Chapter Text
Hermione was twenty-eight years old at the time she stomped down the hall, through the wide berth opening for her by Ministry workers rushing to move out of her way. The anger must have been obvious—a familiar Malfoy-shaped fury twisting, what Hermione would argue, was usually a very kind and approachable face.
Well. Mostly approachable. It wasn’t her fault there were so many idiots in the world.
“Malfoy!” she yelled, halting at what was the pompous ponce’s overly large office. Every time she had to march down there—sometimes even on weekends—Hermione felt her blood pressure rise to such high levels that she was often worried she’d die before she’d get the chance to throttle Malfoy first, and would regret not taking him with her.
As if knowing her intentions of scheduled execution for the betterment of Wizarding society, Malfoy was nowhere to be found, not even by the receptionist desk with the pretty witch he always seemed to be flirting with whenever Hermione came by. She blew out a breath; the wayward curl that was hanging in her vision moved with it.
“Granger,” came a drawl from close behind her.
Hermione jumped, feeling the unwanted familiar shiver that rolled down her spine anytime Malfoy said her name. Turning around, she levelled him with her best loathing glare.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of having you in my office?” His amused grin widened when she deepened her glare, as if her irritation and misery was the best part of his day.
“You still haven’t sent me the transcripts for the Doxies case,” she said pointedly, folding her arms under her chest, waiting for Malfoy to conjure the new and inane excuse-of-the-day.
Malfoy just sighed, looking for all the world like he was dealing with a petulant child. “It’s completed, Granger.” He stepped into his office, making Hermione step back like a startled cat as he pushed past her. She narrowed her eyes at his back as he looked through the neat pile of papers on his desk. After a few seconds of tapping her foot, frustration evident in the way she clenched her fists into balls and she felt her magic make her hair rise, he finally turned around, brandishing the file in the air as if it were some grand prize she’d won at the fair.
She snatched away the folio as he handed it to her like he might take it back.
“As violent as always,” he noted wryly, his lips tilting upwards into a smirk when she cast murder-eyes at him.
“I’m not your secretary,” she snapped. “If your analysis was complete then you should have had it sent to my mailbox, instead of me always making me march to your office to demand that you hand it over.” She’d lost track of how many times they had this same argument in the eight years they’d worked at the Ministry together.
“But then how else would I get to see my favourite swot’s most lovely scowl so often?” he quipped. Hermione scowled before she could think to deny him his accusation, tossing her unruly hair back from her face. He stared at it for a moment, likely thinking of something rude to say about it like he usually did. Malfoy was never bashful about Hermione’s wild curls. “I reckon you would intentionally avoid seeing me, Granger. Though I’m not sure why when I’m such a delightful company to be around.”
“I would rather have a picnic with a Flobberworm.” She cast her own smirk at his offended expression. “But, you’re not too far behind, if that makes you feel better,” she said dryly, turning for the door.
He scoffed. “I have a functioning skeletal system, so I think that should give me some added points. I at least won’t be draping myself over most surfaces.” He made a thoughtful expression. “At least not most of the time,” he corrected.
Hermione laughed despite herself. “Yes, but you also somehow talk more than ten replica’s of Molly Weasley put together, so I’m afraid I have to subtract some points. The Flobberworm wins the race, in the end.” She smirked cooly. “As far as draping over a chair, isn’t that your main method of sitting? At least that’s been the case in my office.”
“Now I have to put my foot down Granger. Comparing me to someone in the Weasley clan?” He sniffed with distaste. “You do have terrible taste, so it’s to be expected.”
Hermione smiled like a shark. “And whose good company do you keep these days that gives you such an authority on taste?”
His grin was equally razor-sharp. “Low blow, but you offend yourself, my dear Granger, considering the person I keep most in my company is you.”
Hermione scoffed, heading for the door again. She wasn’t sure how Malfoy always goaded her so easily into their familiar sparring matches. “I think you mean to say you force your company upon me, but I forgive your inability to discern how other people besides yourself feel.”
“I certainly did not drag you to a Muggle art gallery last weekend,” he argued back. “Though, I suppose I can forgive your inability to be honest with yourself.”
