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It had been nearly two years since she’d started teaching Herbology at Hogwarts, and though the ancient castle still held the echoes of a darker past, it now pulsed quietly with life and learning. Her days were filled with the rustle of leaves, the earthy scent of soil, and the soft hum of student chatter drifting through the greenhouses. It wasn’t glamorous, and certainly not the life she once imagined for herself, but it was safe. Peaceful. After the war, peace had been the only thing she asked for. So, she buried herself in her work, smiled politely during professors meetings, and tried not to dwell on the things, and people she had lost. Life moved forward.
When news came that Professor Alden, the potions Master, had finally chosen to retire, she felt a faint flicker of curiosity. Alden had been as much a fixture of the school as the floating candles in the Great Hall, short-tempered, sharp-eyed, and fiercely protective of his dungeon. The question of his replacement was discussed in hushed speculation among the castle, but no name was ever mentioned. McGonagall, ever enigmatic, only offered the occasional raised brow and tight-lipped smile. She assumed it would be someone from the Ministry, perhaps a specialist brought in from St. Mungo’s, someone experienced and trustworthy.
So when the new school year began and she stepped into the hallway that led to the professor's room, the last thing she expected was to see a ghost, or at least, someone who might as well have been. Draco Malfoy.
His silhouette was unmistakable, though he had grown taller, leaner, and his platinum hair had lost its arrogant slickness, falling softer around his face. He walked with McGonagall, eyes on the floor, hands clasped neatly behind his back, his expression calm but distant. For a moment, she genuinely believed her mind had conjured him up. But when McGonagall looked up and spotted her, waving her over with a smile, reality slammed into her chest like a bludger.
She considered turning on her heel and walking away, fleeing to the greenhouses, to the safety of her plants , but she couldn’t. Her feet betrayed her, rooted in place as the two approached. McGonagall’s voice was pleasant, as if this moment weren’t charged with years of unresolved tension. “Ah, Professor. Just the person I hoped to see. I’d like to introduce our new Potions Master. Of course, you already know each other."
He looked up, those grey eyes, still sharp beneath their weariness, met hers.
“Professor,” he said, voice low and even. “It’s good to see you again.”
She blinked. That wasn’t true, she was sure. They hadn’t seen one another since before the Battle of Hogwarts, before the world shattered. And even then, they’d only exchanged barbed words, sharp insults and sideways glances, both too proud, too scared, and too caught up in opposing tides to admit what had simmered beneath the surface. Everyone had known they fancied each other, once. Before the war made a mockery of teenage dreams.
“Welcome,” she said coolly, matching his tone with practiced detachment. “I hope Hogwarts treats you well this time around.”
His expression didn’t falter, but something flickered in his eyes. McGonagall, ever the diplomat, offered a knowing smile and excused herself, leaving them to stand in the middle of the corridor, two ghosts of their former selves, now wearing the robes of authority. She didn't stay, quickly excusing herself and leaving as well.
As soon as she turned the corner, her mask dropped. Confusion and unease clouded her face, and her thoughts spun wildly. How could Minerva, strict, cautious Minerva , hire someone like him? She had heard stories after the war. Whispers of the things he had done, or had been forced to do. Tales of his family’s loyalty to the Dark Lord, of Draco’s role in Dumbledore’s death, and the mark burned into his arm. A man like that didn’t simply walk back into a place like this without questions being asked.
That night, she sought answers.
Minerva’s office hadn’t changed much , still lined with books and soft ticking clocks, still guarded by the portrait of Dumbledore who regarded her with an unsettling mixture of wisdom and amusement. McGonagall listened quietly as she spoke, her tone tight with frustration.
“You hired him?” she asked. “After everything he–after everything that happened?”
The headmistress leaned back in her chair, hands folded patiently. “I understand your concern,” she said gently. “Believe me, I had my doubts as well. But people are more than the sum of their worst moments. Draco Malfoy has worked hard to change. He’s been teaching under supervision at Beauxbatons for the past three years and came highly recommended.”
“But Hogwarts, this place, do you really think the students will feel safe with him here?”
McGonagall’s gaze sharpened. “Do you feel safe, Professor?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“Then I encourage you to talk to him. Not as the girl who once faced him across a divided battlefield, but as the woman who now teaches our students to nurture life. Dumbledore believed in second chances. I have learned to do the same.”
