the Golden Trio began last year. After they ran escaped from Malfoy Manor, he needed to know that they-she-was okay. That she was alive. So he combed through the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly for mentions of them every day. 

Each time Malfoy found a new article, he breathed a sigh of relief. He hoarded each article like a treasure. 

But if he were an honest man, he would admit that he started collecting them years before that. Here and there. 

He knew when. The night after the Yule Ball. 

When Rita Skeeter’s article came out about Granger, Krum, and Potter, Pansy showed it off to everyone who would listen. Her name and quote were in it. 

It was all bollocks, of course. 

After laughing about it with the other Slytherins, Malfoy sliced the article out with his wand and kept it in a box inside his dresser’s drawer, underneath some clothes. 

Granger was beautiful that night. She fixed the Densaugeo hex he accidentally hit her with. No longer the long-molared Mudblood. Malfoy was so consumed with besting Potter. He barely registered her tears when her teeth grew into fangs that reached past her collar. Then surprised and angry at the news that Krum asked her to the dance.

Who would even want such an insufferable know-it-all with a tragic overbite? Krum, that’s who. A better man than he, even four years ago. [22]

Malfoy remembered it well, because he kept looking at the picture in the article. He knew then. 

What did he know? That he was a stupid boy. Of course, it wasn’t love. But it was something. An attraction, he decided. But Malfoy was attracted to loads of witches. Granger wasn’t special. 

But he knew then that he was playing a role. Little boy playing pretend at an adult game, rigged to lose. 

Malfoy flipped through the papers. Some new items were in the box. He didn’t remember them being there. Granger must have put them there. 

He furrowed his brows. 

A newspaper clipping from January. It was a picture of them, looking up at the Hogwarts’ fireflies. The large headline read, “Hogwarts Reopening a Great Success!”

Two more items. Small. Barely perceptible in the dark. 

Two white paper cranes. [23]

After his shower, he passed by Granger’s room. The door was again open and the room empty. She was gone. Again.  

Where was she?  

After his shower, he sat on the couch, hair wet and staring expectantly at the alcove entrance. 

Fuck this. 

He needed to get out of this room. 

Malfoy didn’t know where he was going. He just started walking. Through the alcove. Down the six flights of moving staircases. Past the nosey portraits whispering and pointing at the Head Boy breaking the curfew rules. Through the Entrance Hall. Into the courtyards. 

He walked past Blaise and Luna strolling through the quads under the midnight moon, hand in hand. He almost didn’t recognize the couple, but Lovegood was wearing her signature Spectrespecs. They were out way past curfew, but Malfoy couldn’t be arsed. Even in the moonlight, he could see Blaise’s head turned toward Luna, who stopped every now and then to pick up a rock or a flower and line her pockets with them.

Fucking loon. 

Spring was in the air. The weather was mild with a warm wind. The Hogwarts grounds smelled like damp, fresh grass. 

Malfoy called out, “Oi, have you seen —?” 

“Nah, man,” Blaise answered dismissively. His handsome dark features glowered at Draco for daring to disturb them. 

He sighed, “You didn’t even hear—” 

“Don’t care, mate.” 

“Right. Cheers.” 

Nothing could ever be easy.  

As he turned to leave the Undesirable Couple No. 1, Luna called out dreamily after him, “Draco, I hear the Astronomy Tower is fixed. Lovely night to watch the stars.” 

“Uh, yeah, thanks, Lovegood.”

Malfoy continued to pace the grounds. Trying to get some air. Trying to get some space. Which, of course, was nonsensical. Everything felt so claustrophobic.

Granger was probably in the Gryffindor Tower or library. Probably fell asleep again. 

He didn’t care. He just needed to tire himself out. He felt so restless and tense. Malfoy hoped he wouldn’t run into the Prefects again or Filch. 

Who was on duty this month? Potter and Patil. Great. 

“Lumos!”  

Malfoy somehow found his way to the Astronomy Tower, slowly climbing up the circular steps. Maybe he would watch the stars. For no reason, he found himself irritated at Lovegood. 

As Malfoy approached the top, he felt a heaviness come over him. He remembered what happened here. Even though the Tower had been renovated and no longer looked so foreboding, it was here that his life changed irrevocably, and thus the fate of his fellow students. 

Granger’s too.  

He remembered crying. He was weak. Too weak to kill Dumbledore. He felt touched by his words. He remembered Bella’s voice in his ears. Her light touch on his shoulders. He shivered. 

What would have happened if he hadn’t been too proud? Took Snape up on his offer for help? Listened to Dumbledore? Reached out to, ugh, Potter or even Granger? 

Draco almost wanted to turn back. 

But then he heard some rustling. 

“Bloody Baron?” Draco called out. [24]

More shuffling. 

“Baron?”

“I have written permission from Professor Sinistra to be here.”

Then a cough. 

“Granger?”

“Malfoy?!”

“What are you doing up here?”

“What are you doing here?”

As he made his way up to the platform, he found his answer to the missing Gryffindor. Granger’s homework was spread all over the tower. A telescope directed at the sky. She huffed at being disturbed. 

“Studying. What does it look like?”

“You really are a swotty little thing, aren’t you?”

“Malfoy, I’m trying to catch up on the Astronomy classes I missed!”

“Wait, I didn’t know you were taking Astronomy.”

“I wasn’t until last month. I found out I need it for my NEWTs if I want Healing to be my focus. Something about wolfsbane and learning to chart the moon’s phases for its maximum potency.”

“Granger, these are mock NEWTs.”

“Regardless, I would feel better having it under my belt, so I could retake it if I get an E.”

“Is that where you’ve been going lately?”

“Keeping tabs on me, have you?”

Malfoy let out a little scoff, but he didn’t deny it. 

“Why are you up here?” She asked as she continued looking through the telescope and writing down some coordinates.

“Couldn’t sleep.” 

Granger looked at him with her hands on her hips.

She looked ridiculous in her purple broomstick pajamas and trainers. 

“Nightmares,” Malfoy explained further. Then he waved his hand dismissively and avoided her eyes. 

“Ah. Well, that … sucks arse.” She shuffled her feet.

Draco let out a derisive laugh, “Yeah.” 

After watching a few minutes of Granger wrestling with the telescope and writing down more coordinates, Malfoy asked, “Do you need any help?”

Hermione looked around her mess of parchments and up at the sky. She sighed, “No, I suppose I’m done for the night.”

“You can ask for help, Granger.” 

“Like last time? When you poured our potion all over the floor? Shall I expect you to throw me off the tower next?”

Draco visibly winced. Granger immediately realized what she said, “Shite, I didn’t mean—”

“Whatever, Granger. I had that coming.” 

She huffed, “Stop doing that!” 

“What?”

“Stop dismissing everything.” 

“It’s part of my charm.” 

“You’re not that charming.”

“So you agree that I am charming.” 

"Shut up." Granger tried to stifle a smile, but instead another cough broke out. 

“Merlin, Granger. You’ve been sick for a while now. You think an extra class is really a good idea?” 

“I’m getting better. I think the nights just worsen it.”

“Now who’s being dismissive?” 

“Arse!” She smacked him against the shoulder. 

They shared a look and something unreadable passed between them. Silence overtook their exchange. They had been close to each other before. They even touched before, however briefly. But a shimmering cord of tension built between them. Vibrating. Neither of them moved. They just held each other’s gaze. Malfoy’s jaw was set, as his eyes roamed over her face. She’d only seen this expression once before. When she returned back from the infirmary for the first time. Other times, his stares would vanish once she caught him watching her. For the first time, Hermione was able to revel in it. 

Malfoy spoke first, “I opened the box.”

“W-what?”

“The box I gave you.”

“Oh.” Hermione looked embarrassed.

“Is that all you have to say?” 

“What, n-no,” she stammered. She paused before speaking, “I tried to talk to you. The timing. Words. Nothing ever seemed right.”

“Yeah, okay, Granger.”

“I did! I made notes. I even colour coded them! And everything just sounded so stupid.”

Malfoy smiled. Granger saw his dimples. “So?”

“What do you mean, ‘so?’”

He explained, “So what now? Let’s have it out. We’re here anyway.”

“Um, I don’t know. I’m not prepared. I wasn’t expecting this. I need to get some stuff down first.” 

“This isn’t a test. You’re not gonna get a 'P.'” Malfoy sounded frustrated. 

“Psh, I would never get—”

“Why’d you put that stuff in the box, Granger?”

“Why didn’t you mention it until now?”

“Oh well, I don’t know! Because I didn’t expect there would be new shite in my personal belongings?! Normal people tell you something like that. How was I supposed to know?”

Hermione turned his reasoning inside her head. 

Yes, indeed, that was a large oversight on her part. Why did she assume Malfoy would immediately open the box? 

Malfoy thought she looked ridiculous as she clearly conveyed that his words had an effect on her. He could see that her swotty little brain was turning. He continued, “Cat got your tongue?”

 “I s-suppose I should have thought of that. But I thought it’d be a, um, nice gesture?”

“Nice?”

“Yeah, like when you shared with me your letters and newspaper clippings. So I gave you a clipping I saved. It’s actually a very good picture. Not like those blurry ones you had. Did you notice? I feel like the Prophet got a new photographer”

Malfoy didn’t care about what she was blathering on about. He rolled his eyes, “And the cranes?”

Hermione played with her sleeves, pulling them over her fingers. “Well, um, my dad taught me how to fold them when I was little. It’s supposed to be symbolic.”

“Symbolic?”

“Honestly! Are you going to repeat everything I say?!” Hermione had her hands on her hips again. Draco didn’t respond. “Erm, the cranes are supposed to represent a fresh start of sorts? After all these years of … We can try, yeah? Or at least we can choose to try? For the both of us?” Hermione’s voice squeaked at the end of her sentence. 

Malfoy stared at her, first expressionless, then penetratingly, as if she were the answer to a lifetime of dreariness. He didn’t say anything for a long time. Hermione grew uncomfortable under his calculating, hooded eyes and began bouncing on her heels. It was strange to be considered like this. Like she mattered. By Malfoy. She felt her heart beat a little quicker. He began pacing around the tower. 

“What, Malfoy?”

He stopped pacing and resumed staring at her. Hermione looked away, avoiding his gaze. Then as if finally deciding on something, Malfoy strode forward into her space. Hair slightly wet and unruly. Grey eyes torn and uncertain. The cord of tension built between them again. Moment by moment.

Until everything broke. 

Malfoy leaned forward and inhaled. Hermione exhaled. Both moved at the same time. She raised herself off her tiptoes and he wrapped his arms around her back. She shivered under his touch. 

Malfoy pressed his lips against her upper lip. Lightly. Tentative. Chaste, even. He let out a shaky breath. Hermione pressed her lips together. 

He interpreted the move as rejection and started to jerk away. 

It wasn’t that. It wasn’t—

She wanted to taste him on her lips. To run her tongue across where he’d been just a second ago. He tasted like salt and mint. 

She stilled his movements, curling her hands around the front of his shirt. Hermione was so, so afraid to lose his touch that she pulled him back much too roughly. His mouth clinked against her teeth. Malfoy began to speak, “Ow-” Her lips parted to deepen the kiss. She tasted a little metal in her mouth. Blood. She didn’t care. She pleaded for him to understand. He stopped talking.

His mouth shifted against hers, slipping frictionlessly across her lips. She caught his bottom lip, bit down lightly, and licked across it. Draco growled. She felt herself clench.

Even though Hermione shook, her chest pounded painfully. Her chest bloomed with a warm ember that reached all the way up to her ears. She breathed in, smelling his scent, mahogany, leather, and mint. Draco pulled her even closer, his nose sliding against her cheek. He never broke the kiss, parting her mouth with his tongue—gentle, probing, searching for something.

Hermione’s tongue met his, and she let out a little gasp. She could hear her heart throbbing in her ears now. Draco’s hands slipped down to her waist, kneading her lower back. Her hands moved from the nape of his neck to his hair. She couldn’t get enough. She didn’t want the kiss to stop. She never wanted him to stop.

Hermione deepened the kiss with her hold on him. She leaned into him, moving even farther up on her toes. He met her mouth back with the same force. This time, the kiss was not tentative. It was assured. Claiming. His grip on her tightened. She felt something break in her. That was fine. Whatever it was. She didn’t need it anymore. 

The cord of tension melted into a pulsing, hot liquid pooling at the pit of her stomach. 

One hand splayed across her back. The other came up to her face, cupping her jaw, not allowing her to pull away. The kiss changed again. From intense and searing to light pecks across her cheeks, jawline, and neck. This slight reprieve allowed Hermione to open her eyes for the first time and watch Draco, who placed kisses reverently all over her face. 

She studied him with an unguarded fascination. His face, sharp and pale, was now soft and glowing under the Lumos charm and night sky. She committed his features to memory. This moment. He was beautiful. Like a marble statue. Cold and hard. But softened by his glittering eyes on her and supple lips. 

Beautiful.

He must know that. It made her heart ache to be so close to him.

With reluctance, Hermione broke the kiss and rested her forehead on his. She smiled into his hand still on her face, and kissed his palm. His expression, first of surprise, turned feral. She looked into his grey-blue eyes with a clear, open look. Nothing was in her mind but him, his delicately beautiful face, and the feel of his cool hands and lips. 

She felt self-conscious under his gaze. Draco’s damp hair fell over his eyes and his mouth looked swollen. She bit her lip in uncertainty. He immediately took her mouth in his again, using his teeth to take ownership of her lower lip and gently sucked on it. Hermione let out a small sound. 

He let go and used both his hands to pull her face closer to his. They no longer were kissing, but sharing the same air. Malfoy breathed out, and his lips skated over hers like a soft breeze. She lifted her chin up to kiss him again. She never wanted to stop. While her stomach pulled her downward, her chest cracked open and filled up with bubbles. She was dizzy. She breathed him in.

His mouth was again hot on hers. Full and wet. Perfectly slotted against one another. Until she felt his lips move to her jaw down to the crook of her neck-she giggled-and finally her shoulders. Malfoy sighed. He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, clasping his hands behind her.

Hermione leaned into his hold and closed her eyes. She felt relieved. Safe. They stood like that for minutes. Maybe hours. 

As Hermione collected her items, she kept looking over at Malfoy, scared to lose sight of him. As if the spell would break. As if he would just Disapparate and disappear from this wonderful nightmare. But he stayed, waiting patiently, then took her bag wordlessly. They walked down from the Astronomy Tower to the Hogwarts grounds, apprehensive and striking nervous glances at each other. The cord stretching between them once more. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

When they reached the leg of the Tower, the cord snapped again. Malfoy pulled Hermione in for another feverish kiss. More familiar now, she allowed herself to be pushed up against the structure, pliant under his exploring hands. His kiss was rough, but his tongue was gentle. Open mouthed, his tongue flicked over her lips, teeth, and finally met hers. His calloused hand brushed her cheek several times. They remained locked against the Tower, while they explored one another. Hermione’s gasps got a little louder when his hands skated from her arms to the front of her pajamas. 

“Those are horrid!” Malfoy groaned. 

She let out a disbelieving laugh. “What? I quite like them. They’re cute. Little broomsticks.” Hermione did a little twirl. 

He forced himself not to smile, but his mouth lifted. He grabbed her by the front of her shirt to bring her closer. Their mouths met again, moulding together. First delicately, then frantic. Like they had been deprived of oxygen for too long, and now could get their fill only by holding and grabbing clumsily at one another. Her body reacted to Malfoy, no matter what. A light touch from his lovely mouth to his gentle bites against her jaw and neck to his rough, needy tongue that demanded more.

They continued to walk along the edge of the school grounds. 

Not unlike Blaise and Luna.  

Heads down. Sneaking glances at once another but gaining courage. Each trying to suppress their smiles until Hermione or Malfoy broke again and pulled them both against a tree, rock, or structure. 

Malfoy doesn’t push. It was the first time he felt like he had all the time in the world. There would be time. There would be time to talk about the ugly things. The scary things. The unknown things. They had all the time.

They end up at the Black Lake. He transfigured some leaves into a wool blanket, and he sat down with his knees up. Then he lifted his hand to guide Hermione down.

She ended up lying on her back, looking up at the night sky spotted with the full moon and twinkling lights. He laid down beside her, and they talked about nothing. Nothing in particular. His mother taught him how to chart the stars and helped him to memorize different constellations. A Black tradition. Since taking Astronomy, all of Hermione’s knowledge sprung to life. But she let Malfoy guide her hand anyway and show her his namesake. 

Hermione was feeling bold. Using his grip on her wrist, she got up to twist her body around and leverage herself against him. She straddled him and kissed her way up his neck to his ears to his cheeks-he laughed-and finally rested at his mouth. She sighed against his lips. 

“Granger, I—”

“Later,” and she resumed her soft, playful kisses with her arms thrown around the back of his neck. She played with his soft hair at the nape of his neck, and he’d never felt so warm in his life. Malfoy let her continue for a few minutes, then he had to shift his seat to keep a small distance between her hips and his. She lifted an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. 

With great reluctance, Malfoy stopped her kisses by pulling slightly back. Hermione knitted her eyebrows together. She let out a small huff. Her mouth downturned.

“I’m so—”

“I know,” she said, cutting him off.

His eyes shot open. But Malfoy’s expression grew serious. He pulled her back closer to his chest and pressed open-mouthed kisses into her shoulder, clavicle, arms, her scars, and down to the back of her hands. He whispered into her skin, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Over and over. Never enough. 

Hermione’s chin trembled, but she swallowed the tears down. 

Not tonight. 

She sat atop Malfoy's lap, and she craved to close the distance. With their faces already close, she tried to pull him in closer. She tried scooting with her legs around his waist. His jaw rested against her temple. Her curls rested around and against both their chins. His hands were on her hips, tight, possessive, but controlling the distance. Malfoy tilted his chin down and smiled into her lips, noting her frustration. 

Instead, he flexed his fingers on the small of her back, where her pajama top had ridden up. He palmed her back, warming her cold skin. 

Malfoy knew it wasn’t enough to just say the words. He could never really make up for what he did. Not really. He’d said the words so rarely that he knew forgiveness was neither instant nor guaranteed. 

His cool hands ran up and down her spine. She shuddered. Her unexpected moan distracted Malfoy’s grip on her momentarily, so Hermione could tumble closer. Hip meeting hip. Her flimsy pajama bottoms against his casual pants. They both groaned at the contact. 

If he was hard twenty minutes ago, his cock was positively straining against his boxers now. Hermione was really testing his self control.

“I like this,” she whispered, and she continued to cant her hips forward. 

He gritted his teeth, and breathed hotly into her ear, “Yeah? Me too.”

“Is this okay? Can we just do this? I’m not—” She panted.

Malfoy gave a sharp look at Hermione and stilled her movements. 

Did she say something wrong?  

His voice was low. “You don’t have to do anything. This is more than enough.”

Hermione’s eyes immediately focused on Malfoy. She blinked several times, then looked away. 

It was stupid, really. Why was she tearing up? How did he know? How did he know what to say? Gods, this is awful. And Malfoy will soon know she’s an inexperienced mess.  

With a careful, deliberate thumb, he traced her jaw and turned her face to look at him. The hitch of her breath made his heart pound and cock twitch. One of her hands grazed his chest, bunching up the fabric. Holding him. Not letting go. His thumb ended up at her bottom lip, which he traced back and forth several times. 

Until she sucked in her bottom lip, taking along Malfoy’s thumb. 

Her mouth was hot and wet. He almost came.

He instinctually thrusted his hips upward. Granger let out an appreciative gasp and felt herself clench against him again. 

Then he leaned in for a soft kiss, replacing his thumb. It tasted like sea salt and honey. Feeling the languid tongue of hers against his. He swept her sentient hair to one side of her shoulders.

Jasmines.  

Their bodies connected where they could. Her elbows on his shoulders, so that they could close any distance between their chests. His left hand on her back, and the other hand cradling her jaw, feeling the thrum of her fast pulse between his fingers. 

When Hermione reluctantly pulled away, they both gasped for air. As she reached for him again, his hand moved to her hips. This time, his control dissolved, no longer able to, wanting to keep them apart. She let out a small moan when she finally found the friction she was searching for. She tried to move closer, grabbing his thighs. Trying to reach a regular pace and contact. More. More. More. But then-

Cough. Cough. 

Hermione accidentally coughed into his mouth, spit and all. She was mortified. He squinted. She jumped up from him, but he only laughed and pulled her back down onto the blanket.

“Oh my god, Malfoy. I’m so sorry. That was quite disgusting.” 

“I’ve been snogging you for hours, Granger. Whatever germs you’ve got, I already have it.” 

She was still embarrassed. Her face was red. They turned to look at the horizon above the lake. The earliest indications of dawn were coming. Grey flickers of light passed through the mist above the lake. He looked at her thoughtfully and curled a finger around a tendril of hair. Soft. Long again. 

Her hair used to infuriate him, blocking his view in class or when she passed by, the lingering smell of shampoo and flowers wafted across his nose. It never occurred to him to switch seats. 

Her hair seemed sentient now. It moved on its own accord.

Cold wind suddenly replaced this April's night of unseasonable warmth. He smelled jasmine again. 

Wisps of hair started to fly around her face. In his unslept haze, he wondered if it was his mind playing tricks on him. 

She truly is Medusa.  

The pale strands of morning light were replaced by dark clouds, hanging low and heavy over the grounds. The private world they created with the transfigured leaves rumbled with thunder and wind. Malfoy could feel the electrical storm brewing in his fingertips. 

Then the wards from the Astronomy Tower sounded. Brash horns roaring. Alarms. Hogwarts had been breached.

Hermione and Malfoy suddenly stood up, wands at the ready, looking all around them. Strong winds curled around both of them now. They looked at each other, frightened at this invisible enemy. 

Howls came. The promise of dawn disappeared. Clouds darkened the sky. 

Standing back to back, they looked far and wide, finding nothing.

Until they felt it. A wet, encroaching coldness creeping over their skin and sliding down to the pit of their stomachs. Their eyes immediately flew up.  

The Dementors seemed to manifest out of the storm clouds. They could hear screaming in the back of their heads. 

The screams got louder. 

Until they realize the screams were coming from them. The Dementors. Their calls. Their horror. The black, cloaked figures swept closer, dropping below the clouds.  

Without thinking, Malfoy took Hermione’s hand and dragged her across the field until her body was thrown behind a large willow, using its curtains of leaves for meagre cover. He pushed her back flush against a tree. Their hands splayed out against the rough bark, his framing her head, and hers reaching behind her to steady herself against the tree trunk. They faced each other and were breathing hard against one another’s cheek. Hermione looked up at Malfoy’s rumpled hair and worried face. Her tender smile threatened to fill up every fracture in his chest. She reached up to cup his jaw and kissed him lightly. 

Dementors—several, tens, maybe dozens—in their tattered robes, twisting and turning, floated above and around Hogwarts. Screeching. Horrid, hollow screams. 

Then before he could stop her, Hermione slipped out from under his arms. 

“Fuck, Granger!” 

She ran. Away from the tree. Away from him. 

She shakily raised her wand toward the sky, waiting briefly for the Dementors to turn and find her. She took a deep breath. Hermione thought of things, beautiful, shiny, happy things. Her Hogwarts acceptance letter. Her arms wrapped around Harry and Ron. Folding cranes with her father. Ice cream outings with her mother. Malfoy’s lips on her shoulder. His whispers of apologies. His arms around her waist. The tingle in her neck. 

All threatening to be taken away. 

She sent out her Patronus, her otter. Light flowed from her chest, her hands, her wand. It chased away one Dementor, then another, and three more, leaving a trail of white light. 

The Dementors shrieked, shrinking back with the power of her memories. Away from her. Away from Malfoy.

She sent out another. And another. Only thinking of getting them away from him.

But there were more. More coming. Bellowing out from above. 

Hermione was drained. Almost spent of magic. She sent out her Patronus again. Weaker this time. But still effective. Sending more away. 

She tried one more time, but her otter did not appear. She dropped to her knees. A darkness closed around her mind. 

So weak. Does not deserve her magic.  

A meagre Mudblood.

Not good enough. Not as good as Purebloods.  

Never as good as Harry. He’ll leave you.  

When he leaves, Ron will too.  

They all will. 

Just like your parents.

Malfoy ran out after her, cursing. 

No doubt she was going to do something stupid, like she always did. But she was fast. Running across the field to deflect attention away from him. She kept incanting toward the sky, sending blue and white sparks from her wand.

Her eyesight was failing her now. She could only see shadows. His familiar shape got larger. She knew it was him when she smelled his scent mixed with the rain. It was beautiful.  

As he made his way closer, Hermione casted a Shield charm over Malfoy, “Protego.” It probably wouldn’t stave off a Dementor attack in her state but she had to try. 

When he finally caught up to her, she was panting and looked sickly. Hermione rested her hands on the tops of her thighs. 

“No! Get to McGonagall, Malfoy! Go!” Her voice was weak and hoarse.

The alarms continued to sound and in the distance, they heard the sky crackle with electricity and thunder.

“I’m not fucking leaving you by yourself.”

“You can’t help me. Get McGonagall!”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“Fucking idiot! EXPECTO PATRONUM!” Hermione casted at the Dementors above and behind him.

Her otter was a mere whisper of a shadow now. She cried out. In fear. In pain.

The Dementors sensed them. Malfoy and Hermione were out in the open. More than they could count, the Dementors barrelled down at the school. On them. Indiscriminate. Shrieking. Howling.

Hermione tried once more to cast but she was too tired. Too sick. Too spent of magic. She started to cough again. Her hair whipped around her. Eyes wild. Compelling Malfoy to leave, pushing him away. 

Suddenly, her eyes rolled back and she fainted on her feet. Malfoy caught her just in time and as quickly as he could maneuvered her body to the ground. She grew pale and her lips were so dry they cracked. She was trembling.

More Dementors followed. He felt it in his chest and could hear their shrieks behind him. Nothing happy now. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t concentrate. He started to shake.

Malfoy was frozen. The image before him was almost exactly like in the Drawing Room. Darkness enveloped them. Granger seizing on the ground. But this time, instead of her fiery eyes trying to reach for him, her eyes were shut close and brows squinted together. She looked even smaller now, having almost left her body.

Malfoy had to try. He watched her writhe on the ground in pain before. He couldn’t do it again.

He tried to think of a happy memory. His Hogwarts letter. The first time he climbed a tree by himself. Trying a Pumpkin Pasty at Honeydukes for the first time. The night with Pansy at the Yule Ball. Besting Granger at Potions. Granger’s hot mouth on him not 10 minutes ago. Her little gasps.

Only a few meagre strands of magic sparked through his wand. The Dementors were getting closer. He could feel them prickle on the back of his neck. He was so tired. So, so tired. They sucked everything good memory out of him. He could only see darkness now, ahead of him only a black structure on a lonely island. Azkaban in his mind’s eye.

Malfoy started to kneel down beside Hermione. The heaviness was too great. His head was pounding. He felt a great hollowness in his chest, like everything had been carved out. Nothing but a husk left. He just needed to lie down. Just for a moment.

As he forced his eyes to focus, he saw her on the ground. Her body broken … again. Eyes open and glassy now. Head lolling back and forth. Limbs shaking. Out of her mouth came sobs and nonsensical words.

No, they weren’t nonsensical. 

“No! No! Please! Stop! I don’t have it. Stop! Help me!”

He knew what she was seeing. The horror that connected both their lives. Bellatrix. What she did to Hermione. What she did to him.  With everything Malfoy could muster, he stood up. Arms shaking. Legs weak. 

