Archive of Our Own

The war hadn’t been over for long. Sometimes Hermione still felt the weight of it pressing behind her ribs, the way certain smells or sounds could yank her straight back into the dark.

In the ruined chamber beneath Hogwarts, after Ron and she brought the Hufflepuff cup down with a shaking hand, everything inside her had gone loose. Relief, shock, the simple fact that they were both still alive—none of it fit anywhere. They clung to each other because they didn’t know what else to do, and the kiss just… happened. Dust in the air, adrenaline still buzzing in her arms, Ron’s heartbeat slamming against her shoulder.

A way of saying He’s here. She’s here. They didn’t die.

That should’ve been the beginning of a conversation, but the summer blurred past without one. One afternoon at the Burrow, in the orchard where the gnomes hid under the roots, Ron mumbled, “So… we’re together now? Right?” Hermione had nodded before she really thought about it.

It made sense. Ron already existed in every corner of her life, and she wanted—she needed—something steady after months of chaos.

Night settled in a deep hush over Shell Cottage. That was where they tried something more. Hermione remembered the rough sheets, the moonlight on the wall, Ron’s hands moving before he’d worked out where they were meant to go. He was eager, nervous, sweet in the way he whispered her name.

But the longer it went on, the more her attention drifted elsewhere. She found herself focusing on the waves outside, the wind slipping through the crack in the window, the mattress springs complaining under them, each sound somehow clearer than the moment itself.

Before she figured out how to pull herself back into her skin, Ron tensed with a soft grunt, collapsed onto her, and let out a satisfied breath. That was it. He didn’t look at her face, didn’t ask at all. He simply settled against her like everything had gone exactly as expected.

Hermione stared at the ceiling until her eyes adjusted to the dark. She hadn’t gotten anywhere near finishing, or even… pleasure. And worse, he hadn’t even noticed.

The feeling that followed was unfamiliar enough that Hermione kept trying to reason her way around it. She told herself it was only nerves, or exhaustion. And it wasn’t that she didn’t care for him. She did. They’d been through hell together, and she kept telling herself this was what people did after surviving something like that—they held on to the nearest familiar thing and hoped it would turn into comfort.

But as she listened to Ron’s breathing even out beside her, Hermione felt that strange feeling sink deeper and deeper, until she could no longer pretend it would simply pass on its own:

Whatever this was supposed to be, she wasn’t really in it.
Not the way she wanted to be…
Not the way she thought she should feel…

They decided to return to Hogwarts for their final year, partly because everyone else was doing it, partly because none of them knew how to be normal anywhere else. But Hermione had one last thing she needed to do before she could even pretend to start over.

Australia.

It sounded simple when she’d explained it to Harry and Ron—just checking on my parents—but the truth was heavier. She needed to see with her own eyes that they were safe under the identities she’d forced on them. During her extensive research, she’d found a reference to a memory-restoration specialist in Sydney: Dr. Elius Kinsford. She’d managed to book a consultation. Some stubborn part of her still held onto the possibility that there might be a way back.

Seeing her parents should have helped. Instead, the moment she spotted them through the café window—laughing, relaxed, talking with neighbors like they’d lived that life for years—Hermione felt something sharp twist inside her. They looked peaceful in a way she hadn’t seen since she was twelve. No shadows, no tension, no trace of the years they’d lived under threat.

She had wanted that for them. She’d fought for it. But standing there on the pavement, watching her mother laugh at something her father said, Hermione realized they looked happier without her in their lives.

Her eyes burned immediately. She stayed where she was until the noise of the street slowly returned around her. She had come to make sure they were safe, but she never expected the confirmation to hurt like this. What she did was no doubt the right thing to do, but it still felt like punishment.

Her meeting with Dr. Kinsford didn’t make things easier. He was kind, older, with a long sleek silver-grey beard that uncomfortably reminded her of Dumbledore. She explained everything in detail: the choice she’d made, the why, the Obliviate, the timing, the new identities. When she finished, her chest felt scraped hollow.

At last, Dr. Kinsford opened his mouth. “I won’t lie to you, Miss Granger. Restoring memories that were altered tied to fear and pain, are among the most delicate cases we see.”

Hermione caught herself squeezing her hands into fists against her lap. “But there’s still a reasonable chance they could remember me?”

Dr. Kinsford didn’t directly answer her question. “The natural rebound probability is highest in the first two years post-cast.”

“Two years,” she whispered.

Two years.
Hope and dread packed into a single number.

“If such a window appears,” he continued, “you’ll want as much accurate material as possible to work with—details about their lives before, and about your relationship with them. The more you remember, the more they might be able to rebuild from.”

“So I should… write it all down?”

“Yes. Think of it as a memory bridge—it doesn’t restore anything now, but it gives you something solid to work with when the opportunity comes. ”

After that, the days in Australia settled into a routine: the library, her notes, her memories. When the research grew dense enough to blur her vision, she’d switch to writing her childhood—mundane things she remembered about her parents. Birthdays, holiday celebrations, the arguments they thought she couldn’t hear, her mother singing in the kitchen, her father’s laugh. Things she didn’t want to risk forgetting.

And when the loneliness crept in—which it often did—she wrote to Ron.

She told him everything—Australian architecture, the session with Kinsford, how she’s working on keeping a memory journal, how seeing her parents had cracked something in her. At first, Ron wrote back quickly. His letters were warm, full of the Burrow: what Molly was cooking, how Ginny and Harry wouldn’t stop sneaking off, how Arthur had enchanted the garden shed again.

But then the letters started shrinking.

Then they slowed.
Once every week.
Then every other.
And then nothing at all.

Hermione tried to be reasonable. He was interning at the Ministry before the school year, he was busy, he’d never been good at writing. She repeated all of that to herself each morning when the owl post arrived and the only envelope bearing a familiar W belonged to Ginny.

By the end of August, Hermione stopped pretending Ron’s silence didn’t bother her before her return to the burrow. She’d made excuses for him all summer, but at some point it became impossible to believe them.

The house was full when she pushed open the door. The smell of baked sweets, Molly engulfing her in a hug before she’d even stepped properly inside. It was warm and familiar in that way the Burrow always was.

And then she saw Ron.

He was standing on the far side of the room, looking more tired than she remembered. Likely, the internship had worn him down. Hermione crossed the space with the mix of relief and nervousness she’d been carrying for days.

The instant she wrapped her arms around him, he went stiff. His hands hovered, gave her a quick, awkward pat, and fell away almost immediately.

Hermione froze for half a second before she stepped back.

Harry was next. He looked up when she turned toward him, but whatever expression crossed his face disappeared almost immediately, and then mumbled something about helping Molly before disappearing into the kitchen. Ginny wasn’t home, apparently she’d been helping out at St Mungo’s.

Something was off. The feeling only grew worse over the next few days.Ron barely looked at her for long before glancing away again. Conversations kept ending before they properly began. Whenever she tried to properly talk to him, he either changed the subject or found some reason to disappear into another room.

Once, by the back door, she leaned in to kiss him, thinking maybe the physical closeness would break the whatever strange distance between them. Ron flinched, turning his head so fast her lips brushed his cheek instead.

“So… we’re still together, aren’t we?” she asked at last. The question came out before she could stop it.

Ron went red blotchy-red. “We—yeah—I mean—of course—.” He stumbled through the words without actually giving her an answer.

By the week before Hogwarts, Hermione felt close to snapping.

She’d spent the whole morning rehearsing questions to approach him, hoping one might make him slip, or at least look her in the eye long enough to tell the truth, but so far, nothing worked.

In the afternoon, up in the attic where they were meant to be sorting their trunks, Ron kept fidgeting, dropping things, rifling through things that didn’t need rifling through, so apparent that he was doing everything he could to avoid looking at her. She realized there was no right question left to ask, but the pressure to speak was unbearable. She took one long, steady breath and said, very calmly, “I know, Ron.”

Everything in him froze. The color drained straight out of his face. “Ginny told you?” he blurted.

Her stomach dropped. Ginny? What would Ginny even know? She hadn’t spoken to her properly in weeks. not even once since she’d got back. All she knew was that Ginny had been helping out and practically been living at St. Mungo’s. She forced her voice even. “Right.”

That was all it took. Ron’s composure collapsed instantly.

“I swear, Hermione, it was just once!” The words tumbled out of him in a rush. “Lavender started it—I was drunk—I didn’t even know what I was doing—honestly, it meant nothing, I swear it—Hermione, I love you, I really do, I just didn’t know how to—how to tell you—”

He kept repeating once, drunk, Lavender started it, I love you, the phrases blurring together until they sounded rehearsed. Hermione heard every excuse he made for himself.

What she didn’t hear was an apology.

Her chest went cold.

Once.
The word landed like a punch.

This was Ron.
The boy she’d grown up with.
The boy who’d faced trolls and death with her.
The boy she’d trusted enough to kiss in the middle of a war.

He said he loved her.
And then he’d done this.
And hid it.
And let her write letter after letter while pretending everything was fine.

Hermione opened her mouth, wanting to scream at him, to demand why, but nothing came out. Her throat felt blocked, strangled. If she let one sound escape, she knew the tears would fall hard and fast and she would break right there.

“It’s over, Ron,” she said at last. She tried to keep her voice steady, but her body betrayed her with a slight tremor she couldn’t manage to hide.

“Hermione, please—I swear—”

Hermione didn’t wait for the rest. She turned away and collected a few more things she kept in the attic. Her hands weren’t shaking, she didn’t really know why they weren’t.

Ron stood behind her, still talking, but she stopped listening. She needed space, she needed to leave before she broke in front of him.

Hermione closed her satchel, straightened, and walked out of the room without another word.

She didn’t know where else to go—but the answer that came to her almost immediately, was Hogwarts. For all the pain it held, it was the only place she could picture herself breathing again.

The tight pull of Apparition released Hermione onto the empty Hogsmeade platform. There were no usual crowds or chatter, the only sound coming from the wind moving through the trees beyond the tracks. She doubted anyone else had come back a week early as her.

The walk up to the castle felt longer than usual. Hogwarts had been repaired enough to function, but the damage was obvious. Some walls were patched unevenly, as if the magic hadn’t quite settled. Scorch marks ran along the stone in places. A few corridors were still blocked off with shimmering curtains while work continued behind them.

Inside the castle, the halls sounded wrong. Her footsteps echoed more than they used to, carrying down empty stretches of corridor. She slowed beside a rebuilt section of wall and let her fingers brush lightly over the stone. The surface felt smooth, newer than everything around it.

It was impossible not to remember what the place had looked like during the battle: spells hitting stone, people shouting over the noise, bodies everywhere, Voldemort falling like any other ordinary man.

Hermione kept moving.

Returning sooner than everyone else had seemed practical at the time—less chaos, more time to prepare—but now the castle only felt emptier for it.

She had fought for this place, and she was glad it had survived. But walking through it alone made her chest feel heavier than she’d expected.

“Granger.”

The voice cut through the quiet, sharp enough to make her jump. Hermione spun around, wand already in her hand before she registered who it was.

Malfoy stood a few paces away, half-lit by the thin grey light from the tall windows behind him. The last time Hermione had seen him this close had been in the final chaos of the battle, smoke thick through the Great Hall. He had looked pale then too, like he was forcing something down so hard it showed in every line of him. She’d watched Voldemort call him forward and seen the hesitation. She’d told herself she was only noticing because she was trying to understand why he hadn’t identified Harry at the Manor.