_______________________
The next evening, the Great Hall filled with students once again. Robes rustled, laughter echoed, and the ceiling shimmered with a soft, late-summer twilight. She sat at the table, trying to focus on the Sorting Hat’s rhymes and the excited whispers of first-years. But when Draco took the seat beside her, the noise faded to a dull hum.
“Evening,” he said quietly, his tone more cautious now.
“Evening,” she replied, not looking directly at him.
They made small talk , brief mentions of the summer, of changes to the curriculum, of how odd it felt to be back not as students but as staff. The ease of their rhythm surprised her. There was no teasing now, only a careful dance of civility. But the spark was still there, buried beneath years of silence.
When the feast ended, he stood “May I walk you back?”
She hesitated. Everything in her told her to keep her distance, to remember what he had once stood for , but the way he looked at her, not with arrogance, but with something almost reverent, disarmed her.
“Alright,” she said.
The walk was quiet. The torches cast long shadows on the stone walls, and their footsteps echoed like old memories. When they reached her quarters, he paused.
“I know you don’t trust me,” he said, voice low, barely louder than the whisper of wind through the castle. “And I don’t blame you. You’ve heard things. Most of them true. Some… exaggerated. I did awful things, but I was a scared, arrogant boy, not a monster. And I’m trying now, to do something good.”
She studied him. He wore long sleeves, even in the warmth of early September. His hands were clean, but his eyes weren’t. There was darkness there, but not malice.
She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers rested on the doorknob, but she didn’t turn it. Finally, she said, “Trying is more than some people ever do.”
His lips twitched, almost a smile. “That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me.”
“Well, you were a prick.” He didn't disagree “I appreciate your honesty,” she said quietly. “Good night, Professor Malfoy.”
And she closed the door gently between them.
Over the weeks that followed, she watched him with careful curiosity. In the classroom, he was focused and fair, even kind. The students liked him , some even adored him , drawn in by his dry wit and his insistence that they think for themselves. She saw how he corrected without cruelty, how he praised gently but sincerely. He laughed more now, though never too loudly, and he always seemed to carry a quiet sadness like a shadow on his back. And always, always, he wore long sleeves.
They began spending time together , first by accident, then by habit. A game of wizarding chess in the staff room became a weekly ritual. A walk in the gardens turned into long conversations beneath the stars. He spoke little of the war, but he listened when she needed to talk. And in his silence, there was a kind of understanding she hadn’t realized she craved.
She began to trust him. Not blindly, and not without caution , but truly. The more time she spent with him, the less she saw the boy from their school days and the more she saw the man he had become. A man who smiled at her shyly when he made her tea. A man who corrected essays and never once made a student feel small. A man who had once chosen the wrong path, and was now walking a harder, lonelier one to make amends.
__________________________
One evening in early November, they stayed later than usual in the professors room. The fire crackled quietly in the hearth, and the castle had settled into one of its rare, perfect silences , the kind that felt like the world itself was holding its breath. She sat curled in an armchair, a half-marked stack of essays beside her, while he sat across from her with a mug of something dark and steaming.
“You still mark everything by hand?” he asked, gesturing at the red-inked parchment.
“I like the rhythm of it,” she said. “Slows my thoughts. I work better this way.”
“I remember you used to do that. Years ago.”
She smiled, feeling a bit nostalgic “Some things never change, I guess.”
“I read your thesis,” he said suddenly.
She blinked. “You what?”
“On enchanted pollination in magically-resistant species. It was in Library. Thought I’d brush up before staff orientation.” He shrugged. “It was brilliant.”
Her cheeks warmed, genuinely surprised. “I wrote that right after the war. I wasn’t exactly in my right mind.”
“Maybe that’s why it was so honest,” he said. “I really enjoyed it. It was weirdly full of anger for a paper on plants.“
Silence followed again, this time softer. She looked at him, and for the first time, she saw not just a man trying to atone, but someone who wanted to believe in things again.
“You’re not what I expected.” she said.
He glanced at her, cautious “Why? Because I'm not a complete prick?”
She did not answer “You were horrible, you know. Back then.”
“I know.”
“And arrogant.”
“Yes.”
“And petty.”
“I remember.”