He pointed his wand at the Dementors above them and rummaged through his brain. It came to him in drips, then drabbles. 

It’s warm. A fire is crackling. There's the sound of boisterous laughter. Granger sat on the ground and stole his tie again. It’s wrapped around her hands as she dangles it in front of the Kneazle who swats at it lazily. She’s speaking baby language to Crookshanks. Malfoy says something snarky to her, and she snaps back. Then her eyes crinkle at him and she laughs. He smiles carefully while he studies her, sipping her tea, never unfurling his tie from her hand.  

His hawthorn wood vibrated violently. Streams of white gold light flew through his wand, shaking Malfoy’s body. He held on. From the streams of brilliant light, his Patronus took form. 

It began as a ball of gold light. Lengthening and taking shape. A head. Two pointed ears. Two legs, then four. Fierce orange eyes. A fluffy tail.

A white cat? No, it was bigger than that . 

A white Lynx with light spots of grey on its ear tufts and chest. It let out a mighty roar and sprinted toward the Dementors, chasing away one after the other.

But the Dementors kept coming, reaching for him. The rattling howls. The shrieks. A tornado of black despair. 

Malfoy was losing energy fast. He sent out another Patronus, this one brighter and bigger than before. He held steadfast to his memory. 

The lynx let out a wild roar, continuing its path of barreling down Dementor after Dementor. 

Malfoy cried out. One of triumph. One of relief. He had tears in his eyes. The wind was still choppy around him, sending sand and leaves into his eyeline. 

He was spent. He fell to his knees next to Hermione. No one was coming for them. There were no lights or movement coming from the school. He cast a final look to the sky and saw more Dementors flying up above. Even more now. No one knows they’re there. 

Malfoy seemed to catch one Dementor’s attention. It glided toward him, blowing in a cold wind that wasn’t there. 

The wards continued to scream. Dawn was approaching. The sky was lighter now. 

But Malfoy couldn’t cast anymore. Hermione was still seizing. He casted the strongest Protective charm he could over her, “Protego horribilis.” His eyes drooped low to the ground. His chest constricted. It was hard to breathe. Panic poured over his body, fogging his brain.

With a final grunt of strength, Malfoy collapsed on top of Hermione, trying futilely to protect her from the worst of it with his body. His chest to her chest. He could still hear her erratic gasps of breath and feel a weak heartbeat, getting fainter. 

Malfoy tried to do what he couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t do that night. Protect her. He was sorry. So, so sorry. 

The Dementors began to envelop his thoughts.

He was weak.

So weak.

They'd all laugh at him. 

A failed Death Eater. 

A failed man. 

Couldn't save his mother. 

Couldn't even save Granger. 

Not a powerful Wizard. 

Not a man.

No one would mourn him.

They'd all laugh at him. 

No one would miss him. 

Tears from the wind and sand blocked his vision. He could barely make out anything except for the tattered wisps of their cloaks and rustling leaves. Malfoy felt Hermione’s fingers lightly curled around his cuff and his last two digits. She could barely close her hand.

Malfoy was wrong. There wasn’t time. There would be no time for them.

He began to fall deeper and deeper into despair. His body shook uncontrollably. He tried to hold onto his memory and Granger’s fast-cooling body underneath him.

…

…

…

…

…

The last thing he remembered was an unfamiliar voice. A man’s. Bellowing. From far away. Getting closer. Steady. In control.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

Then black.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Draco

Curls of smoke. Passing through his fingers, ears, and nose. 

He breathed ash.

Black floating bodies. Rippling across the dark water. 

Crazed cackling turned into shrieks. Hallowed howls.

Granger seizing. Arms cracking on marble. 

A lynx howling and running after a dark shadow. He reached out to touch the animal. It evaporated into nothingness.

Floating. Sinking. Pain consumed his body.

“Keep him steady.” 

Drifting in and out. Heat and ice. 

Gold rays of light danced across his eyes. Then darkness. 

Two bright orbs moved back and forth. Back and forth.

His brows furrowed. 

His mouth felt dry as parchment. 

His throat hurt, like someone sent him a Stinging hex.

The air was thick and heavy. Malfoy grimaced. 

There were voices. 

A soft, tired voice. A woman’s. “Get Pomfrey.” 

Footsteps rushed around him. 

Tangled brown hair on white marble floor. 

The colors turned into liquid. Swirling together into a puddle until they started pulsing like a beacon. 

Other colours mixed in until it turned red. 

Blood red. Then black. Trickling out and down from a slack-jawed mouth. Her mouth. Stretched out into a horrified “O.”

An unfamiliar, gruff voice. “Looks like he is vaking up.”

Malfoy made a face. The two bright orbs kept flickering between his eyes, making it hard to open them.

A voice whispered in his ear, "Do it, Draco."

Pain thrummed against his temples. Back. Shoulders. Knees. Bones. 

After a few tries, he got them open. His eyelids were sticky with sleep and potions.

Malfoy coughed. 

There was rustling next to him. Squeaks of chairs and shoes on creaky floors. Rushing now.  

His eyes tried to focus. His sight was masked by a thin gauzy film, making everything a little brighter and blurrier. 

Messy black hair. Suspicious green eyes. 

Malfoy blinked. They were gone.

Black again. 

It became the night sky. A million stars. His constellation lit up, star by star. 

He was back on the Hogwarts grounds. A warm wind carried the scent of jasmines. 

Alone.

Something wasn’t right. 

The sky morphed into a field of green, green grass. No more jasmines. Only the smell of cut grass. 

He laid down on the grass. It tickled him. Behind his ears. Neck. Knees. 

Malfoy’s pulse spiked with fear when he realized the grass was filled with snakes, slithering around his bare feet. 

“You’re here now. Safe.”

A curt voice. It warbled away. 

Every muscle tensed. Pulled tight like a wire. 

He gritted his teeth. 

Then he started convulsing.

“Roll him onto his side.” 

Commands. Sentence fragments. 

“Drink this.” 

He did. Then retched. 

And retched again. 

Everything felt wrong. 

Panic settled into his bones. 

He was forgetting something. Someone. 

Colours became brighter. He reached for them. Until they shattered into a thousand little shards. 

The shards pricked his sides. Until he bled. 

He rubbed his eyes and looked down. His hands were covered in blood. 

His tears ran red. 

Flashes of the night before pulsed and hummed. Like a tape on fast forward.  Too fast for him to focus on any one thing. 

Consciousness crept in. Slowly. Painfully. 

He felt it first. A memory. Bony fingers curled around his waist, inching downward slowly. 

He retched once more.

His forehead broke out into a sweat. 

“Cool him down.” Another order. 

A wet towel placed across his head. He kept shaking.

Darkness and light cycled. 

Orange and yellow orbs began to float across his eyes. Dotting his view. 

Sudden adrenaline in his left arm jerked him awake. It moved to his toes. 

His cloudy vision sharpened. He blinked once, twice.  

Above him, a wrinkled, stern face took focus. Steady hands. Cool, brown eyes. Pursed lips. 

Pomfrey.

His nose twitched at the familiar antiseptic smell.

Dizzy and groggy, his mind pieced together the events. 

Dementors attacked them.

Them.

Granger and him. 

Granger. 

“Welcome back, Mr. Malfoy.”

He coughed in response.

“Drink.” She lifted a licorice tasting potion to his lips. 

His eyes moved to the whitewashed vaulted ceilings.

Infirmary. 

He grimaced but took it greedily. It was liquid after all. Immediately he felt a cooling sensation work its way down his throat. He could talk now. Or try. 

Malfoy opened his mouth, but another dry cough came out.

“Take your time.”

He steadied himself and tried to push himself up from the bed. His elbows faltered and his head fell back roughly on the thin pillow. 

“Slowly.”

“Gr—“

“Don’t overexert yourself, Mr. Malfoy.”

His throat still felt raw. He massaged his throat. Everything around him was still spinning and blurry. He reached out for the sheets to steady himself. He turned his body toward the side of the bed. The mattress squeaked under his movements. His bare feet touched the ground. Cool. Hard.

“Mr. Malfoy, do you know who I am? Where you are?”

His voice was weak. Rough and creaky from lack of use. He coughed again.

“Gr—Granger.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Granger.”

“Madam Pomfrey, actually. But good guess.” The Matron had her hands on her hips, but gave him a tight smile.

He abruptly looked up at her.

“How—cough—long—cough cough—Ma-cough cough?”

Madam Pomfrey took pity on him and didn’t make him finish the question.

“A couple of days. It was lucky when they found you when they did. Do you know where you are?”

“Who?— cough cough— Hogwarts.”

“The Aurors.”

Malfoy spent the next day or so regaining consciousness and regaining strength in his limbs. Every hour or so, Pomfrey forced another vile-tasting potion down his throat. 

Memories from the attack flashed across his mind. 

The howls. The despair. The Astronomy Tower. Looking at the stars. Granger’s warm mouth. Her soft tongue. The weight of her hips. His hands on her back. The cold wind seemingly coming out of nowhere. The horror of seeing the Dementors’ empty eye sockets. His Patronus. Her eyes pleading for him to go. Her wild hair as the Dementors’ swooped down on them. Their bone-chilling shrieks as they got closer. How she tried to save him. How he tried to save her. 

“Lumos.”

The bright orb came back as Pomfrey checked his pupils. He squinted.

“How do you feel, Mr. Malfoy?” 

“Heavy. Groggy … In pain. ”

“Nox. Can you feel this?” Pomfrey used her wand to wordlessly send a small spark against his palm, then his forearms, between his shoulder blades, back, calves, and thighs. 

“Ow! Yes, Madam Pomfrey.”

She gave a curt nod and turned to leave, “I’ll be back in an hour with your potion.”

“Where’s Granger?—Coughs—Hermione?”

The Matron brought down her wand and looked at him evenly. She smoothed down her white apron. Her expression grew even more serious, if possible, and her hands clasped behind her back. 

“She’s down the hall. A few beds down.” 

“Is she-is she okay?” His voice cracked. 

“She’s still unconscious. You’re both young and healthy, and should be able to recover relatively quickly from the attack. But Ms. Granger, she was weakened before. She was ill. The extent of her spellcasting and the length of time she was prone to the Dementors drained her of magic. We’re not sure when she’ll wake.”

“Can I see her?”

Pomfrey sighed, and looked down the beds.. Her gaze fell on the room partition, preventing Malfoy from seeing Hermione at his angle. 

“Perhaps in a few minutes. Mr. Potter and the Head Auror are still with her. Don’t want to overwhelm—”

Before she could finish, Malfoy set off across the Wing, slower than his usual stride. He reached the end of the hall, holding onto the white partition for support. His clumsy, dragging steps made his presence known to Granger’s bedside guests. 

Black, greasy hair. Wrinkled grey jumper. Potter. 

Harry sat on a chair beside an unconscious Granger, with his head bowed down and holding her limp hand. 

Standing diagonally from the bed was a tall, dark-haired man. He was muscular and broad, wearing a long black trench with large red lapels, leather gloves, black pants, and dragonhide boots. His thick eyebrows contracted slightly. His dark eyes were hard, but a warm familiarity spread over his gaze when he looked at Granger. He stood with his arms crossed and leaned against the whitewashed stone wall. 

Malfoy recognized him.

Malfoy knew him, yes. A few years older. Grumpy. Tired. Eyes that had become more guarded and world-weary. Uneven stubble along his square jaw. But it was him. 

Viktor Krum. 

Krum was the Auror who saved them. 

Malfoy felt something then. An ache. An anger. A helplessness. That he didn’t save Granger. It was Viktor who did. Viktor who sent out the finishing Patronus. He resented feeling this weak. He resented Krum.

Viktor was the first to notice Malfoy. He pushed up from the wall and gave him a slow smile, “Little Malfoy, you’re avake!”

Harry scowled, “Malfoy, you’re up.” It was an accusation.

He returned the sneer, “Potter. Viktor.” Malfoy tried to stand up taller and loomed over Potter. 

Harry scoffed and turned back to Granger, gripping her hands even tighter. 

Viktor moved closer, “You are better? That vos very close, ‘Minny and you. Ve got there as vast as ve could. The Dementors—”

“‘Minny ?!” Malfoy said contemptuously.

“Don’t be a jackass,” Harry warned. 

“Why were they there at all? How’d they get past Hogwarts’ wards?!” 

“That’s why Viktor is here, Malfoy,” Harry butted in. 

Even as Malfoy ridiculed Viktor, his eyes never left the slight figure on the bed. He roamed over Granger’s sleeping body. 

Checking. For what? If she was breathing? Bruises? Injuries? Nothing he could do about that. Why did he care? Because she was the Golden Girl? Part of Potter's do-gooder trio? That people would blame him if something happened to her? No, he didn't care what happened to her.  Just a swotty Mudblood he's been forced to work with. A position to keep him out of Azkaban. But he did care. Fuck. He cared. The ache in his chest was proof of that. The only time he remembered feeling like this—this helpless—was when she disappeared for a few days and he didn't know where she was. But this time. It was more. Like he was falling, waiting to hit the ground, and couldn’t wake up. He was scared. He recognized it now. 

Her chest rhythmically moved up and down. Malfoy breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.  Her skin was pale and sallow. Her undereye circles were a stark contrast to the rest of her skin. Purple and blue bruises splashed across her face and body; some yellow and faded by potions. His eyes moved from her face to her limbs mostly covered by the bed linens, which led his gaze to finish at Potter’s fingers interlaced with hers.  

He frowned at the sight. 

He felt a rough, fleshy hand on the back of his thin hospital top. “Little Malfoy, you are veeling better, yes?”

He turned around to see Krum standing too close and acting too familiar, “No more Quidditch superstar, eh?” Malfoy stood a hair shorter than Viktor, and he did not like that. 

Viktor chuckled in a low baritone, “No more. Put away childish games ven var started.” His shift in his substantial body weight made his dragonhide boots squeak. 

“I suppose I should thank you for your service,” Malfoy said gruffly. 

“If you vant. But is my duty,” he shrugged. “You helped ‘Minny. She’s very brave vitch.”

“Yeah, that’s one way to see it.” Malfoy huffed. He crossed his arms. The back of his head was pounding. There was pressure building behind his eyes. He suddenly felt nauseous. But he couldn’t show weakness. Not in front of Krum. And certainly not in front of Potter. He knew he needed to rest, but instead he pulled another chair and sat next to Potter. 

One bird, two stones. No, that wasn’t right. Erm. Two stones, one bird. Um, two birds, one stone. That's it.

Harry looked at him disbelievingly. Malfoy had never willingly sat so close to him before. “What are you playing at, you git?” He narrowed his eyes. 

“Sod off with your questions.” 

“Get out of here!”

“Fuck. Off.”

“Malfoy …” 

“Potter, you can either get out of the way or be moved.” 

“Your threats would come a lot scarier if you weren’t a hollowed husk of a Wizard right now. It wouldn’t be a fair fight.” 

“Try it,” Malfoy instinctively reached for his wand, only to realize he was wearing hospital gowns. They stood up simultaneously, causing their chairs to fall back. 

It was in that moment Madam Pomfrey passed by with a new set of potions for Hermione. Noting the rising tension and testosterone levels, she sighed, “Visiting time is over. Mr. Potter, please head back to the Gryffindor Tower. Auror Krum, thank you for your help. Please send our best to the ADE team. Hogwarts is very grateful for their work with the Dementor attack. Headmaster McGonagall will be in touch shortly.” 

Krum bowed his head, “I vill return in a few days to check on ‘Minny.” Malfoy sneered again. 

Pomfrey set her cool eyes on Malfoy, “You are on bed rest. I would like to keep you here under observation for at least the rest of the week. Please return to your side of the Wing, Mr. Malfoy.” 

Harry gave Hermione one last look before gently dropping her hand by her side. He made his way to the exit, deliberately bumping Malfoy’s shoulder on the way. 

Malfoy started to move towards him before Pomfrey ordered, “Now, Mr. Malfoy.” He didn’t move. He glared at the unwelcome visitors until they finally left the Hospital Wing. Then he shot a look at Pomfrey but said nothing. She returned it with one that said “Test me and find out.”

He purposely strode to Granger’s side and stared at her for several moments. Her brows were furrowed and her mouth lolled open. She looked so lifeless, save her chest moving up and down. Her usually-massive, brown curls were flat and matted. Her forehead was pink and sweaty. He tenderly pushed some strands of hair stuck to her face. Finally, he placed her hand—the one that Harry had been holding—carefully under the covers. As he did, her hospital sleeve slid down from her wrist to her elbow, revealing her scars. 

Mudblood. 

A lump bobbed in his throat. He choked it down. 

Her skin was soft but cool to the touch. For a second, he thought he saw one of her fingers twitch.

“Wake up,” he said softly. To her. For him.  

“NOW.” A stern voice came from behind.

Malfoy stared up at the ceiling of the infirmary. It was silent and dark. It reminded him of the night he was hit with Sectumsempra . Beyond the barely-registered shame and embarrassment for having lost another duel to Potter, he wished he died from his injuries that night. As he laid bleeding out on the bathroom floor, he wished for death. The pain was almost as bad as getting Marked. He was so close. He wanted to close his eyes forever. So he didn’t have to carry out his task. His impossible task of killing Dumbledore. 

Then what? Would his family have been safe even if he could do it? Or would there be more tasks that if he failed too, he and his family would suffer the Cruciatus again or be killed? Until he inevitably failed. It was a losing game. 

He looked over at the room partition, which blocked his view of Hermione. Now he didn’t know what he felt.

Could he just forget this all happened? Pretend he never kissed Granger? Maybe she would forget when she woke up anyway? Maybe she wanted to forget. Did he want her to forget everything? Did he? What did a kiss mean anyway? It was just a kiss. Even if it lasted hours. Her straddling him. Her bites. Her little kisses across his face that both made him melt and laugh. Maybe it was a sign. The Dementor attack. That this was all a bad idea. What would his mother say? A youthful indiscretion. His father? Sow your wild oats? Is Granger wild oats? No, of course not. She’s too dangerous of a choice to be wild oats. Choice … what a concept. What about his friends? They would laugh. They would scorn him for—. For what? Caring about her? Almost lov—Never mind, that. They would say she barely matters. Just use her and discard her. She’s just a Mud—. No, she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. She was his Patronus.

Fuck. My. Life. 

Every 2-3 hours, some potions would Apparate in front of him with an instruction note, along with a light meal of bread, soup, and a small meat pie. Pomfrey would check on him periodically, making sure he drank all his potions, incant a Diagnostics charm, and observe his chart with solemnity. Sometimes she tsk’d. 

Each time Pomfrey came around, he tried to glean more information from her. 

“No, Ms. Granger has not woken up yet.” 

“No, not yet.”

“Her vitals are stable.” 

”Yes, I’ve already casted a new diagnostic charm.”

”Every hour or so.

“I don’t know when she will wake up, Mr. Malfoy.”

“She had a Muggle illness, pneumonia. It’s an infection caused by a virus. It weakened her lungs and subsequently, her magical core. A good catch by my intern, Hestia. She spends a lot of time in the Muggle world. That’s why the potions didn’t work on it.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Malfoy. Hestia is at a Muggle chemist as we speak.”

”A chemist is a shop with Muggle medicine.”

“Not yet, Mr. Malfoy!”

“You are supposed to be on bed rest.”

Malfoy suspected that after the third day, Pomfrey slipped in an extra Sleeping Draught to his rotation of potions to keep him in bed and create less work for her. 

She didn’t allow any more visitors for the next few days, even though he heard a rotating round of familiar voices in the stone corridors outside the infirmary: Theo, Potter, Pans, Blaise and Luna, Goyle, the insufferable Weasel and the Weaselette.

In the late nights, Malfoy would sneak off to be by Granger’s bedside. He couldn’t sleep much, anyway. His mind was too jumbled. He pulled up a chair. He held her hand against his cheek—it was still cool and clammy—and watched for any changes in her face, fingers, or body temperature. In more affectionate moments that he rarely allowed, he swiped his thumb across her face. He headed back to his bed when he noticed the grey streaks of dawn cross through the hospital windows. 

Malfoy didn’t say much to Granger. He wasn’t even sure if she could hear him. He just stared at her. Willing her to wake up. 

It wasn’t enough time. He didn’t have—He just needed her to wake up. 

Not always thinking nice or tender thoughts, sometimes a well of resentment would rise up so high in him that he almost felt like he was suffocating. It filled his chest with smoke and ash that he almost couldn’t see past his worry for her. 

Who the fuck was she to him?! Some sort of atonement? A trial? An experiment? What warranted this amount of concern? He hated this feeling. It made him vulnerable. A weakness to be exploited. 

He was angry. At her for being her. For being a Mudblood. For making his life so damned difficult. For being so fucking inconvenient. For McGonagall putting them together. For his parents putting these beliefs in his head that it continued to be his go-to insult for her, even as he tried not to. For his friends saying those slurs so easily in conversation that it came second nature to him. 

Every morning when he awoke in his hospital bed, he resolved to forget about their stolen moment. It was just one night. It could just be dismissed as teenage hormones. Losing their heads for a second. He just needed to focus on himself and gain back his strength. But the minute he woke up, his eyes would inevitably fly to the room partition, listening for any sounds of life. He would sigh, and resign himself to walking over to her bed.

He didn’t need this. He wanted to walk away unscathed. Go to France. Leave Hogwarts behind as just an unpleasant memory. Leave her torture inside a black box never to be opened again, instead of the guilt and horror festering in his mind. She was everything that he didn’t want. But he wanted her. 

Why did it have to be her? 

Other times, his forehead fell against the side of her bed when he unwittingly dozed off in the chair. Malfoy didn’t care that he woke up with a crick in his neck or that his legs fell asleep. He didn’t care that his eyes were rubbed raw or that he hardly got enough rest, which irritated the Matron deeply. In those times, Pomfrey would find him in the morning, give him a long-suffering sigh, and use her wand to roughly push his sleeping form off to his own bed again. 

“Hey! Ow! That hurt!”

"Madam Pomfrey, this isn’t necessary. OW!”

"I'm a patient!” 

“Ow, I’m recover—”

"My father—OW!”

After the first five times or so, she ceased chastising him about the rules. 

Harry, along with Ron and Ginny, were permitted to visit some time in the middle of the week. Malfoy kept his distance, but watched them with growing resentment as they huddled around Granger. 

Ron practically slobbered over her. She wasn’t even awake to push him away! He brought her cheap flowers and an orange sweater from his mother. It clashed with Granger’s hair. 

Ginny brought a small plant, an aloe. Speaking to Hermione as if she were conscious, “This is for you, Hermione. Neville wanted to come visit, but he doesn’t do so well with hospitals since … well, since always. But it’s worse now, ever since, well, y’know. He wanted you to have this. He says plants are calming. And this kind has particular healing properties, so he got it just for you.” She placed the plant gently down on the table next to Granger’s bed.

Pomfrey tried to scoot them out once she deemed that was sufficient time for visiting. Malfoy was glad to be rid of them and not hear the Weasel moaning over Granger. 

He heard some rustling next to his partition and his head turned to follow the noise. It was the Weaselette, and she was holding a plant. Scarhead was trailing behind, looking uncomfortable. Malfoy almost couldn’t hide his surprise.

“This isn’t from me,” Ginny started. 

“Weaselette,” He paused dramatically. “I would have never thought—“

“Neville wanted to give you something while you were here recovering. He called it a snake plant or something. For helping Hermione—”

“What the hell does Longbottom know?” 

“Harry saw when he was doing rounds.”

“Saw what exactly?” 

Potter shook his head, “You’re impossible.” 

“Anyway, Malfoy, here.” She handed the plant to him. He didn’t take it.

Malfoy’s mouth quirked. “A. Snake. Plant. A bit on the nose, don’t you think? 

“I’m just relaying a message.”

He studied Ginny and Potter, a strange pair. He hadn’t seen them alone together since last year after the Battle. It seemed like years ago but also like yesterday. Both filled out since, from a pile of bones to lean and athletic, the Weaselette was almost as tall as that Scarred Freak. Ginny barely concealed her animosity toward Malfoy, whereas Potter was standoffish and suspicious. He seemed to be studying Malfoy, not sure what to make of him. 

“You sure it’s not hexed?”

“I couldn’t be arsed to check.” The Weaselette dropped the plant roughly on his bedside table. 

“Well, fuck you too.”

Blaise, Luna, Pans, and Theo visited too. 

Pansy looked tense and hollowed out. Her face was again bare. Malfoy almost forgot that she had freckles too. 

Too.

Granger’s smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. 

And fewer but bigger ones on her chest. 

Malfoy spoke in monosyllabic answers to Pansy’s questions and patted her hand appreciatively, as he sat up sideways on his hospital bed. She blushed at the contact and opened her mouth to say more. But he couldn’t. Not right now. So he turned his head away until she sighed and left. 

He didn’t move until the click of her heels left the infirmary. 

Theo shook his head. At whom, Malfoy wasn’t sure. 

“Where’s that from?” Blaise nodded to the plant.

Breaking Malfoy out of his trance, he opened his mouth to speak before Luna interjected with her twinkly voice, “That’s a snake plant, my love. They can grow and become stronger, even when planted in undesirable conditions.” She eyed Malfoy steadily without blinking. “A good choice.”

Blaise smiled at her, “Your head is full of fun facts,” and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Luna brought him some mismatched socks, one red and one green, and white daffodils, “They’re good for healing and new beginnings.” She winked at him. 

Malfoy held the strange gifts in his hands, “Uhh, thanks, Luna.”

Blaise didn’t have much more to say before barely concealing his boredom, “Good to see you on your feet, Malfoy.” He smacked Draco on the back. Draco did his best to suppress a cough. 

As Theo sneaked him a flask, he asked, “So Dementor attack, yeah?”

“Loads of them. How’d they breach the wards?”

“McGonagall and Sinistra are looking into it. There’s been lots of talk about who saved you two.”

“Krum? He was here a few days ago. What about it?”

“Krum’s part of the Anti-Death Eater (ADE) squad. They’ve been using all sorts of Dark Magic to catch Dementors, even Unforgivables . Ever since the Aurors replaced the Dementors in Azkaban, some of them have gone rogue. Attacking at random … Or at least so the story is being sold.” [24]

Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

Theo continued, “But I’m not sure why the Aurors would be arsed to use such dangerous magic to catch a few rogue ones.”

“Yeah, sounds idiotic. I guess the Prophet was finally right about something,” he said flatly.

Theo blinked at him, as if Malfoy were stupid. “The point is it’s not worth it to use Dark Magic, let alone a whole Auror team, unless it’s for a more important purpose.”

“Well, that sucks for Krum, doesn’t it? No wonder he’s been looking so haggard lately.”

Theo and Blaise exchanged looks. 

“Mate, can you think beyond your own cock for just a minute?”

Malfoy scowled. 

“Krum knows that the Dementors are not actually attacking at random. They’re actually pinpointing enemies of particular Pureblood families, like Potter or your Granger.”

Malfoy glared at Theo. “What? How do you know this?”

“Father no. 8 works for the DMLE,” Blaise quipped. “They’re in charge of the Aurors.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Why would Dumstrang’s Golden Boy care about the war or the Dementors, for that matter? The school’s strictly Purebloods. They’ve made no secret of it.”

“If Fourth-Year didn’t show you that Krum doesn’t give a fuck about Blood Purity, I don’t know what to tell you, mate …” Theo trailed off. 

Malfoy’s eyes flashed, “Which families?”

Blaise shrugged, “I guess we’ll see, right? But if any one of our family members is caught supporting Tom, it’s a lifetime in Azkaban for all of us. Guilty by association. We’re not 16 anymore.”