Now, he looked… different. Still pale and tired in a way, but the sharp fear she remembered wasn’t right there on his face anymore. His grey eyes met hers, unreadable but not hostile.

“Malfoy,” she said, lowering her wand. His name echoed more than she expected in the half-empty corridor.

He was taller than she remembered that she had to tilt her head up a bit. It hit her, suddenly, that the last time they’d spoken without a wand raised between them was probably back in second year, when he’d shouted that slur at her on the Quidditch pitch.

That felt like another lifetime.

“You’re early,” he said. The words were even, stripped of the usual sharpness and polished aristocratic drawl.

“Likewise,” she answered briefly. She wasn’t interested in explaining anything.

She could guess, though. Harry had mentioned things in his letters: Lucius under investigation, the Manor sealed, Narcissa staying abroad for now. And Malfoy—well, he didn’t exactly have many places to go. Hogwarts might have been the only door still open to him. The thought left her unsure how to feel, more complicated than she wanted to get into.

They stood there for a moment, neither speaking. The distance between them felt far bigger than a few steps of stone floor.

Hermione finally exhaled, the day catching up with her all at once. “I should get settled,” she said, tired more than anything else.

Malfoy didn’t reply. He simply stepped aside, leaving the path clear for her.

She walked past him without looking back, her shoes clicking against the stones. The sound followed her down the corridor, leaving Malfoy and the dim light behind as she headed deeper into the castle.

The castle felt hollow in a way Australia never had. There, even the lonely days had been wrapped in heat and noise and sunlight.

Later, in her dormitory, Hermione sat on the edge of her bed with her notebook open across her knees. She’d started it in Australia, just as Kinsford had advised—a “memory bridge,” he’d called it. Something her parents could follow back, if the two-year window ever opened. Faces, holidays, jokes, the details that built a life.

Writing in it in Australia had felt exhausting, but doable. Here, it felt colder.

Back there, when loneliness crept in, writing to Ron had been the only thing that kept the nights from swallowing her whole. But that, too, had slipped away from her.

How could he?

After everything they’d survived together, after everything they’d fought for, how could he not manage even the smallest honesty? Not one real apology? Not one attempt to tell her the truth?
Had she been imagining the relationship the entire time?

Hermione snapped the notebook shut. Dwelling wouldn’t fix anything. She needed to move, to work, to put her mind somewhere—anywhere—else.

The next afternoon, she buried herself in the library, losing hours in books on memory reconstruction. She didn’t look up until her eyes were burning.

A silver-and-black tabby Patronus slipped between the shelves, tail raised in a purposeful arc.

After seven years at Hogwarts, she had become thoroughly accustomed to Professor McGonagall summoning her to her office this way. Whether McGonagall simply preferred Patronuses or considered them more discreet than appearing in person herself, Hermione had never quite worked out.

She packed her things with a quiet sigh and made her way toward the headmistress’s office, confusion threading through her exhaustion. She pushed open the door—

and stopped short.

Malfoy was already inside.

He stood near the window, posture straight, hands behind his back so tightly it looked deliberate. His eyes flicked to her for the briefest moment before shifting away again.

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall said, looking up. The chain of her spectacles swung slightly as she set down her quill. “Thank you for coming. I know the term has not officially begun, but since both of you are here earlier than expected, I have a matter that requires attention.”

Hermione nodded automatically. She wasn’t sure why Malfoy was here, but the faint tension in his shoulders told her he didn’t know either.

“The archives on the seventh floor were badly damaged during the battle,” McGonagall went on. “Some of the oldest books were impacted—including volumes with family warding magic. Madam Pince cannot manage the restoration alone.”

McGonagall paused, then fixed Malfoy with a sharp look. “Mr. Malfoy, you were not originally on the assignment list. However, Madam Pince insisted. She tells me you were—surprisingly—one of the few students besides Miss Granger who regularly consulted the older sections of the collection. Particularly the texts on heraldry and ancient wardwork.”

Hermione blinked at that.
Malfoy? In the library? Often enough for Pince to notice?

She quickly snuck a glance at Malfoy. She couldn’t read anything in his expression, but the set of his jaw changed, like McGonagall’s comment had found somewhere he didn’t want it to.

“I expect both of you,” McGonagall said deliberately, “to set aside any … sentiments. Hogwarts needs the assistance.”

Hermione gave a stiff nod. She wasn’t in a position to turn down work, especially work that kept her busy. Malfoy only inclined his head once, curt and controlled.

That evening, Hermione found the seventh-floor archives with the door already ajar. Madam Pince stood inside among scattered stacks of parchment and oddly warped books in various states of repair.

“Miss Granger,” Pince said, voice as sharp as ever. “Come in. Mr. Malfoy arrived a few minutes ago.”

Hermione stepped inside. The room smelled of old parchment, leather, dust, and the faint medicinal tang of repair potions. Malfoy stood at one of the long tables, sleeves pushed to his elbows as he examined an opened tome under the bright candlelight.

He hadn’t noticed her yet.

Her gaze drifted, uninvitedly, to the inside of his forearm. The skin there was pale and smooth, without the mark. But she knew what had been there. For a moment the memories rushed in—Dumbledore falling, marble floors, Bellatrix laughing, Harry screaming—flashes that came and went too fast to stop.

Malfoy must have felt her looking, because his fingers froze for a moment. Then he tugged his sleeve back down, covering the skin without making a show of it.

Hermione’s face burned. She looked away so quickly her hair shifted over her shoulder. “Sorry,” she murmured, though she wasn’t sure he heard it.

“Good. You’re both here,” Madam Pince said, slipping back into her usual brisk tone. “Let’s begin. The first volume we need to address is A Lineage of Crests: Middle Ages to Present. Its protective wards have nearly collapsed, so we proceed with extreme care.”

Work started immediately.

Within minutes, Hermione realized McGonagall and Pince had chosen correctly. Malfoy handled the damaged books with a familiarity she hadn’t expected. Nothing in his movements looked hesitant. He separated brittle parchment slowly, carefully, like he already knew exactly how much force old magic could survive.

And when she instinctively reached for a stronger repair spell, he glanced once at the cracked spine before quietly suggesting a gentler alternative instead.

It wasn’t hard to imagine why. Malfoy Manor must have been full of books like these—rooms she’d never seen, shelves lined with things only those old families kept. The thought sent a strange ripple through her, she quickly pushed it away.

They barely spoke except when the work required it. Only quick, clipped exchanges, nothing more.

Hermione glanced up once, catching him in profile—head bent and lashes lowered, concentration written into the line of his mouth. He looked nothing like the boy who used to sneer at her in corridors, nothing like the terrified figure in the Great Hall months ago.

Time slid by without either of them noticing. At one point, their hands brushed as they both reached for the same potion vial. His fingers were colder than she expected. Draco went still for half a second, then pulled his hand back without a word before she’d even had the chance to react.

There was a scent to him she hadn’t registered before—something clean and crisp, like cedar, mixed with parchment dust and restoration potion. It unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Madam Pince eventually checked her watch and said in her usual dry way, “Good progress today. Finish what’s in front of you and then pack up. Same time next week. I expect this project will take three sessions.”

In the days that followed, Hermione returned to her memory journal. Night after night she wrote down moments she’d lived with her parents—the  memories she hoped would help rebuild her family.

The Great Hall looked almost normal again. Candles flickered overhead, plates passed from hand to hand. A few fourth years at the Hufflepuff table laughed loudly enough to turn heads for a moment before the noise folded back into the usual swell of dinner conversation.

Everything was back where it belonged, so it seems—except her.

Hermione sat near the end of the Gryffindor table instead of between Harry and Ron. Far enough that nobody had to carefully avoid looking at her. Close enough that pretending otherwise would have been ridiculous. Her plate sat untouched in front of her while McGonagall gave her welcome speech.

She stared at the wood grain beneath her hands instead. Tiny scratches crossed the table’s surface, initials carved by students decades apart. Easier to look at all those crooked little letters than at Ron.

A soft rustle and a familiar floral scent told her Ginny had slipped into the seat beside her. Ginny’s gaze flickered toward her with an apology Hermione didn’t know how to receive.

“Hermione, I—” Ginny began.

She didn’t finish.

A burst of pink and perfume hit the corner of Hermione’s vision. Lavender all but launched herself onto the bench beside Ron, voice bright and sugary.

“Won-Won!”

Hermione flinched at the nickname. Lavender leaned in and pressed a loud kiss against Ron’s cheek—the same cheek Hermione had once kissed when everything still felt simple. Ron stiffened, his ears went red at once, before shooting Hermione a quick, panicked look that made something ugly twist low in her stomach.

A silent plea for her not to make a scene.

What was he even asking of her? Understanding? Silent discretion?

Hermione turned her eyes away quickly, trying to look anywhere else. But as she turned, Lavender slipped her hand over Ron’s on the table. He didn’t pull away.

He simply let it happen. Everything seemed so easy, like he’s done it with her a thousand times already.

Hermione felt heat rise sharply into her face.

Just once, he’d said.
One drunken mistake.

But nothing about what she was seeing looked new. And even if it really had been only once—there had never been a real conversation, never an honest ending, never a proper apology. He’d lied by omission and let her cling to the scraps of something he’d already stepped out of.

And if she hadn’t cornered him in the attic, would he have ever said anything at all? Or would she have found out like this—Lavender’s hand over his, in front of everyone?

Her chest tightened. The humiliation stung worse than she expected, mixing with anger she’d held down for far too long.

Hermione pulled her gaze away from Ron and Lavender and let them drift across the hall, looking for anything to focus on before she did something stupid. Her eyes landed on the Slytherin table.

Malfoy sat alone.
He didn’t look bored or smug or even particularly interested in the feast. He just prodded at his food, shoulders slightly hunched, as if he’d rather be anywhere else. The candlelight cut across his profile, making him look oddly tired more than anything—tired and out of place, in a way she recognized far too easily.

And then something inside her tipped.

Ron had made his choices. He’d done it with his silence all summer; he was doing it now with Lavender practically in his lap. And worse, he spoke to her in the attic like he expected her to just accept it, the same way he’d expected her to accept everything back in fourth year when he’d turned on her out of jealousy.

Maybe he really believed she’d never push back. Heat climbed up her throat before she could stop it, sharp enough to sting.

Fine.
If Ron wanted to act like she didn’t matter, then he deserved to know exactly how that felt like.

Hermione Granger didn’t act on impulse.

But right now, she wanted to.

She stood up before she even realized she’d made the decision. For a moment, no one noticed—everyone was too busy laughing, talking, eating, pretending the world hadn’t fallen apart a few months ago. But then people started turning.

“Hermione?” Harry looked up, confused. Ron glanced over too. His look was tense, visibly unsure why she had suddenly risen from her seat, but his hand stayed in Lavender’s.

That was it, the last straw. Hermione didn’t give any of them a second glance. She fixed her eyes on the Slytherin table and started walking.

The Great Hall blurred around her. Noise dipped as she passed, students twisting in their seats, trying to work out where she was going and why her steps sounded so final. By the time she reached the Ravenclaws, she risked one quick glance behind her.