She turned, placing her hands on her hips in the same juvenile way only he could inspire. Every emotion and indignation that Malfoy always evoked in her, made her feel like she was back in Hogwarts.
She met his grey eyes, noting they held the same look he had when studying an especially complicated potions brew.
“Are you insinuating that I’m a liar?”
“No,” he clipped, any traces of amusement gone from his tone. “I’m telling you that you’ve always been good at twisting things to fit your logic, irrespective of the truth.”
Hermione lifted a brow, facing him more fully. “And what truth is that?” she asked.
Malfoy stared at her for several moments. “You know what.”
She felt her neck flush and had to look away from him to collect herself. Sniffing, she said, “I assure you I have no idea what you’re prattling on about today.” Her voice was more nervous than she would have liked. She looked back up to see him standing in front of her. Almost chest to chest. At some point, he’d stopped leaning on his desk and had come to stand right in her space. She could feel the heat coming from him, and it made her stomach swoop and her knees buckle.
“I—I have to go,” she squeaked when she saw him open his mouth. She knew this because she was looking at it. It wasn’t her fault. She had to look away from his eyes and the first place available as she looked down was the soft bow of his lips.
“I have a meeting in an hour and I must prepare.” She stepped back from him, her hands smoothing down her hair. “Goodbye, Malfoy!” Gods, she sounded like McGonagall. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
She turned around, avoiding having to see the expression of disbelief she was sure he was wearing.
As Hermione walked back down the hall to her office, much more subdued than ten minutes ago when she’d charged through, she felt a nostalgic emotion take hold of her.
It was the way Malfoy stared at her, that sort of boyish curiosity she remembered back at school. It unnerved her the same way it did before.
Back on that night.
—
It all started because of their soulmate marks.
She often wondered which insane universe thought Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy were bound by the stars. By scars. Two points of disconnect that were somehow meant to converge.
It was nonsense, Hermione repeated, for the umpteenth time since the day they’d found out.
They weren’t star-crossed, but star-dust; the particles of a left-over supernova. Or a wizarding war.
—
Hermione was nineteen years old when she and Draco first found out they were soulmates.
They were both breaking curfew that night. Hermione had dozed off in a hidden alcove in the library and was sneaking back to the Eighth Year dorms, when she came across Malfoy, his back to her as he looked up at a portrait of Headmaster Dumbledore, his twinkling eye regarding Malfoy almost fondly.
Malfoy had been quiet in his return to Hogwarts. He stayed in his small group of returning Slytherins, mainly being seen with Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini.
Not wanting to interrupt an obviously private moment, Hermione made to go silently past him, but a familiar yowl caused them both to start. Malfoy drew his wand, aiming it at her, and Hermione jumped, looking around expectantly, waiting for Filch to step out of the shadows as he was often known to do to unsuspecting teenagers.
Turning back to face Malfoy, his face portrayed the same idea Hermione had.
Run.
They bolted down the corridor. Hermione was secretly impressed when he cast a silencing charm on his shoes, and she quickly followed suit. Once they reached the portrait to their dorm, Malfoy more or less fell inside, Hermione right behind him.
Panting for breath, Hermione let out an exhilarated laugh, the normal husk of emotion she’d been feeling for most of the year now settling into something free. The monotonous affair of ignoring her loneliness by spending all hours of her time studying because she’d been the only one of her, Harry, and Ron to return to Hogwarts, had been temporarily forgotten in that brief run through the corridors.
She almost felt like a teenager again as a pang of nostalgic wonder swept through her before she realised who she'd shared the experience with. Standing straight, she studied Malfoy, only to see him wearing his own elated smile. When he noticed her staring at him, he cleared his throat, pocketing his wand and running a hand awkwardly through his white-blond hair.
It was, she thought, the first moment she’d shared with Malfoy in all the time she’d known him where the general mood wasn’t underpinned with derision on his part.
When he noticed her staring his smile fell, replaced with that familiar contempt she knew all too well.