Luna put a light hand on Blaise’s shoulder.

“So …” Theo sent Malfoy a rakish smile. “Patil and Potter brought both of you to the infirmary after the Auror Squad cleaned up the scene. Potter said you were delirious, but kept your arms around her. Pushing everyone away.” 

“Didn’t know you two were friends … I need some water,” Malfoy grumbled. His eyes kept drifting over to the other side of the infirmary, so he stood up to grab an empty cup near Granger’s side of the Wing and whispered an Agumenti charm to give him an excuse.

Blaise looked bored, “Are you two girls about done?”

“Potter said he had to levitate you two together to the Hospital Wing.”

“This isn’t the time, Nott,” he warned.

“Right. Right.” Theo got up to leave, but not before sipping from the flask that he gifted Malfoy.

Blaise took Luna’s hand to lead her out. She smiled warmly at her partner, then threw a recent copy of the Quibbler on Malfoy’s lap before leaving. “It must get very boring in here, Draco. I thought you might want some reading material.” 

[Image: The Quibbler newspaper]

Well, the Loon wasn’t wrong. It was boring as fuck in the infirmary. 

Malfoy flipped carelessly through the Quibbler until he saw an opinion piece that caught his eye. 

 

‘VIKTOR KRUM — WORLD FAMOUS QUIDDITCH PLAYER TURNED DEADLIEST AUROR’

By Stubby Boardman. (Clearly a nom de plume.) 

Viktor Krum, known for his prowess in Quidditch and star pupil of Durmstrang, left a promising athletic career to fight alongside the Order of the Phoenix during the Second Wizarding War.  Since then, his rapid rise among the Aurors has created tension in the Ministry. 

Working closely with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the Anti-Death Eater squad, which Krum heads, has the worst kept secret in the Ministry: their penchant for using the Dark Arts in catching undesirables and Dementors alike. The unofficial mission of the ADE squad? Weed out any remaining Pureblood sympathizers. With the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt turning a blind eye to Krum’s more cutthroat strategies, the Head Auror has all the room to play. 

“Krum is an outlier. The DMLE didn’t anticipate him,” said a Ministry insider. 

But to what end? For what purpose? 

Ever since Aurors replaced Dementors in Azkaban, Dementor outbreaks have increased greatly. Initially thought to be random, there’s been whispers that such attacks are actually highly targeted and strategic, funded by Pureblood families who continue to support Pureblood ideologies and apartheid.

The Ministry insider adds, “The DMLE is full of Pureblood sympathizers. So there’s been a lot of pushback against Krum’s methods and how willing he is to use them. He is devastatingly effective, and he is getting too close for some Witches and Wizards.” 

Malfoy felt his stomach drop. He thought of Theo’s parting words, “I don’t know who’s on that list, but all our families might be in on it.”

Near the end of the week, Madam Pomfrey relented and allowed Harry and Ron to visit again. 

Malfoy was already by Granger’s bed. He didn’t look up, but he placed her hand by her side discreetly before they walked in. 

“What are you doing here, Malfoy? Leave,” Ron demanded. His hair was barely combed and his clothes looked and smelled unwashed.. 

“Get out,” Potter echoed.

Ignoring Ron's questions, he posed his own. “Where are her parents? Why aren’t they here?”

“That’s none of your goddamn business. She’s over 18.” 

“Her parents should still know.”

"We’re her family,” Harry cut in, puffing out his chest.

Malfoy looked at him incredulously. 

Ron spat out, “Haven’t you done enough? Or maybe you didn’t. I’m not sure. Which is it?”

“What exactly are you on about?”

“What am I on about?! Have you forgotten already? You watched Hermione get tortured in your home and didn’t do nish. You expect me to believe that you actually tried to save her over your own scraggly arse?!” Ron stepped up to Malfoy’s chair. 

“I don’t give a fuck about what you believe or don’t believe.” 

Someone cleared their throat behind them. 

Viktor, adorned in his Auror uniform, stood leaning against the wall. “Hi little Hogvarts boys. How is ‘Minny?”

“What’s it to you?” Ron challenged.

“Vel, I saved her and little Malfoy too. I van to ask zem questions about vat zey saw.” 

“Malfoy is all yours,” Potter shrugged. 

“Can ve talk alone, little Malfoy?”

“Stop calling me that,” Malfoy warned. 

Viktor gave him a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and uncrossed his arms. “Very vel. Please,” and he gestured to the stone corridors outside of the infirmary. 

Malfoy and Viktor stood alone in the hallways. Over the last four years, Viktor seemed to grow even broader and taller. But his eyes denoted a tiredness that so many war veterans wore, and one which Malfoy recognized in himself. 

“What do you want, Krum?”

Viktor shuffled in his uniform, “You care for ‘Minny, yes? You tried to help her? From the Dementors?”

“Why do you need to know this? What’s it to you?”

Viktor laughed, “Little Malfoy—”

“Don’t. Fucking. Call. Me. That.”

He put his hands up in defeat, “‘Minny and I vere—Vel, no matter. Vos long time ago.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes in suspicion but didn’t answer. 

“Ve need to know about Dementors. Ver they came from. You and ‘Minny can help us. They attacked Hogvarts. They knew ver to go. Someone sent them.” 

“I didn’t see anything. Only that there were lots of them coming from the sky.” 

“You ver on field. With ‘Minny. Vy you out so late?”

“How is that relevant?”

“Ve suspect Purebloods are sending Dementors out to specific people, including ‘Minny. Seems coincidence you ver there too.”

Malfoy looked at him disbelievingly, “Am I under arrest? Or are you just looking to send out more baseless accusations, hoping one of them sticks?”

“Little Malfoy—”

Malfoy’s fists tightened.

Viktor looked down briefly at Malfoy’s hands. His own leather-clad gloves curled too, brandishing his wand and a subtle threat. “You vil not vin. And is not baseless. Your father is in Azkaban, yes? For helping Voldemort and veeing a Death Eater. You as vel. Only you ver lucky to be 16. Only Shacklebolt cared. I voodn’t have,” he smirked menacingly.

“It is time for your potions, Mr. Malfoy,” Pomfrey cut in. She stood in the entrance of the Hospital Wing with McGonagall. 

The Headmaster crossed her arms and stepped forward, “Auror Krum, while we are grateful for all of your help, it would be best if you talked to me first before interrogating one of my students.”

“They are ov’ age, Headmaster McGonagall.”

“Then you will do the very minimum and offer the basic etiquette of making your presence known in my school,” McGonagall glowered at the young Auror. 

Krum opened his mouth, but then just bowed ever so slightly. He turned and his dark robes billowed behind him. No one spoke until the click of his dragonhide boots was out of earshot. 

“Back to bed, Mr. Malfoy. You have a few more days here. Spend it wisely resting up and gaining back your core strength. Not measuring wands with an actual Auror,” Pomfrey chided. 

She was awake. 

The small commotion around her bed told him so. 

Pomfrey and McGonagall chattered excitedly. The Matron cast several Diagnostics charms to make sure her vitals were stable. 

Granger blinked slowly. The world slowly came into focus. Around her was white everything. White linens. White hospital gowns. White partition. 

She saw the Headmaster looking down at her with an openly worried expression, “Ms. Granger, you’re awake. This is great news.” McGonagall patted her hand gently. Then almost as if embarrassed by this small show of emotion, she stiffened and rustled her robes. “Madam Pomfrey, I trust that she is in your very capable hands.” With that, she left the infirmary. 

Everything hurts. Her head. Her throat. Her eyes. All over her body. 

As she tried to recollect the events past, Hermione could only steadfastly hold onto one memory, a pair of grey-blue eyes on her. 

But the dam broke. It all came rushing back. The Astronomy Tower. The kisses. The touches. His hands on her. Her straddling his hips. The willow tree. The desperate fear that they were going to lose everything again. The screams. 

It was too much. Too fast. She shut her eyes again, squeezing them tightly, trying to block out the pounding behind her eyes and laid back down. 

From far away, she heard Madam Pomfrey say, “I’ll get you some dark chocolate.” 

Pain seeped through her pores and attacked her on all sides. Her body was a traitor. It dug into every nerve, bone, and muscle. 

It wrapped its heavy arms around her and dragged her into darkness again. 

A shadow hovered above her. Its presence dulled the pain, as she smelled it: mahogany, leather, and mint.

With much effort, she slowly opened her eyes to see a set of grey-blue ones on her. Worried. Tight set. A face that looked drawn out and tired. As if it’d been through hell. White-blonde hair that looked limp and uncombed. Lips that were pressed into a thin line. 

Hermione was back at the Manor. 

Why was she still there? She fled with Harry and Ron. Was Hogwarts just a dream? How long had it been?

She started to sob and breathe erratically. Until she heard it. 

His calming drawl, “Breathe.”

It was just a nightmare. A hallucination. 

Her fingers spasmed against a cool, fleshy surface. There was a weight to it. She looked down and saw a hand wrapped around hers. It was an unfamiliar sight. She furrowed her brows and tilted her head. She studied their hands clasped together. Curious. The hand gently placed her own back onto her side. 

She forgot.

Hermione’s eyes flitted back to the face. It was familiar. It was handsome but too gaunt. His chin too pointy. His cheeks too sharp. Strands of hair fell across his eyes. Hair too long. His eyes. Grey-blue. They never failed to make her gasp. 

“You’re awake,” the shadowed face said hoarsely.

Hermione didn’t, couldn’t respond. Only blinked at him. The haze was too strong. She focused on the face. The face she knew. She wanted to reach out and touch it. Feel his lips. She knew them once. But her fingers could only twitch.

“That’s good.” 

It’s better if she forgot. Safer for them. For her. 

She lifted her fingers to clear the fog but couldn’t move. The face looked sad. Then a shift in his eyes. To steel grey. 

The shadow backed away. 

Hermione’s chest tightened and constricted. She called out, but her mouth wouldn’t cooperate. Her lungs felt like they had been deflated. It was a feat to just groan. She made a small animalistic noise. 

The shadow stopped. 

“It’s okay. You should sleep. When you wake up, it’ll all be over,” the voice she longed to hear whispered. Only it didn’t say what she wanted to hear. 

The fog retreated. She concentrated on the syllables, mouthing them silently. 

Moments passed. Maybe hours.

A screech of a chair. She tried harder before the shadow was gone. A sob fell out as she mustered up everything she had to voice out a small croak.

“S-stay.”

The shadow lingered but didn’t come closer. 

“Granger, it’s better this way.”

Her body wracked with silent sobs. She couldn’t do anything else. She couldn’t stop.

The shadow was going to retreat. The face she longed to touch would disappear forever. She was alone. Lonely. Alone again. 

There was no one else. 

She struggled. She concentrated. Trying to carve out the words. Make them sound out. Make the syllables mean something.

“D-Dr…Draco,” she finally got out.

The shadow quickly came into focus again. The grey-blue eyes. Open and wide. 

She reached out slowly to touch his face, but her hands only spasmed again. The hand grabbed hers. Putting it along his cool cheek, her fingers twitched again. The face sent quick, soft kisses along her fingers, palm, and forearm. Kissed her scars. 

Her brows knitted together at the word on her arm. It looked both foreign and familiar. 

She needed him closer. To feel his warmth. To know it wasn’t a dream. Or a nightmare. With all the strength she had, her hand closed in around his last two digits and pleaded with her eyes for him to understand. 

He stood up. 

He was going to leave her. She was going to be alone again. In the darkness. 

Her breath hitched. Her body prepared itself to wrack with sobs.

Then wordlessly, he slipped into her hospital bed, holding her tight around her waist. The thin mattress dipped and squeaked. He didn’t get under the covers. Malfoy didn’t want to crowd her. 

She was there. He was there. Side to side. Face to face. 

She smelled him: mahogany, leather, and mint. 

Malfoy cupped her face in his hands, dragging his fingers along her cheeks to pull her even closer. Hermione let out a shaky exhale. His eyes were heavily lidded.  

They looked at one another, drinking each other in in silence. Warm muddy eyes met cool grey-blue ones. Foreheads touching. He breathed in deeply. Then he buried his nose in the crook of her neck and hair, smelling her sickly sweet sweat. He let out a shuddering breath before he looked back up at her and closed the miniscule distance between them again. All of her energy was devoted to moving her chin and skimming her lips against his. He tasted like she remembered as her thoughts began to defog: salt and mint. His mouth felt like spring air: wet and warm. Their lips stayed clasped in that moment. He didn’t move. His lips, firm but soft, stayed on hers. Kissing her in a slow, languid pace while she tried to move her lips in pace with his.

Never breaking the kiss. Never stopped kissing her. 

Even though Malfoy was exhausted, he kept his eyes on Hermione, slowly blinking. She moved a trembling hand out from under the blankets to smooth out his worried brows and lightly stroke down to his eyelids. The slight weight of her fingertips made him close his eyes. He was warm. Safe. 

Before his heavy lids shut and his body uncoiled beside Hermione’s for the first time in weeks, he heard in his dream, “Everything’s going to change now, isn’t it?” [25]

He could only nod as he drifted into oblivion.

Chapter Text

The grey streaks of dawn seeped through the hospital windows and crossed Malfoy’s eyes. He woke up slowly, blinking once, then twice. He was buried in a soft, brown haze. An unfamiliar sensation tickled his nose. Something both pointed and soft. His nose was buried in her neck again. It was moist and smelled faintly sweet. The crook between her neck and shoulder. It felt like—He liked it, and he took one more deep breath. 

He forgot how or when, but overnight, he got under the covers with Granger. Their limbs now tangled in one another. Her hand clenched the fabric of his top. He held her waist tightly.  His lips rested on her hair. He didn’t let go even as his breath grew hot and musty against his face. 

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t have a fitful sleep or any nightmares. He felt content and sated. He rolled over to his back and a tightness thrummed through him. He’d never slept through the night with someone before. 

Malfoy tried to disentangle without waking her, but was failing spectacularly. As he tried to twist and turn around their, her small hospital bed, she only groaned sleepily and clutched at his shirt tighter. He smiled and stilled. Without meaning to, he pressed a kiss into her temple. 

Until he heard the familiar, fast clicks of Pomfrey’s loafers. 

Having no time for grace, he flipped over onto the floor and maneuvered himself onto the chair next to Granger’s bed. 

Madam Pomfrey looked over the partition, eyeing him suspiciously, “Mr. Malfoy, you’re here. Again. Perhaps since you’re so content to flout the rules, it’s about time for you to—”

“Granger is awake.” 

She pursed her lips. 

As if on cue, Hermione’s eyes blinked open. 

A day later, Malfoy was discharged. He was given the weekend to rest in the dormitories, but was expected to resume his studies. 

His notebook glowed.

It was a message from McGonagall:

Mr. Malfoy, once you are discharged from the infirmary, please come see me in my office. 

 

When Malfoy appeared in the Headmaster’s office, the doors immediately swung open. McGonagall sat at her desk, engrossed in a stack of parchment piled high. 

“Mr. Malfoy, it is heartening to see you well. Up and about , I’ve heard from Madam Pomfrey.” She lowered her glasses and stared piercingly at him. 

“Um, thank you, Headmaster McGonagall.”

She continued to flick her hand casually as her quill moved magically across the documents. 

“Who knew there would be much paperwork to fill out for a rogue Dementor attack? Albus really was a wonder.”

Malfoy shrugged noncommittally. 

“I suppose you would like to know why I called you into my office, Mr. Malfoy.” She waited expectantly before continuing. “As you are still recovering, along with Ms. Granger, I have offloaded some of your tasks to Mr. Potter and Ms. Patil. In particular, the speech for the upcoming anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.”

He winced, almost having forgotten the ceremonies. 

Of fucking course. 

McGonagall seemed to expect some pushback, but got none. 

“You are expected to continue to attend class and resume your Head Boy duties, but in a gradual capacity. I would also like you to bring Ms. Granger’s coursework to her, so she can continue to work in whatever capacity she feels capable of as she heals. This would not be something I recommend, but Ms. Granger insisted. She takes her studies very seriously.”

He gave a slight nod, “Is there anything else that I can assist with, Headmaster?” 

“No, Mr. Malfoy.” 

He started to leave when McGonagall heaved a heavy sigh. “Wait, Mr. Malfoy.” The sadness in her voice stopped him in his tracks. “How are you feeling?” 

“Fine. As you said, out—”

“I. Am. Sorry. Mr. Malfoy, for once again, not better protecting you and Ms. Granger. We thought the wards sufficient—”

“Headmaster, you couldn’t have known …”

“Regardless. You may be of age, but you are under my care when you’re at Hogwarts. You put your trust back into the institution when you decided to return. Yet, the faculty and I continue to fail their students over and over again. We shouldn’t be allowing our children to go through so much. Yes, we don’t mean to, but we need to do better. The war. The danger. The sacrifices. The impossible choices. When does it stop?!” The question was posed more to herself.  

Malfoy looked down at his loafers. He didn’t know what to say. He felt a tightness in his throat and a strange crick in his chest. No adult had ever apologized to him before. Not Bella for Crucio'ing him when teaching him Legilimency. Not his mother for failing to protect him from Voldemort or Bella. And never his fucking father for forcing him to take the Dark Mark or making him watch people get tortured to make a man out of him. 

Mcgonagall let out another sigh and collected herself. She fixed the slight crookedness of her black cap that wasn’t there. 

“Also, I wanted to say that … I’m proud of you, Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Potter told me the conditions in which he found you and Ms. Granger. While I will turn a blind eye to the reasons you were both out at curfew this once , he relayed to me that you were very protective of Ms. Granger even in a weakened state.”

Malfoy felt a small blush creep up.

Fuck. Did everyone and their mother know?

“When I first assigned you two as Head Students, I could not have predicted, in my wildest dreams, this turn of events. I believe that the most I could hope for was tolerance between Hogwarts houses and on a macro-level, some sort of tepid optical alliance between Muggleborns and Purebloods that would set an example for other Wizarding schools.”

He shrugged again.

“I understand that this path must not have been easy for you, Mr. Malfoy. But to see such a selfless act—”

“Nothing I do is selfless, Headmaster McGonagall.” He lowered his eyes. 

“I think you underestimate yourself, Mr. Malfoy. Your act of bravery—”

He scoffed.

McGonagall's flickered at him, “Your act of bravery shows you are capable of change, growth, of caring for someone different from you. To what extent, I do not know. But I see a shift in you.”

“Headmaster, I thank you for your vote of confidence. I did what I must with Granger, erm, Hermione. The Wizarding world would have my head if something happened to the Golden girl.” He added quickly, “Not that they don’t want it already.”

McGonagall didn’t even look slightly amused, “Very well, Mr. Malfoy, if that’s the narrative you insist on, I shall not attempt to convince you otherwise. You are dismissed.” 

Malfoy turned to leave, but stopped. He needed to know. 

McGonagall was already working away at more parchments when she realized the young Wizard was lingering. She pushed her glasses up. “Can I help you else with anything, Mr. Malfoy?”

“Well, this was a serious incident, Dementors breaching Hogwarts.” 

She nodded cooly.

“I noticed that Hermione’s parents were not notified. We both know why both my parents were not able to visit me, but it struck me as odd for her, especially considering the extent of her injuries.”

McGonagall stood up and gave him a small, tight nod. She crossed the front of her desk to close the distance between Malfoy and her.

“Ms. Granger is 19. She can be her own guardian.”

“I’m aware, Headmaster. But I find it worrisome that Hermione’s family are unaware that she was ill with a Muggle disease, um … new-moony-ah, I believe Madam Pomfrey said it was. They may need to be notified of any medications she is taking and associated complications.” 

He briefly wondered if her illness had anything to do with the phases of the moon. 

The Headmaster looked like she was considering something before answering, “I’m unfamiliar with the details myself, but her parents are not listed as next of kin.”

“Do you know who is then?”

The Headmaster gave him such a long look that Malfoy thought she wasn’t going to answer, “Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley.”

Malfoy’s heart thudded. 

“Well if there’s nothing else …” McGonagall started to smooth the back of her robes to sit down at her desk. 

“Wait, Headmaster.” 

She stopped in her tracks. Malfoy hesitated before speaking.

“ … No one has ever really given me an apology before, let alone prominent Witches and Wizards, especially about ... Thank you, in any case. I don’t know how to accept one with grace, but I, um, appreciate it.” 

McGonagall looked surprised but nodded. Malfoy left her office and before he could turn around, the doors magically closed on him.

Everything took Malfoy longer since the Dementor attack. He did not like that. He hated feeling weak. He also hated how Hogwarts were gossiping about him and Granger. Suspicious eyes. Loud, deliberate whispers. 

“You think he helped them get in?” 

“Wouldn’t surprise me. He did it before.”

“Kinda convenient, yeah? He’s fine and Hermione Granger is in the hospital.”

As if being an former Death Eater and a family that deflected weren’t enough. 

The Professors treated him with kid gloves as he made his gradual return, allowing him extensions on exams and assignments. He was grateful to be left alone for the most part. 

The First- and Second-Years whispered when he walked into the Great Hall. As he sat down at the Head Table without Granger, he felt sets of cold eyes on him. Finnigan. The Weasel. Half of the student body. 

What the fuck ever. 

He also felt wrong. Like something was missing. Like a limb. Like a really annoying limb. Theo and Pansy greeted him eagerly. Potter gave him a small nod. 

 “Oi! Malfoy! You’re back! Come sit. Come. Come. The table’s been awfully boring without the fights and sexual tension. Potter can only give us so much goss about the Aurors and Viktor.” Theo exclaimed as he made space for him. “Please regale us with something. ”

Malfoy shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you.”

“How’s the Golden girl doing?” Pansy scowled at Theo’s question, but tried to school her face as neutral. 

“She's awake now.” 

“How do you feel?” Pansy asked quietly.

“Like death.”

“Always with the dramatics,” Pansy said. He gave her a withering smile. They both were trying. 

“Here’s some hair of the dog, yeah? It’ll put some bite in your step.” Theo offered him a cup of tea that was clearly infused with something else.  

Malfoy downed it and wolfed down his plate. 

He was eager to not be here. 

Each night after dinner, Malfoy brought Hermione her homework. He also brought her a book from the Head Students’ bookshelf, usually Shakespeare, and her brown, leather notebook. 

The first night, she sat up in her bed, just finishing her own bland meal of soup and bread. Colour slowly crept into her cheeks again. Her coughing fits became fewer and farther in between with the new Muggle medication. 

The first night, they smiled tentatively at each other. She gathered her work and books greedily, looking for something to distract her other than the mundanity of the four whitewashed walls of the infirmary. 

“How are you?”

“B-better,” her voice cracked a little. 

“You?”

“Pomfrey kicked me out, so it must mean I’m better.”

“That’s good!” Hermione said saccharinely. 

Gods, she could barely get a sentence out. What an idiot. How embarrassing. She was so nervous. All she could think about was the night in the Astronomy Tower and now, the night they spent together before Pomfrey interrupted them. She wondered if he would stay again. Could he? Would he? There was so much unknown. So much to be said. So much that she was afraid to say. 

He sat next to her, not saying much, watching her read. It’s like they’ve always done this.  

After a few minutes, Hermione snuck a glance at him. He bought a book too, Game of Thrones , from the common room . She never heard of it. 

She tried to concentrate on her Herbology homework, but her eyes kept sliding to his hands clasping the book. The veins. The long fingers. His signet ring. 

“You’re staring, Granger.” 

“Am not.” 

“You are. Like what you see?” He smiled devastatingly. 

Her heart almost faltered. 

“I’m just wondering,” she cleared her throat. “I’m wondering how long you’ll stay.” Hermione hoped her emphasis gave her a sense of courage. Decisiveness. 

Malfoy closed his book with a loud snap. She jumped. 

He made his way closer and moved to sit on her bed. She gulped. 

The mattress dipped and he slid even closer, caging her between his arms. She slid back against the cold, metal headboard, trying to give him room. 

“Do you want me to?”

“Want w-what?”

Brilliant, Hermione. Brilliant. Truly earning her title, ‘Brightest witch of her age.’ 

“Stay.”

Instead of answering, she dragged his face to hers. That was it. 

Malfoy’s carefully cultivated image of control snapped. He pushed her back onto the mattress and their lips crashed with equal desire and force. She immediately opened her mouth, tangling her tongue with his. 

He smiled into their kiss and slowly pulled away, putting his finger against her lips. Hermione audibly groaned. 

“Say it.”

“W-what?”

“Tell me you want me to stay.” 

She huffed at his game, "You're infuriating." 

Then he reached out, his hands hovering above her chest. He placed a kiss on her clavicle and continued to lick and brush his lips slowly up to her neck and against her ears. He breathed hotly against her. She shivered. 

“Stay,” she whispered. “Please.”

“Stay, what?” 

Hermione almost squealed in frustration. 

“NO.”

A bucket of ice water. A boner-crushing voice. 

“I’m afraid Mr. Malfoy can’t stay. Visiting hours are over,” Pomfrey stood behind them with her hands on her hips. 

He quickly scooted off her bed and turned around, maneuvering his trousers and untucking his shirt to cover his erection.

She looked at them disapprovingly. 

“Ms. Granger, I expected more from you,” Pomfrey tsk’d. “You should be resting. The Muggle medicine needs time to work through your system. Because of your history with seizures, we need to monitor you closely for any side effects or potential complications with the Medicinal potions.” 

Malfoy’s face dropped. 

“Mr. Malfoy. You’ve left the homework?” 

“Yes, Madam Pomfrey.” 

“Then there’s no reason you should linger. You may leave now.” 

He nodded solemnly. 

The spell broke. 

Hermione watched as his expression changed from playful to feral to shameful. He slipped a hand through his hair and looked down. 

“Good night, Granger.”

She watched helplessly as Malfoy left the infirmary without looking back. She wanted to call out to him, tell him to stop, but Pomfrey was eyeing them with such a severe puritanical look that could put her elementary school’s nuns to shame.

That night, neither of them slept well.

The second night, Malfoy came to her bedside, looking sleep deprived and drawn out. She was already waiting for him with her arms crossed. She looked resolute, her sentient hair matching her expression. He didn’t bring a book. 

“Hey, Granger. You—look better.” 

“Well, you look awful.” 

He stiffened, “I have your work. I’m just going to leave it and head—”

“Muffliato.  You listen to me here, Malfoy. This isn’t going to work.”

His eyes immediately widened, then narrowed, and he backed away. He felt a hollow pang in his chest. Hermione could see what he was thinking. 

I can’t believe we ever thought he was the heir of Slytherin. Subtle, my ass. 

Hermione threw her hands up in frustration. “Oi! You! Your penchant for dramatics is appalling.” She knew she had to get this all out and quickly. “I want you here. I … missed you,” she proclaimed boldly, but not without a slight waver in her voice. “Don’t let Madam Pomfrey’s slip of the tongue let your head run—Oh, never mind!”

She sighed and looked down at her bed linens. He shifted uncomfortably. 

Hermione began again. More careful this time. “W-we have a lot to talk about. More than we probably can in the infirmary—”

“I’m just trying to give you some time and space to think, Granger. You’re ill and my being here maybe isn’t conducive to your healing.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing all day? Knitting sweaters?! You do not know better than me, Malfoy. But I’m not going to try to convince you to stay," she paused, "If you don’t want to.” She smoothed down the wrinkles on her sheets and avoided his eyes. While Hermione played with the edges of her bedsheets, she said, “We can just—y’know pretend everything didn’t happen.”

Malfoy was quiet for a few moments.