Ron had turned halfway in his seat, staring after her like he couldn’t quite believe she was walking straight toward—

Good, she thought, her steps steady.
Watch.

She reached the Slytherin table. Theo looked up first. Then Blaise. Further down, Pansy seemed to go completely still, her expression hovering somewhere between horror and fascination.

Hermione walked past all of them without slowing.

Malfoy was still half turned toward his plate as though he had not yet realized the entire hall had gone quiet around him. Only when she stopped directly beside him did he finally look up.

His fork paused halfway to the table. “Granger,” he said quietly, like he genuinely wasn’t sure she was going to speak to him.

Well, she was not planning on speaking to him.

He stood up slowly. Out of politeness, maybe. She thought. No matter their history, proper manners had likely been drilled into him, especially with her striding right toward him. His brow furrowed with confusion and a flicker of caution.

Hermione didn’t bother answering. She stepped closer, close enough she had to lift her chin up to look at him properly. The hall’s candlelight caught on his hair, turning it paler than ever. She turned her head just long enough to meet Ron’s eyes across the hall.

He’d gone completely still, Lavender’s hand had almost fallen from his.

Hermione let her lips curve into the smallest, coldest smile she’d ever worn. Then she turned back to Malfoy, rose onto her toes—

and kissed him.

The Great Hall went dead silent.

Malfoy froze. Every line of him went rigid. Hermione felt the shock roll through his body as he stood there, stunned into place. His mouth felt cool beneath hers, restrained in a way that caught her off guard.

She didn’t deepen it. She didn’t need to, the point had already been made. She meant to pull back—

But then Malfoy moved.

His hand jerked up, hesitated—then gripped the edge of the table as he leaned down and kissed her back hard enough it knocked the breath from her lungs. It felt shockingly intense, almost desperate in the way it demanded a response, nothing like Ron’s clumsy, sloppy eagerness.

Hermione’s mind blanked. What in Merlin’s name—

The thought barely formed. Something reckless snapped inside her and she kissed him back, giving as much as she got. The cedar on his skin, the warmth of him, the shock of his mouth moving against hers, none of it lined up with the bleak, distant boy she thought she knew.

Gasps broke through the hall, the whispers surged like a wave around them. To anyone watching—which admittedly, was everyone—they looked like two people who’d been dying to do this for ages.

She didn’t care. For the first time since Australia, since the attic, since Lavender’s hand closed over Ron’s, she felt something that wasn’t humiliation or grief. It wasn’t happiness, but it was hers.

When the kiss finally broke, Hermione was breathing a little harder than she meant to. She turned, deliberately, back to look toward the Gryffindor table.

Ron looked awful. It was a blotchy, sickly mix of grey and green, like he might be ill. He stared at her as if she’d stabbed him through the chest. Shock, disgust, and that same wounded betrayal she remembered from the Horcrux hunt, when he’d looked at her and Harry and imagined they had already chosen each other over him.

A thin satisfaction slid through her. So now you know.

She forced her attention back to Malfoy. He was still looking at her, his expression was a mess of things she couldn’t untangle either—confusion, or maybe disbelief that she’d kissed him at all. Hermione gave him a small, uneven smile. She didn’t know if she was sorry for using him, or sorry for the person she’d had to become in that moment. She didn’t get a chance to think about it.

“Whoa!”
“This is brilliant!”
“Did you see that?”

Whoops, whistles blurred around her. Hermione didn’t stay long enough for it to get worse. She turned away, ignoring the chaos behind her, ignoring the heat of Ron’s stare, ignoring Malfoy behind her—who she definitely couldn’t afford to think about right now. Her legs felt strange, light and unsteady. The entire hall buzzed around her, but it all sounded distant.

Revenge always sounded satisfying in theory. Up close, it just rang hollow.

When she reached the Gryffindor table, the silence hit like a wall. Everyone was staring at her.

Harry looked like someone had hit him with a Stunning Spell, one of his hand clutched his chest. Lavender had pulled her hand back from Ron completely. Ron…he looked white as parchment now, staring at her as though Hermione had struck him across the face.

Hermione pretended not to notice any of them. She sat down carefully and picked up her goblet before anyone could speak. Her hands trembled badly enough that pumpkin juice nearly spilled over the rim.

Ginny, beside her, made a small noise, the start of a question, but nothing came out. She just ended up staring at her.

Hermione finished quickly. She stood, smoothed her robes, and headed toward the door without addressing anyone. But just before she stepped out, she felt it again—that gaze on her, hotter and heavier than all the others in the Hall combined. Her eyes found Malfoy across the hall.

He wasn’t smirking, nor sneering, he wasn’t even pretending he hadn’t been watching her at all.

His mouth looked a little swollen.
Hers probably did too.

Hermione managed the faintest smile. After all that, she felt like she owed him something, although she wasn’t entirely sure what she was apologizing for. Then she turned and walked out of the Great Hall.

The moment she was out of sight of the Hall, she sagged back against the cold stone wall. Her breath came fast and uneven, the adrenaline bleeding out of her all at once. Her heart hammered painfully in her chest. Now that the noise had faded, the reality of what she’d done settled in.

She’d wanted to hurt Ron.
She had.

But she’d also dragged Malfoy into it, and his reaction… That hadn’t been passive at all.

“Hermione—what the hell was that?” Ron’s voice cracked down the corridor behind her, angrier than she’d heard in months.

She didn’t turn around. “A kiss,” she said flatly. “I’m sure you know what it was.”

“With Malfoy?” Ron’s voice shot up an octave, thick with disgust. “He is a bloody Death Eater!”

“Was, Ron.” Her mind flicked back to the archive room, to the moment she’d seen his forearm—smooth, unmarked.

“I know you’re upset about Lavender, but you didn’t have to—”

Hermione pushed off the wall and faced him. “You’re such a hypocrite,” she said, keeping her voice low despite the anger sharpening underneath. “You think you can shag Lavender whenever you feel like it, but I’m supposed to what? Sit there and take it?”

“That’s not fair!” Ron snapped, ears scarlet. “I was drunk! It was a mistake! And you’re the one who said we were done!”

“Are you even hearing yourself?” she shot back. “Plus, you didn’t even apologize. Not once.”

Lavender appeared at his shoulder, looking wounded and indignant. Hermione ignored her.

“And for the record,” she added, each word deliberate, “Draco is a much better kisser than you.”

The effect was immediate. Ron’s face froze—humiliation, fury tangling together until he looked like he might actually explode. Lavender’s eyes widened.

Hermione didn’t wait for whatever came next. She turned and walked quickly away, rounding the corridor—and froze.

Malfoy and Theo were already there.

Theo looked delighted, eyes bright with amusement as his gaze bounced eagerly between Hermione and Draco.

Malfoy…
Malfoy looked nothing like a minute ago in the Great Hall.

That familiar smirk tugged at his mouth again. His gaze was locked on her, eyes carrying far too much awareness for her liking.

Hermione’s stomach dropped.

Of all the people who could have overheard that last sentence…

Malfoy tilted his head slightly. The smirk deepened. He looked—Merlin help her—almost proud.

Of all the catastrophes she’d expected tonight, this was a new one.

The days after the kiss were unbearable in a way Hermione hadn’t prepared for. Hogwarts felt tight around the edges, like the corridors were keeping score. Wherever she went, eyes followed. People didn’t bother hiding it at all. Whispers clung to the stone walls like damp.

“Look—that’s Granger.”
“Poor Ron. Thought they were still a thing.”
“Of course she went for the richest pure-blood in the room.”
“Bet she loves the attention.”
“She kisses like that in public? Imagine what she’s like in private—”
“Sshh! She’ll write a whole report about you afterward. I heard she’s got connections.”

Snickers.
Muttered laughter.
That awful, knowing tone.

She’d heard versions of this her whole life—bossy, too much, show-off, swot—but this was different. This was aimed at her body, at her choices, at the simple act of being a girl who stepped out of line. It shouldn’t have cut this deep, but it still did. Hermione didn’t flinch, didn’t react where others expected. She held herself perfectly upright, eyes on her book, but her fingers still shook when she turned the pages.

She wasn’t going to explain herself.
Not to them. This is none of their business.
Not to anyone.

Although she did regret one thing: Malfoy being dragged into this mess, intentionally or not.
He hadn’t asked to be used as a weapon.

The common room was worse.

The moment she stepped through the portrait hole, conversations dropped—just for a beat, but long enough to feel like a slap. Harry kept trying to make himself invisible, shuffling papers and pretending to read, avoiding choosing a side so hard it hurt to watch.

Ginny tried to talk to her, but every time the conversation edged too close, she changed course, like one wrong word might make Hermione come apart.

Ron…
Ron pretended she wasn’t alive.

He and Lavender had practically glued themselves to the fireplace. They kissed constantly—loudly, sloppily, like in sixth year how they wanted the entire tower to know. Lavender laughed at everything he said louder than necessary, while Ron kept his arm around her shoulders with such pointed insistence that Hermione could feel exactly who the performance was for.

Every once in a while, Ron’s eyes flicked toward her.
Quick.
Wounded.
Angry.

Hermione did not stayed long. She grabbed her memory journal and left before the silence swallowed her whole. Even the Fat Lady gave her a sympathetic little purse of the lips when she slipped out again.

The second book restoration session with Malfoy was that evening, and Hermione had spent all morning attempting academically and mentally to prepare. None of it helped. After a week of whispers and stares and Ron very publicly snogging Lavender while acting like Hermione no longer existed, she didn’t have much left in her to face one more thing she couldn’t control. And Malfoy—whatever he was now—was definitely not something she could control.

What exactly was she supposed to say?

Sorry we’re both now the centre of the biggest scandal?
Sorry I used you to make a point?
Sorry I responded like you did?

She hadn’t settled on anything remotely sensible.

She was heading from the library to History of Magic, a stack of books under her arm, when she ducked into the second-floor girls’ lavatory to wash her face. She pushed open the door.

Pansy Parkinson was at the mirror, leaning in close, carefully touching up her lipstick.

Hermione froze.
Pansy clocked her in the reflection, blinked once.

“Granger,” she said.

“Parkinson.” Hermione nodded and moved to the next sink. She turned on the tap.

Water filled the quiet between them. Hermione could feel Pansy’s eyes on her through the mirror—assessing, not friendly to be exact, but not quite hostile either. Hermione braced herself for a snide comment.

Pansy capped her lipstick with a sharp click. “You look like you let a first-year hex you.”

Hermione blinked, turning off the tap. That was… not what she’d expected.

Pansy pushed away from the mirror and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “I heard the things they’re saying about you,” she clarified, looking Hermione dead in the eye. “The pathetic rumours.”

Hermione stared at her.

Pansy stepped closer, gaze sweeping across Hermione’s face in an almost sympathetic way.

Hermione felt her throat tighten.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, stop looking like that. This is how it works, the second a girl does something they don’t like? The whispers start. Always, doesn’t matter who she is.”

Pansy continued as if lecturing a first-year.
“Happened to me in fourth year. I turned down two Ravenclaw boys, and suddenly I’d apparently slept with half the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. Which—” she clicked her tongue, “is offensive on multiple levels, frankly.”

Hermione almost choked.

Pansy shrugged. “Point is, people talk because it’s easy. Because it makes them feel clever.” Her gaze flicked over Hermione. “Not because any of it’s true…So stop looking like you’re about to cry.”