Hermione rolled her eyes, already moving to the staircase leading up to her dorm. “You don’t always need to be so predictable, Malfoy,” she muttered under her breath.
“What did you say to me?” he demanded as he came up behind her and grabbed her wrist. Before she could hex him she felt something jolt through her body. Then a crackle, like lightning, slid over her wrist. They both cried out, grabbing for their arms. Hermione pulled up her sleeve and gasped when she saw that her previously smooth skin was marked.
It was a dragon; silver, almost translucent on her bare skin, and its wings were...broken. The large wings hung off the body of the dragon at an odd angle. She could only make out some of its features: a pointy snout and black and silver eyes, the rest of it hidden by the wings as it curled protectively around the body, almost as if it were cringing from injury.
She was morbidly fascinated by the sight.
She looked up at Malfoy, shocked, and saw him looking at his own arm. Not the one with his dark mark, she noticed, but his right arm, in which lay an...otter. Except that the otter wasn’t completely formed; like the dragon on Hermione’s arm, the otter on Malfoy’s looked withering and tired, its fur thin. It was laying on its side in a pathetic little ball.
They looked up at each other, paired stunned expressions.
Both of their tattoos seemed scarred.
“What did you do?” he demanded, his tone scathing.
Shock turned into dismay, and then understanding.
Hermione swallowed, feeling her throat burn as she tried to speak. “Have you ever heard of soulmate scars?”
He stared at her for several seconds, confusion evident in the furrow of his dark brows. “Of course I have, I—“ then his grey eyes widened. “That’s not possible,” he said, his face twisting in disgust. Hermione felt a stab of hurt, which surprised her.
“Obviously it’s a mistake,” she said, feeling her own hackles raise. “It’s not like I would ever want you to touch me either, Malfoy, so calm down.”
He stood straighter, matching her ire.
“Right,” he agreed. “It is a complete mistake.”
—
And yet, the stars never lie.
—
Hermione was twenty-one years old when she became friends with the indomitable Daphne Greengrass. She was prim at first sight, a classic pureblood heiress with a nose just meant for sticking haughtily in the air. Then Hermione found out, after several drinks at a department dinner for the retirement of an archiver in the Magical Creatures Department, that Daphne was a laugh. She was amusing and catty, always interested in gossiping about her co-workers, but much smarter than Hermione had initially given her credit for. She’d voiced that same thought to Daphne aloud drunkenly one evening, to which Daphne called Hermione a judgemental bitch, and Hermione responded in kind by agreeing — they then proceeded to laugh so hard they fell off their stools.
With Ginny travelling many months with her Quidditch team, Hermione was without much female company. It was a breath of fresh air to meet and become close to someone who wasn’t Harry or Ron.
Daphne only had one glaring flaw, and it was that she was still close friends with Malfoy. After three years of being able to proactively avoid each other, only in the periphery of each other's social circles at Ministry, and the odd time they saw each other at a bookshop, Hermione and Malfoy had become adept in the art of avoidance. One had to be when they were denying something as barmy as soulmate scars. As it were, however, they were now thrust into each other’s company. After several attempts at working around each other so they wouldn’t have to interact, Daphne tricked them into dinner without telling them that the other one was coming. She then demanded to know why they found it so impossible to try and get along.
“You’re soulmates?” Daphne all but shrieked in reply, scandalised as Hermione and Malfoy told her of their scars. Hermione brought her hands to Daphne’s mouth before she alerted every person at the restaurant about her and Malfoy’s… unfortunate bonding.
“How could you not tell me?” The hurt was clear in her eyes, but before Hermione could say anything, Malfoy spoke.
“Granger can’t stand to be within one hundred feet of me, let alone utter a single word. I thought I’d respect her wishes to be mute on the topic and keep it to myself.” Hermione didn’t mistake the loathing she heard in his voice.
Hermione turned to face him. “You’re the one who acts like I’m contagious,” she sniped, glaring into his silver eyes, ignoring the shiver that went down her spine and the electric current fluttering across her soulmate mark.
“I don’t think you’re contagious, I think you’re infuriating,” he corrected.
She rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Malfoy, for that lovely compliment.” She made to stand when Malfoy dragged her stool closer to him. She whipped her head around, ready to hex him, but stopped at the look on his face.
He looked... plaintive. His eyes were silver and pleading as he stared at her, and she almost panicked at the thought that maybe Malfoy was using some sort of soulmate trance on her. There wasn’t any logical reason she should be feeling so out of sorts just by his mere presence near her. Suddenly, her heart started pounding, and the scar on her wrist, normally a dull itch that she always felt in the back of her mind, sprung up, seemingly elated at the feel of Malfoy so close. Did she somehow miss some crucial information when she studied up on soulmate scars? Oh gods, what if she was missing information that could only be found in some ancient libraries like the one the Malfoy family had?
“Granger?”
Hermione snapped back to awareness, grateful for the dim lighting of the restaurant to hide her flushed face.
“Did you hear me?”
No reason Malfoy needed to know that she wanted to swim in the silver lake of his eyes. Nope. Not happening.
She stared up at him and saw a strange emotion that she didn’t recognise flicker over his face. “So…” he started, looking more uncomfortable than she’d ever seen him. “What do you think?”
She blinked. Had he said something? She could say yes to whatever he’d been speaking about, but what if she was agreeing to something that had no business being agreed on. She settled on, “Of?”
Malfoy narrowed his eyes, but before he could say something probably incredibly rude, Daphne interrupted him.
“I think Hermione is a combination of three cocktails and one close male near her to be able to pay enough attention,” Daphne teased.
Hermione gaped. “Daphne—” she started to say, exasperated but stopped when she heard Malfoy let out a surprisingly warm laugh.
“Who knew you couldn’t keep your liquor in, Granger,” he challenged, and Hermione studied him with narrowed eyes.
She took the shot class close to her and slid it over to him with a challenging look. “I bet I can keep it up better than you.”
He smirked, and Hermione was horrified to realise that she now knew that Malfoy had different types of smirks.
Silver eyes met brown, a point of connectedness. “Bottom’s up,” he said, and Hermione felt an odd sort of longing sweep through her.
A point of connection, not willing but not unwanted.
Hermione was twenty-three years old when she and Draco (even unwilling soulmates must at some point call each other by their given name. Even if he refuses to call her Hermione) started working in the same department at the Ministry. He’d been doing grunt work in the Auror department, still carrying the blood of the most ruined Malfoy line, and was largely outcast from Wizarding society. It was only because of Hermione’s pushing that he even got the job in the first place.
No matter how Hermione felt about her wayward star-crossed enemy, she still believed in second chances.
After a couple of years, he’d finally earned some trust from the bullpen and was transferred to Hermione's department to work as a liaison to the Auror department whenever they came across vulnerable creatures in their assignments, and subsequently handle the case files that needed to be sent to Hermione’s department, so they could work with on the legal aspects.
This definitely wasn’t Hermione’s intention. It really wasn’t. But it was like Draco suddenly inserted himself into her orbit again, and tried as she might avoid him by taking breaks at odd times or going home late, he would still be there. He would start randomly bringing her lunch on days that she would skip it because she had one case file or another that she wanted to get ahead on, or he would mention having tickets to some new art gallery, or exclusive book signing by a favourite author of hers.
Hermione would’ve thought he was flirting with her, what with the way he’d wink at her in department meetings when she’d catch his eye, or how he would walk her to the Floo every work night because he insisted that otherwise, she would never leave her office. But she knew that was nonsense, plain and simple. Draco had made it clear over the years that he had no romantic interest in her.
And she was. Not interested, that is. She wasn’t going to allow what was fundamentally a biological compulsion to steer her feelings.
It was made easier by the fact that Draco felt the same. He was even seen with several witches on Witch Weekly throughout the years, further giving proof to the fact they weren’t meant to be together.
It was a mistake. Somewhere, the universe had made a mistake. Or maybe it was mocking them.
Hermione decided that they could be friends, however, because she found that once he entered her life on a more regular basis, the thought of him leaving again made her heart clench painfully.
