Chapter Text
June 25th, 2000
There are very few things Hermione Jean Granger does not know the answer to. Why do animals migrate, and how do they know where to go? What is a black hole, and what lies beneath it? Who decided what was conscious and what was subconscious? What is a magnet really, and why is it magnetic? Why is she leading a very drunk Draco Malfoy up to her flat on a late Friday night? Hermione stumbles up the stairs, desperately trying to hold in a fit of giggles. Strong hands level her as she stops and sways at the top of the staircase for a second longer than she intended. When she finally turns to meet her company face to face, she is met with a look of curiosity and anticipation that she feels is mirrored in herself. Her face burns hot, she is not sure what comes next, but she knows, above all else, that her evening is far from over.
Several hours earlier
“’ Mione! Over here!” The Leaky Cauldron is packed with witches and wizards alike, yet Hermione can always pick out the booming voice of Ron amongst the crowd. At a booth shoved in the deep corner of the Cauldron are Ron, Harry, Ginny, and Neville. She settles herself on the edge of the booth next to Ginny.
"Think we'll need a bigger booth?" Neville chuckles. "Hannah is coming with Luna and Nott." It's an unusual pairing, Luna and Theo, but when Luna returned to Hogwarts for her seventh year, she offered forgiveness to the non-convicted Death Eater. Hermione figures that if anyone were to do it, it would be Luna.
Mugs of butter beer and tumblers of fire whiskey float their way over to the group. After an agonizing week of work, Hermione finds herself more than eagerly grasping for the amber-colored drink before her.
“I’m not sure we can wait up much longer, we’ve been here entirely too long.” Harry nudges Ginny to scoot over, and Hermione stands to let them out.
“Off already? I’ve only just got here!” she shouts louder than the band playing in the corner.
“Yeah, and we have been here for hours, maybe if you hadn’t gotten here so late, we would have stayed for another drink.” She knows it is a dig at her inability to leave work at a normal time, but she hopes her eye roll is a sufficient means to guilt them into staying longer.
Hermione watches as someone or something catches the group's eyes behind her. “And that’ll be our cue, ‘scuse us, Hermione. Goodnight, love.” Harry leans in and kisses her cheek quickly, and Ginny gives her a brief but tight hug.
Rowdy and bumbling as ever, Hannah, Luna, and Theo approach her from behind. Before she can even turn to say hello, Hermione is shoved forward, her fire whiskey sloshing out and over onto her hand.
“Shit! I’m sorry, Granger, I missed you there.” The already-drunk voice of Draco Malfoy pierces through the loud pub.
But that wasn’t the first time Hermione had heard those words from Malfoy’s mouth. Almost two years ago, she'd been standing in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, surveying the reconstruction efforts. Most of the students had gone home for the summer, but she'd stayed behind to help with the finishing repairs.
She'd been alone, or so she thought, when footsteps echoed across the stone floor behind her.
"Granger." His voice had been hesitant, nothing like the arrogant drawl she'd grown accustomed to over seven years.
She turned to find Draco Malfoy standing there, looking thinner than she remembered, with dark circles under his eyes. The trials had just concluded, and the Prophet had been relentless in their coverage.
"Malfoy," she'd acknowledged, uncertain why he was approaching her.
He'd taken a deep breath. "I wanted to…thank you. For testifying. For me and my mother." His eyes had briefly met hers before darting away. "You didn't have to do that."
"I only told the truth," she'd replied simply.
"Still." He'd shifted uncomfortably. "And I wanted to say I'm sorry," he'd continued, his voice dropping so low she'd almost missed it. "For everything. Not just at the Manor, but for all of it. Six years of being absolutely horrible to you."
The apology had caught her off guard. She'd studied his face, searching for any hint of the sneering boy who'd tormented her throughout school. Instead, she'd found only weariness and something that looked remarkably like remorse.
"I don't expect you to forgive me," he'd added quickly. "I just needed you to know that I am—sorry."
Hermione had nodded slowly. "Thank you for saying that."
An awkward silence had stretched between them before he'd cleared his throat. "Perhaps someday we could…start over."
She'd offered a small, cautious smile despite the conflict stirring in her chest. "Perhaps."
Now, two years later, with spilled firewhiskey dripping from her fingers in the crowded Leaky Cauldron, Hermione found herself face to face with him again. The memory faded as quickly as it had surfaced.
"It's fine, Malfoy," she said, shaking the sticky liquid from her hand. "But you’re a clumsy git. And you owe me a drink!” Hermione shoves two fingers into the center of his chest, sending her boozy assailant two steps back.
“Relax, you hot-headed witch. I will get your bloody drink.” Draco’s tone is all venom, but his smug face betrays his prickly nature.
Draco returns, followed by a tray full of fire whiskeys for the table. Hermione grabs one in each hand and, with one long swallow after another, she slams the glasses back onto the table and makes her way to the bar counter. After ordering another round for the table, she turns back to face her friends. She watches Luna's animated gestures while describing some creature that only she believes exists. Theo gazes at her with undisguised adoration. It's then that Hermione's attention drifts to Malfoy, who's laughing at something Neville said—actually laughing, not that condescending snort she remembers from school.