Hermione stiffened. “I’m not—”

Pansy held up a hand, silencing her. “Please. I can tell.” she waited for another beat. “And they can too, that’s why they’re pushing.”

Hermione’s pulse jumped.

Pansy paused, letting the silence settle before delivering the line like a verdict. “If you want them to shut up? ” she lifted a small, quick smile. “Make them nervous instead.” She then looked at her in an assessing way, then nodded as if satisfied with her own conclusion. “You’ll figure it out.”

She then turned, hand on the door handle, then paused again. Her voice floated back, dry and almost amused. “And Granger? That kiss in the Great Hall… rather gutsy.”

The door swung shut behind her.

Hermione stood alone in the empty lavatory, pulse still racing, unsure whether she wanted to sit down, scream, or laugh.

That evening, a little before seven, Hermione headed to the archive room with her stomach in a tight knot. She told herself she was only early because she didn’t want to keep Madam Pince waiting.

That was a lie.
And she knew it.

Her mind kept circling the same stupid and intrusive thought... The way he kissed back.

Not the first part—her reckless move, her lips brushing his in front of the entire school. No. That she could almost rationalize as temporary insanity.

But the moment after—when Malfoy had gone rigid for a second, just a second, and then kissed her like he meant it—direct, certain—like someone who had made up his mind in the span of a breath.

Hermione’s steps faltered for half a beat.
Absolutely not. She was not thinking about this again.

She forced her pace steady, clutching her books a little too tightly as she reached the archive door. Her palms felt annoyingly warm, her heartbeat was irritatingly quick. She took a long breath, trying to smooth out every thought she didn’t want to have.

You are here to work. That’s all.

She pushed open the door.

Madam Pince was already inside.
No Malfoy.

Relief hit her so fast it annoyed her.

“Miss Granger,” she said, voice clipped but oddly gentle. “Come in. There’s something you should hear before we begin.”

The room still smelled of old parchment and restoration potion. The damaged books from last time were still spread across the long table, repair kits open beside them.

“Mr. Malfoy isn’t here yet,” Pince said as she adjusted a velvet cloth. Her next words came a little lower, like she didn’t want them echoing out into the corridor. “I’ve heard some… talk.”

Hermione’s fingers tightened on the strap of her bag. Her face heated before she could stop it.
Of course… Of course the gossip had reached even here.

Pince looked up sharply as if she could sense Hermione spiraling. “Do not let it affect your work,” she said firmly. “Or your mind. Hogwarts thrives on nonsense, most of it fades by morning. What you do here is worth far more than whatever is circulating over there.”

The unexpected bit of support hit harder than Hermione liked. She swallowed. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

Before Pince could answer, the door opened again.

Malfoy stepped inside. He nodded at Madam Pince, then looked at Hermione. He didn’t pretend he hadn’t been part of the single most talked-about moment of the week.

Just… a long, level look.

His gaze flicked down—quickly—to her mouth before returning to her eyes. A tiny, unconscious slip, but she felt it everywhere. Her face warmed despite her best effort.

“Let’s begin,” Pince went back to her usual tone, snapping the tension in half.

They got to work, or at least, tried to.

It didn’t take Hermione long enough to notice the difference. Malfoy was closer tonight. Not by much, but it was enough that she felt the shift. A brush of fingers here, a shoulder almost touching hers when he leaned over a page, a pause that lasted one second longer than it needed to. Too deliberate to be coincidence, but also too small to call out without sounding ridiculous.

Her thoughts scattered every time their hands neared the same binding brush. She wanted to say something—sorry for using you, maybe, or why did you kiss me back—but none of it belonged in a quiet room with Madam Pince hovering two feet away.

Eventually, Pince straightened. “That’s enough for tonight. One more session should finish the set.” She gathered a few tools, muttered something about checking a storage cabinet, and disappeared into the adjoining room.

The door clicked shut.

And suddenly it was just Hermione and him, the silence stretching out between them.

She set down her quill. He did too.

She could feel his eyes on her back, very much unhelpfully present. The longer the silence dragged, the more her pulse tripped over itself. She needed to say something, anything. Quick, think of something safe.

Hermione inhaled, lifted her chin, and blurted:
“Why did you agree to this? The book restoration work.”

Malfoy looked faintly surprised she’d spoken first, but his answer came easily. “My mother collects old texts,” he said, glancing around the archive room. “Before the… war… I used to help her restore them. It kept her calm.” He paused briefly, “Eventually it kept me calm, too.”

She hadn’t expected that… not from him, not about anything gentle. Her mind flicked back to McGonagall’s office—how she had said he was one of the only students besides her who regularly consulted the older sections of the collection. Back then, initially, she had assumed that was exaggeration or politeness.

But clearly, she hadn’t known him at all. Not the part of him that spent time with fragile texts instead of hexing people, nor the part that understood preservation, or patience, or whatever quiet thing he’d just admitted to. And suddenly she was uncomfortably aware that she’d built her idea of him out of only the worst pieces.

Another question—one that had been stuck under her ribs since the war—pushed itself out before she could stop it. “At the Manor,” she said. “You recognized Harry. I know you did… straightaway.”Her fingers pressed harder against the edge of her sleeve. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Malfoy went still. His eyes stayed on hers, though his focus seemed to pull somewhere far beyond the archive room. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.
“Because it was the only time I ever had the chance to say no.”

It hit her like a physical blow. There was nothing dramatic in the way he said it.

He held her gaze, and for the first time, the exhaustion in his grey eyes gave way to something rawer. The faint line between his brows tightened briefly before easing again. Hermione realized a second too late that she was still looking at him.

Then the corner of Malfoy’s mouth lifted.
“Your turn, Granger,” he said. “Why did you kiss me?”

Her face went hot so fast it made her dizzy.

The Great Hall replayed in brutal clarity—
Lavender’s grin, Ron’s hand on hers, Ginny and Harry’s shock,
the humiliation flooding up her throat,
the split-second of reckless fury that pushed her forward—
that walk toward him like something had snapped inside her.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Malfoy tilted his head, studying her like he could see every thought she failed to form.
“Was it Weasley?” he asked. “And Brown? A revenge kiss?”

Hermione froze. He knew? He knew she was using him? He still—

“You know,” he murmured, leaning in a fraction, “for a moment when you marched across the Hall, I thought you’d gone completely mental.” His gaze dropped very briefly to her mouth. “…And after that, you said I was a better kisser than Weasley.”

Hermione made a strangled sound. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—that was—”

“That was loud enough Nott and I heard it from ten feet away,” Malfoy reminded her, voice low with a maddeningly smug. “And ‘for the record,’” he added, echoing her words as his eyes found hers again, “I hope that wasn’t just part of your little strategy.”

Her heart thudded so violently she felt it in her fingertips. The kiss flashed in her mind so vividly. She hadn’t let herself replay it these past few days, but she remembered the way he’d gone still for a heartbeat, and then kissed her back with  that startling kind of intensity, like once he made the decision, there had been no hesitation left in him at all. Nothing like Ron’s open-mouthed, eager fumbling. “I…” she tried, the word scraping out. “I shouldn’t have—”

She wanted to say she shouldn’t have dragged him into this.
She wanted to say I’m sorry.

But Malfoy cut across her before the words formed. “Don’t,” he said, and it wasn’t sharp. He didn’t even sound irritated. “You don’t need to apologize.”

Hermione stared at him.

He let out a slow exhale, running a thumb along the edge of the table like he needed something solid under his hand. He held her gaze for one long moment—then straightened and stepped back, just enough that she could breathe again.

“I knew exactly what I was doing,” he said quietly.

She didn’t understand what he meant by that, but the words sent a tight shiver down her spine.

Malfoy’s shoulders eased slightly, and when he spoke again, the sharp edge in his voice had softened.

“It’s late, Granger,” he said, voice low, steady.
“You should go.”

She blinked.

He glanced toward the door, jaw tightening just slightly.

“If anyone sees you leaving here alone with me at this hour…” He hesitated. “It wouldn’t be me that they go after.” His eyes stayed on her, longer than they should have.

She grabbed her bag with hands that didn’t feel like hers and forced her legs to move, her pulse roaring in her ears.

By the next morning, the frantic edge of Hermione’s thoughts had eased slightly. Madam Pince’s unexpected words and Pansy’s strangely gentle advice had taken the edge off the worst of her thoughts.

Breakfast was already underway when she stepped into the Great Hall. People still looked when she walked into the Great Hall. They still whispered, but it no longer felt like she was drowning in it. She moved toward the Gryffindor table—then accidentally glanced across the room.

Draco was watching her. Hermione realized a second too late when she locked her gaze with his.

A while later, Theo, who’s been sitting right next to Draco followed his gaze like he was tracing a spell. His eyes landed squarely on her, widened a fraction—
then he turned right back to Draco with the kind of grin boys only get when they think they’ve discovered something scandalous.

Hermione watched, frozen, as he murmured something to Draco.

His jaw went tight.
He stared straight ahead like he’d been snapped back into place.

And unless the morning light was playing tricks on her, the tips of his ears had definitely gone pink.

Hermione whipped her gaze down at her plate, despite not having reached the table yet,
heat rushing embarrassingly up her neck.

She forced her feet to keep moving and slid onto the bench. She’d barely picked up her spoon when Ginny dropped into the seat beside her, hair still mussed from sleep, though her attention fixed on Hermione immediately.

“Hermione,” Ginny said quietly, leaning in. “Hey. Are you… alright?” The question wasn’t soft or pitiful, it sounded coming from simple honesty. Hermione found she appreciated that more than anything else.

“I’m fine,” she said. And for once, it wasn’t entirely a lie.

Ginny let out a breath, then grimaced.
“Ron’s been—well, Ron. He told me not to say anything about him and Lavender back then, which, now when I think about it, is ridiculous because he’s my brother, not my commander.”

Hermione feigned a smile.

Ginny hesitated, picking at a corner of her napkin. “I should’ve told you sooner. I’m sorry.”

Hermione looked at her and saw the worry creasing her brow, the frustration pinched between her teeth. Whatever hurt she had been holding toward Ginny dissolved in an instant. “It’s alright,” Hermione said softly. “I don’t blame you. It can’t be easy being stuck in the middle.”

Ginny exhaled in relief, shoulders unclenching.
Then her face twisted into a scowl as she glanced toward the far end of the table.

Ron and Lavender were practically wrapped around each other, kissing between bites of toast like it was a competitive sport.

“I told him he’s acting like a troll,” Ginny muttered. “A troll with no self-awareness. He’s so busy proving he’s over you that he hasn’t noticed he looks like an absolute idiot.”

Hermione followed her gaze. It still hurt—but not in the same sharp, twisting way it had weeks ago.
The hurt felt… muted. Much more manageable.

“Let it be,” she murmured, reaching for a roll. “He’s made his choice. And I… I’ve got other things to think about.”

Ginny’s eyes brightened—fierce and warm threading through them. “Good. Because whatever those idiots say, none of it means anything. Mum always says when boys can’t win using charm or reason, they start using insults instead. Makes them feel less like they’re losing.”

Hermione huffed out a startled laugh before she could stop herself. What Ginny said wasn’t far from what Pansy was saying the day before.