“Do you want to?”, he asked slowly. 

“Don’t answer a question with a question. I already told you I missed you.” She crossed her arms and huffed. 

The edge of his mouth tilted up. 

“If you’re not going to say anything, then I’m going for my stupid mental health walk in the corridors. Pomfrey only allows me three of them a day.” 

Hermione pushed herself from her bed. It took effort. The floor was cold and hard. She steadied herself against the mattress as she hoisted herself up and shuffled on her slippers. It felt awkward as she knew his eyes were on her, watching her struggle with basic tasks. 

Malfoy came up behind her, and looped his arm around her waist.  

The amount of relief she felt surging through her body was embarrassing. Her back to his chest. His nose in her hair. She heard him breathe deeply. 

Before she could move, his left hand brushed against hers, intertwining them together. She could feel the coolness of his signet ring on her skin. He dropped his head down to kiss her shoulder. She turned to face him. Facing him, she could see his jaw tighten when her eyes met his grey-blue ones. She pushed herself up on her toes and kissed him lightly. His grip around her tightened. His body was hard and cold. She leaned into him.

Malfoy whispered into her neck, “I was worried you weren’t going to wake up.” His breath heated up her skin. 

Hermione shook her head and felt his lips brush against her cheek.

“Come take a walk with me.”

As they left the infirmary, Hermione called out to Pomfrey, “I’m just taking my walk now, Madam Pomfrey. I’ll be back in 15 minutes.” 

“See that you are.” A voice rang out from her office.

They walked in silence for a few moments along the stone corridors, just outside the Hospital Wing. 

Malfoy kept his stride in step with Hermione’s. His hand never left hers.

Hermione spoke first, “What happened? I got bits and pieces from Harry, but I want to know what you remember from the attack.”

“We were at the lake,” he began carefully. “Then suddenly, Dementors, tons of them, came from the sky. They attacked us, which shouldn’t be possible since the Astronomy Tower and Hogwarts itself are heavily warded. You cast several Patronuses to buy time, but you were … sick. With some sort of Muggle moon disease. So it weakened you. Drained you of your magic. You fainted.”

Hermione cocked her head at his description, “Moon disease?”

“Yeah, new-mooney-ah. That’s what Pomfrey called it anyway. She said potions don’t work on it. That’s why you were sick for so long.” 

She stared at Malfoy for several moments, blinking at him. Her mind trying to make sense of what he just said. Then she suddenly wrapped her arms around his neck and shrieked with laughter. She placed feverish kisses across his cheeks, lips, and nose. 

“You’re an idiot!”

He scrunched up his face, but didn’t want her to stop. 

In between her kisses, she asked, “Then what happened?”

“I- kiss -cast- kiss- a- kiss- Patronus.” 

Her kisses stopped. He frowned. 

“You what?” 

“I cast a Patronus.”

“I thought you couldn’t.” 

Malfoy shrugged, “I guess I could.”

“What was it?” 

“A white lynx.” 

“Oh!” Hermione’s eyes grew larger. “Well, that’s … interesting. I haven’t heard of many of those. I’ll do some research on them. So what’d you think about? Catching the snitch in 5th year? Or—” Her face turned suspicious. “Um, breaking Harry’s nose on the train?” 

“He told you about that?” 

“He tells me everything, Malfoy.” 

He kissed the tip of her nose. “There were too many anyway. Fortunately, the Aurors followed the Dementors to Hogwarts and saved all of us. Just in time.” The last words were hard to get out through his gritted teeth. 

“Hm, I guess we were lucky.” 

“Seems that way. McGonagall and Sinistra are re-warding the place, as we speak.” 

A pause. 

“It’s getting late, Granger. I’ll walk you back.” 

She sighed but didn’t argue with him. 

What was the point? She didn’t want to make him stay, if he didn’t want to. Maybe he was here because he felt sorry for her. Felt obligated. Felt like he had to appease the broken patient. Or maybe even McGonagall told him to visit her. ‘Make a good show with the Head Girl.’

She bristled at the thought.

They stopped near the infirmary’s entrance and Malfoy pulled out his wand to make a sweeping motion around himself and mumbled something she couldn't quite hear. Small yellow sparks left from his wand and circled around his body.

A Notice-Me-Not charm.

Her breath hitched, as she realized what was happening. They walked back to her bed. Hermione sat sideways looking up at Malfoy, while he stayed standing in a dark corner. 

Before long, Madam Pomfrey’s shoes clicked toward her, “You’re back, Ms. Granger. I trust your walk was a good one?” 

“Yes, Madam Pomfrey.”

“How are you feeling today?” 

“Stronger. I no longer need to catch my breath while taking short walks. I have some muscle weakness, but it’s probably from being in bed for almost two weeks. Also my coughing fits are becoming more infrequent.”

“Good. Good. Sounds like you’re making progress. I would like to put you on one more round of antibiotics and keep you here a few more days to monitor you for any interactions with the potions. Then barring any great changes, you’ll be discharged soon.”

Hermione nodded. 

“I’ll add some time to your walks and let you out to the Hogwarts grounds, provided that you are properly bundled up.”

She nodded again, “Thank you, Madam Pomfrey.”

The Matron looked around Hermione’s hospital area. Her books and parchments were spread out on the hospital bed next to hers. 

“I trust your Mr. Malfoy has already dropped off your course work? He knows visiting hours are over?” 

Hermione blushed and nodded silently.

“Very well. I shall retire for the night. You can ring me if you need anything.” She gestured to the bell next to Hermione’s bed.

As Pomfrey’s loafered steps retreated into the night, Hermione got ready for bed. She brushed her teeth and tried to tame her unruly hair with her brush. She slipped into bed and scooted over to the far side. 

Malfoy sat in the chair next to her until she got comfortable. He didn’t move. Just watched her quietly. 

She could tell he was wondering if this was the right thing to do. If he should stay. If he should leave. She was tired. She couldn’t ask him again. She had some pride. 

So Hermione whispered, “D-Draco, I understand if—”

He moved quickly onto the small bed. Didn’t leave. They made adjustments for one another. Careful movements. Shifting and shuffling. The mattress creaked under the weight of two. 

They ended up on their sides, facing each other. 

She used her blanket to cover them both, as their limbs tangled with one another. Her knee between his long legs. His hand under the covers curled possessively around her waist. She moved into his hold. 

“Did you sleep?”

“No.”

“You have classes!”, she scolded. “NEWTs are coming up.”

“Mock NEWTs, Granger.” He yawned and pulled her forehead against his. His palms cradled her cheeks.

“You have to sleep. You’re recovering too.”

“Then stop talking.”

He kissed her then. Slowly. Deliberately. Working to move her mouth open. He wasn’t in a rush. Just savouring her soft lips and wet tongue. She responded in kind, letting him take the lead. The dizziness. The warmth. It was beautiful. They kissed until their breaths grew slow and steady. She pushed herself closer to him. Pressed herself against him. Chest to chest. Hermione could feel his heartbeat. Maybe it was hers.  

And sleep claimed both of them. 

Malfoy awoke before the sun came up. Before Pomfrey checked in on her and had a conniption. 

As he put on his shoes, he realized that it was the first time in a long time that he didn’t dream. 

Hermione looked peaceful sleeping. He lightly touched her forehead. She stirred at his cool touch and grabbed onto his hand. 

“I have to go,” he whispered.

“Mmmno,” she mumbled. Her eyes still closed and eyebrows furrowed.

“Pomfrey’s going to be in hysterics if she finds me.”

“Shecaneatadeaddove.”

“What?!” He laughed. 

“Eatadeaddove.” She said louder, as if it were any clearer.

“I have classes, Granger.” 

“Fine!” She released his hand and turned away from him. In a second, she was snoring. 

He looked at her sleeping figure, smiling. Then he realized what he was doing. 

Fuck. 

So it went for the next couple of days. 

Hermione would spend her days catching up on homework, then taking short walks and doing light exercises to regain her strength. She practiced simple charms in the stone corridors. 

Harry, Ron, and other friends visited in the afternoon after classes. 

In the evening, Malfoy would come by after feeding Crookshanks (as she requested) and having dinner. 

He didn’t tell her that he was already doing that. 

Then, either she or he would incant a Muffialato and Notice-Me-Not charm. For hours, they talked about nothing and everything. 

Her progress. Her homework. How his classes were going. The upcoming mock NEWTs. Head Student responsibilities. Crookshanks. Being an only child. His summers in France. Her travels with her parents. Books they were each reading. Dementors. Her Patronus. His Patronus. The Aurors. 

Malfoy not-so-casually asked about Krum. Hermione told him that they kept in touch via letters and that he was training as an Auror, but they lost touch after the war. Malfoy reluctantly told her that Viktor was now in the Auror Squad that helped save them. 

“Oh, I should write and thank him!” 

“He’ll be by Hogwarts soon enough. He wanted to ask us some questions about what we saw.” 

“That’s lovely. It’ll be nice to see him after so long.” 

“Hmph.” Malfoy clenched his jaw and curled his finger more tightly around Hermione’s tendril of hair. 

As each night passed, Malfoy could see improvement in Hermione’s constitution. Her voice got stronger. Her movements were more deliberate and fluid. Her coughs were fewer and farther in between. 

They laid in bed together, whispering.

“Madam Pomfrey told me she’s going to discharge me by the end of the week.” 

“That’s good to hear.” He tucked a stray curl behind her ear. 

“After that, I still get another week off, which will be useful for me to catch up on the work I missed.” 

“Stop worrying about that.” 

“I can’t help it. There’s been so many interruptions to my studies!”

“You nearly died, Granger. Only you would call that an interruption.” Malfoy kissed her forehead and carded through her wild hair.

Hermione huffed. After a few beats of silence, she added, “It means I can go back to the Head Student dormitories.” 

The pregnant pause between them grew. 

“Yeah?” He asked hotly into her ear. 

She trailed her hand that had been on his arm to his hand placed in front of his stomach. He breathed in sharply. Her hand moved ever so slightly toward the top of his pants. 

Malfoy broke first. He pulled her under him, scooping her down with his hands around her waist and pressing her back against the bed. She reached up and grabbed his neck. She kissed him fiercely, closing any space between them. Their kisses became frantic and sloppy. She moaned softly into his mouth. 

He trailed kisses from her mouth, down to her neck, and ended at her chest. Kissing each freckle. Giving each one individual attention, lightly licking them. She wiggled and gasped. He paused at the top of her thin hospital shirt. Hermione nodded. 

He slowly unbuttoned her top. She hadn’t been wearing a bra since she'd been in the hospital. With each button undone, he placed a kiss on each inch of her newly revealed skin. 

She had to see him. Feel him. 

Hermione pulled roughly at his white oxford shirt. Untucking it from his pants. Unbuttoning his top with shaky hands. She ran her hands across his chest and dragged her fingers down to the front of his trousers. Feeling the hardness of him. He dropped his forehead onto hers as she moved her hand up and down the length of his cock over the fabric. Malfoy gritted his teeth. She didn’t know if she was doing it right, but he ground into her hand and groaned against her neck. The vibration of the sound flooded her chest and filled her body with molten heat. 

She liked this. She liked seeing the effect she had on him. 

When her top was open, she laid bare in front of him. Her breasts were small, and her light brown nipples were peaked and hard. Malfoy looked at her, up and down. He breathed out.

Hermione suddenly felt self-conscious and started to cross her arms. Malfoy pushed his weight onto the back of his heels and whispered hoarsely, “Don’t. I want to look at you.” 

He ran his hands up from her stomach to splay across her breasts. He cupped each one. Then he put his mouth on one while squeezing the other. Softly. Then harder. Hermione whined. Literally whined. She bit down lightly on her bottom lip. 

Her head tilted up to watch him. She grabbed haphazardly at the top of his pants, trying to undo his belt. Her hands were clumsy as she tried to reach around his head on her chest to reach him. Malfoy laughed softly at her determination and kissed his way up from the middle of her chest to her lips. 

Her hands struggled to find purchase. Trying to get some sort of leverage. Malfoy pinned her down with his weight, and pushed up against her. Hermione could feel his hard cock against her thin hospital pants. They both groaned at the delicious contact. 

“Please,” she sighed in a voice that didn’t belong to her. 

He untied the knot of her pants and slowly slid them down, revealing a pair of sensible light blue knickers. She moaned and covered her face. This time not in pleasure. 

He smiled and pulled down her hand from her face. 

“Look at me,” he whispered.

He slowly walked his fingers from her knee to the juncture where her pelvic bone met her thigh. He moved a finger softly up and down the crease, almost petting her. Up and down. Up and down. Then he licked the crease slowly. Savouring the saltiness of her skin. She shook. Hermione almost cried, as she covered her eyes again, lost to the sensation.

Then his long fingers moved to the gusset of her knickers. He stroked her up and down. Teasingly. Slowly. Again. And again. She was hot, wet, and aching. 

Malfoy stopped. She was breathing erratically. She finally noticed he stilled his fingers. Outside of her knickers. Hermione opened her eyes to see him looking at her. The bulge in his pants clear as her gaze wandered down. 

She tilted her head in a question. Then she realized he was waiting. Waiting for her to say yes. She pulled him close into a rough kiss, grabbing his arse to mould his body to hers. 

His hands reached out to steady himself on the bed. Hermione opened her legs, as he hovered above and between her. He moved the fabric of her knickers to the side and skimmed her slit. Soft and steady. One of his fingers moved to her clit, massaging her bundle of nerves, while his palm applied pressure to her pelvis. She let out a guttural sound.  

This was so good. So, so good. 

She was ready for him when he slowly parted the folds of her cunt. He swore into her neck as he felt how wet she was. Testing. Teasing. Curling his finger in. Then another.

She shifted at the unfamiliarity of his fingers inside her. But the pressure. The stretch. The small pliant pain as he moved his fingers against her walls.

She was so tight. She clenched around his fingers, almost pushing him out. There was no room for anything else. 

“Does this feel okay?” 

She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. 

Malfoy pulled out his fingers. They glistened under the low candlelight. Then he slowly pulled down her knickers to her ankles. She tried to kick them off to the side of the bed, but failed. He returned his thumb to circle her clit, while palming her vulva. This made her feel warm and safe. She keened into his hand. 

All of it was too much. Not enough. Please. Please. More. Less. Please. Please.

Her thoughts were a big jumble of nonsensical words. 

He pushed his index finger back inside of her. Crooking the tip against the front of her pelvis. Feeling the rough, spongy wall. Again. And again. 

Hermione yelped and dragged his face close to kiss him deeply. She broke it to catch her breath. 

COUGH.

Fuck. 

Malfoy’s finger stilled inside her. She clamped down around it. 

He kissed her cheek tenderly as he rested his forehead on the pillow supporting her. She turned to kiss him back until …

COUGH. COUGH. COUGH. COUGH.

Her cunt clenched roughly around his finger again. Pushing it almost outside of her. He shuddered.

Malfoy growled and bit down on her shoulder, leaving a mark, “Mrrrrwww.” 

"Ow!"

He buried his face into her shoulder and hair, breathing through his nose, trying to slow his breaths down. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. He gradually withdrew his finger. Hermione almost cried. 

She was babbling, “Uh! Nnnn-” Desperate for him to continue. 

He pushed up back on his heels, eyes dark and jaw clenched. He gently slid up her knickers and pants. 

“Malfoy!” 

“You’re still sick.” 

“I’m not!” 

“We’ve got time,” he smiled.  

Then as if it wasn’t torturous enough, her breath caught in her throat when he brought the finger that had been inside of her into his mouth. Licking it clean.

She shook and covered her face again. She wanted to die. Burn. Be inside of his mouth. On his cock. Touching him. Everywhere. Have him surround her. Until she could only see, breathe, and taste nothing but him. 

When Hermione regained a little composure, she sat up beside him and turned to examine the mark he left on her shoulder. Round and slightly red. Slightly smaller than his mouth. 

“You bit me.” 

He smiled sheepishly, “I needed to calm myself down. Sorry.” 

She brushed against the mark. It was a little sore. 

“Can you … do it again?”

One night in the infirmary, the air shifted. 

Their kisses became deeper. More frantic. Hermione grabbed roughly at his arms, neck, hair, his jumper, and pulled it off of him in a swift movement. She needed him closer. She was desperate. She tried to pull him over her. His legs locked onto both sides of her body. She sat up and reached for the button at the top of his trousers. Malfoy palmed her breasts over her thin hospital shirt. She nodded, and he reached underneath her shirt. When his cool hand met with her warm skin, she hissed at the contact. He reached behind her knees and pulled her down to the hospital bed that he had become accustomed to. The bed squeaked. She froze her movements. 

Panting, Malfoy asked, “Have you—” 

She nodded. He stared into her eyes, giving her steady attention. She bit her lip, wondering what he was thinking. 

“Have you?”

He nodded slowly. 

“How many?”

“What?” Malfoy squinted at her. 

“How many?”, she repeated.

“Merlin, Granger …” He ran his hand through his hair and fell onto his side. His erection subsiding. 

Malfoy reached for her waist and opened her shirt to expose her breasts to the cool night air, she asked again. “How many?!”

“FuckIdontknow !” His voice muffled as he tried to bury his head between her soft breasts.

She pushed him off of her. “HOW MANY?!”

He sighed and turned on his back, facing the ceiling. His hand never leaving the front of her waist. “I don’t know. Like thirty, maybe? Maybe more?” He didn’t look at her. 

“Thirty?!” 

“Yeah,” he whispered as he drew random figures on her soft tummy. She pushed his hand away. 

“Who are they?” 

“Granger …”

“Malfoy …” 

“I don’t know! I barely remember.” 

“Yes, you do.” 

“It’s not going to help you to know. It won’t make you feel better.”

“I know that!”, she growled. “I want to—I need to know.”

“Why?”

“Before I decide if I want to do this with you.”

Malfoy pushed himself up slightly from the bed and looked at her seriously, then fell back down on the bed. They were silent for a long time. 

He sighed, “You’re not going to like it.” 

Hermione looked at him cooly, “Probably not.” 

With his arms bracing his head, he listed them quickly, “Pansy, Daphne, a few witches in France, some Beauxbatons I impressed with my French, Megan Jones, Mandy Brocklewurst, Sally-Anne Perks, Sally Smith, Lisa Turpin, Susan Bones, Romilda Vane, and PhillippaBeutel. And probably some others. I honestly remember know all of them unless I write them down.” 

He said the last name too quickly. Hermione caught it. She knew the name. Vaguely. Phillippa was one of the students killed by the werewolves during the Battle of Hogwarts.

“Oh, Draco.” 

“We didn’t know each other that well. It was barely a one night thing.” 

“Still. It must feel weird. Sad.” 

Malfoy shrugged, “I don’t know. I had a lot of things on my mind last year. Collateral damage. Another death that I'm tangentially responsible for.” 

Hermione felt conflicted. A mixture of jealousy and possessiveness that she wasn't quite sure where it came from; anger at his callousness and dissociation; and sorrow for how much he went through alone, weighed on her chest. They laid in silence for another short while.

“I presume Krum, Potter, the Weasel, and Cormac?”

“W-what?”

“For you.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Eyes, Granger.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. 

Malfoy had been honest, so she supposed it was her turn. 

“Um,” her voice cracked. “Just Ron.”

He abruptly turned her grey-blue eyes on her. She bit her lip and looked away. Then she thought better of it, “Why? Does it bother you?” Voice increasing. Challenging him.

Malfoy blinked at her, “I would be lying if I said it didn’t.”

“You think I like hearing about your other paramours?”

He snorted, “Paramours? Are you 80?” 

“I needed to know!” 

“They’re not import—. And you asked!” 

“Why then? ‘Cause I’m not a vir—”

“Merlin, I’m not that awful.”

“Then what?”

“It’s. The. Weasel,” punctuating his words as if she should know. 

“His name is Ronald.” 

“Precisely, Granger.”

“Precisely what?”

“Don’t make me say it.” 

“No, really. What?”

“You cared for him.” 

“Of course I do!” 

“What? You’re saying you don’t care for Pansy?”

“Pansy?! Pans … she—we’re complicated.” 

Hermione waited. He didn’t elaborate. 

“Well, I’m sorry. I didn’t know how fucking complex your feelings are for her.” She started to leave the bed. The bed dipped. 

“Merlin, Granger, stop!” 

“No!”

“We’re not together anymore!” 

“I should hope not!” 

Malfoy grabbed her hand and her waist, trying to stop her from getting up. 

“Let go.” 

“No!” 

“Get off of me!” 

They struggled on the small bed. He caged her body between his knees and straddled her. He pinned her arms above her head. Both of their chests were heaving. 

“No! You started this. You had to ask all these questions. And you didn’t like the answers. You don’t get to throw a tantrum about this. About all the Witches before you.”

Hermione glared up at him. 

“Yes, ALL the witches before me!”, she spat. 

She struggled against him. The thin mattress squeaked against their thrashing. Their hips bumping and connecting. She tried to twist her wrists out from his hold, but his grip on her only tightened. She felt his cock twitch against her thigh. Hermione rolled her eyes, but if she were honest, she felt a stirring heat radiating from her lower stomach. 

“Take your hands off of me, Malfoy. This is your last chance.” 

“Don’t. Go. Anywhere.”

“I’ll go wherever the fuck I want.” 

“You’re being jealous and childish.” 

“So?!”

Malfoy crashed his lips onto hers. Roughly. Hungrily. She opened herself up to him and cried out into his mouth. She clawed at his face and his body. She wanted him. To keep him. As hers. Only hers. She didn’t want to share him with anyone. She hated that other Witches had him first. This was stupid. It was childish. And yes, she was jealous. She knew it was unreasonable. Of course, he had a past. She did too, however brief it was. 

But right now, the only thoughts that flashed through her mind was: Mine. Mine. Mine. Only mine. 

Her whole body ached for him. 

She finally wrenched her lips away from Malfoy, breathing hard. They stared at each other for the longest time. 

Malfoy’s hair was a mess. Sweating. Strands of white-blonde hair covering his eyes. She found it incredibly sexy and she hated herself for that. 

Her curls were wild about her shoulders and pillows. Her lips were bruised and swollen from his kisses and rubbed raw from his stubble. And the skin of her wrists felt tender from his hold. 

“It’s easy to be the ‘mature’ one when you have much, much—

“Alright!”

”—more experience.” 

Malfoy scoffed at her. “I didn’t care—They’re not you.”

Hermione’s expression softened, but her voice was harsh, “Get stuffed.”

The adrenaline running through both of their bodies, left sleep a far away goal. 

With a long-suffering sigh, he finally said, “Fine. I’ll tell you what you want to know … But you won’t like the answers.”

She didn’t respond. 

Hermione turned to her side and stared at him. She cupped his face and felt his rapid pulse thrumming under his jaw. Something clicked in her eyes. She pressed her lips to his, and he immediately pressed back. She deepened the kiss, trying to pour herself inside him. Mine. Mine. Mine. She grabbed the front of his shirt, pushing their bodies closer together. Malfoy gripped her waist. 

She started to pant next to her ear and grab roughly at his trousers. She palmed the front of him, trying to feel every ridge of his cock.

CLINK. 

Hermione broke their kiss, as she tried clumsily to undo his belt. Their foreheads sweaty and pressed together. She nipped his lower lip. Hard enough to hurt, but not enough to bleed. He growled and kissed back fiercely. She met his kiss with more force as she wrapped her arms around his neck, sliding her tongue against where she bit him. She returned to his pants. Her hands were shaking. His were too. 

Malfoy suddenly looked down between them and gripped her wrists with one of his hands. She was confused at the pause. So she arched her hips into his, making him clench his jaw and squeeze his eyes shut. He fell onto her. Noses touching. He let out a long, shaky breath against her cheek. Then he moved her hands to each side of her body. He sighed. 

“I want to.” 

He shook his head into her hair. 

“Why not?! I want to! What? You think it won’t be—I won’t be g-good?”

He squinted at her, “What? No!” 

“Then why don’t you—?” 

“You’re angry at me.” 

“I’ll get over it. I’m—”

“Not like this,” he said quietly. “Not while you’re sick. Not in a flimsy hospital bed with Pomfrey next to us. Not when you ... don’t like me.”

The truth of the words stung unexpectedly. Both of them. 

He slipped down from hovering over her to his side, and Hermione scooted over. Malfoy played with a curl wordlessly. They stayed like that for a while. Her on her back. Him on his side. He slowly reached for her waist, resting his arm across her stomach. She stayed rigid, not letting him turn her to face him. His grip tightened around her, trying to make her understand. 

“Say something.”

Tears pricked the edge of her eyes. It was illogical. Childish. All of them were in the past … exceptmaybePansy, she thought hurriedly. It wasn’t like he cheated on her. They hadn’t even discussed what this was. But it hurt. Hearing their names. Hurt. Her chest felt heavy. She felt like someone had dug a ragged hole in her heart. It felt like a—she couldn’t even say it because it was so ludicrous—broken heart. 

It’s only your vagus nerve. You’re stressed out. 

She also knew she only had herself to blame. She did ask the questions. She wanted to know. And she didn’t. 

“Hermione?”

She turned to him immediately. Malfoy had never called her by her first name before. When she looked at him, his grey-blue eyes were boring into hers. She blinked, trying not to cry. She attributed this to her being weakened by the Dementors.

The words came rushing out of her, “Well, you'll be waiting a long time!"

Malfoy nodded and lowered his eyes. He didn't try to convince her otherwise.

"Yes, I’m jealous. Yes, I know it’s stupid and childish. Absurd, even. I know you’ve got nothing to apologize for. Your past … your past is your past. It’s nothing to do with me. But I can’t help but feel—I asked the questions. A-and, and I’ve only had sex a few times. It was with Ron. I loved him. Or thought I did. Last year. It hurt and it was awkward. But then other times, it felt okay, almost good. It was fast. But we almost got it right. Then we never got the chance to do it again, because I didn't love—Or maybe I didn’t want to.” She shrugged at her final words. 

She thought she saw Malfoy’s brows furrowed for a second when she mentioned the word, “love,” but other than that, he stayed expressionless. He just stared at her. Silent. 

She wished he would say something. Anything.

He kissed her temple tenderly. 

She closed her eyes and willed herself not to cry. 

Malfoy’s fingers tangled in her hair as he caressed her face with his palms. Then he dropped his hand to hers and brought them up to his mouth, kissing each knuckle. 

He began, “Pansy and I broke up in Feb—”

As Hermione listened to Malfoy talk about his sexual history, her heart thudded. It didn’t hurt less. Most of them were one night stands. Or a summer thing. He kept details to a minimum. She was grateful for that. When he was finished, they both were drained. 

“Is that—okay?”

She gave a slight nod, “Thank you for telling me, Malfoy. I’m sure it wasn’t easy. It’s late. We should get some sleep.”

Then Hermione turned away from him to sleep on her side. 

She wasn’t mad at him. She couldn’t be. She was just—It just hurt. 

Malfoy scooted over. His chest to her back. She was warm to his cool touch. He wrapped his arm around her. He burrowed his nose into her hair and damp neck, smelling her sickly sweet scent that he found to be uniquely hers. It was comforting. Safe. Like hom— 

He knew she wasn’t comfortable with his past. But he couldn’t apologize for it. It would be disingenuous. But Malfoy couldn’t help but feel a slight chill radiating from her, which made him feel helpless. And a little resentful, if he were honest. 

Hermione let out a quiet sigh and covered his arm around her waist with hers. Her hand over his. Entangling their fingers. 

Malfoy moved even closer then, moulding his body to hers. So close that she could feel his hardening cock against her arse. But he didn’t ask for more. 