It was just because she didn’t have a lot of friends in her life. Harry and Ron had their respective relationships and careers kicking off, and though Hermione’s own work-life was super busy, she still found herself feeling lonely when she’d go home to her empty flat at night.
“Granger,” Malfoy called from the entrance to the Louvre. She’d told him to stay in line while she went to inspect the tiling on one of the entrance floors outside.
While she’d gotten raised eyebrows from every single one of her friends about going on a trip with Draco to France, Hermione defended herself by saying that no one else was willing to explore historical sites with her, and so settled on the only other people she was comfortable with and who was also interested.
It wasn’t her fault that Draco was a snob like she was.
“Coming,” she said, sidling up to him, making him jump when she poked him in a sensitive spot near his ribs that she’d found out about recently from a tussle they had over seating arrangements on a train.
“Your nails are so chipped they could be used as weapons.”
“Rude.”
He smirked, placing his hand gently on her waist as he led them inside. She stifled a shiver that was tracking down her spine at his warm touch.
This had been a common thing in the recent places they’d travelled to. Draco would trace lingering touchers with his long, tapered fingers, or he’d creep up close to her back whenever they were moving through large crowds.
If she were honest, it was driving her close to the point of madness. She used to be more affectionate when she was younger, but the war made her somewhat more touch adverse. She’d often move away from the flow of crowds, would never sit too close to people at pubs, even her parents noticed how stricken she’d become when they’d hug her for a second too long.
It was all too claustrophobic. All wrong, the ways people’s hands could leave imprints on her.
She didn’t know if it was the gentleness of Draco’s touch or the knowledge that he didn’t want anything from her, but she found his physical presence comforting instead of confined.
This is what good friends did, right?
She didn’t want to think about the other possibilities.
She shouldn’t, scratching at the broken dragon on her wrist.
She couldn’t.
Hermione was twenty-five years old, still obstinate despite numerous experiences to the contrary that she couldn't hold her liquor, considering she was pissed off of Butterbeer (it has a high enough alcohol percentage, she thought bitterly) when she decided to do something stupid.
Hermione was a decidedly not stupid person. Her NEWT’s, general heroics during the wizarding war and every year before. Note: being friends with Harry Potter. She didn’t do rash things. Every action she took was premeditated and planned, and if it wasn’t, then it was because people did not listen to her. Also read: Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley.
This was why she decided to drag Draco Malfoy from the crowded table of their co-workers, so incensed by the way he was allowing Tracey Davis to paw all over him as if he was anything special to…
She shook her head, dragging Malfoy outside the pub and into the closest alleyway.
“Granger,” he protested, his brow lifting when she attempted to shove him into the wall, crossing her arms as she glowered at him.
“What was that?” she demanded, stepping into his space when he didn’t answer.
“What was that, Granger? Have you officially lost your marbles? Because I am about three Firewhiskey’s too pissed to be able to translate you turning barmy on me.”
She turned her nose up at him, only slightly wobbling on her feet. “Since when were you and Tracey David close?”
He looked confusedly at her for a moment, eyes blinking as he seemed to be trying to sober himself. “What are going you on about, you frustrating witch—”
She stuck a finger to his chest, about to yell at him for all that she was worth when she tipped sideways, and if not for Draco catching her bout the waist to steady her.
“Easy,” he chastised, warm hands settling on her hips, sending a jolt through her and making her shiver.
She looked up at him, only to see his eyes searching her face for something. She didn’t know what. She found herself stuck in the same puzzle. Wondering and wondering.
“Aren’t you ever curious?” he asked after several seconds. His voice was low and raspy and she tried to suppress the tremble that was reacting to the closeness of his body to hers.
“Curious?” she whispered back to him. She clenched her hands into fists around his...tie? When did they get there? She looked into his eyes again, that normal slate grey turning to silver as he studied her.
“About how it would feel if we kissed.”
Hermione almost let out a tiny whimper at the thought, then quashed it before it could embarrass her. “Not particularly.”
He grinned at her, a curve of his mouth that was so infuriating that she wanted to bite it off his face. Or lick it. Or kiss it.
Oh, gods.