“But you weren’t cruel,” she said finally, voice softer now. “Not really. Not with me, at least.”
He gave a slow smile, not triumphant, not even hopeful , just... relieved. “You always had the sharpest tongue in class,” he said, “but the kindest hands in Herbology. Seems like you didn't change too much.”
She laughed, short and surprised. “That’s a strange compliment.”
“It’s a stranger world.”
____________________________
It had rained earlier that day, the scent of wet stone still lingering in the air when she found him again , not in the courtyard, but near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where the castle's silhouette faded into trees and shadow. He sat there with his sleeves pushed up for once, fingers curled around a steaming mug, his profile half-lit by the moon’s soft glow. She had come out just for a walk, needing fresh air after grading parchment for hours, but the sight of him gave her pause.
The mark on his arm caught the light, stark and unmistakable. She had always known it was there,but seeing it like this, so exposed, so unguarded, was something else entirely.
Draco followed her gaze, his expression tightening as he quickly rolled down his sleeves, concealing what had already been seen.
“I didn’t expect to find you here,” she said softly, stepping closer. A faint, unsure smile tugged at her lips,part apology, part curiosity. She hadn’t meant to intrude on a moment he clearly hadn’t intended to share.
“I like to take my tea outside,” he answered simply, gesturing to the empty seat beside him. “Sit, if you’d like.”
Unsure whether she should,or whether she even wanted to say no,she hesitated only a moment before closing the distance and lowering herself beside him.
They sat in silence for a moment. The trees rustled gently, and the stars blinked like quiet witnesses.
“You know,” she said, voice low and even, “I used to imagine what I’d say to you if I ever saw you again.”
He gave a small huff. “Let me guess. Something scathing.”
“Sometimes. Other times… I just wanted to ask if you regretted it.”
Now he did look at her, his face unreadable but open. “Every day. I regret the cowardice. The silence. The things I did, and worse, the things I didn’t stop.”
She watched him, the way his eyes didn't dart away, the way his mouth didn’t twist in defensiveness. This was not the boy who once insulted her in hallways to get a rise. Not the boy who thought cruelty passed for cleverness.
“I wasn’t perfect either,” she admitted. “I judged you. I turned away when you needed someone because it was easier than admitting I once cared about you.”
His expression flickered, a brief break, like light through cracked glass. “You did care?”
She shrugged, a smile on the corners of her lips “Didn’t everyone know?”
He chuckled then , a real sound, low and rough, but genuine. “I always thought you hated me.”
“I think I did, for a time.” She exhaled. “But not before the war. Before that, I think I just didn’t know how to talk to you without sharpening every word.”
“Same,” he said, and the smile that ghosted his lips held more sorrow than humor. “I think we both mistook fear for hatred. And pride for strength.”
She leaned back slightly against the low wall behind them, arms folded. “Maybe that’s just how we survive being teenagers. Making enemies out of what we don’t understand.”
“Or out of people we wanted too badly to know.” He looked deep in her eyes “I really liked you, back then. Teenage passion and all of that, it was pathetic.”
She laughed, an actual loud laugh, which made his shoulders relax.
“I would've died to know that then.” She admitted “That's crazy isn't it? How different things would've been if…” She didn't get to finish the phrase.
“If I didn't help them?”
That line silenced them both. It wasn’t a confession. Not truly. Just an acknowledgment of what had been, and what had never had the chance to be. And in that silence, there was something that finally cracked open.
She turned to him again, voice steadier now. “I forgive you for that, Draco.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, “Thank you.”
They didn’t need to say anything else. They stayed there a little while longer, talking quietly about small things , students who mixed the wrong ingredients, greenhouse mishaps, Peeves’ latest chaos. But underneath it all, there was an ease that hadn’t existed before. A gentleness.
The next evening brought with it a brittle sort of calm, the kind that lingered before a storm. Dinner had just begun in the Great Hall, and for once, it wasn’t the students who created the buzz of anticipation , it was the professors. Whispers drifted down the table like smoke, and when she followed the thread of conversation, she understood why.
Blaise Zabini had arrived at Hogwarts.