He breathed in deeply. She could feel his nose tickle her neck and jaw. His heartbeat against her back was a metronome, lulling her into sleep. She moved her hand atop his and her back farther away to give him more room. His hold around her only tightened. Pulling them back together. Possessive. 

As she drifted off to sleep, she thought she heard him whisper, “Mine.”

“Ahem!” 

“AHEM!” The shrill voice became louder.

“Ms. Granger! Mr. Malfoy! Wake up THIS MOMENT!”

“Wha—whosat?” Hermione mumbled, rubbing her eyes. 

Malfoy’s arm was still around her. As she sat up and tried to remove it, his sleeping face frowned and only gripped her waist tighter. 

“Mr. Malfoy! NOW!” 

It took both of them several moments to realize that Madam Pomfrey had caught them—sleeping together in the hospital bed with their clothes in disarray. The top of Malfoy’s trousers were undone. His top unbuttoned. Hermione’s thin hospital gown was pulled in all different directions and her hair was thoroughly mussed up. There was no point in denying anything. 

“50 points from Gryffindor AND Slytherin!” 

As Malfoy rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he realized that he slept longer and later than he meant to. Typically, he would wake up just as dawn was approaching. Before Pomfrey checked in on Hermione. Then he would send her a short message in their notebooks, making sure she knew where he went.

His Notice-Me-Not charm must have worn off in his sleep.

Pomfrey continued talking, “I am very disappointed in the lack of judgment that you two, Head Boy and Head Girl, are displaying. Carrying on and flouting the rules. This is highly inappropriate.” 

Hermione and Malfoy mumbled sleepy apologies, as they fussed with their clothes. 

Madame Pomfrey tsk’d at them. “I see no choice but to ban Mr. Malfoy from visiting.”

Hermione opened her mouth, but the Matron cut her off, “Count yourselves lucky that I don’t tell the Headmaster about this. You will be stripped of your badges!” She turned to Malfoy, “As for you, you may leave any future class work for Ms. Granger with me.”

He nodded and ran his hands through his uncombed hair.

When Malfoy righted his clothes and slipped on his loafers, he found Pomfrey staring at him with her hands on her hips, thoroughly chuffed.

“I trust you can find your way back to your correct dormitories?”

He nodded again. 

“You’re dismissed.”

He left quickly, giving Hermione one more look before disappearing into the stone corridors. 

Hermione sat up rigidly on her bed, avoiding Pomfrey’s angry stare. 

“Ms. Granger, frankly, I am surprised. Head Boy and Head Girl are supposed to set an example for other Hogwarts students, not give in to their basest desires. We cannot have students running about with no regard for propriety!”

She nodded. A blush spread across her face.

“I know that you are of age. But you are still in school, and there are rules that must be abided by.”

She nodded again. “I apologize, Madam Pomfrey. There is no excuse—”

A few moments of silence passed as Hermione sat up and tried to smooth down her hair. She swung her legs over the side of her bed. The Matron sighed. Finally, Hermione dared to sneak a glance up at her. Pomfrey’s gaze softened, just slightly. 

“Shall I teach you the Contraceptive charm?”

As Malfoy made his way back to the Head Student dormitories, he heard the Portraits whispering and taunting him. 

“So early!” 

“Wonder where he was?!” 

“Wizard Walk of Shame!”

He sneered at all of them. 

Finally, the last moving staircase turned and led him to the sixth floor alcove. His eyes were red and blurry. Not fully awake yet after last night’s intense conversation with Granger and being woken up so rudely by Madam Pomfrey. 

Malfoy heard a small scuffle. He turned around but saw nothing. 

“Mirror of Erised,” he muttered. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something orange flitting to the door. 

Meow. 

Crookshanks suddenly appeared next to him, looking up. 

“Hey, ugly.” 

Meow. 

“You want in? I’m sure you know the password by now.”

Meow. 

“Come on, I’ll fix you something.”

Malfoy walked into the common room. It was quiet, because, of course, it was. No one had been in the dorms for any prolonged period of time, save the Kneazle, for the past couple of weeks. Even the time he spent in here was brief. 

Today, it felt acutely different. The early morning light pouring through the window was cold. No fire was burning. Maybe it wasn’t only cold without her. Her smell didn’t linger anymore.

He padded to the kitchen to open a can of wet cat food. The orange git was impatient and kept looping around his legs, doing figure eights. 

“I’m getting to it!” 

“Wait! I said wait—”

“Listen here, you fat piece of—”

As Malfoy placed the plate down, he crossed the edge of the kitchenette to look into Hermione’s room. It hadn’t been lived in for a couple of weeks. Her books were still strewn all over the ground and her desk. Rumpled clothes piled on top of her chair. 

Meow! 

The orange flat-faced monster was back, rubbing against his legs. 

“No more. You’re too fat as it is.”

MEOW! 

“I’m going to put you on a diet.” 

YOWL! 

Malfoy started to walk away from Hermione’s door when Crookshanks kept slipping in between his feet. 

“Get out of the way—”

“You’re gonna trip—”

“Ooof! Fuck! OW!” 

He fell backwards onto his elbows trying to avoid stepping on the Kneazle. 

What did he get for it? Bruises. The wind knocked out of him. And an ungrateful creature who wanted to cause his untimely death. 

He stared up at the ceiling for a couple of seconds before the realization dawned on him. Half of his body crossed the threshold of Hermione’s bedroom door. Nothing happened. 

Malfoy scrambled up quickly. It had to be a mistake. 

He looked around and stepped out of the bedroom. He tried it again. The wards shimmered and warbled, but let him through. 

What the fuck?

He tried it one more time. He must have looked like a right arse. Inside. Outside. Inside. Outside. 

Malfoy stared at the Kneazle who was watching him. He swore he saw a smirk on that fat bastard’s face. Then with a flick of his tail, Crookshanks turned and plodded away. 

He had never been in Hermione’s room before. 

Obviously. 

He thought back to the first day in December after learning Granger was Head Girl. It seemed like almost a lifetime away now. Malfoy looked through the rooms. He remembered seeing the tree bookshelf in the bedroom, and immediately thinking it would be appreciated by a swot like her. It was barely a passing thought. He chose the other room. 

Now that he was here, he slowly explored her bedroom. The bookshelf was filled with textbooks, Muggle romance novels, poetry, Shakespeare plays, and something called The Perks of Being a Wallflower. 

On a blank wall were posters and framed pictures of her and her friends. Some with Potter, Longbottom, Lovegood, the Patils, Finnigan, and the Weaselette. A picture with an older couple of what he presumed to be her parents. One picture had only her and the Weasel. He sneered. 

Then he turned his attention to her bed. The sheets were rumpled, not slept in for days. The sheets were red and gold. 

Ugh. Tacky. 

Malfoy suddenly realized how little he had been sleeping in his own room since the Dementor attack. When he woke up in the early morning from Hermione’s hospital bed, doing his best to avoid Pomfrey’s ire, he would head back to the Head Student dormitories. He would try to sleep a few more hours before classes, but often just tossed and turned. If he managed to sleep, it was fitful and feverish. When he slept with Hermione, he rarely dreamed. It was just … nice . More often than not, he woke up with her hair in his mouth or his nose buried deeply in the crook of her neck or shoulders. 

He sat down on her bed. It groaned slightly. 

The bed was soft, like his. He touched the pillows, finding some of her hair. 

Malfoy laid down on her bed. It smelled like her. Jasmines and that sickly sweet scent. 

He fell asleep.

 For the next few days, Malfoy dropped off Hermione’s homework at the entrance of the Hospital Wing. 

“Hand it over,” Madam Pomfrey watched him like a hawk.

He sighed and left without another word. 

He wrote to her after. 

Just dropped off your classwork. - DLM

Thanks! 

Is Crookshanks okay? 

The Kneazle is doing fine. Strutting around like he owns the place. - DLM

He always wanted to say more but didn’t know what. 

The second day:

I dropped off your work with Pomfrey. She still won’t let me in. - DLM

Yes, she was very upset. 

But then she offered to teach me the Contraceptive charm.

??? - DLM

Do you know it? - DLM

Yes! 

Good … - DLM

Contraceptive charms should not solely be the responsibility of the Witch, Malfoy! 

I know it too. - DLM

Good. 

The third day:

I just left your homework with Pomfrey. - DLM

Thank you! 

I’m being discharged tomorrow. 

Oh? How are you feeling? - DLM

Better. No longer coughing. The antibiotics worked.

Good. - DLM

A slow smile spread across both their stupid faces as they read each other's messages.

On Friday, a nervous thrum rang through Malfoy’s body. He barely heard what Slughorn was saying about Memory potions. He couldn’t concentrate. He kept looking at the clock, willing the day to go faster. 

Theo and him were the last two at the Head Table. Malfoy stayed later in the Potions lab to distract himself and made a couple of extra Cough potions. 

For extra credit, he told himself. 

He barely tasted anything at dinner. 

“What’s on your mind, Malfoy?” Theo asked with a wink.

“What?” 

“I’ve called you twice now. You’ve been nursing that drink I gave you for 20 minutes. If you don’t want it, give it ‘ere.” 

“Just distracted,” Malfoy handed over his drink. “Exams on Monday. And the one-year anniversary ceremony is coming up.” He lied so easily. 

“Almost forgot about that.”

“I have to head—”

“Bugger off! Don’t waste good alcohol. There are sober Wizards in—” 

Cho sat down on Theo’s other side. Her hair done up in a loose plait, she looked really pretty in a light blue jumper. Theo's eyes grew blue and his face pink, as he watched her. 

She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear before speaking in a light Scottish lilt, “There are sober Witches here too.”

“See you later, Nott,” Malfoy pushed off from the table.

Malfoy paced the Head Student common room. He hadn’t seen Hermione in three days. It was getting late. 

Maybe she didn’t feel well. Maybe she had to stay an extra day. Maybe she decided to spend time in the Gryffindor Tower first. With the Weasel. Maybe they … Ugh, he was pathetic. 

His notebook didn’t glow. No messages from her no matter how many times he checked. 

He decided to take a shower. Do something to take his mind off waiting. Off acting like a complete idiot. Like a lovesick puppy. His pride could barely take it.

Fucking knob head. 

Hermione was walked back to the Head Student dormitories by Harry and Pavarti. Madam Pomfrey insisted. 

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” 

“Hm? Yes," she answered dreamily.

Harry sounded worried, “You don’t seem like you’re all here.” 

“I’m fine, Harry. I’m just not used to so many people making a fuss about me.” 

“Well, if you don’t want to stay here tonight, you can always sleep—”

“No. We agreed, remember?”she said firmly.

“I was going to suggest you room with Gin.”

“Oh!” Hermione sounded embarrassed. 

Pavarti lifted a curious eyebrow. 

 “I’m fine. More than fine! Looking forward to sleeping in my own bed.” 

“Okay then. If you need anything …” 

She gave Harry and Pavarti a quick hug before already turning to the alcove. Harry kissed her on the cheek before running a hand through his always-messy hair.

"I'm here, okay?", he whispered. 

Hermione nodded. She watched them leave before whispering the password. She was positively shaking with anticipation to see Malfoy. 

What if he changed his mind? What if he wanted to call the whole thing off? What was this ‘thing’ anyway? They hadn’t defined it yet. Were they dating? Were they boyfriend/girlfriend? Was there anyone else? What would Harry and Ron think? What would everyone else think? Did Malfoy even want other people to know? Did she? What if he didn’t? 

A pang hit her chest. She would be upset if he didn’t want to recognize them in public. But she would also understand. 

Whatever. They weren’t even there yet. And yet, you’re thinking of sleeping with him. Malfoy. The boy who hated you. Who bullied you. Who hexed you and called you a Mudblood. His aunt tortured you in his home, and he did nothing. Are you stupid? Or has horniness killed your brain cells? Do you have a Death wish? Do you hate yourself that much? 

She shuddered at her thoughts. 

The alcove entrance shifted.

Malfoy just walked out of the bathroom, temporarily distracted by drying his hair with a towel.

Hermione allowed herself to look at him. It had been a few days. But she so rarely had a chance to look at him without external impediments: Head Student duties. Classes. People—professors, Harry, Ron, Pansy watching her. Her own reluctance to show her interest. But now, now, she could indulge. Her eyes roamed him up and down. Greedily.

Malfoy was tall and lithe with long, lean muscles. His white-blonde hair was slightly too long that his fringe often covered his eyes. He no longer used Sleekeazy's to slick back his hair. She loved it, because it softened his features. His features were hard and skin pale. His nose was high but not as pointy as before. Serious grey-blue eyes. Soft lips, which made him more human and less like a marble statue. This only added to his attractiveness. Yes, he was beautiful and impossibly elegant. He moved like water around Hogwarts and when flying.  

Gods, he really was beautiful. Why would he like—? 

Her thoughts were cut short when Malfoy realized that she was back. Holding her books and homework and back in her casual clothes. She froze. They looked at each other for several seconds. 

Her breath hitched. 

They both moved. Hermione dropped everything she was holding and he with his towel. She practically ran towards him. He wrapped her in his arms, and she clawed at him. It was all limbs. A clumsy flurry of fingers, arms, necks, and legs. 

Malfoy lifted her up from under her thighs, so that her hips rested against his. She sighed at the contact. He walked them to the couch and sat down. She straddled him. 

The world around them blurred away. She kissed him. Hungrily. Her hands threaded through his damp hair. He smelled like mahogany, leather, and mint. 

“I missed you.” He sighed into her neck. 

“I missed you.” 

There was nothing but Draco, his lips, and his hands on her. His hand on the back of her neck drew her into him. She rested her hands on his shoulders as he deepened the kiss. Hermione felt his hands move up into her hair, curling his fingers around it. Then he pulled down slightly, exposing her neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses. She mewled at the juxtaposition of the slight discomfort and his soft touches. 

He let go and she ran her hand along his jaw. As her palm grazed along his cheekbone, he pressed his face into it for a second. Then he turned and kissed her palm, wrist, and arm. Up to her scars. 

She gasped. 

It reminded them of the night at the Astronomy Tower. It felt so long ago. 

He kissed each letter, moving up slowly. Then he laved them with his tongue. Hermione blushed furiously. She almost wanted to pull away. In embarrassment? In shame? 

A heat rushed through her body. 

When he was done, she pulled him into a frenzied kiss. Crushing her lips against his. The tip of her tongue flicked out against his lower lip, running against it. She ran her hands over his shoulders, feeling him. Everywhere. She wanted to consume him. He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue against hers. He tasted like salt and mint. 

A tension was beginning to be pulled taut against her lower stomach. 

Their chests pressed tight against each other. She could feel his, her, their heartbeat. 

He slid a hand along the hem of her T-shirt, pulling it out of her skirt, before slowly slipping a cool hand under her clothing and splaying his hand across the small of her back. She shuddered. His hands moved down and cupped her arse. He squeezed. She couldn’t help it. She rolled her hips to get closer to him. She needed more. More. More friction. More closeness. He groaned into her mouth. 

Suddenly, she felt it. 

A trickle. 

A wetness. 

Her nose tickled. 

They were still kissing. Hot. Wet. Bruising kisses. 

Her mouth tasted tangy. Metallic. Coppery. Salty. 

She stopped. And rubbed her nose. 

She saw it on her fingers. 

Blood. 

Her nose was bleeding. 

Fuck! 

She immediately started pulling away. 

“Oh my god!” 

Her blood from her nose smeared across her face and his mouth. She almost cried. Malfoy was still in a daze. Feeling wetness on his face. Tasting copper on his tongue. 

Hermione's face looked almost like she was wearing makeup. Too much. Smeared red lips. Rouge spread across her face. But something wasn't quite right. When his eyes finally focused, he realized what happened. 

“OH MY GOD!” 

She jumped from his lap and ran to the bathroom. The faucet started running. 

Hermione pinched the tip of her nose and dropped her head forward into the sink, watching the blood drip down her chin and mouth. She tried to wipe it off but new drops took its place. 

She watched the blood bloom in the water, as it swirled down the bathroom sink. 

Everything was ruined. 

She heard a shuffle and looked up at the mirror. Behind her was Malfoy, leaning against the door. His eyes worried. His face was covered in her blood. Smeared droplets of pink and red. All over his lips, chin, and cheeks.

Dirty blood.

Hermione couldn’t help thinking the words. She was so ashamed. It was illogical, but she felt it anyway. She was shaking. 

“I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I get nosebleeds ever since I got Crucio'd—When I’m stressed out or have anxiety attacks ...It must be gross, I—”

She couldn’t even get the words out or make sense of them. 

“Granger …” 

“It’s all ruined now, isn’t it?”

“I don’t care about—”

She didn’t turn around. She could only talk to him through the mirror’s reflection. Her hand still pinching her nose. She was almost crying. 

He crossed the bathroom to turn her around. He lifted her up onto the counter, so she could face him without looking up. 

She was crying now. Thick. Fat. Tears. Rolled down her cheeks. Mixing with the blood on her face. 

“I-I’m so embarrassed. Blood, tears, and phlegm. I’m a real catch, aren’t I?”

Malfoy sighed. He reached out to pinch her nose for her. She pulled her head away. 

“Don’t! You don’t have to touch—” 

He saw the shame in her face. He realized then what was happening. 

All those years. All of his cruel words that he wielded like a weapon and a badge of honour. Words that he used so casually. 

Mudblood. 

Fuck. 

He finally saw it. 

His eyes pinched. 

It was no longer an abstract concept. He finally saw what he did to her. Made her feel less than. Made her feel ugly. Disgusting. Dirty. 

He couldn’t ever erase what he did.

She hid it. Never reacted as a child. Pretended that she didn’t care. That it didn’t hurt. 

His heart clenched. 

Malfoy grabbed her face to force her to look at him. Her eyes were pink-rimmed and wet. Her nose still bleeding. Trickling down her face. He felt the fluid run down his arms. A slow, thin stream. 

“I’m sorry, Hermione. What I did. What I said. I was such a fucking arse. I’m sorry. I can’t ever correct it. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

She looked away. 

He didn’t know if what he was about to do was right. But he did it anyway. 

Malfoy kissed her. And kissed her. Slowly. Unhurriedly. Tasting the blood. Mingling against her tears. Metal met salt. [27]

He kissed her like he was starving. Like he’d been drowning. His tongue, his teeth, and lips pressed against hers. She was stunned. Hermione’s mouth brushed against his but didn’t respond. His tongue flicked against her lower lip and pushed open her mouth. 

It was as though he was trying to consume her. He was desperate. For her to know. 

That he didn’t care. That her blood was just like his. That she wasn’t dirty. That he lov—That he would do anything to take back what he did. 

He drew a ragged breath against her mouth. It was then that Hermione woke up from her trance. She blinked. Her hands slid around his neck as she met every movement of his lips. 

Then she drew back, resting her forehead against his. The faucet was still running. She turned it off and looked back at him. Her nosebleed seemed to have stopped, but it was hard to tell. Their faces and hands were a mess. Skin stained crimson. His hands were shaking as he held her, caging her between his arms. 

“You’re beautiful.” His fingers slid up behind her ears and his thumbs caressed her cheeks. 

She smiled, “You too.”

After a quick Scourgify' and changing into a new set of sleep clothes, they made their way back to the couch. Malfoy made them a pot of lavender-rose tea. She missed this, him. She took a slow sip. 

They were careful. Tentative. Sending each other side, furtive glances. 

Hermione turned toward him, “I-I understand if we call it a night. A lot happened. Nothing I expected.” 

“Do you want to?” 

“I, um, maybe, think it’s wise?” 

“Okay.”

She let out a small sigh of disappointment. Maybe it was relief? 

“Alright then, I’m going to turn in.”

Hermione waited expectantly, but Malfoy didn’t say anything. He just looked down at his knees. 

She got up, and he grabbed her hand. 

“Icantsleepwithoutyou.”

He said it so quickly that she thought she must have misheard. 

“W-what?” 

“I can’t sleep without you. Ever since the attack.” 

Hermione smiled, her chest beaming, then leaned down and kissed him lightly, “I have a secret.” 

He quirked an eyebrow up. 

“I can go into your room,” she whispered. 

His eyes grew wide, “Huh? How?”

“I don’t know how. But one day, Crookshanks was trying to get into your room and—”

“I knew it! That flat-faced fucker!” 

Hermione ignored him, “And I tried to catch him, and accidentally passed the threshold of your door. The wards let me in.” She added quickly, “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t touch anything.”

Malfoy stroked her cheek gently, “Me too.”

“You too?” 

“That Kneazle tripped me and I ended up falling into your room.” 

“Well … that’s convenient,” Hermione crossed her arms. “You think McGonagall was bluffing? No, that isn’t right. There are wards on our rooms. I can see and feel them …”

Malfoy shrugged, “I don’t know and I don’t care. I don’t intend to look a gift horse in its mouth.” He stood up and wrapped her in his arms. But she seemed to be off in her own swotty world, barely registering him. 

“Do you think McGonagall knows? Oh! What if-what if it's a test? Or-or what if when we're both inside a room, the wards maim us? Or worse, WHAT IF WE GET EXPELLED?” She started babbling about the possibilities, her mind going a mile a minute. [28]

“Shut up, Granger.” She stilled and looked up at the blonde Wizard in front of her. His eyes were dark and his lips curled into a smirk. 

She took his hand and led him to her room. 

As Hermione pushed him down onto her bed, Malfoy quipped, “What’s wrong with my room?” 

She shrugged, “We’ll use both.” 

He smiled devastatingly at her. The smile she loved. The one with the dimples. 

Hermione climbed onto her bed, sitting on her heels between his thighs. 

She missed her bed.

She leaned over to kiss Malfoy, lightly trailing kisses along his neck, jaw, cheeks, and lips. His grip on her arms tightened. Then he grabbed onto her hips and flipped them. She let out a small squeak. He hovered above her, bracketing her between his arms. A shadow blocking the room’s low lights. His fringe across his eyes. His gaze focused on her. 

On her back, his lips brushed against the pulse point on her throat. His hand on her shoulder, dragging it down the length of her arm until it reached the hem of her shirt. His hand rode up under her pajama top. It was cool to her skin’s radiating heat. He splayed his hand across her belly, then lifted the fabric ever so slightly. He placed a light kiss on top of her belly button, and she shuddered. 

Hermione pushed herself up on her elbows and huffed. She grabbed his neck to pull him into a deep kiss, pressing his body against hers. Her kiss was searching and unhurried. Curious. Tracing the tip of her tongue gently along the seam of his lips. He followed where she led. She felt him hardening against her thighs. His hand traced up her knee to her thigh and squeezed. She aligned her chest with his and opened her thighs wider until she could feel his cock against her core. She was already soaking wet. 

The contact spurred a groan from Malfoy. The thick ridge of his cock pushed up exquisitely against the thin material of her shorts. She grew breathless quickly. From the kiss. From his hands roaming her body. From the friction between them. She rocked her hips against his, trying to drag him even closer, almost gluing them together. 

He drew back slightly, breaking the kiss. Hermione’s eyes narrowed. 

“Are you sure?” 

She tried to tell him by undoing the buttons, one, two, from his silk top. He lightly grabbed her wrist, stilling her movements before asking again, “Are you sure?” 

“Yes, I am.” 

His eyes turned dark and he grabbed her shirt, roughly ripping the front apart. Buttons flew and clicked down on the floor, exposing her small breasts to him.  

“Hey!” She laughed in surprise. 

“I’ll get you another awful set. Ones with otters.” 

Hermione hummed in response while she made quick work of Malfoy’s top. They were finally both topless. She sat up on her knees. Her eyes followed down from his serious expression to his neck to his hard chest, riddled with flesh-coloured Sectumsempra scars. She dragged her finger across each one, feeling the raised skin, then replaced it with open-mouth kisses. Starting from his shoulder to his pectorals to the horizontal one along his stomach. Her mouth was soft and warm. He felt like he was glowing inside, like a hot ember pulsing and his cock straining against his boxers.

He latched onto a nipple, licking and kissing, while closing his hands around the other. Then he switched. Her back arched into his hold, and her hands flew to card his hair. When he pulled back, her chest was glistening and her nipples pebbled in arousal. He blew lightly across them. 

Both sat on their knees, staring at each other in Hermione’s bed. Overwhelmed with what was about to happen and breathing heavily. Malfoy reached out to wrap one hand around her waist and pulled her legs out and down on her back with the other. She looked beautiful with her hair spread out on her pillows, looking up at him with heavy lids. She bit her lip in anticipation. He used his thumb to touch her lower lip, tracing where she had bitten. Hermione stuck out her tongue and rolled his thumb into her mouth, sucking it lightly. His throat stuttered and he gritted his teeth. He didn't want to come before he was inside her. She let him go and cupped his face, “Please,” she whined. 

Malfoy pressed his torso into hers and licked against the spot just under her ear, nipping and kissing. Using his left hand, he rubbed slowly along her slit. Up and down. Up and down. The fabric of her knickers and shorts pulled against her clit. His breath was hot in her ear as he coaxed her. He rubbed a little harder now, pressing down, making her wriggle against his hand. His fingers never let up, and he began rubbing her in tight circles around the bundle of nerves between her thighs. 

“Please, Draco,” she cried out. She wasn’t sure for what. 

He grabbed the top of her shorts and pulled them down, taking along her knickers. He threw them behind him. She laid completely exposed to him now. On instinct, she used one arm to cover her breasts and the other to cover her soft belly and mound. His eyes roamed over her body, taking her in. 

Hermione felt self-conscious under his gaze and started to squirm, avoiding his eyes. 

In a low voice, he said, “Don’t. You’re perfect.” 

He delicately plucked her arms from her body and maneuvered them to the top of her head. With one wrist, he pinned them above her.  

She felt a slow heat coil in her stomach, as he took another long, aching look at her exposed body. She felt longing. Embarrassment. Shame. Scared. Aroused. 

Malfoy hovered above her.

“If I let you go, will you keep your hands away so I can see you?” 

“Uhnnnggg.” She could barely speak. 

“Will you?” He tightened his grip. 

“Y-yes, Malfoy!” Her voice cracked in annoyance.

He smiled and gave her a small kiss on her lips, then worked his way down. His lips dragging a wet path down to her neck, breasts, giving each nipple individual attention with his tongue, stomach, and ending with a hot breath against her mound. He inhaled deeply. 

Again, Hermione felt embarrassed and tried to cover herself. 

With a quick movement, Malfoy pushed her arms to her sides, “What did I say?” 

She squeaked, “I-I don’t .. I’m not used to someone being so c-close.” She could barely get the words out. 

He smiled, “Well, I’ll fix that.” 

With both of his hands still wrapped around her wrists, he moved downwards and kissed the soft skin of her inner thighs. One, two, on each side. Her entire body flushed hot. Then he slowly licked up the line from her pubic bone up to her hip, and down the other side. 

She was swelling with arousal now. His fingers made his way to her cunt, spreading her folds gently. 

“Fuck, you’re so wet.” 

She nodded dumbly. 

One hand drifted to her opening, giving her soft, gentle caresses, while the other pressed down lightly on her mound. 

She moved her head up to watch him. He looked up at her. Without breaking eye contact, his finger dipped inside her. Her eyes rolled back. Her fists clutched the bedding while he moved his finger in and out, slowly twisting. Then he added a second finger, making obscene sounds with her wetness. 

She felt so good. She felt her entire body straining against his fingers. His strokes were slow and deliberate. 

“Does this feel good?”

“Y-yeah. Oh my god,” she breathed. 