Ginny nudged her shoulder.
“Whatever happens,” she said, tone low, certain, “you’ve got me. Alright? Whatever you’re dealing with, whatever you want to talk about, I'm here.”

Hermione lowered her gaze to her tea, letting the warmth of the mug sink into her palms. For the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe.

Evening couldn’t come fast enough.

Hermione told herself she wasn’t waiting for it—that she simply wanted to finish the last session of restorations before the week piled up again. But she still found herself leaving the common room for the archive room earlier than usual. The moment she realized what she was doing, she felt thoroughly abashed.

Malfoy looked up when she entered. His gaze caught hers for a second too long, seeping into her skin in a way that made her breath snag. Then he dropped his eyes to the table like the wood grain was suddenly fascinating.

Madam Pince gave them a list of tasks and drifted off. Malfoy grabbed everything they needed for the assigned tasks, and spread them all out on the table. Their movements fell into an easy rhythm before she registered it. Today he stood even closer, half a step, maybe. It shouldn’t have meant anything, but apparently her pulse disagreed. She could physically feel the air becoming tighter. Once, when she reached for the vial, he handed it to her before she could ask, their fingers brushing briefly. His eyes flicked to her face like he was checking she’d noticed; she very obviously had. She rubbed the back of her neck, pretending nothing happened.

Then came the parchment cutter. They both leaned in, both reached for the cutter in the spread Malfoy had so meticulously arranged on the table, their fingers brushing against the cold metal at the exact same moment, and her hand ended up on his again. But this time, Malfoy huffed under his breath. Her head whipped up. His grey eyes lifted slowly to meet hers, and for one suspended beat, he looked exactly the way he had when he said It wouldn’t be me that they go after. She pulled her hand back, but not as fast as earlier.

Hermione gestured, mortified. “Go ahead.” 

What on earth was wrong with her? At this rate she was going to need to duck into the lavatory afterward before heading back to the Gryffindor dorm just to get herself together

Malfoy didn’t say anything. He picked up the paper cutter—then, instead of using it to clip the restoration gauze for the appendix he was working on, he flipped the tool in his hand and turned the handle toward her, offering it in a way that made it easy for her to take.

Her heart was racing as she managed a barely audible, “Thank you.”

The rest of the session flew by fast. When Madam Pince finally returned and dismissed them for the night, Hermione’s heartbeat still refused to settle back into its normal rate.

She cleaned up faster than she ever had in any of their previous sessions. Her hands felt frustratingly clumsy on the buckles of her satchel. She needed distance, air, honestly, anything to break the spell. Reaching the door, she rushed out without a word, though the lingering of his presence seemed to follow her all the way out of the archive. She had no idea what this was becoming, but pretending she didn’t feel it was getting harder.

By the time Hermione finally made it back to Gryffindor Tower that night, all she wanted was a shower, a quiet corner, and her memory journal, just anything to keep her from thinking about those grey eyes. She reached into her bag—and touched nothing but fabric.

Her stomach dropped.

No. No, no.

She checked again.
Then again.

Within thirty seconds she’d emptied her entire bag across her bed: quills, books, ink, timetable—everything except the small brown notebook she used for her parents’ memory bridge. Her chest tightened.

She checked the nightstand, the chair, under the blankets, the study table.
Nothing.

She must have left it in the archive room. She’d been too distracted by Draco, by everything, to pack properly. A spike of panic shot through her, sharp enough to make her stomach drop.

She spun on her heel and ran. She didn’t care that students turned to stare as she flew past them, didn’t care that she nearly collided with Nearly Headless Nick rounding a corner. She sprinted all the way to the seventh floor, breath tight, heart pounding in her throat.

The archive room door stood shut.

She grabbed the handle, twisted.
Nothing.

Her pulse hammered harder. She whipped out her wand and whispered. “Alohomora.”

A soft click—
then nothing. The lock didn’t budge.

She tried again, firmer, wand steady even as her hands weren’t. “Alohomora.” But there's only silence, the enchantments didn’t even bother shivering.

Her breath stuttered. Pince must have reinforced the locks specifically for the archive room… She forced herself down the corridor toward the library, hoping Madam Pince might still be making her rounds before locking up for the night.

When she pushed the doors open, the room greeted her with stillness. Only the moonlight through the high windows lit the aisles. Hermione stepped inside, letting the door hush closed behind her. “Madam Pince?” she called softly, the sound faded into the dark rows of books without an answer.

She moved slowly between the desks, eyes adjusting to the shadows, scanning the long tables and the empty chairs where students had been studying only hours earlier.

A small creature suddenly slipped along the edge of a shelf, and Hermione jolted, her heart leaping against her ribs. It paused, blinking at her with large, glassy eyes. One of the Cleghorns.^[1] Madam Pince kept them in the library the way people kept cats: thin, parchment-colored creatures with delicate claws made for nudging misplaced books back into their proper rows and chasing off the tiny pests that gnawed at bindings and glue. These tireless little custodians would wander the stacks long after the students had gone to bed. It watched Hermione for a moment, tilted its head, then reached out with one careful claw to straighten a crooked book before slipping silently between the shelves again.

Hermione listened for a moment longer, but the stacks remained dark and silent. Her throat tightened. Madam Pince wasn’t here… If someone else found that notebook—if anyone read what was in it—the thought sent a cold wave of dread through her.

She pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the door for a moment, fighting the rising, suffocating panic. Think. Madam Pince wasn’t here. And the archive room—she had already tried the archive room. The door hadn’t so much as trembled when she tried Alohomora, sealed tight under whatever spells Pince kept on it.

That left only one option.

She turned toward the exit, ready to head straight for McGonagall’s office if she had to—

A flash of silver burst into existence right in front of her.

Hermione jerked back, hand flying to her wand.

A fox, bright as if carved from moonlight, stood in front of her. Its ears twitched, eyes sharp and intelligent as they met hers.

She’d never seen this Patronus before. It was definitely not McGonagall’s.

She swallowed. “Um… hello?”

The fox tilted its head, almost impatiently. Then it turned and padded down the corridor, glancing back when she didn’t immediately follow. Hermione's pulse jumped.

A Patronus messenger.
Someone wanted her attention.

Someone who didn’t want to shout across a corridor or leave a note. Someone who would absolutely choose the most indirect, dramatic method possible.

Draco.

Of course it was him, it had to be. He must have had her memory journal.

The fox led her past the usual traffic, slipping into a narrow side hall where the torches burned low and the stones felt cooler underfoot. This wasn’t the route to the Slytherin common room. It was close, but it was quieter, more private, tucked away between two classrooms rarely used after second year. At the very end of the corridor, the fox stopped, gave one last look over its shoulder, and dissolved like mist.

Hermione exhaled, trying to steady the thump in her chest. Why this?

Footsteps sounded around the corner. She stepped out of the shadows, heart kicking hard against her ribs—

But it wasn’t Draco.

Blaise Zabini rounded the corner, stopping short when he saw her standing alone in the dim corridor. His eyebrows rose slowly, and a smile unfurled on his face, like he’d just stumbled onto something entertaining.

“Well,” he drawled, eyes cutting lazily over her, “look who’s out at night. Gryffindor’s golden girl.” His gaze narrowed, sharp with implication.“Waiting for someone?”

Hermione’s stomach tightened, but she refused to back away. “That’s none of your business.”

Zabini clicked his tongue and sauntered closer, the sweet, heavy cologne clinging to him like a fog. “Oh, don’t be modest, Granger. The whole school saw the little show you and Draco put on.” He leaned in, voice dropping to something oily. “If you’re hoping for an encore… well. I imagine I could match him, possibly outdo him.”

A flush of humiliation burned through her. She forced the words out cold and steady. “You’re disgusting. Move.”

His expression sharpened at her refusal. “Pretend all you like,” he said, sneering. “Girls don’t lurk around Slytherin halls for innocent reasons. You’re practically begging someone to shag you. He turned as if he’d already decided what story he wanted to tell about her.

Something in Hermione snapped. “Zabini.”

He stopped.

When he looked back, she wasn’t trembling anymore. She was simply done.

“If you honestly think I’m out here hoping for your attention,” she said, “you’re more delusional than I thought.”

His eyebrows twitched upward.

“And let’s make something very clear,” she continued, voice steadying into something sharper than anger. “My being here doesn’t give you the right to invent whatever narrative entertains you.”

The smirk on his face faltered.

“Not everything a girl does is an invitation. Not every choice she makes is an excuse for you to… speculate.” Her jaw tightened. “I’m allowed to exist in a corridor without having to dodge your imagination.”

Zabini’s eyes narrowed at her declaration.

“And whatever is or isn’t between me and Malfoy,” Hermione said, “is none of your concern. You don’t get to comment. Stop acting like you do.”

For a beat, the hallway was silent but for their breathing. Zabini’s jaw flexed. He looked like he wanted to spit something back, but nothing came. He settled for a dark glare before stalking off down the corridor.

When he completely disappeared down the next corridor, Hermione’s breath left her in a rush. The anger kept her standing upright, but underneath it trembled something rawer.

Why did everything she did become something ugly in other people’s mouths?
Why was she punished for a kiss when Ron and Lavender were treated like lovestruck teenagers?
Why was a girl’s choice always an invitation for judgment?

She didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until a voice came—
“Granger?”

Her head snapped up.

Draco was striding toward her, faster than she’d ever seen him move outside a Quidditch match. His expression was stripped of every arrogant edge. What replaced it was an alarmed concern as his eyes swept over her face. Hermione didn’t need a mirror to know what he was seeing—flushed cheeks, rigid posture, and the faint tremor in her hands she only noticed once her gaze followed his down to them. He stopped in front of her, breath unsteady.

“What happened?” His voice was low, tense.
“Are you alright, Granger?”

Hermione forced her spine straight. “I’m fine,” she said, but her own voice betrayed her by sounding raspier than usual. “It’s nothing.”

Of course it wasn’t “nothing.”
Not to her.
But explaining this kind of humiliation to Malfoy felt impossible. He’d never had to move through the castle like this, picked apart simply for being a girl who’d stepped out of line.

She swallowed. “The Patronus—was that yours?”She didn’t recall ever seeing his Patronus before.

The last hint of silver was still drifting through the corridor. Draco nodded. “Yes.” His eyes didn’t leave her face. “You left something earlier. Pince had to run off to deal with… some crisis she had. She locked the archive room and asked me to hold onto this.”

He raised the small brown notebook. Hermione’s breath hitched, grabbed her journal in the fastest way possible, and pressed it to her chest as if someone might snatch it away again. “Thank you,” she managed. She hated that the shake in her voice was impossible to hide.

“I didn’t read it,” Malfoy said immediately. His tone came out sharp, almost offended by the implication alone. “If you’re wondering.”

He sounded like he genuinely understood what it was, or at least how much it meant to her. She wondered if the way she’d held it against her chest when she arrived at the Archive room had given it away. She looked up, meeting his eyes, a dozen tangled feelings crashing together. “Why didn’t you just give it back in the Hall?” she asked. “Why… this way?”

His jaw moved once but said nothing. Then his gaze slid past her shoulder, toward the corridor she’d come from. When he spoke again, his voice was controlled. “Half the castle is talking nonsense about you,” he said.

Hermione blinked.