Officially, he was there on Ministry business , something about reviewing the protective enchantments still in place around the castle, assessing their long-term sustainability. He worked in a discreet arm of the Department of Magical Infrastructure now, or so rumor said, though no one quite knew what his job truly entailed. It wasn’t unusual for the Ministry to send representatives this time of year. But it was unusual for them to send Blaise.
She remembered him, of course , handsome, clever, always walking just at the edge of danger. He had survived the war intact, mostly by staying in the shadows, never loyal enough to be punished nor brave enough to take a stand. He walked beside McGonagall now, a lazy smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, dressed in elegant dark robes like the war had never touched him at all.
Her gaze slid instinctively to Draco. He’d gone very still, his hand resting lightly on his goblet, his jaw taut with the kind of tension that wasn’t easily hidden. He wasn’t looking at Blaise. He was staring ahead, his expression unreadable. But she saw the way his knuckles had gone white against the silver stem of his glass.
“Did you know he was coming?” she asked softly, not expecting an answer.
“I hoped he wouldn’t.” Draco replied after a beat, his voice low, flat.
Blaise greeted the table with polite nods, exchanging a few words with Flitwick and McGonagall before his eyes found Draco. And then his smile widened , not warm, not pleased , but knowing.
“Look at that,” Blaise said smoothly as he approached their section of the table. “Draco Malfoy, sitting at the head table like a model professor. I almost didn’t recognize you without the scowl and superiority.”
Draco’s mouth twitched, not quite into a smile. “Blaise.”
“Still pretending to be tame?” Blaise asked, leaning against the table as if he belonged there. “Or is it true what they say, redemption’s the new fashion?”
“McGonagall invited you for dinner, not for insults,” Draco said, his voice calm but clipped.
She didn’t interrupt. She could feel the tension between them like static, and Draco’s posture, though outwardly relaxed, was charged. His shoulders sat too tight. His eyes stayed too still.
“I’m just surprised,” Blaise continued, glancing at her now. “They’re letting Death Eaters teach children. Bold move. I remember you too, of course.” He gave her a nod “You and Draco used to spend quite a lot of time... arguing, if I remember well.”
She raised a brow. “Well, if that’s your memory of things, you weren’t paying much attention.”
Blaise laughed, as if he wasn’t phased, but she saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Still sharp. I like that. Bet Hogwarts is just thrilled to have the two of you.”
Draco stood abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping slightly against the stone floor. “Let’s talk outside, don't make a scene in front of the children” he said, gaze fixed on Blaise.
To her surprise, Blaise followed without protest. For a moment, she hesitated , it wasn’t her place. But then she saw Draco’s hand trembling as he set his goblet down, just before he turned. So she followed.
They didn’t go far , just beyond the doors of the Great Hall, into one of the quieter stone corridors that echoed with every footstep. She stayed at a distance, close enough to hear, far enough to give them space.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Draco said, his voice lower now, more dangerous. “This isn’t your place.”
“No?” Blaise asked mildly. “And it’s yours? Really? Playing professor, pretending you’ve earned something more than pity?”
Draco’s silence was heavy “I’m not pretending.”
Blaise leaned closer. “You think this place forgives you? You think you’ve washed the stain off? Come now. I know what you did. You don’t get to walk away from that.”
“I never tried to walk away,” Draco snapped. “And don't act like you're any less guilty than I am. You were there too.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Malfoy” Blaise stayed composed “But we both know that's not true , I was never a death eater.”
“Did you come here just to tell me that?” He asked “It's been years, life has moved on.”
“Maybe for you it did” His voice was risped “And that's not fair , You were the worst of us, and still you're the one who gets to be an example? I'm sorry if the hypocrisy drives me mad.” He stepped forward “You get to play being a professor, and the rest of us are thrown in the shadows, side-eyed on the street, doing the work no one wants to do. You think you deserve to live a life better than we do?”
She looked at Draco then , pale, tense, tired , but not weak. Not the boy who once sneered from behind privilege. This man stood with the weight of his mistakes in full view and refused to look away.
“I've worked hard for this life,” He said simply “That doesn't mean I think I deserve it, but I've earned it.”
Blaise straightened, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves. “Well. If you’re that far gone, there’s no sense in arguing. Enjoy your little redemption arc, Draco.” He walked away with the same arrogance he’d brought in, and for a long moment, they stood in the corridor in silence.