His fingers pressed deeper into her channel, and she moaned. The pressure building. Then he removed them, making her almost cry. He used the slick on his fingers to rub along her lips and clit, and Hermione crossed her eyes in pleasure. 

The sight of him focused on her made her thighs tighten. 

“Inside, please. I need—” Hermione gritted out. Her head fell back against the pillows. 

Malfoy chuckled, “Not yet.” 

“But—” 

Without warning, he pushed his fingers back inside her, this time more roughly. Pleasure spiked at the base of her spine. He resumed a steady pace, pushing against her walls. In and out. In and out. Then he added a soft kiss on her clit, applying even pressure with his tongue. She keened into his palm.

“Fuuuuck.” 

Hermione tried to grab for his shorts, pulling them down. But she was too clumsy and heated to focus. Malfoy gave her another smile. The one with the dimples. He helped her by pushing them down and away to the floor. 

She looked at him, bare and hard in front of her. His cock against his stomach. She wanted to kiss it. Wrap her lips around it. Give him the same pleasure he was giving her. 

But she could only let out a shaky exhale. 

Malfoy resumed his ministrations on her cunt. Hermione let her head drop back on the bed with a sigh. He worked her up to a fever pitch, hearing how wet she was with each push and pull of his fingers. He placed another open-mouthed kiss on her clit, keeping his tongue flat, as he licked up. And up again. 

So close. She was so close. 

She writhed under his touch. Her hips started to move against his fingers and mouth, rocking in time with him.

Her orgasm started to build, but was just out of reach. She needed more. More fingers. More pressure. More. She felt herself tightening around him. 

“Please, please,” she whispered.

She took her hand and pressed down on her mound. She moaned. Then she grabbed Malfoy’s other hand gripping her thigh and guided it to hers, replacing it. He mimicked her pressure. Giving her slow, steady pushes. Then his other fingers twisted and curled upward and forward. He pushed against the front of her pelvis. Once. Twice. 

A third time. 

Her hip movements grew erratic. Her body tightened and she stuttered. She pressed her hips roughly into his hands. Moving faster. Harder. And she shattered. Shutting her eyes. Everything went black. 

Wave after wave of pleasure rocked through her. Clenching around his fingers. Biting her finger to keep from screaming his name. A strangled moan let out from her throat. 

Malfoy didn’t let up. He kept pumping inside her, fucking her with his fingers through her orgasm, prolonging it. She whimpered, as each crest peaked and folded in and on itself, subsiding slowly. He only stopped his movements when she stopped clenching around him and her breathing became steady.

He looked at her in adoration. His gaze led her to clench around him again. 

He then licked her from top to bottom. One long swipe of his tongue against her trembling, wet cunt. She covered her eyes, because it was too much. Too good. 

When her eyes could finally focus on him, he was hovering above her. Eyes dark and pupils blown open. Animalistic. Rock hard. She wanted to please him. So badly. She whispered the Contraceptive charm, and a warm glow spread across her stomach. 

Hermione grabbed onto his arms and scraped down them with her fingernails. She nodded. 

Malfoy positioned his cock against her folds, leaking and swollen. He pushed in slightly. She groaned. But he stayed outside, collecting her wetness along the head of his cock. Then he drew his cock up and down her cunt. Then side to side. Up and down again. Over and over until she was shaking with anticipation. 

She felt a slight tug, as his hand moved to her hair and pulled lightly at the roots. The slight pinch made her close her eyes. 

“Look at me.”

Hermione opened her eyes, and stared into his grey-blue ones. She shivered at his intensity. 

“I—”

“Look at us.” 

His hand tangled in her head pushed her slightly down, so her gaze was directed to his cock and her cunt, where they were almost joined. She let out a small gasp. 

She let her gaze move back up to his body, to his face, to his eyes. 

She noticed a movement. Her eyes immediately darted back down to see him slowly stroking his cock. Directing it to her cunt. Her abdomen clenched. 

His hand in her hair moved down to her hips, steadying her. 

Now.

She felt his erection pushing in and against her centre, deep inside her channel. They both let out a simultaneous groan. 

“Fuck, you feel—”

He held her tight as he pushed all the way inside her. She squeezed her eyes shut and let out a low moan. 

“Uhhhmmm.”

The stretch. The pressure. The pain. The fullness. It was all so, so good. 

Hermione had to breathe in to adjust to him. Malfoy stayed still, looking at her. His fingers digging into her hips as he struggled to maintain control. His look made her clench around him again, and he almost looked pained when she did. She was growing wetter by the second as her thighs widened to accommodate him. 

“Are you okay?” he whispered. 

“Huh?” She only realized then her face had been scrunched up and teeth clenched. 

Malfoy’s face was worried. His eyebrows knotted together. 

Still connected, she reached out to smooth down the wrinkle between them, and her fingers drifted across his eyelids. He closed his eyes as he revelled in her touch. She moved her hand to cup his jaw and bring his mouth closer. 

With their foreheads pressed together, she kissed him. And kissed him. 

“Keep going. I want this.” 

Malfoy started to thrust slowly inside her. The heat between her legs began to build again. The stretch of his erection inside filled her with desire. She was trembling around him. 

One hand circled around her breasts, tweaking and rolling a nipple. Just a little pain. She tightened around him. Alternating between pain and pleasure, her hips started to snap against his, meeting him thrust for thrust. The pressure. The sounds they were making. His cock. His body. 

It consumed her senses. There was only them two. Them. Together. Only Draco. 

She reached down between them and gripped his cock while he pushed inside her. He moaned into her mouth. Her hand quickly became sticky with their shared fluids. Malfoy grabbed her other hand, and intertwined with his, pushing them into her bed. 

He moved up and over her body, pushing his chest against hers. Changing the angle, so that each thrust dragged against her walls and created friction against her clit. A familiar tension built at the base of her spine. He pulled back and did it all over again. She couldn't help but let out a moan each time he thrusted into her. 

Her lips broke from his, gasping for air. He pushed her chin up again. His tongue swept into her mouth. His kiss was searing and hot. 

The crush of their bodies left her hand between them, providing an even pressure on her mound. Her second orgasm built up, cresting above, poised to break. Her legs widened farther apart, bracketing his hips with her knees. He pressed deeper into her. More pressure. More pain. More pleasure.

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t break under him. She didn't know how. She thought about the embarrassing sounds. The obscene slapping flesh. What she looked like underneath him. Her belly folded against him. And he—he was so perfect. 

Stomach to stomach. Chest to chest. Their bodies slid over one another easily. A tension pulled taut across her belly. 

His eyes focused on her, “Come for me.”

“I-I can’t. I-I’m—” She couldn't. She didn't know how she would look. How her body would react. She couldn't lose control.

Malfoy removed his hand from hers and moved it between their sweaty bodies. Hermione grabbed at his back, trying to pull him closer, pressing kisses into his neck, collarbone,  and shoulders. His thumb pressed against her clit, drawing tight, hard circles around the area. She tightened against him. 

"You're so wet. Tight. Perfect. I want to feel you. I want to feel you come on my cock." 

At his words, her hips started to rock harder against his, arching her back. Their kisses became more erratic as they moved together. His strokes were steady and deep. With each pass, she felt herself fluttering around him and crying out. 

“I'm going to—Ohhhhh.” 

She was almost there. 

One more thrust, and her body twisted and turned as she let out a loud moan. Grabbing at Malfoy and pleading for gods. She squeezed tight around him, spasming with white-hot pleasure through her whole body. He fucked her slowly through her orgasm, rocking her, while biting the insides of his cheeks. 

As her breath slowed down and her eyes refocused, his continued thrusts sent zaps of sensations coursing through her muscles. His pace picked up again, pressing into her body. She lifted her legs wider, and whispered into his ear, “Please. Inside, inside me.”

Malfoy cursed and dropped his head against the juncture between her neck and shoulder. He breathed hot. His grip on her hip turned bruising, while the other hand found hers again. 

His thrusts lengthened. Deepened. Then became shorter. And irregular. She enjoyed the feeling of each thrust of his cock as she bared down on him. She loved his weight on top of her. She loved his hot breaths on her neck. She loved how he gripped her hand. 

Above her, Malfoy looked at her. Clear. Serious. Possessive. 

Her breath caught in her throat. 

Then he finally broke. 

She felt him. His cock twitched and sputtered inside her. Pulsing deep and hard. A warmth spread from her core to her chest. She felt safe.

He thrusted through his orgasm, his hips slowing but not stopping. Staring at her. Never wavering. He pushed through to the very end until he groaned, his eyes finally drifting closed. She gave him a kiss on his temple. 

Malfoy looked up at her in an almost shy fashion, so unlike him, and gave her a toothy grin that made her heart flutter. He stole a quick kiss from her lips before rolling onto his back, grabbing her waist and lifting her body over his. He was still inside her. She felt him slowly softening and she winced when he pulled out. Swollen and oversensitive. She was on his stomach, sticky between her thighs. His cum leaking slowly out of her. He didn't seem to mind. It felt wrong. Naughty. Slightly erotic. She leaned down, curtaining his face with her unruly hair. She kissed him furiously all over. Forehead. Eyelids. Eyelashes. Cheeks. Nose. Jaw. Neck. Ears. Mouth. Chest. 

He laughed. It was the lightest laugh she ever heard from him. She loved it. 

When they finally settled with her on his side, head on his chest, a leg draped around his, and his arm wrapped around her shoulder, she stared up at Malfoy. Her heart ached at his beauty. She pressed another lingering kiss onto his pulse point, right underneath his jaw. Her hand absentmindedly drifted down to the base of his neck. Closing around it possessively. 

Her knee felt his cock twitch and slowly harden. 

She chuckled incredulously, “What, again?”

Malfoy turned to her, pressing his fingers into a tender bruise forming on her hip bone, “Until you can’t walk.”

Chapter Text

May 1999
Hogwarts

Malfoy kept true to his word. 

They spent much of the weekend holed up in the Head Student dormitories, barely leaving for meals, making enough appearances at the Head Table, and performing the bare minimum of duties to assuage any questions or suspicions. 

They made use of every surface in the common room: the coffee table, the kitchenette counter, the bathtub, the shower, the couch (four times, Malfoy liked to remind her), the walls, their study desks, chairs, and both of their beds.

When Hermione studied, he waited a proper amount of time before kissing her neck and dipping his hand underneath her top. She scolded Malfoy for not taking his classes seriously or accused him of neglecting his mock NEWTs, but it was a game that she was glad to lose. He would murmur something obscene or praiseful behind her ear, and she teared wildly at his clothes. Sliding her hands along him. Dropping open-mouthed kisses on his shoulders, hands, scars, and face while she rocked rhythmically against Draco and came apart under him or his mouth.

No one ever looked at her like he did. Open. Steady. Unflinching. Like a puzzle he was glad to solve. Like something precious. His grey-blue eyes concentrated on her as he learned her body and her reactions. Her subtle hitches of breath. The louder moans. When the pressure was too much. When the crook of his fingers was just right against the spongy wall behind her pelvis. How many presses or licks it would take for her to claw at him and cry out his given name. 

But she liked it best when Malfoy was inside her. Each thrust a physical reminder that he was there. Each spend a declaration of his desire for her. Stretching her. Pulling her taut until the line between pleasure and pain were the same. Making her feel so full. Safe. Warm. That she wasn’t alone. Hermione came close to tears a few times, but hid them behind her hair and the crook between his chest and shoulders. She could live here suspended in this time and space. Bury her face in his scent of mahogany, leather, and mint. Forget. Between his artful tongue, languid kisses, and his long fingers, she could pretend a little longer. 

Malfoy always pulled her close after, staying sheathed inside her for as long as possible. It made her slightly sad when he slipped out, even though he was right beside her. Running his hands up and down her arms. Rubbing her back. Gripping her waist. Or sleepily breathing against her neck. She had the physical reminders in the forms of bites, bruises, and him dripping out of her. But it was not enough. Never enough. She couldn’t tell him that.  

When the cold reality of Monday crashed upon them, both were quiet and sombre. Tired and a little short with one another. They dressed for classes separately. Hermione was ready first. Her legs a bit unsteady with her core and stomach still sore. She smiled briefly as she recalled the events of the previous night. She wondered if she should say “goodbye.” These little things never entered her mind before. 

Hermione tried to remember what it was like ... before. Did she just leave? Did she ever tell him where she was going? Did he? Did he want to know? Was this just sex? What if—Was she being too clingy? Was she one of those girls? Was Pansy like this? How did she measure up?

She sighed and made her way to the alcove, dragging her school bag alongside her. 

“Granger,” he called out. In a few seconds, he stood in front of her. Looking perfectly coiffed, in his neatly pressed uniform, and beautifully unbothered, as always. 

Gods, she hated him. She wore her emotions on her sleeve, and it was clear hers were wrinkled. 

“Don’t forget your Muggle Moon potion. It’s your last dose.”

She almost laughed at him. Tears pricked at the edge of her eyes. Instead, she kissed him ferociously before facing the shifting alcove stones to hide them, “I won’t.” 

Gryffindor Tower

“So what’d you think?” Harry asked, uncertain. 

“I think it’s truthful. To the point,” Hermione replied earnestly. 

They pushed back from Harry’s study desk in his room. The low glow from the candlelights bouncing off the red and gold decor of the Gryffindor dorms gave their surroundings a kind of warm intimacy that reminded her of their friendship. Steady. Cozy. Affectionate. She didn’t realize how much she missed this.  

Harry and Hermione were working in his bedroom shared with Ron and Neville. Seamus and Dean shared another; Dean seemed to be the only one who could tolerate Seamus’ infamous snoring. 

They had been working for a few hours on his Battle of Hogwarts anniversary speech. The others kindly gave them the space to work quietly and without interruption. 

“You think people will get mad? Er … that I said this?” 

“Someone will always be mad at something.” 

“Next week’s going to be tough for a lot of people. Ron, especially.” Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “He was getting better, er … regularly seeing his Mind Healer and whatnot. But after you got hurt, he fell off. Started drinking again. Stopped his sessions.”

“That’s hardly my fault, Harry. I was unconscious. ” 

“No, no. I’m not saying it is. Ron’s just, er,  dealing with a lot. And the anniversary is bound to dredge up some things. Feelings. About you. About Fred.” 

“I know. I’ve been meaning to spend more time with him. It’s just, y’know, awkward and more difficult than I would like. Then all this happened.”

“Yeah, I hear you. But he needs you, Hermione. He might not say it, because he’s a stupid wanker most of the time. But he does. Without you, Ron’s been, er … unmoored.” Harry rubbed his tired, red eyes, knocking his glasses to the floor.

Hermione bent down and picked them up. “Here, let me. What about you?” she asked as she put them back on his ears, balancing the frames. 

Harry’s blurred vision led him to grab tightly onto her wrists, “What about me?” 

Just then, Ron entered the bedroom. His eyes narrowed at their closeness. “We were just wondering if you wanted to join us for some drinks and games. Gin —,” emphasizing his sister’s name, “thought you two worked hard enough tonight and deserved some time off.” 

Hermione ignored his sour mood and forced some enthusiasm into her voice, “Of course, Ronald!” She grabbed his arm playfully and dragged him to the common room, leaving him flustered and blushing. 

Sat around a large coffee table were Neville, Padma, Ginny, and Seamus. On the table was a generous spread of frosty mugs of butterbeers, Exploding Bon Bons, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavoured Beans, Pumpkin pasties, Fizzing Whizbees, Guinness stout, and two half-empty bottles of Ogden’s. 

“Where’s Dean?” Hermione asked, sitting down across from Seamus. 

“Watchin' a West Ham United game,” Seamus slurred. 

When she cocked her head, he added, “He said it’s a Muggle thin'. That I wouldn’t get it.” 

A fun night ensued. The Gryffindors caught Hermione up on the gossip for the last few weeks and discussed the upcoming mock NEWTs.

- “Have you chosen your focus yet?” 

- “Maybe a Masters in Herbology or Potions.” 

- “Did you hear that Goldstein has been snogging Millicent?” 

- “I hope Tracey doesn’t find out!” 

-“I’ve been thinking of Auror training.” 

-“Like Tonks?!” 

-"Yeah."

-"I think she'd like that. And Teddy too."

-“What about Theo?”

-“He’s so fit!”

-“If you’re not a bottle of firewhiskey or a Draught of Peace, he’s not interested.”

Hermione looked around her. Perhaps it was the glass of firewhiskey, but she felt peaceful. Things felt more normal again. More than it had felt in a long time, as if the last two years didn’t happen. She belonged. And Ron and her could pretend they never messed up their friendship.

Later in the night, she found herself sitting next to Neville. “Thanks, Neville, for the plant. It was very thoughtful. I brought it back to my dorms.” 

Neville gave her a wide smile, “That’s no problem, Hermione. Just wish I could have visited you in person, but-”

“-Of course. No need to explain,” she patted him on his shoulder. He nodded into his Guinness. 

“Neville got one for Malfoy too,” Ginny exclaimed. “I was the unfortunate soul who had to bring it to him.”

“Oh, I didn’t see it. What was it?” 

Harry appeared from his bedroom, in the process of clumsily pulling on a dark jumper. The night was getting nippy. He joined in, “That ungrateful git probably threw it out.” 

Ron nodded in agreement and took another sip from his cup. He used to hate how the alcohol burned in his chest and throat, but now it was a comfort. Like a scratch wool sweater. It made him feel warm and talkative, instead of the constant dread he felt when he was sober.

“Oh um, well, that’s fine. I didn’t expect him to …” Neville trailed off and changed the subject. “Hermione, you’re looking healthier. Like you’ve been working out. Happy too! The colour in your cheeks is back.” Hermione beamed.

“Yeah, we thought we lost you there for a while, ‘Mione,” Ron sat down beside her, exchanging places with Ginny who moved to sit on Harry’s lap.

“It’ll take a lot more than that to get rid of me,” she chuckled. 

“He ain’t been botherin' you, ‘as he?” Seamus asked. 

“Who?”

“Malfoy!” Seamus admonished as if Hermione should know. “Don’t trust ‘im as far as I can throw ‘im. Kinda convenient that he recovered so much faster than you, eh?”

“I was sick with pneumonia. He wasn’t.” 

"Yeah, and how'd you get that New-Mooney-ah? Not from a werewolf, I'd assume," Seamus pulled back from her with a face of disgust as he asked his ridiculous question.

"It's a bacterial infection of the lung. I wasn't getting treated for it properly, because Pomfrey didn't think to check for Muggle diseases. The potions she prescribed were not efficacious. Hestia, the intern diagnosed it. She's really quite love-" 

Cutting in, Ron asked, “-Regardless, has he given you any trouble?” 

“No, no. He’s been, um, fine. Nice, even.” 

“That’s surprising,” he growled. “Surprising that he didn’t try to milk his injuries for all they’re worth, like Third Year.” 

“You wanna talk ‘surprising?’ Pavarti injected. “Malfoy was actually quite protective of Hermione when she fainted. Even while delirious, he looked quite fit. He filled out nicely since last year. No longer that sickly, pointy ferret from Sixth Year. We had to levitate them together to the infirmary.” She winked at Hermione. “Almost had to throw a Petrificus totalus on him if he didn’t calm down. Wouldn't have minded, to be honest.”

Ron and Seamus scoffed. Hermione hid her blush behind a sip of her drink. 

“You don’t believe me? Ask Harry. He was with me.” 

All eyes turned to Harry. “Er, yeah,” he rubbed the back of his head, pushing his black hair to his forehead. Hiding his face. He was clearly uncomfortable. “Malfoy seemed worried. It was confusing. Unlike him.” 

“I can’t believe it. Gotta talk to my Healer about this. Malfoy showing human emotions. Pigs really have flown,” Ron muttered. Everyone chuckled. “Prolly just concerned people would suspect him if Hermione got hurt. Break his probation on good behaviour and they’d send him to Azkaban. Where he belongs with his father.” 

Hermione’s eyes flashed, “Not everyone has ulterior motives, Ronald.”

“We’re talking about Malfoy here.” 

“So you’re saying the only reason why anyone would want to help me is for their own selfish gains?”

“Not everyone. Just Malfoy,” Ron reasoned. “He hasn’t called you any names, has he?”

“You keep asking the same questions. Like you want him to. I’ll have you know, he’s gotten-” 

“Why are you sticking up for him? Just because he visited you in the hospital doesn’t mean—” Ron took another deep drink from his cup. “—anything,” he punctuated.

She crossed her arms, “I didn’t say it did! I haven’t said a word. But he—”

“He was on the wrong side, Hermione. He could save you a million times and still be an awful git. He let those monsters in the school. He watched you get tortured in his house, and did nothing. He called you a Mud—slurs all your life. Malfoy doesn’t do anything without self-preservation in mind. Don’t think for a second-”

“So you keep reminding me! You act as if I don’t know. I was the one who was—” 

“Why do you think he took Head Boy? Hm? McGonagall made it part of his parole conditions when she spoke for him in front of the whole goddamn Wizengamot.” 

“How’d you know that?” Neville asked.

“Harry told me. He was with the Headmaster when he spoke for Malfoy and Narcissa at their trials,” Ron responded flatly. 

Hermione was shocked, “Harry! Y-you didn’t tell me.” 

Harry shrugged and looked away, “I thought it best I didn’t. Summer was, er, rough for you. It wasn't anything onerous. I just had to write a letter about how Narcissa and Malfoy aided the cause, and was interviewed for a short impact statement. I didn’t think you would like it if I told you I helped the Malfoys after—”

“After what happened at Malfoy Manor,” Ron finished for him. “Then get this, my father told me Malfoy was at the Ministry this summer, along with Blaise and Theo. Doing community service. What a farce! That’s when I knew they let him off easy. Shows how far money can get you. Rich baby Death Eaters all get their second chances.” 

Neville interjected, “Weren’t they 15 or 16 when they took their Marks? That’s below the age of ...” 

Everyone looked at Neville, who folded into himself. 

“I don’t see why that matters,” Ron muttered. “Still bloody Death Eaters.”

Harry turned to Hermione, “I spoke for them because Malfoy and Narcissa bought us time. I thought, er,  that it was the right thing to do. They lied to Bellatrix and Voldemort. Didn’t er … tell them who I was. Said I was dead when I wasn’t.” 

Hermione gasped.  

Ron pounded the table, “Why the fuck does that matter?! You won the war. Not them! It doesn't change a thing. Fred and Lavender are still dead! ‘Mione still got Crucio’d. By his Aunt, no less. I was there! I heard her screams!” 

Hermione grabbed onto his sleeves and hissed, “Ronald, please! It's a nice night. Don't. It’s fine. It’s over now.” 

He pulled his arm away from her, “It’s not fine, ‘Mione. Stop pretending. Nothing will ever be fine. Ever. Again.” Ron stomped off into his bedroom. 

She made to follow him, but Ginny stopped her. “Give him some time to cool off, yeah? The anniversary is really doing a number on him.” 

Hermione nodded weakly. 

“Ron and Harry are just tryin' to protect yah.” Seamus soothed. Ginny nodded.

The night went on, as the fire in the hearth crackled and blazed brightly, warming the common room. 

Neville and Hermione began talking about mock NEWTs in earnest. 

“You’re getting really good at this! Soon we'll all be calling you Potions Master.” 

Neville blushed, “Not really. It’s just practice, yeah? I spend a lot of time in the greenhouses, learning about the plants and their properties. But nothing like what Snape or Malfoy can do.” 

“Yeah, I suppose he’s quite good," she conceded. "You know he made me some Cough potions? Added some spearmint so it wouldn’t taste so gods-awful.”

"But Sprout is thinking of making me her teaching assistant next year. There's that," he shrugged. 

Before Hermione could respond—

CLICK. 

The light from the fire flew toward the bedroom. 

WOOSH. 

The common room flickered into darkness, save the candle sconces on the wall. A cool air swept into the room.

“What’s this here, ‘Mione?” Ron asked solemnly, a dark figure in the doorway. 

“What?” Hermione asked, confused. 

Pavarti let out a gasp, panicking in the dark. "Where's Padma?! Padma! I gotta find—"

Ginny reached out, "She's in the library, remember? Breathe. Breathe. It's okay. Pavarti is safe. It's okay."

CLICK. 

The fire returned to the hearth with a loud roar. Crackling. Snapping. 

Ron held his Deluminator in his hand, with his clear, blue eyes fixed on Hermione. She saw the hearth's fire reflected in them. Challenging her. There was something else simmering beneath the surface. Anger? Jealousy? 

“Malfoy. Making you potions? I didn’t realize how close you two have gotten.” The room went quiet. “Living together, I suppose that makes things easy,” he sneered. 

“Don’t be like this. I was just saying—” 

“He’s not a good person, ‘Mione. No matter what you tell yourself.” 

“Ronald, please!" she pleaded. "We're all just trying to have a nice-” 

“Incendio!” Neville yelled with a slight shiver of his cherry wood wand. The snacks on the table burst into a small flame. “So who wants Pumpkin pasties? I just warmed them up!” 

He laughed nervously, then blew out the fire, and offered the tense Gryffindors a plate of snacks that were singed black. 

That seemed to break up the tension.

Everyone reached out and nibbled on a dry pasty, then began anew a different topic much more quietly. Ron calmed down after stuffing his face with three pastries and downing another finger of firewhiskey.

Maybe he was just hangry.

He rubbed Hermione’s arm, which made her jump. “‘Mione, I’m just looking out for you. You know that, right? You’ve got a bleeding heart for elves, every other fucking magical creature, and now, it seems for undesirable blonde arses. I don’t want you to be surprised when a git turns out to be a git.”

“Hardly. I’m not naive.” 

“Just be careful around him,” Ron whispered. “Acting friendly at the Unity Ball and playing pick-up Quidditch doesn’t throw away the last two years. He’s still a Death Eater. Even before that, he was an awful bigot. And you’re … vulnerable right now.” 

She started to get annoyed, “What exactly are you implying?” 

Ron threw up his hands, “You’re just getting better, Hermione. You’re not thinking clearly. And with your parents gone—”

Harry added, “Ron's got a point. I know what that's like. To be all alone. You want so bad to feel cared for, to believe the best of everyone. Like Dumbledore, when he—”

Ron interrupted, as if he couldn't help himself, "Not everyone deserves forgiveness."

Hermione’s eyes blew open, “-Why don’t you just fucking tell everyone? I don’t need your pity or your protection. You’re not my father, Harry. And you, Ronald, you don't get to decide who I forgive or don't. That is my decision alone to make. Just like it's yours if you don't.” 

She was so fucking stubborn. She didn't understand how dangerous he was.

“Your parents would be ashamed to hear that you’re fraternizing with the enemy!” Ron blurted out. He immediately regretted it. [29]

Hermione snarled, “Have another drink, Ronald.” 

“I’m not drunk!” Ron smashed his tumbler down on the table, the liquid sloshing onto the floor. “I’m just trying to get you to listen to reason. But you have some stupid Imperius or Prince Charming spell on you, just because for once, FOR ONCE, Malfoy decided not to be a completely selfish coward. Not everyone can be redeemed, ‘Mione. Some sins are just too big.” 

There was a long silence. 

“When does it actually end?” she asked quietly. Looking down at her feet. 

“What?” Harry and Ron both asked simultaneously. They looked at each other.

“Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dee, the war. How much longer am I expected to hold onto your childhood rivalries? For your sake? I don't want to be angry anymore. You both say you care about me, but almost conversation we've had about Head Boy and Head Girl is how it makes you feel. I'm tired." Hermione opened her mouth to say something else, but left the Gryffindor Tower instead. 

“‘Mione!” Ron called out. 