He went on, quieter but still pointed, as if weighing each word before he said it. “I didn’t want to add to it,” he said. “Not on my account.”

Hermione stared at him, fingers tightening around her journal until the leather creaked. He wasn’t looking at her like she was a scandal or an inconvenience. If anything, he looked—annoyed, protective in a way she knew he’d probably hex someone for pointing out.

His mouth twitched, then flattened again before any words followed. Whatever he’d been on the verge of saying, he swallowed it. “Right,” he muttered and gave the smallest possible nod, as if even that concession cost him something. “That’s sorted.” He turned, robe shifting behind him as he walked away, boots echoing down the empty corridor.

Hermione stayed where she was, the Patronus light fading to nothing around her. She pressed her journal to her chest and closed her eyes for a moment.

This… was getting dangerous.
And she wasn't sure she minded.

In the days after that late-night encounter near the Slytherin common room, Hermione’s life slipped into a strange kind of calm. Her memory journal slowly filled page after page with small, fragile recollections of her parents, details she found herself clinging to more than ever now.

Ron and Lavender had apparently broken up.
Hermione hadn’t asked, but she’d heard enough.

Lavender had complained loudly in the common room, crying about her “perfect Yule Ball gown going to waste,” while Ron sat hunched in the corner, brooding like someone had hexed his broomstick in half. Hermione buried herself deeper in her books and refused to participate in the spectacle. They never talk anyways.

One evening, as she was heading back from the library, someone called softly:

“Hermione.”

She knew that voice from the bottom of her heart. Harry.

“Hermione,” Harry said again, then immediately shoved his hands into his pockets, as if unsure what to do with them.

She slowed to a stop. “Harry?”

He gave a small, awkward shrug. “I just—” He broke off, exhaling through his nose. “I owe you an apology.”

Hermione blinked. Harry never said things like that lightly. “For what?” she asked gently.

He scratched at the back of his head, already looking uncomfortable. “The whole thing with Ron and Lavender. And… you.” His mouth twisted. “I should’ve checked in on you sooner. Properly.” He rubbed the back of his neck again. “I wasn’t great about any of it.”

Hermione’s shoulders eased slightly at his words. “You were in a difficult position,” she said quietly. “He’s your best friend.”

“And so are you,” Harry said immediately, voice firmer this time.

Warmth moved through her chest. It felt late, and maybe a little unnecessary, because in her mind the whole thing was already starting to recede into the background. They had been through so much worse together—trolls, basilisks, horcruxes, war, hiding and running and nearly dying more times than anyone should. Compared to all that, this hardly seemed like something worth losing sleep over.

Harry looked visibly relieved when she finally gave him a small smile.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Really, Harry. I’m all fine now.”

He nodded, though a slight furrow remained between his brows like he wanted to ask about something. But he didn’t push. She was grateful that he respected the space. “Alright,” he said softly. “Just… let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

That was the last quiet moment before everything shifted, right when she’d finally started to believe things were getting better.

At first she thought it was just more fallout from the kiss.

But it wasn’t.

It started with the Slytherins.

A couple of boys looked up when she passed, sharing the kind of smirk people wore when they thought they knew something you didn’t. Hermione’s stomach tightened. Her instincts—the same instincts that had kept her alive while running for her life, prickled sharply. Something was off, even uglier than before.

Then came the boys in the library—Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, even from her own house she’d never exchanged a single word with—who suddenly drifted toward her table like she was some sort of display. Some let out a low whistle as he passed. Others gave her a slow, appraising once-over, the deliberate kind someone used when choosing a Firewhisky on a shelf, as if she were something to pick up, or put back. When she looked up and snapped, they only laughed and wandered off, leaving her pulse pounding.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked after History of Magic, falling into step beside her. “People keep saying your name.”

Hermione forced a steady breath.
“Probably still the usual nonsense. It’ll fade.”

Harry didn’t look convinced. And unfortunately, neither was she.

By the time she left the library that evening, the atmosphere had changed again. The corridor outside was crowded. Students clustered in tight knots, all facing the same direction, voices rising and overlapping in whispers.

Hermione slowed.

Then, a sudden, sickening thud cut straight through the buzz of the corridor. She spun toward the sound. Students pulled back, forming a loose ring. And in the centre—

Draco stood with one arm lowering slowly to his side, his knuckles already flushed and swelling.

Across from him, Zabini staggered back with a hand clamped over his cheek. Blood streaked the corner of his mouth, and the look on his face wasn’t bored amusement or arrogance this time.

That wasn’t magic. That wasn’t even a duel…

It was a punch, the old-fashioned way. For a second, Hermione could only stare.

“Sorry! Malfoy, I’m sorry! I take it back!” Zabini spat the words out too quickly, as though speed alone might save him from another blow. Then his eyes darted toward Hermione, panic breaking through his voice. “I’m sorry, Granger! I shouldn’t have said anything! It was stupid—I was stupid!”

Hermione froze.

…Said what?
Her mind scrambled, but the pieces refused to fall into place.

Before she could demand an answer, before she could even properly inhale, a voice she instantly dreaded crashed through the circle like a curse.

“Hermione!”

Ron shouldered through the crowd like he was charging into a fight. His face was blotchy with anger, wounded in that ugly, stubborn look he got when he thought the universe owed him something. This was the first time he’s said something to her for weeks.

He barely spared a glance for Zabini’s bleeding mouth or Draco’s clenched fist. His eyes locked straight onto Hermione.

“You know what?” he shouted, loud enough that portraits clicked awake. “I’m done pretending nothing’s going on.”

“Ron,” Harry said quickly as Hermione’s stomach twisted. “Don’t.”

“Oh, spare me, Harry.” Ron let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “Everyone already knows.”

He jabbed a finger toward her.

“You. Sneaking around the Slytherin corridors at night.”

A stunned silence rippled through the crowd. Hermione stared at him. “What?”

Ron barreled over her words. “First Malfoy!” He pointed straight at Draco, rage splintering his voice. “Fine! Whatever! You wanted my attention, you got it.”

Hermione flinched like he’d slapped her.

“But now?”His voice cracked harshly. “Now I hear it wasn’t just him.”

Her eyes widened and turned to look at Zabini in disbelief. How could…? He didn’t even had the courage to look back at her, his eyes darted away in guilt. The blood from Draco’s punch was still on his mouth.

Ron threw an arm toward Draco, Zabini, and Theo, knuckles whitening. “Three of them, Hermione?! Really?!”He scoffed, letting out a brittle and revolted sound, as if declaring something filthy. “You think I don’t know what people are saying?”

Hermione’s stomach turned violently.

“They’re saying you went down to the Slytherin common room to—Merlin—” He swallowed hard, voice twisting,
“Tosleep with all three of them.”

The corridor erupted into shocked whispers. Her throat closed. “Ron, stop—”

“I broke up with Lavender!” he yelled, voice breaking. “I broke up with her because I thought you and I…I thought maybe—”

Hermione felt sick.

He cheated.
He flaunted Lavender.
He never apologized.
And now he was acting like hers was a betrayal? It’s not even true, even if it is, it should not matter to him.

He stepped closer. “And you doing this?” His voice rose to a shout. “Merlin, Hermione, how desperate are you?!”

Something in her cracked. “You don’t get to—”

“Yes I do!” he roared, so loud her ears rang.
“Because I thought you were better than this!”

He looked at her like she was something broken.
Something ruined.

“You want to run around with Slytherins?” He spit the word like poison. “Fine. Go ahead.”

Ron’s face twisted. “But don’t expect me to stand here and watch you act like a—”

He hesitated, just for a heartbeat, as if even he knew the next word was unrecoverable.

Yet he still said it.

“SLUT!”

The word slammed into her so hard Hermione felt the world tilt. Spots were appearing in her vision. She struggled to keep upright and chewed on the inside of her cheek until all she could see was Ron—

He didn’t look ashamed, or confused, or even surprised at himself.

He looked…satisfied.

Like he was the one who’d been wronged, like he’d finally said the one thing he’d been holding in, the one thing he wanted to hurt her with.

Hermione’s stomach twisted viciously. She took a step back, air clawing at her throat, her fingers trembling around the strap of her bag. Her lips parted, but nothing—nothing—came out.

Ginny’s scream tore through the silence. “RONALD WEASLEY—HAVE YOU LOST— ”

Harry was right behind her, horrified. “Ron, what the hell did you just…”

Too late.

A voice cut through the blur and the noise, deep enough to rattle the very walls of the corridor.

“Weasley.”

Hermione’s vision snapped clear. She didn't turn so much as her whole body flinched toward it.

Draco was standing there, wand already out. He wasn’t panting anymore from punching Zabini. His hair was mussed, a few strands fallen across his forehead, but nothing about him looked disheveled.

Hermione was familiar with his rage. She’d spent years on the receiving end of his usually bitter taunts. She had seen fear hollow him out during sixth year. But she had never, not even in the war, seen him like this.

Ron whipped around. “Oh, brilliant. Here he is. The—” He didn’t finish.

Draco moved faster than Hermione could follow. One second he stood several paces away; the next, Ron was hurled backward and slammed against the stone wall. Before he could catch his breath, Draco’s wand was already jammed beneath his jaw, forcing his head up to bare his throat.

Ron froze, shocked gasps scraped out of him as the tip dug into the skin under his chin. “What the…get off me!”

Draco stepped in until their noses were inches apart. Every trace of expression had drained from his face. “Say it again,” he said, each word clipped sharp. “Go on, I swear you won’t recognize your own face tomorrow.”

As if pulled by some invisible string, Hermione couldn’t tear her eyes from the sharp line of his jaw. Draco looked alarmingly focused, like he did not give a damn about the consequences of what he’s doing. Every volatile thought in him had been distilled into a piercing glare aimed at Ron. Theo took one look at Draco’s expression and muttered, “Oh, this is going to be bad,” under his breath.

Ron’s eyes darted, panic finally breaking through his anger. “You—you think you can threaten me? You Death Eater…” He choked on the rest of the sentence, the scant few inches of space between him and the stone instantly collapsing as his spine jammed hard into the wall as Draco pushed his wand up.

“You don’t get to lecture me on morality, Weasley,” Draco said. “But you sure as hell don’t get to talk to her like that.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

Ginny grabbed Harry’s sleeve. Harry had his wand out but didn’t risk a move. “Draco. Stop… Please.”

Draco didn’t even blink. “You want to hex me Weasley?” he murmured to Ron. “Go on. I’ll stand still, take your best shot.”

Ron glared, breath shaking. “How long’s this been going on?” He tried to turn his head toward her, but the wand kept him locked in place. He cut his eyes sideways, spitting the words at her. “You and him? Sneaking around in the dungeons—”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “Careful with your next words,” he said.

“I’m not talking to you!” Ron snapped.

“You are now,” Draco replied, something in his face said he was done being patient.

And then—Ron made the mistake of lifting his wand.

Barely an inch.

Draco reacted instantly. His free hand shot out, trapping Ron’s wrist and pinning it flat against the wall hard enough to make Ron curse in pain. “If you ever,” Draco said, his voice dropping lower with every word, “If you ever breathe a filthy rumor about her—to her, near her—“ He tilted his head, almost pleasant. “—I will make sure you regret having a mouth.”

Hermione’s pulse thundered. She was moving before she realized it. Her legs felt hollow, palms ice-cold, but she forced herself forward, passing Ginny and Harry’s worried look and Theo’s entertained grin.