He didn’t slump or sigh, didn’t press a shaking hand to the stone as he might have done in the past. He just stood there, alone, his jaw was set tight, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the weight pressing down on him.
She remembered that boy , remembered the sneers, the coldness, the silences in the hallways after he said something cruel and turned away as if she didn’t matter.
When he finally turned and started walking, she slipped back into the light, pretending she had just turned the corner. He stopped short, startled. And then his eyes softened, almost imperceptibly.
“Oh,” he said, blinking. “It’s you.”
“You were taking too long,” she lied without thinking, motioning vaguely behind her. “Thought I'd check in.”
He looked past her, toward the shadowed corridor. “You heard?”
She hesitated. Then nodded. “Some of it.”
A pause. He didn't speak right away, didn’t try to defend himself or explain, and she respected him more for that than she could say.
“I hadn't seen him in years.” he murmured eventually, his voice low, roughened by whatever had been said before."
“He sounded very…Resentful,” she replied, gently.
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s how it is with old sins. They memorize themselves. Show up again when you least expect.”
His gaze flicked up to meet hers , steady, open, vulnerable in a way that startled her.
“I was terrified when I got the job,” he confessed. “Not of the teaching. I like that part. I’m good at it. But of the people who’d see me here and wonder what the hell Minerva was thinking.”
“I was one of them,” she admitted.
“I know.” He met her gaze again. “I don't ask or expect people to forget who I was. Just to see who I am now.”
And she did.
Not just the pale boy from the Astronomy Tower, or the sneering prefect who muttered blood traitor under his breath. Not the coward who walked with Death Eaters but never raised a wand. She saw the man , tired, changed, trying. A man who wore long sleeves in summer and carried something invisible beneath them, quiet as grief.
She stepped closer, her voice gentler now. “You’re different.”
His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture eased , a breath exhaled after years of holding it in.
“You’re different too,” he said. “I used to think you were untouchable. Brilliant and bright and beyond me.”
“You’ve been kind to the students,” she offered, shifting the conversation into steadier territory. “They like you. Even the first-years. That’s not easy.”
He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. “You have to be cleverer than them. Or at least faster with the antidotes.”
She chuckled. “And your potion grades have been spotless. That’s... infuriating, actually.”
“Comes from no longer having to impress anyone.” He gave her a sideways look. “Except maybe you.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I said maybe,” he clarified.
She let the moment stretch, thoughtful. “I think you’re starting to.”
“Starting?”
“You’ll have to keep at it.”
______________________
December came softly. Snow clung to the windows in sleepy layers, turning the view outside into a blur of white and grey. The castle, usually buzzing with voices and footsteps, had hushed to a slower rhythm. Most of the students had gone home for the holidays, but a small handful remained , the ones with complicated families, or none at all. The halls echoed differently in their absence, every sound stretching longer before vanishing into stillness.
She rose early on Christmas morning, not out of excitement, but habit. There were no obligations that day, no lesson plans to write or essays to mark. Just a quiet castle wrapped in snow, and perhaps, if she was lucky, some peace.
The Great Hall looked strangely warm despite the cold , enchanted snow drifted from the ceiling, caught in golden light that made it shimmer like sugar. A modest breakfast awaited those who remained, and the long tables had been pushed closer together to make the vast space feel a bit less empty.
She had just stepped through the doors when the sound of laughter caught her ear.
Draco was already there, unmistakable even from a distance, tall and pale and dressed in one of those absurdly elegant wool coats he always wore, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of old habits. But what struck her was not his presence, but the crowd gathered around him.
Students, mostly first and second-years, had encircled him, chattering brightly and pressing small wrapped parcels into his hands. One had even brought a card, hand-drawn with clumsy stars and crooked handwriting.
She paused in the doorway, watching as he ducked his head, slightly embarrassed, but smiling. Really smiling. And it did something to her chest she couldn’t quite name.
Then a voice shouted, “There she is!” and suddenly the tide turned.
She barely had time to blink before the same group of students came running toward her. Wrapping paper crinkled, ribbons fluttered, and before she could protest, her arms were full of gifts , mostly sweets, little crafts, and odd tokens like bookmarks and pressed flowers. Someone handed her a scarf, another a knitted hat far too big for her. They chattered over each other, voices high and eager, and she found herself laughing, startled by how genuine it felt.