“I’m tired," she repeated. The meaning was twofold. 

Neville followed after her. But she didn’t wait for him. Her steps sped up. 

“Hermione, wait up!” The sound of his squeaky loafers echoed through the seventh floor stone corridors. 

“Not now, Neville.” 

“Hey, Hermione!” She finally stopped to face him. Seeing Neville’s sweet, open expression, free of malice or anger, she couldn't keep her frown. He was panting by the time he reached her. He rested against his thighs, “Give us a second, yeah?” Hermione tapped her foot. He breathed heavily, “I-I just wanted to say, I get it.” 

“Get what?” 

“Not wanting to hold onto the anger. In the beginning. When I was young, I was really angry all the time too.” 

“You? Really?!” she asked incredulously. “But you always seemed so ...”

“Nice, yeah? Pleasant? I was burning inside all the time. No one saw it. I was afraid to offend anyone. Thought I would just take what I could get. Thought everyone would leave me if they knew … Knew that I was ugly and twisted inside. My Mind Healer thinks maybe I used my magical accidents as a way to—Anyway, it’s not about me right now. I just wanted to say, I know how you feel. I don’t know what happened to your parents, but after mine were—all I wanted was revenge. I sometimes still do. But most of the time, I just want peace. A good night’s sleep. Without nightmares, panic attacks. That's why I make my potions."

She gave him a simpering smile.

"Wanting peace. T-there’s nothing wrong with that.” He scratched his head, a bit embarrassed at his stream of consciousness.

Hermione pulled him into a tight hug, “You’re the best of all of us, Neville.”

Slytherin dungeons

While Hermione was off with Potter and the Weasel, Malfoy was in the dungeons with Blaise, Luna, Pansy, Theo, and now Cho. Apparently, Malfoy surmised. He refused to be the type of man who waited around for his—

What the fuck was Granger to him? A fling? Girlfriend? He shuddered. Paramour? He chuckled internally. 

When Pansy saw him, she stood to leave the room. He grabbed her arm quickly, “You don’t have to do that.” 

She shook him off, “But I want to.” Millicent and Tracy left with her, shooting Malfoy disdainful looks. 

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Malfoy,” Blaise pontificated. “Afraid that you forgot about the Death Eater Three.” 

Cho laughed a little too loudly, giving away her discomfort at the mention of Death Eaters. Her face flushed with drink. Theo, wavy dark hair falling in his eyes, stared down at the tiny witch. They just started seeing each other. Casually. But he couldn't deny the pleasure of her company and of course, she was bloody gorgeous. Whip smart too. They started studying for the mock NEWTs together, but really, Theo couldn't be arsed. He just wanted an excuse to stare at her and hold her hand in the library. It was the first time he invited her to the dungeons, and she was so nervous that she started drinking early on in the evening to settle her nerves. 

He smiled tenderly and took her cup away. “Slow down. You’re okay,” he soothed. She gave him a grateful smile and pushed his hair off his forehead. 

“Yes, having almost died, I was worried when my social calendar would become full again,” Malfoy quipped. 

“Again with the melodramatics,” Blaise drawled. “You were out in a few days.” 

“Did the Quibbler help with your boredom, dear Draco?” Luna asked dreamily. She had Blaise’s hand in her lap, trying to read his fortune.

“Yeah, some interesting stuff," he said begrudgingly. "The author of that article.  Do you know who wrote it? It was clearly a nom de plume. How do they know all that?” 

“Hm, I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask my father when he gets back. He’s currently in Sweden. He got a promising lead on the Crumple-Horned Snorkack.”

Malfoy had no idea what any of the words Luna was saying meant. He shook his head and took a sip from his cup.

Blaise interjected, “What is clear is that pieces are moving. Mother says that a lot of families are moving their money around in Gringotts. Millions.”

“So what’s that mean?” Cho asked earnestly. Blaise looked at her as if he just realized she was here. She looked back down at her empty cup. 

“It means-”

“Why do we even fucking care?” Theo deadpanned.. “Nott Sr., Lucius, and Greyback are all locked up. A lot of the other sympathizers are on the run, hiding out across Europe. It'll be hard for them to consolidate any kind of power. Old Voldy is dead. Without the Malfoy and Nott vaults and him leading the charge—” 

“Sometimes I don’t know if you’re drunk or stupid,” Blaise spat.

“A little of Column A. A little of Column B.” Cho burst out in giggles, clearly drunk and tickled by her new boyfriend’s tepid wit. 

Blaise continued, “Yaxley and Rowle were never caught, and they never found Dolohov’s body. And if they have the financial backing of other Pureblood families …”

Malfoy spoke up, “This is all just conjecture right now.” 

“I don’t know, mate. The DMLE doesn’t seem to think so.” 

“Yeah? And what, pray tell, has your new Stepdaddy been telling you?” 

Blaise sneered, “They’re training new Aurors in the Dark Arts. Apparently, Shacklebolt has no qualms about them using Dark Magic. Krum is going to be at the anniversary ceremonies with the Minister. To usher in a new world order, so I’m told.”

“You don’t sound too pleased with that. I wonder why,” Theo pointed out. “Both of you,” he nodded in Malfoy's direction.

“I am on the side that keeps my mom and me safe. You think your little jokes are gonna save you when you, son of infamous Death Eater Nott Sr., are now of age and on Krum’s bad side? You think he gives a rat's arse?” 

Malfoy winced as he recalled the conversation between him and Viktor. 

“I should go,” Cho hiccuped, firewhiskey in her chest and uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation. “I need to study.” She stood up. Legs wobbly. Head spinning. Cheeks flushed. Hair a bit mussed up. Theo had never seen anything so adorable. Like a clumsy little doe. 

He followed her up from the couch. “For mock NEWTs,” she slurred and raised her glass in cheers. Then she leaned against Theo’s chest, falling asleep on her feet. He carefully took her hands and folded them into his lap, then lifted her up bridal style. 

“I’m going to take her back to the Ravenclaw Tower.”

Luna stood to leave as well. Blaise rose to accompany her, but she stopped him by lifting a gentle finger, “It’s alright, dove. Theo will walk us back. Get some rest. I’ll be thinking of you as the wings of my dreams touch yours.” 

Luna whispered a quiet Notice-Me-Not charm over Theo and Cho and they walked out together. She looked back and blew Blaise a kiss. 

Blaise watched until his ethereal partner left the dungeons. Then a familiar drawl rang out, “If Theo’s gossip is to be believed, you’re mucking about with the Golden Girl.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Malfoy snipped. 

“Can’t say it surprises me. I’ve seen the way you look at her. And Salazar of Slytherin, Third Year! You wouldn’t shut up about her. Her Blood status. Her stupid hair. Her buck teeth. Her punch. How she beat you in almost every class. How you should get her expelled.” 

“That was a long time ago, Blaise. People move on.”

“You haven’t.”

“What is the actual point of this? Spit it out. I’m tired and a little pissed, if I may be honest.” 

“That getting with Granger is a bad idea,” Blaise said bluntly. “I get it. Fucking the Golden Girl is a huge turn-on. Boring and cliche, but I get it. You were always one for drama.” 

Malfoy let out a small chuckle, “I assure you. I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Blaise looked almost hurt, “Don’t insult me.” He moved to the glamored liquor cabinet, and poured both of them another finger of firewhiskey. They drank in silence.

As Malfoy felt the alcohol burn in his chest, he started carefully, “Let’s just entertain this for a second. I’m not saying I am, but what if I—we were?”  

“Then I would say you’re even stupider than you look. Are you mental? She’s a Gryffindor!” Blaise hissed. 

Malfoy broke out in a cruel smile, “That’s it? That’s all you have? I thought you’d at least be a bit more original. You need to grow the fuck up.” 

“Merlin, I suppose you have been spending too much time with Granger. Any kind of subtlety is lost on you. It’s a euphemism.”

“You’re practically attached at the hip with Ravenclaw’s resident loon. No one bats an eye.”

“LUNA’S NOT A FUCKING MUDBLOOD!”

Malfoy’s eye twitched. The tension between the young Wizards grew. 

“Who do you think you’re fooling? What actually are you hoping to get out of this? You fucked the prized Mudblood pig at Hogwarts. Good for fucking you. Put that notch in your dragonhide belt. What then? Are you going to stay? You’re gonna marry her? Have little half-breeds with her? You think people want to see the war hero with a Death Eater? You think people won’t spit on her when you two walk the streets? You think our circles will take kindly to her? What kind of life can you give her when Daddy Malfoy takes away your inheritance and disowns you? You had it so good with Pans, and you had to fuck that up.” 

“Fuck off, Blaise. It’s so easy to tell people what to do when you’ve got your slice. The war’s over.”

“You’re an even bigger idiot, then. I’m a realist. You think society is fixed? That people are suddenly open-minded now?! You just gonna ignore the Quibbler article? The Dementors that attacked you while you were with Granger? Mate, I’m looking out for you. Trust me.” 

“Just because you still believe in that Pureblood drivel doesn’t mean I do too. We were fucking children. I took the Dark Mark to keep my father out of Azkaban. Otherwise, I would have never-” 

“And I took the Mark because my mother told me to hedge my bets. You know what the Zabinis and Slytherins have in common? We survive.” 

“I’m surprised your mother had enough time to Floo call you from all the Auror cocks she’s been suck—”

SWICK!

BAM! 

A flurry of movements.

Blaise was fast. Brutal.

His fist landed on the side of the wall that Malfoy was leaning against. Splitting the oak wood. Splinters flew around them. He spit on the ground, “Fuck you, Malfoy. You think you know what the real world’s like because you faced a little adversity? You and your tow-headed mother, your lot are the worst. Staying in your gilded cages, content to judge others. Not actually standing for anything until it suits or actually affects you.”

“You think you’re better? Running scared in the Wizarding world? Spouting off rubbish, so it keeps you in the right social groups? We all know how the Zabinis get their wealth. What number of daddies are you on now?”

Blaise gave him a cold smile, “Number 8 actually. I don’t bother to learn their names until second year.” He stiffened and pulled his hand back from the wall, dusting nonexistent dirt off his uniform. With a wordless spell, the wood healed itself. “I’m not a good man, but I don’t pretend to be. I don’t have any delusions of grandeur. Whatever illusions you have with Granger, drop it. You won’t be the Golden couple. You won’t break the wheel.”

“Now who’s being dramatic?” Malfoy smirked. 

“You know what's going to happen, right? I can see it clear as day already.”

“Please tell me what’s in your crystal ball, Trelawney. I’m dying to know.” 

“I don’t need a crystal ball to see the obvious. The universe will invariably right itself. Scratch that itch for now if you must, but you’re only going to fuck each other’s lives up. She’s going to endanger you with her stupid Golden Trio thing. And you’re always going to choose your family. You think you have what it takes to live like the Weasleys? Without your galleons? She’s going to resent you. And you’re going to resent her. Give that self-righteous Mudblood a proper chance before you ruin her.”

“You really have the utmost confidence in my sexual prowess, don’t you, Blaise? I’m touched. And I’ll have you know the rumours are true.” 

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“Are you like Theo? You want to have a glance at the famous Malfoy cane too?”

“Spare me. You fucked up things with Pans. Take a look at that Greengrass girl who’s been sniffing around since summer. She has a sister, if blondes aren’t your thing. Granger’s not gonna save you, Malfoy. And you’re sure as hell no hero. But-,” Blaise walked back to the black velvet couch and eyed Draco warily. He swirled his glass. “-you’re not gonna listen. This conversation probably has you even more hard up for her now. Forbidden fruit and whatnot.” He waved his hand, dismissing Draco.

Head Student dormitories

When Malfoy finally made his way into the Head Student dormitories, it was late. He took care to avoid Filch and the Prefects on duty.

This month was who? Fuck. He wracked his brain. That Abbott girl and Finch-Fletchley.  

As he made his way into the alcove, he hiccuped. The upended firewhiskey burned his throat.

The dorms were quiet. He prepared for bed, brushing his teeth and changing out of his school uniform. Granger’s bedroom door was open. She wasn’t there. He frowned.  

Then as he opened his bedroom door, he realized where his Witch was. Asleep. In his bed. If he weren’t so smashed, he might have heard her snores. He smiled, but also felt a quick tightening across his chest. 

What was this even? What did this mean to her? For her? For her reputation? Being with an ex-Death Eater? Did she care? Did he? What did this mean to him? She wasn’t even remotely appropriate as a match. What kind of future could they have? They could play house now. What would happen after Hogwarts? When real life takes over? When his mother finishes house arrest? When his father gets released? When he takes on the family responsibilities?

He let out a long sigh. And because he was selfish, greedy, and cowardly, he didn’t let himself think anymore that night. All his thoughts came to a halt when Hermione shifted toward the light in the open door. Hair a mess, she blinked open her eyes to see Malfoy watching her. She reached out sleepily, “I hope you don’t mind. Your room smelled like you.” 

He got into bed with her, tucking in against her small frame. Wrapping his arm around her waist. Shifting his nose into the crook of her neck and shoulder. His favourite place now. It smelled sweet like her and was always a little damp. Like her, he chuckled to himself. And fitting his rapidly hardening cock against the dip of her arse. 

“Obviously, Granger,” he breathed into her ear. “And. What. Do. I. Smell. Like. If. You. Please?” Each word was punctuated with a short thrust.

She hummed as she felt him push against her, “Like h-mahogany,” she breathed unsteadily. “Leather.” She gasped at his continued thrusts, “M-mint.” 

Malfoy yanked off her pajama top and palmed her stomach with his icy cool hands, then slowly made his way down to her bottoms, sneaking one hand down the front of her knickers while the other looped around her waist. 

He made light, small circles around her clit until she started pushing back against him. Asking for more friction with her body. He pressed down hard on her mound, and she shuddered. As she shook, he took the opportunity to slip a finger inside her. He swore into her hair when he felt her wetness. 

Malfoy pulled down her pants and ripped off the knickers. The elastic snapped at her waist, causing her to jump. “Hey! That’s two!” 

Using his hand around her waist, he pushed her onto her back and kissed her. It was easy to kiss Granger. She had soft, full lips with a warm, welcoming tongue. She slotted against his mouth perfectly, and was always eager and non-withholding with her affection. He licked against her incisors, smiling briefly to himself about the young image of her with long, growing teeth.

“You taste like firewhiskey,” she said, words muffled against his mouth. 

“And you taste like butterbeer. But I love sweets.” 

Both of them felt a pass of electrical hum course unsteadily through them with Malfoy's remark. Hermione decided it was a slip of the tongue, and instead focused on the sensations of his fingers. Dipping slowly in and out of her. Pushing against her walls. Curling and massaging the spot against the front of her pelvis. He was patient. He pressed against her with purpose, while palming her sex. Determined to reach the space and tempo that would make her fall apart. 

Hermione guided his hands, holding onto his wrist. Telling him in breathy sighs when to push harder. When to slow down. Merlin, he loved to be used like that. To be a tool for her pleasure. To be the sole reason that made her moan. To be the only thing that she saw while she grunted, hot and wet, against him. 

Tonight, Malfoy was soft and gentle. She thinks she preferred this iteration of him, even though she would take any version of Malfoy—the last few days taught her that—if it meant he would do those things to her with his mouth, fingers, and cock. 

Hermione pushed his fingers out of her and pushed him off of her. He frowned. They both were kneeling on the bed, shifting their weight on their heels. As she made her way to him, she watched him as he sucked on his fingers. The ones that had been inside her a second ago. She nearly fell over. 

She slowly undid the buttons on his top, and pulled the shirt down to his arms, feeling his hard chest, arms, and stomach. Then she extended her body up and nipped at his neck, making him growl. She made a path of wet, open-mouthed kisses down from his chest, laving each nipple, to his stomach, and finally let out a hot breath against the light-blonde, fuzzy hairs below his navel. Malfoy shuddered. 

His arousal was clear, tenting his silk boxers. She gripped the fabric roughly, pulling them down to his knees. Malfoy started fisting himself, stroking his length, then twisting at the head, while watching her. 

Not an ounce of self-consciousness. Must come from experience, she thought bitterly. 

She licked her lips, readying herself. She’d never done it before. But from her magazines and romance novels, she knew enthusiasm went a long way.

Courage, Hermione. 

She studied his cock like a puzzle to be solved. She tilted her head and watched Malfoy’s motions, trying to commit to memory how he liked to be touched. He was showing her. Then she bent down and placed a soft, chaste kiss on the tip of his cock. He gripped her hair. She continued her ministrations, replacing his hand with hers, mimicking his twisting motion, and licking the head. Tentatively at first. Then bolder. 

It tasted like skin, salty and soapy, with a hint of something else. Something heavy. Musky. Nutty. 

Opening her mouth wide, she tried to take all of his cock in. Until she met resistance at the back of her throat. She choked a little. 

Malfoy pulled her mouth off of him, and kissed her deeply. Licking every part of her mouth. He whispered into his kiss, “You don’t have to.” 

“I want to,” she mumbled. “Am I not doing it right?” 

He laughed softly and peppered kisses along her cheeks, “It's good. So good.”

“Good?!" Her eyes glowed.

Nothing less than an 'O' would do.

"Amazing, even." She heard him murmur above her. 

She huffed. "Then let me try harder.” 

She crawled back down to him. With a renewed determination. She opened her mouth again, letting instinct take over. She licked along the length of him, using her saliva as slip to guide her hand up and down. She palmed his arse, pushing him deeper into her throat. Malfoy groaned and returned his grip on her hair, pulling slightly. Hermione determined that she was doing something right. 

She followed her hand movements with her mouth. Licking. Sucking. Swirling her tongue around the head with equal fervor. Her cheeks hollowed out. Her jaw ached. And she tried again. To take all of him. Until her eyes watered. She looked up to see Malfoy tilting his head back in pleasure. He reached out to graze her cheek. Hermione leaned into his touch. 

That slight movement seemed to awake him out of his trance, and he gently pushed her mouth off of him. 

“What—”, she asked, slightly dazed from the lack of oxygen.

“Inside. Now,” Malfoy commanded. His eyes dark and feral with purpose. She also loved this version of him. Demanding. In control. 

Hermione leaned back and wrapped her legs around his waist. He looked at her steadily and whispered an almost-imperceptible Contraceptive charm. She felt a familiar warm glow across her belly. Without breaking eye contact, he guided himself into her. 

They moaned simultaneously. Her grip on his arms tightened. Her eyes moved to his bedside table, “You kept Neville’s plant.” 

His thrusts stuttered. He pressed his forehead against hers, giving her a low chuckle, “Can you not talk about another man when I’m inside you?”

She blushed, “He’ll like that.” This comment only spurred Malfoy on, pushing more roughly in her. He tugged her hip, bucking deep and pulling her more tightly against him. Hermione couldn’t contain her moans. Her back arched instinctively as he buried himself to the hilt inside her. She quivered, feeling helpless in his grip.

The sensation built in her stomach, stretching tight around lower back and pelvis. Malfoy sensed her need, snaking a hand between them as she slid up his body. Providing that mindnumbing pressure. Against his rocking movements. Perfectly catching her clit each time. “Please!” she cried. 

“Please 'what?'” Malfoy whispered. 

“Please. I'm so close. Please,” she broke off as he thrusted roughly. Her blood coiled inside her. Her nerves on fire. He suddenly stopped moving. She tilted her hip up, trying to push against him, desperate to feel him slide in and against her again. “Draco, please!” she whined. 

He smirked. Waiting. His fingers traced a small circle and pressed on her nub. The only friction he allowed.

Hermione tried to stop herself but the words spilled out of her, “PleaseDracoIneeditpleasepleaseIwantyoudon’tstopplease.”

Malfoy let out a pained groan, pulled out, and slammed inside her. The air pushed out of her lungs. Sliding in and out against her walls. Harder now. Again. And again. She tried to grab onto his arms, but his movements were so rough. Erratic. Her own fingers were shaking. Spasming. 

She reached between them, feeling the slick sweat on both their bodies. She grabbed the base of his cock, causing a low moan, then thrummed her clit. Her body tightened around him. Baring down. 

“Fuck, you’re so—”, Malfoy didn’t get to finish his sentence. She spasmed around him. Fast. Splintering. Loud. 

He followed her, breaking with a yell. She felt a warm rush of liquid, as he pulled slightly out of her. Coating her outer lips with his spent. She laid limp and boneless, as his hips continued to move. His cock still thick, pumping his cum back inside her, fucking through his orgasm, until the last drop emptied inside her. She kissed his shoulder.  

Draco.

His room. The world shimmered around her. A smoky haze engulfed her vision. Hermione closed her eyes as an overwhelming emotion filled her chest. She knew the word well, but pushed it away. 

Don't ruin things. Not now. Not tonight.

Stumbling and slipping over the truth. Her throat felt dry and thick from her screams. She sighed shakily. Drifting off to sleep as Malfoy caressed her arms in long, soothing strokes. 

May 2, 1999
One-year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts
Hogwarts courtyard.

The Hogwarts students filed wordlessly into the courtyard. The wet and grey weather mirrored the sombre mood of the day. Little spits of rain dotted their black robes. 

Shacklebolt and Selma Shafiq, the Senior Undersecretary for the Department of Magical Education stood centrally on the black deis. Standing next to them were Headmaster McGonagall wearing a serious expression and a grey robe, along with the other faculty members. The Prefects stood on the opposite side. Murmuring about the missing Head Students. 

Hermione and Malfoy were late. They overslept. And in the morning, Malfoy kept tugging on her skirt or shirt as she dressed. Slipping a hand in there. And here. Circling his arm around her waist. Until she finally had to push him off of her. 

“Malfoy!”, she scolded. “Today is serious. Grab your wand! We can’t be late.” He grumbled something about his wand, but she ignored it. 

As the student body made their way down to the grounds, he took advantage of the dark, empty corridors to paw at his Witch. Malfoy pushed her into a second floor alcove, his lips catching hers in a frenzied kiss. 

“Malfoy!”, she giggled as he licked along the length of her neck. “We’re going to be late. Really late!” 

“Then be quick about it. Muffliato,” he whispered hotly in her ear as he pressed a knee between her thighs, opening her up. He felt her heat on his leg already. Pushing her knickers to the slide, he slid a finger along her slit to prepare her. One long stroke through her folds. She was already as wet and warm as spring. 

Hermione made quick work of his trousers, undoing his buttons deftly, pulling down the zip, and reaching inside his boxers to stroke him. In her hands, he felt large, hard, and velvety. She licked her palm a few times and ran her hand against his length. His eyes closed and he pressed his forehead into hers. Mouth slack, concentrating only on the sensation of her small hand. After a few more strokes, Malfoy stopped her pumps and roughly bunched her grey skirt around her waist. His breathing more ragged and intense now. He declared, “I'm going to fuck you now. Hard.” She could only nod. 

Malfoy pulled her white cotton knickers down to her ankles. Lifting one of her legs to hook around his back, he pushed into her, his hand cushioning her head against the alcove wall. She looked at him strangely. At this unexpected gentleness. Her head turned slightly, and his lips pressed against hers in a heated kiss. Sweet. Instinctual. As if they'd always done this. She wanted to say something, but she didn’t know what. So Hermione returned his kiss with force, licking across his lips until he opened his mouth to her. 

His fingers between them pulled her out of her thoughts. Pushing and circling around her bundle of nerves. She couldn’t help but wriggle and buck into his hold. Her hips rocked in time with his thrusts. 

Tip. Tap. 

Tip. Tap.

Some quick footsteps on the stone floor froze their motions. They weren't invisible. Hermione’s mouth opened in horror, but Malfoy pushed his fingers into her mouth. She started sucking on them, making his hips stutter. 

Tip. Tap. 

Tip. Tap. 

The footsteps made their way down the staircase.

The clandestineness of their coupling. The risk of being caught. The lack of time. All swirled around them. Drawing them higher and higher into their frenzied peaks. 

“Fuck. You’re soˆFeel so good. C-come with me, Granger. Want to feel you—fuck. C-come on my cock,” Malfoy urged in broken sentences. He pressed more insistently on her mound, knowing well the pressure that she loved now.

With his fingers still in her mouth and a little drool leaking out of the side, she responded in similar nonsensical fragments, “Nnnmmm, ugh! Draco, please. Mmmnnn. Please." Her usual mouthy self was always at a loss of words when he was inside her, reduced to one-word sentence fragments.

He came with a low groan in the crook of her neck and shoulder, smelling jasmines and the sweet scent that was Granger. When he pulsed into her, he bit down on her shoulder, then immediately licked the wound, triggering her own orgasm. Clenching tightly around his cock, she milked him over and over again. Crying out against the palm he pushed against her mouth. His hand was heated against her huffs; he felt her tongue flicked around and in between his fingers. For some reason, Malfoy found this wildly erotic, causing him to thrust longer and deeper within her. Her chest constricted as she heaved, gasping for air. Malfoy continued to press into her. His hand never leaving her clit, making each wave of pleasure more prolonged and intense. 

When they finally came down from the wall and from each other, they were sweaty and out of breath. Hermione looked shyly up at him, while she fixed her knickers and skirt. He pushed the hair out of his eyes, and did the same for the tendrils stuck to her cheek and forehead. She gave him a quick kiss on his cheek that he leaned into. 

Malfoy mumbled a quiet Scourgify spell for him and her. They walked to the courtyard with furtive smiles and an appropriate distance apart. 

Shacklebolt was dressed in an expensive, midnight blue robe, similar to his ensemble that night at the Unity Ball. Selma wore a simple black sheath dress, looking put together and elegant with her hair smoothed back in a low chignon bun. He tilted his head in acknowledgement when Hermione and Malfoy passed him and took their place to the Minister’s left. On his right beside the faculty was Viktor Krum, dressed to the nines in his Auror outfit: a dark trench with red lapels, an Auror badge, black trousers, leather gloves, and dragonhide boots. The pin on his lapel clearly labelled him as Head Auror. 

Hermione waved to him like a schoolgirl when she walked past. Krum reciprocated with a warm smile and a short tug of his sleeves. Malfoy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

In the crowd, Ron tracked Hermione’s movements with Malfoy. Earlier, Seamus, Dean, and him shared a bottle of Ogden’s, poured into their coffee. Ginny even took some. 

“To Colin.”

“To Colin!” 

“For Lavender.” 

“For Lavender!” 

“To Fred.” 

“To Fred!” 

Ron grimaced at the last toast. 

It was almost evening now.

Flicking his billowing robes around him, Shacklebolt approached the podium with the appropriate pomp and circumstance. Shacklebolt looked tall, grand, and powerful. The magical floating spotlights, providing the backdrop around him, gave the Minister an air of importance and solemnity. He held up his palms to the audience, quieting the crowd. He wordlessly amplified his voice:

“One year since the Battle of Hogwarts. One year since we last saw blood shed on these grounds. Some say the price we pay is not worth the war. But by coming together last year to make a real difference in the lives of Witches and Wizards all over the United Kingdom, we have shown democracy is still the best way for delivering results. Not through fear. Not through manipulation and coercion. Not through misguided ideas about Blood Purity. Let me say it again: democracy is still the best way for delivering results. This is my vision to: Build. Back. Better.

Make no mistake, we face some real challenges. There is an urgent need for infrastructure development, infrastructure that prioritizes family, economic growth, and unity. We must build back together. We are all in this together.

Know you are not alone. And the truth is, we can’t do it alone. We will need investments, financial and otherwise. But also support from all of you. You, Witches and Wizards, occupy a very special time in history, And we will need some of you-”

Shacklebolt gestured to Krum, who stepped forward and bowed deeply.