His hand came up to cradle her jaw, warm and calloused and tilted her head up to look at her.
“If you say so.”
His thumb was doing maddening things to the top of her cheekbone. “I do say so,” she replied breathily, mentally berating herself to step away from him before she did something that was particularly regrettable.
His eyes were just so...
She kissed him.
They both jolted away from each other at the first brush of their lips, something fleeting and barely realised, leaving Hermione with a feeling of charged energy running through her entire body. From the way she saw Draco shivering as well, she expected he felt much the same.
“That was…” he started, his voice a bit gravelly at the end.
“Yes,” she agreed, blushing from the heated look he was aiming at her. They both stared for another moment, before reaching for each other in a flurry of limbs. Hermione reached up to bunch his robes at his shoulder as Draco took her face in his hands, his long fingers encircling her jaw and tickling the back of her ear. Hermione moaned, her entire body alive and trembling as she kissed Draco fiercely. He backed her up against the cold brick wall, pressing his body to hers and setting her veins alight. They were like two matchsticks lit with dynamite.
She ran her tongue across his lips until he opened his mouth, entwining her tongue with his, burying his fingers in her hair.
She breathed a tiny whimper against his mouth as one of his hands travelled to her neck, palming the soft skin of her throat, burning her with his touch.
He kissed her like he was starving; touched her like he thought she'd disappear if he let her go, his hands bordering perfectly between gentle and impolite.
She wanted more. Needed more. A distant part of Hermione's brain was screaming at her to stop kissing Draco bloody Malfoy, but that part was being overrun by her intense need to pull him closer, to envelop her small frame against his much larger one.
With a whispered “Draco, please,” he swept her clear off the ground, wrapping her thighs around him as he pressed her into the wall, kissing her mouth with gentle violence of lips and tongue and teeth. Her veins thrummed with desire as she pulled him closer, feeling him push away any space between them so it was only the two of them connected. Like their souls were touching.
Souls.
“Stop,” she gasped, pushing him away so that he almost dropped her to the ground.
He looked blearily at her for a moment, like he was just coming out of a trance.
“Hermione,” he said, pleaded, and her heart clenched at the way he said her name like it was something special to be held.
“We can’t,” she whispered. She gave a bitter scoff, that feeling of soft content morphing into lonely resignation. “We’re just drunk. It’s not like we actually have feelings for each other.”
“So you don’t actually want me?” He still had that same wary tone in his voice, like a crumpled paper that was begging to be straightened, even if it could no longer be the same as it once was.
Foolish, drunk Hermione. She was imagining it. Draco could never. He would never—
“No,” she lied. The same refrain.
His body stiffened.
“I see,” he said.
“Draco, I—”
He laughed, and when she looked into his eyes she was strangely sad to see that the expressive face was now painted with cold placidity.
“You’re right, of course,” he said, shaking out his arms and dusting some invisible dust off his robes. “We’re just drunk. Let’s just pretend this never happened.”
Hermione’s heart started pounding painfully. It was stupid. He was only agreeing with her. It was fine. She lifted her hand to reach towards him, but thought better of it, moving her hand towards her back and gripping it in a fist so she could stop her body from doing what her mind refused.
“Right,” she agreed. “It was a mistake.”
“A terrible mistake. Glad we resolved it.” Placid, calm, cool. Hermione hated herself for missing the emotion he’d just shown her. Missed the heat that caused something pleasant and furious to curl in her stomach.
“I’m going to go back to the pub. Probably say goodbye for the night and retire home.”
She nodded, not knowing what else to say.
“I’ll see you on Monday,” he said, turning and moving back towards the door, and Hermione almost called out to him, biting her tongue to stop herself.
Hermione was glad his back was turned as her heart cracked in her chest, though she couldn't think of a rational explanation that could have caused such a thing.
It was just the soulmate bond, she repeated to herself several times before she could even somewhat believe it, but even then, it was flimsy. Her scar, not the one from Bellatrix, but her dragon, felt empty in a way like it was aching for something that she had no way of filling.
It didn’t mean anything, she said to herself again. It didn’t.