Eventually, they dispersed , called away by the promise of breakfast or distracted by a snowball fight beginning just outside the doors. She exhaled slowly, her arms still full, and turned to find Draco beside her, looking equally overwhelmed.
They exchanged a glance , wide-eyed, amused, something else , and without a word, drifted toward the table, sitting close together at the end farthest from the rest.
She began unwrapping a package with too much tape, and he reached for the teapot.
Beneath the table, their knees knocked gently.
“Sorry,” she murmured, shifting.
But he didn’t move away. Instead, his hand brushed hers , not deliberate at first, just the accidental touch of shared space , but then it lingered.
Not grasping. Not claiming. Just there.
For a long while, they sat in silence, unwrapping presents and sipping tea as snow drifted from the ceiling in soft, glittering waves.
She caught herself staring at their fingertips, the way his little finger pressed lightly against hers, how neither of them seemed in any hurry to break it.
He cleared his throat softly, as though testing if it would disturb the peace. “So,” he began, his voice low, slightly hoarse, “what do you usually do for Christmas? When you’re not here.”
She smiled faintly, folding a bit of ribbon between her fingers. “That depends on the year. Sometimes I visit my aunt. She lives by the coast , a tiny place, always smells like peppermint and seaweed. It’s... peaceful. But this year she’s away. Visiting cousins in Florence. I didn’t feel like tagging along.” She looked up at him. “And you?”
Draco gave a slow exhale, eyes fixed on the floating snow above them. “I used to spend it at the Manor. Formal dinners. Expensive wine.”
They lapsed into silence again, but this time it was full of something tender. Something brave.
He turned slightly to face her. “It’s strange,” he admitted. “Being here again. I didn’t think the castle would feel like anything but a punishment. But the children… they make it feel different.”
“They have a way of doing that.”
“They gave me chocolate frogs,” he said with a touch of wonder. “And one drew a picture of me holding a cauldron. Said I looked ‘happy but a little tired.’ I think that’s a compliment?”
She laughed, covering her mouth. “You do look a little tired.”
“Well, the company keeps me up late,” he said, glancing at her with a ghost of that old smirk , only now it held no arrogance, just familiarity, like a shared inside joke from long ago.
“I suppose I’m the one who brought out the chessboard last time,” she admitted.
“And the time before that. And the time before that.”
Her lips curved. “You keep losing.”
“No. I keep letting you win.”
She rolled her eyes, and for a moment it felt almost easy. Almost like they were just colleagues , no war, no haunted past, no tense first meetings in dimly lit corridors.
Just two people who had decided, slowly, to stay.
“So,” he asked after a moment, “what will you do today?”
She leaned back slightly, considering. “I thought I’d walk to the greenhouses after breakfast. Check on the poinsettias , they’ve been temperamental lately. Then… maybe a book by the fire. You?”
He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Might brew something. I’ve been working on a new pain draught , not for work, just... habit. Keeps my hands busy.”
She hesitated, then said, “If you want company, I don’t mind greenhouses smelling like herbs and boiled chamomile.”
He glanced at her, surprised. Not skeptical , just quietly moved. “And if you don’t mind cauldrons clattering while you try to read, I wouldn’t say no to sitting by the fire after.”
There it was: Not a plan, not a promise, but an offering.
She nodded once, gently, and looked back down at their hands beneath the table. Still touching, just enough to know the other was there.
The greenhouses were quiet under a soft blanket of snow. The glass panes were frosted at the corners, and their breath fogged in the cool morning air, even as the enchanted temperature kept the plants warm and blooming inside. They worked side by side in an easy rhythm, sleeves rolled up, fingers brushing soil and petals. She pruned a patch of delicate winter thistle while Draco tended to the smaller pots near the back, careful with the fragile stems. They didn’t speak at first, and they didn’t need to , the silence had grown companionable between them, no longer strained by what wasn’t said.
At some point, she stood, dusting her hands on her robes and looking over at him. He was crouched by a flowering vine with dark violet buds, coaxing it into blooming with a soft spell. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and the line of his mouth was just slightly amused. He’d grown into his sharpness , less brittle now, more refined. She found herself smiling, just a little.
“You know,” she said softly, “I used to fancy you.”