“to make the difficult choices and decisions to keep us safe. And we will need all of you, the future generations-”

Shacklebolt looked expectantly at Hermione and Malfoy to step forward. They did. Slowly. Awkwardly. 

“to commit to the same principles of unity and peace. We see it here and now, with Hogwarts Schools of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the most prominent magical school in Europe. Your Head Boy and Head Girl, sorted into rival houses, and once on opposite sides of the war, working together in a show of solidarity with the Ministry. To set an example for all magical Schools across the world. 

Our Build Back Better plan-I say ‘ours’-is going to do even more, in my view. Combined with the Infrastructure Bill that is currently making its way through the Wizengamot, we’re making the biggest investment in a safer future in the Wizarding world, for Muggleborns and Purebloods alike. 

This is about the here and now, and the future.

It’s good for families. It’s good for the economy. And it’s good for the country. So I ask now that you put your faith in the institution, in the Ministry, in the Wizengamot, in me. ” [30]

Malfoy immediately paled. He felt sick. He heard those words before.

Hermione and Harry passed nervous glances, wondering what the Infrastructure Bill actually entailed. 

The crowd clapped dutifully. 

Headmaster McGonagall, face drawn, stepped forward. She, too, seemed to recognize the familiarity of the Minister's words. She cleared her throat before speaking, “Thank you, Minister Shacklebolt, for your powerful words. You've given us a lot to think about."

Everyone clapped again.

"For our next speaker, we have a Hogwarts student and Prefect, to speak to and for our student body. Please welcome, war hero, Mr. Harry Potter.” Harry winced at this empty pontification.

Harry looked down at his speech and folded his parchment once more. The crowd filled with his peers, his loved ones, and younger Witches and Wizards he hoped would never have to know war. His hand trembled.  

“Hey, everyone. You know me, Harry. If you don’t, hi, I’m Harry." He chuckled nervously, "Minister Shacklebolt here said some nice words. But er … I’m not a good speaker. As you can tell. So I need to make use of my notes. Umm ..."

He looked into the crowd. Trying to find Gin. Ron. His eyes settled on the two heads of red hair in the audience near the front. Ginny caught his stare and nodded.

"Er, the last two years, my friends and I have been running. Fighting against evil. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring. Whether we would live or die. I hope none of you will have to experience that. I actually resigned myself to thinking I would. Die, that is. And I think about how much I believed in the cause. That every magical being, whether Muggleborn or Pureblood or Half-blood, have the right to be free from persecution, from danger. Then I wondered why others might not think the same way. They think of their cause, not as evil, but just. As something logical to preserve their livelihoods, legacy, and bloodlines. But that's just it, 'innit?” 

Some murmurs came from the crowd. Harry stumbled over his words. 

“Er, no, that's not what I meant." He looked embarrassed. "Perhaps I should start from the beginning." Harry took a deep breath, "For the majority of my life, I was an orphan. My parents died when I was one. Most of you know that already. What you probably don't know was that I was raised by my aunt and uncle. And they … hurt me. Not physically. But in every other way that they could. Made me feel unwelcome. Like a burden. Like I was something to be ashamed of. Like I wasn't worth anything. So when I got the Hogwarts letter, I was ecstatic. So happy to leave that miserable place. That closet they made me live in. I was desperate to find a place to belong. To find people who knew me. I thought I was finally worth of love and protection. Dumbledore showed me that love.”

He looked down on his parchment and then at Shacklebolt, his expression unreadable. Harry's throat bobbed, but he continued:

“And because of that, I put my faith in him. In the institution. That they would protect us. That they knew what was best. That they had our true interests at heart. So while it’s true the war is over, we still have our work cut out for us. To circle back to what I said previously, er ... what I meant to say was that no one actually believes they're the villains in their own story. Everyone has their own reasons. Me. Dumbledore. Voldemort. And so, er... we must be wary of people in power and those who try to stay in power. Because they all believe they are doing the right thing too. If we truly believe in democracy, we need to go forward with our eyes open. There must be real checks and balances. We are the ones with true power. True numbers. We cannot be complacent, just because it's not Voldemort now. We need to push back against tyrants. Push back against authoritarians. Push back against those who abuse their power.”

The crowd whooped and hollered. 

“Yeah, Harry!” Ginny cried. 

“Right on!” Ron shouted. 

Seamus and Dean whistled. 

Shacklebolt and Harry looked at each other from across the stage. Tension and wariness growing. The Headmaster sliced across it.

“Well, um, thank you for that stirring speech, Mr. Potter,” she glowered at him, then gave an apologetic look toward the Minister. Shacklebolt shook his head magnanimously, but a glint stayed in his eyes as he appraised the Boy who Lived.

“Next time, I will be checking your speech first,” she whispered directly to him. 

“Quite the oversight, Headmaster.” Harry gave her a lopsided smile. 

“You have no idea the trouble you have caused!” 

“I’m used to it.” 

McGonagall sighed, “I will talk to you later. In my office.”

"I expect nothing less, Headmaster."

Then she magically amplified her voice. “We end today’s ceremonies with our heads bowed in remembrance and thanks to those fallen in the Battle of Hogwarts.” She pointed her wand to the grey sky, darkening the landscape, “Nox caelum.” 

“Lumos.”

Malfoy moved through the Viaduct Courtyard, briskly walking on the bridge, trying to avoid the nasty weather. The rain came down harder now. Plip, plopping on his fine robes. The sky darkened. The wind picking up speed, almost howling. Maybe it was those sounds that distracted him. Maybe he was thinking about Granger and Viktor. So he didn't notice anything until he heard some scuffling behind him. 

“It’s a tragedy, isn’t it?” an Irish lilt started. "All of it."

He turned to see the Weasel, Dean, and Seamus behind him, their stance wide and a little unsteady. Eyes burning with rage and a bit of firewhiskey courage. Their fists were curled tight. Malfoy held his breath, as Ron and Seamus stalked toward him. Dean followed closely behind, but his sideways glance at the other boys gave away his uncertainty. 

“Sod off, Finnigan. I’m not in the mood.” 

"Yeah, that's alright. We are," Seamus smiled predatorily.

“You must think you’re so clever. Thinking you have all of us fooled. Shacklebolt, McGonagall, ‘Mione,” Ron added darkly. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“No, you wouldn’t, would you? Nothing registers in your head unless it’s about you or your fucking Pureblood family. Always scheming, clawing your way out of the rubble, not caring who you step on.”  

Malfoy blinked, aware that he was outnumbered. “You think I wanted to be here? Listen to you bleeding heart Gryffindors cry and moan for hours?”  

Ron scoffed, “I don’t care what Shacklebolt says. No matter how many ceremonies you attend, how many galleons you donate, you’re still a fucking Death Eater. You don’t deserve to be here today. Not when Fred isn’t.”

“Are we going to keep doing this every time we cross paths?” Malfoy drawled. “Doesn’t it get boring to repeat the same things? Over and over? Or is that all the thoughts your puny mind can handle?” 

Ron lunged at him, grabbing onto his robes. He threw Malfoy against the stones of the bridge. His push and pull dragged Malfoy’s face across the hard surface, tearing the skin on his lip and above his eyebrows. Blood spurted out of the cut, leaving Malfoy temporarily blind. His hand grappled for purchase. Something to hold onto. Anything. But only finds empty air when his feet gave out under him and the wind is knocked out of his lungs.

The Weasel blindsided him.

Ron and Malfoy struggled on the ground. Twisting and turning. The rough ground and gravel digging into their skin. Every movement hurts. Malfoy punched blindly. Wildly, whipping his arms against the Weasel’s face. It connected; he landed a punch. A sickening, satisfying, wet noise. 

CRACK. 

CRUNCH.

Against Ron’s jaw. His head snapped back at the force. This gave Malfoy a moment to wipe the blood from his forehead and eyes. Malfoy smiled coldly.

He enjoyed that. Immensely. He hoped he loosened a tooth or two.  

When Ron faced him again, he was cupping his jaw. Dripping fat droplets of blood onto the grey, hard ground. He snarled at Malfoy. 

His lopsided mouth now matched his ugly ginger hair.

Teeth stained red and pink. Ron hawked blood onto Malfoy’s robes. 

Malfoy was now vaguely aware that Dean and Seamus were holding down both his arms, with wands pointed at him. He struggled against their bruising grips. 

Ron sent a punch to his stomach, knocking the air out of him. He took out his wand, and dug it crudely into Malfoy’s chest.

Before he could say another word, a familiar voice screamed out, “Ron, what are you doing?!” 

In front of Malfoy stood Hermione, the Weaselette, and Potter. All of them petrified at the scene in front of them.

As she caught up with Viktor, Harry and Ginny approached, saying the appropriate pleasantries to the Head Auror and collecting Hermione for dinner.

"I shall take my leave. I vill see you again soon." A statement. Not a question. Viktor bowed slightly and kissed Hermione's hand. She blushed. He left with Shacklebolt and Selma. The Minister sent Harry one more wary look before walking away.

"Old love reigniting?" Ginny smirked.

Hermione giggled, "Oh no, he just had some questions about the Dementor attack." 

"You never know what'll happen. Somehow Krum's gotten even fitter! Look at those arms. Thick and girth-y. Imagine them lifting you up while you ride his-" Ginny said gleefully.

"I'm right here, Gin!" Harry moaned. He rubbed his face roughly.

She grabbed onto her boyfriend's arm and gave him an adoring kiss on the cheek, "You're the only one for me, Harry. But we gotta think of Hermione's needs. Now let's go! I'm STARVING." 

They walked through the courtyards toward the Viaduct bridge. 

Hermione looked terrified. The wind whipping her hair around. The rain pelting on them, soaking their faces and clothes. Her heart pounded in her ears, surveying the violent scene. Malfoy on the ground, bleeding and thrashing. Dean and Seamus twisting his arms around into an unnatural position. Red fluid staining the ground around them. Ron's jaw hanging limply from his face, blood dripping from his mouth. His wand pointed at Malfoy.

“Stay out of this, ‘Mione.” Ron’s wand dug in even harder. 

“No, Ron!” She moved forward to rush at him, grabbing her wand, but Ginny held her arms. Harry froze, looking back and forth between Ron and Malfoy, unsure of what to do.

“Don’t!” Ginny whispered. Hermione struggled against her Quidditch-trained grip. 

“So that’s it then, Death Eater over your family? Are you just as rotten as him? Because this—all this, Hogwarts doesn’t matter. No one’s gonna give you an ‘O’ for saving the Head Boy.”

“Why are you doing this?! Stop! You’re hurting him!” Gin’s arms tightened around Hermione. “Let him go!” 

When Malfoy continued to struggle against the boys’ hold, Seamus snuck in a dirty punch. He glared up at the Irish gnome and spits in his face. Seamus pulled his arm farther backward. Roughly pushing it back until—

A RIP.

A CLICK.

AN AWFUL TEARING SOUND.

Malfoy screamed. 

“You think everyone can be redeemed. Everyone can be good. You know what your bleeding heart got us? Your parents Oblivated. George maimed. Lavender and Fred dead. You getting tortured at Malfoy Manor. Fucking up your, our minds. And this complete bellend too cowardly to do anything about it. Just walking free.” 

“Ron, please, you’re not making any sense,” Hermione pleaded, “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t. It’s not worth it. It won’t change the past. It won’t bring my parents back.” She paused, “And it won’t bring Fred back. Please!”

Ron glared at her. Eyes on fire and so cutting that she felt it in her throat. He lifted his wand up to Malfoy’s clavicle and twists, “ Sectum-” 

A fast, smooth movement. Blue silk. Flashing across their eyes.  

“Expelliarmus!” 

Another one, “Expelliarmus!” And another, “Expelliarmus!” 

Grabbing Ron, Dean, and Seamus’ wands in mid-air, Blaise crossed the Viaduct bridge, appearing calm, cool, and collected. He moved like water. Fluid. Efficient. 

Surprised by the intrusion and sudden loss of their wands, they slackened their grip on Malfoy. The Gryffindor boys dropped backward. Blaise’s tall frame shifted toward and in front of Malfoy, standing between them and the blonde Wizard. With nary a hair out of place, Blaise looked impossibly handsome and unbothered. Bored, even. Dressed in his pressed uniform that fit him to a 'T' and expensive Italian dragonhide brogues, his caramel skin glowed with a slight sheen. Almost otherworldly. He was dangerous. 

“Stay out of this, Zabini. It’s nothin' to do wit' you,” Seamus warned. 

“Au contraire,” Blaise curled a lip. “I heard you screaming ‘Death Eater this, Death Eater that.’ All the way over there. So why don’t you see what you’re really up against when it’s a fair fight? It'll be one for the ages: Slytherin Death Eaters against Gryffindor lions. Almost as epic as Grindewald vs. Dumbledore. C’mon. Don’t you want to know? I’m sure you thought about it. I know I did.”

In Ginny’s shock, she also loosened her hold on Hermione, allowing her to run up to Malfoy and Blaise. Forgetting any kind of discretion, she tried to check Malfoy's face, but he pulled roughly away from her. She then tried to grab the wands from Blaise’s hand. He glowered at her, his hazel eyes filled with disgust and contempt, “Don’t you fucking touch me, Mudblood.”

Then he dropped the wands on the ground, leaving Hermione to pick them up.

Blaise turned his head slightly to Malfoy, “Can you walk?”

Malfoy gave a slight nod.   

“Then get the fuck up.” 

Blaise didn't try to help Malfoy up. Malfoy wouldn’t have taken his hand, anyway. He didn't look back at Hermione. They walked back in silence across the bridge to the dungeons. 

The Slytherin common room was empty. 

Thank Merlin. 

Most were in the Great Hall, still having dinner. Blaise stood in front of Malfoy, eyes narrow and unrelenting. He looked over his injuries. “Humero emendo,” he muttered. 

CLICK.

RIP. 

CLICK.

Malfoy felt a sudden heat over his dislocated shoulder, feeling it popping back into place. He clenched his jaw. Malfoy screamed through his teeth.

Breathing heavily, he called out, “Blaise-”

Blaise didn’t wait for Malfoy to find the words. He headed for his room. Without looking back at Malfoy, “This will be your life every day. Find Pomfrey to fix the other ones. I'm done. You can show yourself out.” 

Great Hall

Hermione didn’t know where Malfoy was, but she could guess. 

She sat at the Head Table, picking at her dinner. Harry tried to pull her into conversation, but she kept her eyes on her plate. She was angry at them. All of them.

Every so often, she would feel a prickle behind her neck. She looked up to see Ron staring at her in expressions that circled from apologetic to anger to suspicion to downright hatred. Sitting beside Ron, Ginny pressed a Glacius-charmed wand against her brother’s jaw. 

Hermione pushed herself from the table. She would wait for Malfoy in their common room. 

As she walked up and through the spiral staircases, the Portraits laughed at her. 

“Guess what I heard today ...”

“The Golden Girl sticking up for the young Death Eater!” 

“Oh, how delicious!” 

Hermione noticed a series of quick footsteps following her. She yelled behind her shoulder, “Go away, Ronald. I don’t want to see you right now.” 

The steps grew faster and a tall figure in a grey sweater vest appeared from the shadows, “It’s just me, Hermione.” 

Neville. Sweet Neville. Out of breath and carrying a brown satchel. 

“Hi, Neville,” she said weakly. 

“Hermione, just give us a second, yeah?” He panted. She waited patiently. “I got these, erm, potions for you.” He passed the satchel to Hermione. 

She took the bag and rummaged through the contents, “What are these?”

He rattled off the names, “Essence of Dittany, Murtlap Essence, Draught of Peace, Wound Cleaning potion, Invigoration draught, some PepperUps, and Star Grass salve.” 

“Where’d you get them?” She eyed him suspiciously.

“I made them! I’m not quite so useless anymore.” Neville exclaimed. “Sprout quite likes me. I get to harvest as many ingredients as I want from the greenhouses, as long as I take care of the plants during the weekends and holidays. Extra credit.” He winked. 

“That’s lovely. But I couldn’t possibly take these.” 

“They’re not for you. They’re um, for Malfoy.” 

“Oh.” 

“I heard about what happened today. Ginny told me. You also can’t hide what Malfoy did to Ron’s face. But it wasn’t right what they did. Ambushing him like that.” 

“Yeah, well, try to talk to Ronald when he’s upset.” 

“Malfoy would never take the potions from me. And … he listens to you.”

“Thanks, Neville,” she said awkwardly, not wanting to confirm or deny anything. They looked at each other in silence. She didn’t know how to properly thank Neville for his kindness. The words rushed out of her mouth, “For what it’s worth, Malfoy still has his plant. It’s in his room.”

Neville gave her a knowing look that dissolved into a goofy grin, “Take care of yourself, yeah, Hermione?” He headed back to the Great Hall. 

Head Student dormitories

Hermione sat on the velvet couch, playing absentmindedly with Crookshanks on her lap. Her mind lost to a sea of words and emotions too big to articulate. She was confused and angry with Ron, Gin, and Harry. Worried for Malfoy. If he was okay. If he got treatment. If he was mad at her. Concerned about what this meant for them. And if she let herself down a path of thoughts in the far recesses of her mind, she wondered if this was their future. 

Her thoughts raced. She waited until she fell asleep on the couch. She rubbed her eyes when the alcove stones shifted. It was maybe 10pm when he returned. 

Malfoy stilled when he saw her. His face was pink and a little swollen. His movements were stiff and hands bruised. “I thought you went to bed,” he clipped. 

“I-I was waiting for you.” 

He scowled, “Why?” 

She swallowed her discomfort, “Because. I was worried.” 

“As you can see, I’m fine. Just needed a drink and some Healing charms.” 

“I can see that. Will you sit?” 

Malfoy looked around the room, as if looking for an escape. Then he plopped down roughly on the couch, waking Crookshanks from his nap on his mistress’ lap. He took a long stretch and padded over to Malfoy, sniffing at his face. Then he jumped off the couch, helped by Malfoy’s push on his butt. When the Kneazle landed, he hissed at the blond Wizard. 

“You and everyone else, ugly!” Malfoy yelled back at Crooks. 

“Are you okay?” Hermione asked tentatively. Moving slightly closer to him. 

“A little worse for wear but I’m still devastatingly handsome,” he quipped.

“Yes, you are,” she sighed. Malfoy couldn’t help a small smile tugging at the edge of his lips. 

“Can I ... help? I have some Healing potions.” She brought Neville’s satchel to her lap. 

Malfoy eyed her and her bag suspiciously, but relented when he stared at her round face, full and ruddy, and eyes wide with concern. He nodded slightly. Hermione scooted even closer, but delicately, as if approaching a wild animal. 

Touching his face lightly. Turning his head to the light to investigate his wounds. Pushing his white-blond hair off his forehead. Feeling the nape of his neck. Her hand was warm as she grazed his cheek, and without meaning to, he pushed his face into her palm. He caught himself. He grabbed her wrist and pulled it down from his face. He needed distance from her. 

She nodded. She seemed to understand. 

Hermione reached into the satchel and brought out a salve and a PepperUp, “Drink this.” He did wordlessly. “I’m going to spread this on your cuts, okay? It’s Star grass salve.” 

They sat in silence for an hour. Hermione started by dabbing Malfoy’s forehead with Essence of Dittany, then moved onto the cut on his lips. She whispered, "Episkey," and a warm tingling feeling spread over his lip, stitching his skin back together. Hermione rubbed her thumb tenderly over his lip, making sure her spell worked. He wanted to suck on her thumb when she did that, and rut into her. But he resisted. He hated himself for the thought.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Malfoy watched her as she grabbed another tincture from the bag. She lightly spread the green ointment on her fingers, warming it up before applying it to his bruises on his neck, face, and above his forehead. She massaged the salve in slowly, watching the purple and blue fade magically into light yellow on his skin. 

“Do you have any more injuries?” 

“No,” he lied. Malfoy started to get up when his stomach clenched. He winced. Hermione watched his face pull in pain. 

“Take off your shirt.” 

“I’m really not in the mood, Granger.” 

“Funny. Take off your shirt,” she commanded again. 

He sighed forlornly, then slowly undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Hermione watched. As she watched the blonde Wizard disrobe in front of her, pale and hard, she wondered if she would ever get used to the sight of him bare. Sectumsempra scars riddled his alabaster skin, but they only added to his attractiveness. Giving him an air of danger.

It wasn't fair. 

She tried to swallow down her hitched breath. A large, dark bruise spreading over his shoulder and chest and smaller ones peppered all over his stomach. Her eyes opened wide. 

“You’re staring, Granger.”

“Am not. Is it—"

"S' fine. Blaise fixed it."

"Lie down.” 

He didn't move. Frozen by her stupid, worried eyes roaming his body. 

Fuck this. Fuck her. Fuck her whole lot. 

"LIE DOWN."

Malfoy did as he was told, and laid spread across the couch. His legs hanging off the arm of the couch. She took more salve and carefully spread it across the darkening bruise on his stomach, taking her time. She couldn’t look into his eyes. It was too scary at the moment. Her heart pounded. She was sure he could hear it. So she watched her fingers move over his skin, as he watched her furrow her brows in concentration. 

Her fingers trembled. 

This is not the time, Hermione. 

Her touch was warm and gentle, as they worked his way up his stomach to his chest. Massaging. Feeling his lean muscles. Malfoy felt his cock twitch, despite himself. He roughly rubbed his eyes in frustration and grabbed her wrists to stop her movements. 

“What is it?” Hermione’s mouth opened. “Did I hurt you?” 

Malfoy just looked at her, torn between ripping her clothes off and running out of the room. A roar rang through his chest. He stared until she looked away, self-conscious. 

He started carefully, “What would it look like if we stopped this?”

“W-what?” Hermione stopped her movements on his stomach and moved back to sit on the opposite side of the couch. Away from him. Malfoy sat up. 

He looked at his knees, “Maybe this is a bad idea. All of this.” 

“I see,” her voice shaking. “I know you’re upset a-and hurt from today.” 

“That’s an understatement,” he scoffed. “Your ex-boyfriend had his friends hold me down and tried to hex me. With the same curse Potter—” 

“He’s upset. He’s not been himself. He’s thinking about Fred. And today of all days, emotions were running high,” she rambled. “It wasn’t right, what he did. B-bu—”

“But what, Granger? Is this what it’s going to be like? We’re barely a week in and this is what it’s going to be?” 

“I-I don’t know! I didn’t think today would happen! And Ronald, he’s just, just lost at the moment. He’s angry for losing Fred. He’s angry at what happened to me in your ho—” 

“So he keeps reminding me.”

“Well, it’s not something you just get over!” 

“Are you talking about him or you?” he accused. Hermione didn’t answer. Malfoy continued, “You know what? It keeps me up too. That I know I didn’t help you. You know what I see in my nightmares? You. Crying. Seizing on my floor. I wish I could do things differently. But I didn’t. And what then? What would have happened to me or my parents? Bella or Voldemort would have kill-”

She snarled, “I know that! Logically, I know that! Even he knows that! Deep down. It doesn’t take away from feeling-”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he muttered.

“Neither do I!” She crossed her arms and leaned against the back of the couch. 

“Don’t act so aggrieved. You’re not the one getting ambushed by Gryffindors!”

“Fine, fine. You’re right. I don’t know how you feel. But you’re not alone. I’m here. You have Theo and Blaise.”

Malfoy didn’t answer. He waited a few minutes, then looked at her again, “So what would it look like? If we ended this?”  

Hermione felt a gut punch to her stomach. He was serious. “I-I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Um, I would feel angry. Used. We would keep our distance from one another, as hard as that may be. Perhaps I’ll go to the Gryffindor Tower. But more than anything, I would be sad. And then … then we graduate.”

“And that’s it?” he asked incredulously. 

“What else is there?”

He huffed. 

“You’re the one who asked, Malfoy. I don’t know what you’re getting out of this, but you’re hurting me.”

A beat between them. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Hermione tried her best to keep voice steady. 

“Nothing.” He didn’t look at her. 

“Are you breaking up with me?”, her voice croaked. 

“We haven’t actually talked about-”

SMACK.

She slapped him hard across the face. His face red with her finger marks. He didn’t flinch. 

Silence pulsed between them. 

His eyes, steel grey. Her brown ones, filling up with tears.

“Don’t you dare, Malfoy! I-if you don’t want me, fine! But you do not get to speak to me like I’m a whore. Like I’m nothing. Like this is nothing.” [31]

Hermione flew off of the couch. He grabbed her hand. 

“Take your hands off me!” 

“I didn’t mean-”

“What did you mean by it?! Do you need me to hurt too? Bleed for you? I already did once. Now fuck off and die.” 

“Fuck! Stop! You’re not—you're more than-We just haven’t talked—”  

He gripped her hands together, pulling them backwards and her onto the couch. 

“Stop manhandling me! I don’t like this!” Hermione started flailing around. She kicked his shin and stepped on his foot. He winced but held onto her. This seemed to quiet her movements.

“We can stop this before anyone gets hurt,” Malfoy said evenly.

“It’s a little late for that! If you want to stop this, that is your right. But right now, the only person hurting me is you.” Her voice increasing in volume. 

“You can’t lie to me and say this is easy. Everything is so difficult with us. Every day, it’s a fight just to walk down the hallways. You think my friends would ever be good with yours, or the other way around?! You think Potter would ever deign to go down to the dungeons?

“The world is bigger than Hogwarts. There’s more than-”

“What would your parents say if you were with the boy who tormented you? You think my father would ever let me—”

“Stop it. Stop it! STOP IT! Stop saying these things.”

“Why not? They’re true!”, he roared.

“I know your pride is hurt. I know they were arses today. All of them, Ron, Seamus, Dean, Harry, Gin. But you do not get to take it out on me. If you don’t want me …” Hermione started to cry, but took several calming breaths. 

1, 2, 3, 4. Inhale.

1, 2, 3, 4. Hold.

1, 2, 3, 4. Exhale.

1, 2, 3, 4. Inhale.

1, 2, 3, 4. Hold.

1, 2, 3, 4. Exhale.

Her voice shook as she spoke, but she collected herself enough to smooth down her grey skirt. “I made a decision. If you don’t choose me, if you don’t want me, that’s fine. But I will not get whiplash with you.”

“It’s not that simple.” 

“It is.”

“What would Potter say? The Weasel? If they knew that you were with me? Your fucking bully who hexed you and called you Mudblood? The Death Eater who watched you get tortured and did nothing?” 

“Nothing good! But don’t act like you’ve ever cared what they think. I think you just don’t want to complicate your life. Your Pureblood friends. Pansy. Your parents. Didn't you say you wanted to go to France? Leave it all behind. This is your out. Take it.”

“Granger …”

“Take your out, Malfoy! Just have the courage to say it to my face. I will not let you push me away and act like I’m the one who didn’t want this. You don’t get to tell yourself that story.”

Malfoy cupped her face, trying to make her understand. “Things would just be better if-”

Hermione pulled away. “If you were with Pansy or another Pureblood Witch,” she said defiantly. “You don’t think I know that? But I’m not them. I will never be them. If you want them-” 

“I want you. B-but, can you blame me for thinking-”

“No! I’m not stupid. Every day, I want to wake up and not be here after-Living through this is hard. Having you, it made things feel better for a while. Of course, it’s going to be difficult. But I chose you.” 

“Don’t act the martyr, Granger. You haven’t told Potter or the Weasel about us yet.”

“There might be no ‘us’ to tell in 10 minutes,” she sneered.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, out for blood. “And you think I can just turn my back on my parents? Everything I’ve been taught? My friends? My whole life? They’re all I have!”