Archive of Our Own ^beta

Library.

Hermione Granger looked up from her book without surprise. “You’re hovering,” she said mildly.
“I’m standing,” Draco replied, affronted on principle. “Hovering implies intent.”
She tilted her head, considering him over her book. “You’re right. Hovering would require decisiveness.”
He felt that remark land somewhere between his ribs.
Draco pulled out the chair opposite her and sat, arranging his long legs with deliberate elegance. “You wound me, Granger.”
“Hermione,” she corrected automatically, then paused. Her mouth twitched. “And you’ll live.”
He watched her hands as she turned a page—ink-stained fingers, nails bitten short, a scar along her knuckle from a spell gone wrong from the war. He knew these details far too well. That was the problem.
“You’ve been staring,” she said.
“You started it,” he countered. “You looked up first.”
“I was checking to see if you needed something.”
“And did I?”
She smiled then, soft and unguarded in a way that made his chest ache. “You always do.”
Dangerous woman.

Draco leaned back, folding his arms. “I need you to stop reorganizing my potions notes.”
“I’m improving them.”
“You’re vandalizing them.”
“You wrote ‘Well???!!!’ in the margin.”
“It was a philosophical question.”
“It was next to a brewing temperature.”
Draco sniffed. “Even potions deserve mystery.”
She laughed—quietly, mindful of the air around them—and the sound threaded itself into him, familiar and unwelcome. He hadn’t planned to fall for Hermione Granger. He’d simply failed to notice when careful civility turned into anticipation, when debates stretched longer than necessary, when silence with her felt companionable instead of awkward. Slughorn paired them up for advanced potions and N.E.W.T practicals at the start of the year and oh, how the mighty has fallen now!

Hermione slid his potions homework back across the table. Their fingers brushed.
Neither of them moved.
The air seemed to hold its breath.
“Your hands are cold,” Hermione said, far too casually.
“Circulation issue,” he lied. “Really?”, she scoffed.
Mad Eye had taught them the after effects of cruciatus curse in fourth year and Draco should have known that she has every line of academia etched in her memory. Without asking, she reached across the table and took his hand properly this time, enclosing it between both of hers. Warm. Steady. Entirely too much.
Draco forgot how to speak. He knew she knew.
“There,” she said after a moment. “Better.”
She didnot call him out on his lie, but simply released his hand and returned to her book as though she hadn’t just undone him with a simple act of kindness.
He stared at his reclaimed hand, flexed his fingers. “You realize,” he said faintly, “that you can’t just…do things like that.”
She didn’t look up. “I absolutely can.”
“Granger—”
“Hermione.”
He swallowed. “Hermione.”
That got her attention. She met his eyes, something unreadable passing between them. Hope, maybe. Fear. That careful almost-smile she wore when she wanted something but wasn’t sure she was allowed to reach for it.
“Yes?”

Draco exhaled slowly. This was the part where he usually deflected. Where wit saved him from being honest. But the library was quiet, and she was warm, and he was tired of wanting quietly.
“I find,” he said, choosing each word with care, “that my days are… improved by your presence.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “That’s very diplomatic.”
“I’m carefully placing the cards on the table.”
She softened instantly. “You’re being Draco.”
He huffed a laugh. “Rude.”

Hermione closed her book. “I like your notes,” she said, as simple as that. “Even the mysterious ones.”
“You reorganized them.”
“Only because I care.”
There it was again, that word. Care. It sat between them, fragile and bright.

Draco took a deep breath, grounded himself and leaned forward, ready to embrace a rejection, if it comes.
“You know,” he said, voice lighter than his thoughts, “if you wanted an excuse to spend time with me, you could simply ask.”
She smiled, slow and certain. “If you wanted an excuse to spend time with me, you wouldn’t need one.”
Touché.

He smiled back, unable to stop himself. Outside the castle, magic glowed, old and watchful. Inside the library, wisdom bore witness as two people who had circled each other for years, starting off on hate and disdain, progressing to acknowledging war induced grief and slowly building a fragile friendship on mutual respect mixed with empathy, finally settled into the gentle truth of wanting and being wanted in return.
Neither of them said more.
They didn’t need to.

Nineteen years later, they waved goodbye to Aurora Nymphadora Granger-Malfoy as she boarded Hogwarts Express, promising to owl them her house colours after the sorting ceremony!

Fin.