His hand froze over the vine. He looked up slowly, one brow raised. “Used to?”
She let out a quiet laugh and turned away, brushing off a bit of snow that had drifted in. “Back then. You were terrible, and I hated it. But Merlin help me, I did.”
He stood too, stretching his back, brushing soil off his palms. “That makes two of us, then. I used to fancy you, I told you that before” he said, almost lightly , but not teasing. There was a sincerity in his tone, warm and nostalgic. “I think that’s why I was so awful. I didn’t know what to do with myself when you’d look at me.”
“You hexed my quill to write upside down for a week.”
“Because I was twelve and emotionally stunted.”
She laughed, covering her mouth with the back of her wrist. “You were arrogant.”
“I was terrified,” he said quietly.
That silenced her more effectively than any spell. She turned to face him fully, the sounds of the greenhouse falling into the background. Draco looked at her with that quiet steadiness he’d learned over the years , none of the boyish posturing remained. He had the face of someone who had lived through fire and come out the other side raw but tempered.
“I didn’t know what to do with how I felt,” he said. “I thought wanting someone made me weak. And after the war, well…” He looked away. “I didn’t think anyone should want me.”
She opened her mouth, but he reached into the inner pocket of his coat before she could speak. “I got you something.”
Her breath caught. “Draco,”
“It’s not much,” he said quickly, suddenly awkward. “It’s just… I saw it last month and thought of you. That’s all.”
He handed her a small, wrapped parcel , pale brown paper tied with forest green twine. It was light in her hands, and the shape gave away nothing. She hesitated before unwrapping it, fingers catching slightly on the ribbon. Inside was a small pressed flower, perfectly preserved in a glass locket , a snowdrop, delicate and still faintly scented. Her throat tightened.
“I remember,” he said, watching her carefully, “you used to pick those outside the greenhouse gates.”
She looked up at him, eyes wide. “You remembered that?”
He gave a small shrug, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I forget a lot of things. But not that.”
Their hands brushed again , lightly, this time, fingers catching in the air as if unsure whether to reach or retreat. Her heart stuttered in her chest, a half-beat of panic and something else entirely.
She stepped back. “Maybe we should head back.”
He nodded, a touch too quickly. “Right, yes, it’s getting—”
She turned toward the greenhouse door and pulled at the handle.
It didn’t budge.
She tried again, harder. Then turned to him. “Did you… lock it?”
He frowned. “No. I don’t think it even locks from the inside.”
“Well, it’s stuck. Or charmed. Or frozen shut.”
She looked around. “I didn’t bring my wand.”
Draco patted his coat. “I could swear I had it in my pocket.”
They both stood there for a long beat, facing the door like it had personally offended them.
“So,” she said finally, folding her arms, “we’re trapped.”
“Looks that way.”
He didn’t sound upset. Amused, maybe. Or resigned. She narrowed her eyes.
“You didn’t do this on purpose, did you?”
“I’m flattered you think I could plan this far ahead.”
They both laughed, and the tension eased again , the way it had begun to more and more in recent weeks. The locket still rested in her palm, cool and lovely. She curled her fingers around it.
“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”
He looked at her with a soft sort of smile , small, hesitant. “Merry Christmas.”
They gave up on the door eventually.
After a few half-hearted tugs and exchanged glances, they wandered back to the benches near the flowering thistles, where the warmth of the greenhouse made the cold outside feel like a distant thing. The snow continued to fall beyond the glass.
She sat first, hands folded in her lap, the locket still held delicately between her fingers. Draco joined her a moment later, lowering himself beside her.
For a long time, they didn’t speak. The hush between them said enough.
Then, without looking at her, Draco reached out. Slowly, like he expected her to flinch. His fingers brushed her hand , not accidentally this time, but with quiet purpose. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, as he gently laid his hand over hers and waited.
His palm was warm. Steady.
“I’ve been wanting to do this for weeks now,” he said, voice low and rough like he wasn’t used to admitting things out loud.
Her throat tightened. She looked at him and found that same hesitance there, the old fear softened now by effort and honesty. No shame.
She didn’t pull away.
Her fingers curled around his, just barely, and she felt the way his breath caught. A pause in his whole body, like he couldn’t believe that she hadn’t flinched. She swallowed, uncertain of her own voice.
