Chapter Text
It all started at the Yule ball.
It was perfect at first. Hermione felt beautiful in her periwinkle dress, Viktor was wonderful, and even the Slytherins were uncharacteristically quiet when she passed by. Then the argument with Ron spoiled everything. It was as if the beginning of the night was a fairy tale and now, she’d reached the part where the magic wore off. Her dress was creased, her hair was slipping from its elegant twist and she was sure the little bit of makeup she’d put on was ruined.
She didn’t want to go to her room and face the other girls so she wandered around the school, her feet bare, her heels dangling from one hand. She turned down the darkened corridor near the transfiguration classroom and sat down on the floor. Her anger faded, giving way to tears. She was a messy crier, always had been.
“Granger,” a voice drawled from the shadows, and Hermione knew who it was without even having to look up. On any other night she would have gone for her wand but she was too tired to do anything but sigh and close her eyes.
“Malfoy,” she said.
“Who made you cry?” he asked. She opened her eyes to study him. His pale hair and eyes stood out against his black velvet dress robes. “Let me guess,” he said. “Saint Potter?”
She didn’t say anything but he seemed to take her silence as an invitation to continue speaking.
“Krum?”
She shook her head vigorously at that. Viktor had been nothing but a gentleman. She didn’t want Malfoy spreading lies about her new friend.
“The weasel?”
Hermione carefully studied the floor.
“I thought the brightest witch of her age would know better than to cry over the weasel,” Malfoy said.
This was the longest conversation Hermione had ever had with Malfoy, and it was probably the most civil. He hadn’t called her any names or threatened her. Maybe dancing with Parkinson had put him in a good mood.
“Are you going to hex me or are we finished here?” Hermione asked.
He surveyed her slowly, from her bare feet to her legs to her waist to her face. She shivered. Maybe he was going to hex her after all.
“You seem miserable enough without my help,” he said finally.
“Time to stop wallowing, I suppose,” she said. She stood and smoothed her skirt with her hands. The fine fabric stayed creased and she frowned.
“Semper sursum,” Malfoy said with a flick of his wand.
He cast the spell so fast that there was no chance of blocking it. Hermione winced and surveyed herself, sure Malfoy had given her webbed hands or a horrid rash, but her skin looked fine. She glanced down at her dress and noticed it was wrinkle-free. She patted her hair - it was perfectly in place again.
“That’s useful,” Hermione said. “I’ve never heard of that spell before.”
“I wouldn’t imagine the Weasleys have much use for it,” Malfoy sneered. “The Malfoys actually care about appearances.”
She couldn’t quite bring herself to thank him, but she nodded her head as she passed.
“Goodnight, Malfoy,” she said.
“Night, Granger.”
By the time Hermione made it up to her room, the other girls were already asleep. She tucked herself into bed, drew the curtains, and cast a silencing charm. Over the past year, Hermione had learned that fantasy was an excellent form of stress relief. The only time she got a break from the whirring of her brain was when she gave the reigns to her body. Usually, she thought about Ron. His strong hands, his warm brown eyes, his broad shoulders. But she didn’t want to think about Ron tonight. She didn’t want to think about Viktor either. She rolled over in her bed, fluffed her pillow and sighed. She was exhausted. There must be someone else to think about. The girls went wild over Cedric Diggory but he’d never been quite her type. She thought of the few muggle movie stars she’d seen on magazine covers when she visited her parents but that didn’t spark anything in her either.
She thought about Malfoy’s spell. It was clever. He was clever, when he wasn’t whining or being rude. He’d been almost tolerable for once, saying little, shrouded in darkness. He was fit from all the quidditch and she could admit his gray eyes were exquisite.
But no. She couldn’t think about Malfoy like that. Even alone in her bed with the curtains and a silencing spell. Even if nobody would ever know.
She rolled over and tried to soothe herself by thinking about her upcoming Charms assignment but she felt more awake than ever.
It had been a strange night…maybe it was best to end it in a strange way. There was no harm in thinking about Malfoy. Just this once.
Once became twice, became three times until it was a decided habit and Malfoy was her go to fantasy. He was so removed from her regular life (aside from the occasional insult) and it felt safe to think about him in an enticing way. It wasn’t like Ron where she felt like he’d gripped a bit of her heart and squeezed until it ached. Hermione barley knew Malfoy and, in her head, she could make him into anything she wished. Occasionally, she’d catch his eye and she’d feel her stomach swoop with guilt but she told herself it was a harmless fantasy, nothing more. Once or twice, she tried to think of other people but nobody else did the trick. Hermione comforted herself by thinking that everyone had secrets and hers was the sort that couldn’t hurt anyone.
Sometimes she worried she’d always think of him this way. Perhaps she’d be married to Ron or someone else and her mind would wander to Malfoy. Was it an addiction? Was it some sort of trauma response? She always told herself she’d sort it out later, when she wasn’t so stressed, when she didn’t need it so bad. After O.W.L.S. After the Apparition test. After the war.
And then that night, that horrible night. Tortured under Bellatrix’s wand, tormented in Malfoy’s own manor. A part of her felt it was some cosmic punishment for thinking of him that way, for allowing herself a tiny pocket of wrong in an otherwise spotless life. If this doesn’t cure me of him, nothing will, she’d thought. Then she’d laughed and Bellatrix had screamed in rage at what she’d seen as Hermione’s mockery. Hermione focused on Malfoy, standing near the fireplace, hands clenched into fists.
What a strange way to die, she’d thought before passing out.
But the tortures at the manor didn’t stop the fantasy, it only sharped it. For months and months after the war, she imagined Malfoy apologizing for everything. Running his fingers through her hair. Slowly sliding her clothes from her body. Kissing her wrists, her throat, her mouth, his whispers like a spell against her skin. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
Months later, she testified on Malfoy’s behalf. She made sure not to look at him, focusing on the facts. He was young, he was under duress, he hadn’t identified them when he could have. Her mouth felt dry after speaking so long and there was a weariness in her bones as though she’d run a long way. Finally, she glanced to her left. Malfoy’s fair hair was longer than usual, falling into his eyes. He was watching her intently, lips pressed into a thin line, his hands bound at the wrists. She shivered, knowing she’d probably be adding restraints to her fantasy that night. There was definitely something wrong with her.
But so what if she had one secret? The war had changed them all. Harry was a brilliant Auror but his hands shook when he was stressed and he smoked muggle cigarettes sometimes. After Ron and Hermione broke up, Ron had a habit of falling into bed with any pretty girl who smiled at him. Hermione was doing well at her new position with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She was too busy and too tired to date. She deserved this one taste of romance, even if it was all in her head.
Besides, she never actually spent time with Malfoy. So she continued weaving her fantasies, feeling completely safe, until the day Malfoy walked into her office.