She stopped right beside Draco, in front of Ron—close enough to see her own reflection in his wide, frantic eyes. Except the girl staring back wasn’t frightened.

“Look at me, Ron,” she said.

Ron didn’t. His gaze kept flicking to Draco’s wand at his throat.

“Ron,” she repeated, voice low, steady in a way that made several people flinch. “You don’t get to call me that.”

He tried to speak, but she cut him off, the words stumbling out fast and furious. “You heard a rumour,” she said, “and you didn’t even stop to ask me if any of it was true.”

Ron flinched as if the truth hit harder than Draco’s punch.

“You didn’t come find me. You didn’t talk to me, not even once.”

His face reddened. “I—everyone said—”

“And you believed them,” she said quietly. “Because it was easier than believing me.”

A muscle ticked in Ron’s jaw.

Hermione’s throat tightened, but the words still came out sharp and clean. “You cheated on me with Lavender,” she said. Gasps rippled around them. “And I didn’t tell the whole school. I didn’t throw a single slur at you, and I definitely did not humiliate you in a hallway.”

Ron’s head jerked up, shame flickering in his face.

She let out a shaky breath. “Whatever I chose to do, I do not owe you an explanation,” she said. “Not anymore.”

“Hermione, I—”

“It should’ve mattered what I actually said, what I actually did.” Her eyes met his—she knew there was no anger there, only disappointment so sharp Ron physically froze. “It should’ve mattered who I was to you,” she finished quietly. “But it obviously didn’t.”

The silence fell absolute. She took one more breath before saying. “You don’t get to speak to me like that,” she said. “Not after everything we’ve been through, and definitely not after what we’ve survived together.”

Then she lifted her chin and raised her voice. She stared into those blue eyes she knew so well without blinking.

“And not to any girl. Ever.”

She turned before anyone could stop her and walked straight through the stunned silence of the corridor. Students moved aside automatically as she passed. She didn’t let herself breathe properly until she had turned the corner and the last staring faces disappeared behind the wall. Only then did her shoulders loosen slightly with exhaustion. Her throat felt scraped raw, and her pulse still hadn’t slowed from the chaos.

She dragged in one long, shaking breath—

Footsteps… Measured, quiet, following her.

She turned. Draco stood at the far end of the corridor. Her eyes went first to his hands. The blood was gone. His sleeves were still rolled to his elbows, and his hair remained shoved out of place from the fight. Moonlight caught in the pale strands, turning them almost silver. The sight of him standing there, apparently unharmed, eased something in her chest.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. It sounded sharper than she’d meant it to.

Draco came closer, stopping a few feet away. His gaze skimmed across her face, searching, as if checking for damage. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and sultry. “Zabini,” he said. “The rumours were from him.”

Hermione blinked. She guessed so from Ron’s words and the guilt in Zabini’s eyes.

“And I’m—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she muttered.

“It involves me.” Draco said simply. Her cheeks warmed from how steady his tone unnerved her. “Granger.” He said her name like a decision.

She looked up. He drew a breath like he was making up his mind about something. “The Yule Ball,” he said. “Would you go with me?”

For several long seconds, Hermione just stared at him. She could still feel Ron’s voice ringing in her skull, still see the crowd, still feel the sting of every stare.

“Wh—what?” she managed. “Draco… why would you—?”

“I’m serious,” he said immediately. “Do you want to go with me?”

“Why?” she whispered, because she genuinely didn’t know anymore.

He frowned like her question itself offended him.
“Because I want to go with you.”

The words were simple, almost stupidly so, but they hit harder than anything elaborate could have. “That sounds like… pity,” she swallowed, looking down briefly, “after everything that just happened.”

Draco looked genuinely offended. “Pity?” he repeated, almost scoffing. “You think I’d ask anyone—ask you? out of pity?” The heat in his tone startled her. He must have noticed and caught himself instantly. He exhaled, gentler this time.

“Hermione.” He said her name.

Not Granger.
Just Hermione.

The sound of it hit her like a spark, she snapped her head up before she could stop herself.

And she looked at him. Her eyes moved across the familiar lines of his face as if trying to find traces of all the versions of him she had known.

The boy who’d sneered “Mudblood” in a crowded corridor.
The rival who’d spat every insult he could manage across six years of school.
The pale, terrified figure in his family’s drawing room who had watched her scream and hadn’t been able to do anything at all.

But those shadows faded under something stronger. The old versions of him—the ones she had memorized out of necessity—slipped further and further away. What was left was the boy who had chosen her side without hesitation, even when she wasn’t sure she had one. His eyes held hers, there is no smugness or superiority in them. There were only honesty, raw and almost awkward in its clarity.

“I’m asking you,” Draco said, seeming to consider his words carefully before going on, “not out of pity. And definitely not because of what Weasley had said.”

“Then why?” Hermione asked. Her voice trembled despite her best effort.

He let out a breath. It barely lasted a second, but Hermione felt her pulse stumble. “Because I want you there.”

“And,” he added, sounding faintly embarrassed by his own honesty, “I’ve wanted that since you walked in—fourth year, in that blue dress.”

Her eyes widened.

Fourth year.
Triwizard tournament.
The Yule Ball.
The blue dress.
The blur of lights and music and nerves—

—but none of that was what slammed into her now.

It was the implication behind his words.
The idea that this, whatever this was, had been there years before the Great Hall, long before she ever thought to look for it.

Warmth swelled up suddenly in her chest, enough make her dizzy. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Draco watched her closely. “Unless…” he said quietly, “you don’t want to go with me.” A muscle moved once along his jaw. “If that’s the case, I won’t push it. But don’t—” His eyes flicked away for a moment before returning to hers. “Don’t treat it like pity.”

He held her gaze, completely earnest now. “I’d never look at you that way."

And that—that—was what finally undid her.

Something light and reckless bubbled up inside her, cutting through the humiliation, the hurt. She stepped forward before she thought about it, rose onto her toes, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

When she pulled back again, heat rushed straight into her face. But when she looked at him, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. His expression had lost every trace of composure, leaving him staring at her like she’d just rewritten the laws of magic in front of him. A nervous laugh escaped her.

“Consider that a yes,” she whispered.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then he leaned down and kissed her.

It wasn’t the impulsive crash in the Great Hall. This time he started slowly, as if giving her every chance to pull away. Then it deepened before she realized it had. Heat unfurled beneath her ribs, spreading through her until coherent thought became impossible. Her fingers curled helplessly into the fabric of his shirt, and at some point she realized she was kissing him back.

When he finally drew back, Hermione saw the moment his expression softened, the corners of his eyes creasing before his mouth curved into a smile, a real one this time. Hermione decided she rather liked that expression on him.

“Goodnight, Hermione,” he murmured. He didn’t wait for a reply. He just turned and disappeared into the shadows at the end of the corridor.

Hermione stood frozen in place long after he’d gone, fingers brushing her lips where the scent of him still lingered.

And for the first time in a long, heavy week—
she felt something shift.

Something irreversible.

Hermione pushed open the portrait hole to the Gryffindor common room.

For some reason, the room was quieter than usual. A couple of heads lifted when she climbed through. Their eyes met hers briefly, then dropped their gazes again, going back to whatever they were doing. Unlike the last few days, there were no sharp looks passed between them. Hermione wondered if some of them had been in the corridor earlier.

She headed straight for the staircase to the girls’ dormitories. She just wanted to bury herself in blankets. It’s been a long, long week.

“Hermione.”

Ginny’s voice came from near the fire. She was curled in one of the armchairs, a magazine open on her knees, though she clearly hadn’t been reading. She patted the empty chair beside her.

Hermione hesitated, then crossed the room and let herself sink into the cushion beside her. She half expected Ginny to start demanding details immediately, but Ginny only flicked her wand. Two steaming mugs of hot chocolate appeared on the table between them, both piled high with whipped cream. She pressed one into Hermione’s cold hands.

“Drink something warm,” Ginny murmured. “I made Harry take my brother for a walk. Tonight he’s basically a giant walking troll brain.”

Hermione wrapped both hands around the mug.
“Thanks, Ginny.”

She sipped slowly. For a while, they simply sat there in silence, listening to the fire crackle.

It wasn’t until Hermione had drained half her hot chocolate that Ginny spoke again, even more quietly this time, as if making sure only the two of them could hear: “Did he… say anything to you after?”

Hermione’s eyes stayed on the flames. “He asked me to the Yule Ball,” she admitted, unable to keep the smile out of her voice.

Ginny froze mid-sip and turned sharply toward her. She inhaled like she was about to say something, then stopped herself. Instead, she leaned closer, lowering her voice even further. “And what about you? What did you say?”

Hermione lifted her head at last. Draco’s face in the corridor flashed through her mind so clearly her cheeks went hot. “I said yes.”

The witch beside her let out a breath, sounding disbelieved and delighted all at once. Then she let out a little whistle. “Well,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “that explains why Draco sodding Malfoy nearly murdered my brother tonight.”

Hermione groaned. “Ginny—please.”

“Oh, come on.” Ginny grinned, eyes bright. “Hermione Jean Granger said yes to a dance— with a Malfoy. Somewhere in this castle, the Founders just fainted.”

Hermione dragged a hand over her face.

Ginny nudged her knee. “You like him.”

“I don’t—Ginny—”

“You do,” Ginny said at once, as though there wasn’t even a question. Hermione bit the inside of her lip and looked away so quickly it only made Ginny grin wider. She bumped her shoulder. “I’m honestly proud of you.”

Hermione blinked. “For what?”

“For choosing someone who actually shows up for you. About bloody time someone treated you like you’re worth fighting for.” Ginny’s voice softened briefly before the smirk returned. “And for kissing him first.”

Hermione choked on her hot chocolate. “Ginny!”

Ginny just grinned wider. “What? I’m simply stating facts. Also—” she sipped her drink with deliberate innocence, “—I am curious to see when the second kiss is going to happen.”

Hermione went very, very still.

Ginny’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh my Godric’s left sock. Hermione—”

Hermione’s ears burned. “It—wasn’t— I didn’t—”

“Hermione Granger,” Ginny said with relish, clearly enjoying this far too much, “You’ve got it bad.”

Hermione tried to hide her face behind her mug. “Please stop.”

“I will not,” Ginny said cheerfully. “Because my best friend just got kissed by Draco Malfoy, and I didn’t even get a front-row seat.”

“Ginny.” She let out a helpless sound. She honestly wasn’t sure how many times she’d said Ginny’s name that night already.

Ginny patted her knee. “Relax. I won’t tell Harry.” She squinted at her in a mischievous way, and suddenly Hermione was acutely aware that whatever was about to come out of the witch’s mouth was going to be deeply unhelpful.

“…But you’re still telling me everything tomorrow.”

The night of the Yule Ball, Hogwarts looked different.

The stone corridors glimmered with warm lantern light, and for the first time in a long while, laughter drifted freely through the halls. War had changed the castle, but tonight it felt as if Hogwarts was stitching itself back together, letting joy seep into the cracks.

Hermione stood at the top of the Gryffindor staircase and let out a slow breath. Her dress was silver-grey, clean lines and soft shimmer, almost as if dipped in moonlight. The beading at the cuffs and hem glinted when she moved.