“I like this.” She said, simply.
Draco looked at her then, and the silence stretched again, this time charged with something fragile and sweet and unmistakably new. He didn’t move all at once but the space between them seemed to fold inward, like gravity pulling gently at both of them.
And then he kissed her.
It wasn’t rushed or dramatic, no sudden lurch forward, no desperate fumbling. Just a slow, trembling press of his lips to hers, as if giving her every chance to pull away. His lips were warm, and something quiet filled her chest with ache. His mouth moved cautiously against hers, like he wasn’t just kissing her , like he was asking for something, for permission, for forgiveness, for a future he hadn’t dared to imagine.
She kissed him back with that same hesitance, and then, with a little more. Their lips found a rhythm, a question and an answer unfolding between breaths. His hand lifted to her cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear before he let his fingers rest there, tender against her skin. Her heart pounded , not in panic, but in something electric and full of light.
His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth as they finally, slowly, pulled apart.
Draco pulled back just enough to see her face, but his hand stayed in hers, fingers still loosely twined. There was a dazed sort of quiet between them. She blinked at him, wide-eyed and breathless, and then, as if it hit them both at the exact same time, they started laughing. Not politely. Not nervously. But really laughing.
It started with a chuckle , his, low and surprised , and then hers joined, bubbling up like something long-held had finally burst loose. He leaned back, running a hand through his hair with mock disbelief, and she shook her head, biting her lip to keep from grinning too wide.
“Oh, Merlin,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Can you even imagine telling our seventeen-year-old selves about this?”
Draco made a face, pretending to be horrified. “They’d be furious. Mortified. Possibly combust on the spot.”
She snorted. “Mine would’ve hexed me.”
“Mine would’ve made some smug, insufferable speech about bloodlines and pride, then tripped over his own robes trying to storm off dramatically.”
They were still laughing when he reached for her hand again, more naturally now, like it was something they’d done a hundred times before.
It was the light that gave them away , a quick glint of movement just outside the fogged-up glass, the way shadows shifted where they shouldn't have. She turned her head, squinting toward the far end of the greenhouse wall, and there, just beyond the frosted pane, two silhouettes jerked back out of sight with all the subtlety of a Hippogriff in a teacup shop.
Draco followed her gaze and let out a slow, exasperated breath through his nose. “Merlin’s trousers,” he muttered. “We’ve been set up.”
She snorted, leaning slightly to get a better look, but the culprits were already gone, probably bolting toward the castle with breathless laughter and wide eyes.
“Oh, they’re definitely going to tell everyone,” she said, trying and failing to suppress her smile.
“No doubt about it.” Draco shook his head, though the corners of his mouth twitched with reluctant amusement. “Half the school will be talking about this by dinner. I can already hear Poppy whispering about ‘forbidden greenhouse rendezvous.’”
“Should’ve known,” she said, sighing as she stood and dusted off her hands. “We’re professors. There’s no such thing as privacy anymore.”
He stood too.
“Well,” she said, brushing a bit of soil from her sleeve, “at least they didn’t catch the kiss.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, voice low and dry. “Are you sure about that?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You think they saw,?”
“I think they’ll claim they saw everything,” he replied, smirking. “And then some more. Just wait till someone swears we were shirtless.”
That made her laugh again, head thrown back, genuine and unguarded. When she looked at him again, her eyes were still bright with amusement, but there was something else behind them too , something that didn’t need to be spoken aloud.
“Oh, Merlin,” she groaned, realizing the full implication, “McGonagall is going to be furious. We kissed in front of children.”
Draco gave her a look of mock horror. “We’ll be banned from the greenhouses for life. How will you work?”
“Well,” she said with mock-seriousness, linking her arms behind her back. “If I hear any stories about shirtless kissing, I’m blaming you.”
“As you should,” Draco replied, deadpan. “My reputation can’t get any worse.”
“Nor mine, apparently.”
They stood for a moment more, watching the snow gather outside, neither in a rush to leave even with curious eyes now undoubtedly watching.
“Come on,” she said finally, nudging him with her elbow. “Let’s go face the scandal.”
Draco gave a theatrical sigh but followed, close at her side. “Just so you know, if someone draws a cartoon of us kissing under a mistletoe, I’m hanging it in my office.”