Even Ginny had paused when Hermione walked out of the dormitory, letting out a low whistle before she could stop herself. “Bloody hell. Malfoy’s going to walk straight into a wall.”

Hermione rolled her eyes too quickly to look entirely unaffected. “It’s just a dress.”

Ginny snorted. “Sure. And I’m the next Minister of Magic.”

Hermione hadn’t meant to choose the dress for him, but it turned out she had.

Ginny had opened the winter formal catalog grinning, and asked what color she wanted her dress to be. Her mind flicked through various color choices before landing, instinctively, on his grey eyes and the way they shifted under light.

“Silver,” she’d said before she could stop herself.

And unlike fourth year—when she’d been anxious and eager to prove something—tonight she wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She wasn’t trying to make Ron look twice, or show the castle she’d moved on, or prove she was fine. She was simply Hermione Granger, going to meet the boy she had said yes to.

“Ready?” Ginny asked. Her eyes ran over Hermione again, lingering with an appreciation that wasn’t even subtle. Then she stepped closer and fussed with the sleeve of Hermione’s dress, even though she’d already hit it with at least three de-wrinkling charms the night before. She dipped her head and murmured, “He’s outside.”

Hermione blinked. “Already?”

“He’s been there for a bit,” Ginny said, lips curving. “Which, frankly, is hilarious. I don’t think Malfoy’s ever waited on anyone in his life.”

Hermione’s stomach fluttered treacherously.

Ginny caught the look and nudged her lightly. “Go,” she said softly. “Before he combusts or starts pacing holes in the stone.”

Hermione nodded once, more to herself than anyone, and pushed open the portrait hole. She stepped out.

And there he was.

Draco stood just outside the entrance, straight-backed and impossibly composed. He wore a dark green velvet robe trimmed with silver thread over a crisp black shirt beneath. Her eyes caught on the color—she couldn’t remember ever seeing him in that particular green before. It looked unfairly good on him. His pale hair caught the candlelight spilling from the corridor. And his eyes—

His eyes went straight to her.

For a heartbeat he didn’t move. Something dangerously close to awe, flickered across his face before he managed to school it away, but she caught it. He stepped toward her, the hem of his robes shifting smoothly with the motion. “Granger,” he said. His voice was low, rougher than usual, like he’d had to clear something out of it first.

Hermione lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, we’re back to surnames now?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Hermione.” He corrected himself quickly and quietly.
Hermione had to bite back a smile.

He extended a hand to her, but his eyes never left her face. “You look…” He paused, searching for the right word. “…incredible.”

Her pulse tripped. “You’re not so bad yourself, Draco,” she said softly.

And she placed her hand in his, his fingers curled around hers instantly. They started down the corridor together, hand in hand. Their footsteps echoed through the corridor as they walked. Hermione could feel the warmth of Draco’s hand around hers, grounding her in a way she didn’t want to examine too closely. As they rounded the corner, voices from the Yule Ball drifted toward them: music, laughter, the rustle of dress robes.

Hermione inhaled. This part used to trigger her—the walk inside, the stares, the anticipation of being seen. But she knew she wasn’t walking alone this time.

At the entrance, the castle doors stood open, warm golden light spilling into the corridor. They stopped at the threshold. Draco looked down at her, one eyebrow raised. “Ready?”

Hermione huffed a soft breath. “Ask me again in ten seconds.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. Then he gently guided her forward.

The Great Hall was transformed.

Icicles hung like chandeliers from the ceiling, the enchanted sky above thick with slow-falling snow that evaporated inches before touching the floor. Tables had been replaced with round ones draped in silver cloth, candles hovering in lazy arcs overhead.

The moment they stepped in, the atmosphere shifted.

Students turned. One by one, conversations faltered, laughter stuttered out. Hermione felt Draco tense beside her, but he didn’t pull away. It was more like he was bracing or preparing for something, the grip on her hand was firmer now. Whispers rippled across the room, but the difference was immediate.

Stunned and curious—yes.
Judgmental—less so.

She still felt Ron’s gaze between her shoulders. She didn’t have to look to know where he stood, she could feel it. The sting she had felt—the old ache, the fury—now felt completely juvenile. When she did glance over, just for a second, his expression hit her: regret and apology, all tangled together. And still, nothing inside her cracked. She probed her own chest, testing to see if she could stir up any spark of emotion, but there wasn’t even a sense of gloating or payback. There was only a strange distance, as though whatever they had once been to each other belonged to someone else entirely.

Draco must’ve noticed. His thumb brushed once against her hand. He led her straight into the dance floor.

The orchestra shifted into the opening notes of the first waltz. Something about it tugged unexpectedly at Hermione’s memory. She remembered sitting cross-legged on the carpet as a little girl while her mother explained, smiling, that waltzes were meant for pairs arriving together.

“Hermione.” Draco’s voice pulled her gently back to the present. He had turned toward her, his composure faltering slightly, like he wasn’t entirely sure how much permission he had to ask for. “May I?”

Her heart gave a swooping lurch. She swallowed, placed her hand in his again, and nodded.

He stepped closer—close enough that she could smell the faint cedar of his cologne. His hand found her waist.

The music rose. They moved together.

Draco danced like someone who had learned young and never once been allowed to get it wrong. His hand stayed steady at her waist as he guided her easily through the steps. “You’re staring,” He said, low enough only she could hear.

“So are you,” she replied.

His lips curved. “Can’t help it.”

Her heart nearly stopped.

They spun under the enchanted snowfall, silver light catching on the embroidery on his robes, and for a moment—she forgot everything that started this school year, the betrayal, the rumours, the slur, the hurt. All she felt was his hand at her waist, the warmth of his palm,and the presence of the boy who had asked her to the Yule Ball as though there had never really been another choice.

“Keeping up, Hermione?” he murmured near her ear. There was a faint curl of humour in his voice.

Hermione looked up at him, arching a brow.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I got an ‘O’ in waltz.”

His mouth twitched. “Of course you did.”

When the song ended and the next hadn’t begun, a figure edged toward them.

Ron showed up at the dance floor near them like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there. Hermione saw him before Draco did—hands shoved awkwardly into his robes, shoulders hunched. His tie was crooked. He looked… tired.

Draco noticed him a second later. The ease left his posture almost immediately, his hand staying where it was at her waist.

“Hermione. Can I—” Ron swallowed, then looked her in the eye and tried again. “Can I talk to you? Just for a minute.”

Draco bristled instantly.

Hermione touched his arm.
“Draco. It’s fine.”

He didn’t move far, just enough to give them space, but still close enough that Ron couldn’t possibly miss the wand holstered at his sleeve. Ron took a slow breath. His eyes lifted to Hermione’s, dropped once, then forced themselves back up again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For what I said. For how I said it. I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have gone at you like that.”

Hermione watched him carefully. His fingers kept catching against the cuff of his robes, twisting the fabric before letting it go again.

He cleared his throat. “And I know this isn’t really… the place. But I didn’t want you thinking I truly meant any of that. I didn’t.”

Hermione felt something in her chest loosen. Ron shoved his hair back awkwardly, and the gesture felt achingly familiar. For a moment, she saw him as he had been before everything between them became so tangled.

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking once—quick and embarrassed, before snapping back down to the floor.
“Are we… still friends?”

Hermione let the question sit. It needed to sit. She thought about fourth year, about Lavender, about the hallway. About tonight. He’d apologized—but there was damage neither of them could pretend away.

Ron winced when her answer didn’t come right away. She gentled her voice, but kept it honest. “I don’t know yet,” she said honestly. “I don’t think we’re where we were. And I don’t think we can pretend we are.”

Ron swallowed hard.

“But,” she added gently, “I don’t hate you after everything.”

Some of the tension left Ron’s shoulders.

Hermione stepped in and gave him a short, soft hug. Not long enough to give the wrong idea. Just long enough to say their chapter is over.

Ron hugged back—just for one heartbeat—and then let go.

Hermione turned to Draco.

He was doing an absolutely terrible job pretending he hadn’t watched every second. His expression had been thunderous while she was hugging Ron, but the moment she walked toward him, his shoulders loosened and the sharpness in his eyes softened.

She reached for his hand without thinking.

He took it like he’d been waiting, his mouth curved the moment their fingers intertwined. And when he drew her in again, the knot of tension finally left her spine.

Hermione looked up at him—Draco gave her a look that said more than any speech Ron could’ve made.

Music swelled around them again, and Draco eased them back into the dance. He dipped his head slightly. “There's something else,” his voice had lost that teasing edge entirely.

Hermione paused. “What is it, Draco?”

“The Manor.”

She didn’t know where he was getting at.

“There is going to be a charity auction.”

Hermione stiffened. “Draco—wasn’t it seized by the Ministry?” She recall that Harry had mentioned it in a letter during the summer, which was likely why Draco was at school early.

“It was,” His jaw flexed. “It’s not anymore. They found nothing new. The Ministry wants to use it for a charity auction.”

Hermione blinked at him, thrown off balance mid-turn. “A… what?”

“A fundraiser,” he clarified, steadying her as they moved. “All proceeds go to a scholarship fund for Muggle-born witches.”

Hermione blinked. That string of words shouldn’t have fit together. Malfoy Manor, charity, muggle-born…

“When?” she asked automatically.

“On New Year's Day.” His gaze stayed on her. “I’d like you to come.”

Hermione hesitated as they turned together. She searched his face for any hint of calculation, bitterness, performance, but there was none. Only that same careful honesty, and a cautious kind of hope she had never seen in him before.

“What… exactly would I be there as?” she asked quietly. “Some kind of Muggle-born representative?”

Draco shook his head at once. “Yes and no,” he said. “They’ll call you a war hero, because you are one.” His voice dropped lower, each word deliberate. “But that’s not why I want you there.”

Her breath caught.

“I’d like you to come as my date.”

The music kept going, but for a second she couldn’t feel the floor under her shoes. Her gaze flicked— almost involuntarily—toward the Gryffindor table. Ron was back there again, hunched beside Lavender, muttering something.

Ron wasn’t part of her life anymore, not in ways that mattered.

She turned back to Draco and drew a slow breath. This choice, finally, wasn’t about Ron, or the school, or gossip, or survival.

It was hers.

She simply lifted her chin a little. Draco watched her as she closed her eyes, breathed once, and opened them again. He understood it instantly. He leaned in.

The first touch of his mouth was fleeting. Then the restraint in him gave way.

His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her in fully, and his other hand came up to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing along the line of her chin as if he needed to feel every inch of her. Hermione felt her breath catch as he tilted her head up, guiding her into the deeper press of his mouth. A quiet sound escaped him when her fingers slipped into his hair, brushing the back of his neck. The music and glittering hall faded until all she could feel was the shape of him around her.

When he finally drew back, both of them were breathing hard, foreheads almost touching. His eyes were right there, with warmth and something unmistakably bright.

She took one steadying breath, then let a real smile pull at her lips—the kind she hadn’t worn in a very long time.

“Consider that a yes.” She said softly.

- THE END -

¹ Cleghorns are classified as minor magical custodial creatures commonly used in wizarding library maintenance. They are instinctively drawn to disorder and are known for correcting misaligned texts as well as controlling pests that damage bindings. They are perfectly harmless, though notably obsessive about shelving accuracy.^{[return to text]}