She narrows her eyes, studying him. Why is he even here? Before Luna and Theo became an item, their paths had crossed occasionally—brief, civil nods at Ministry functions or that awkward moment at Flourish and Blotts when they'd reached for the same rare potions text. But he'd never voluntarily spent an evening with their group before.
"You were staring, Granger," Malfoy says, suddenly beside her at the bar. "Something on my face?"
"Just trying to figure you out," she admits, the firewhiskey loosening her tongue. "This isn't exactly your scene."
"And what is my scene?" He raises an eyebrow. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and she swears the temperature rises in the dank pub.
“I don’t know, a ball of some sort. Shouldn’t you be waltzing with some witch at a ball somewhere?”
He throws his head back and laughs, “Yeah, I suppose. But just your luck, no balls tonight, Granger.”
She assesses him quietly, how strange, she thinks. His expression becomes a little more serious, and he leans down to speak to her lowly. “I’ll go if you don’t want me here, seriously.”
She can’t look him in the eye. His breath was warm in her ear, and it tickled a part of her body she could not identify. “Oh, get over yourself. I don’t care that you’re here.”
“Well, then let’s get sloshed.” He clanks her mug of beer with his glass of fire whiskey, his eyes never leaving her face.
He drifted into her orbit all night, his shoulder brushing hers as he leaned in to hear her punchlines over the pub noise. When she made a joke about Theo's ridiculous hat, only Draco's laugh rang out. Later, she snorted into her fire whiskey at something Theo said, an undignified sound that made her clap her hand over her mouth. Draco's eyes found hers across the table, his smile spreading slow and warm. He didn't look away. One by one, they all departed—Ron first with a curt nod, then Neville and Hannah with their sleepy goodbyes. When Luna and Theo finally stood to leave, Hermione's fingers stopped trembling against her glass. She straightened her spine and met his gaze directly.
"Malfoy, certainly you're not going to apparate home. Should we floo to mine then?" Hermione eyes him confidentially, her voice dropping to a husky whisper as she leans in, the scent of fire whiskey and cinnamon clinging to her breath. The dim pub lights catch the amber flecks in her eyes.
"You know what, Granger, I thought you'd never ask." Draco's lips curl into that familiar smirk, but there's something softer in it now. They link arms, her small fingers gripping the expensive fabric of his sleeve, and walk in exaggerated zig-zags across the sticky floor to the pub's ancient stone fireplace. The barkeep, his weathered face lined with decades of watching similar scenes unfold, stands by with a worn velvet pouch of glittering floo powder, assisting his most trollied customers to their homes.
“Home, Miss Granger?”
“Yes please, Tom.” Hermione decides to keep her gaze fixed forward, or she won’t be able to bear the look of old Tom’s face as she floos home with Draco Malfoy.
“Granger foyer.”
Before Hermione can even mutter alohomora, Draco has his mouth on hers. It’s a warm and firm kiss. She feels a deep inhale from him as he cups his hands on both sides of her face. Her eyes are squeezed shut, and her hands grip the collar of his coat. She tries to ignore the whimper that escapes her mouth and the way her chest is rising and falling too deeply as he pulls away from her.
“Open the door, Granger.”
“Right.”
With a tap of her wand, they enter her small flat. She watches Draco, the way he stands in place in her entryway, analyzing her living space once she has flicked on the stained glass lamp in the living room. He seems unsure. The confident man who had just claimed her lips in the hallway disappears as that familiar mask she knows well falls back into place.
“Don’t do that,” she says as she approaches him. She gently takes him by the wrist, “Don’t think too much about it.”
“Granger, I—“
Hermione cuts him off with a soft kiss, it lingers longer than she intended, but she can’t seem to pull away. She suddenly feels like those unexplainable magnets. One drawing for the other with no real answer as to why. There is a palpable push/pull; it thrums in her chest as she parts her lips and gives him access to her tongue. Gentle hands slide her coat off her shoulders and onto the floor. Their lips move with no sense of eagerness, it’s slow and soft and intoxicating. Draco slides his hands underneath Hermione’s shirt, the pads of his fingers tracing up the length of her back. She presses herself into his touch, shaking off his coat, and delicately unbuttons his dress shirt.
“Your skin is so soft,” Draco says into her lips, “How is it this soft?” He lifts her shirt up and over her head.
Hermione’s head spins as she stands there exposed to him in only her bra and skirt. She feels her skin turn to gooseflesh under his gaze. “Perfect, but I always suspected anyway,” he says.
“Hardly,” Hermione is conscious of all the scars that plague her body and soul from a war both were forced to fight. She knows the muddled letters that litter her forearm are on display. “Turnabout is fair play, Malfoy.”
She pulls his shirt off. Her fingers trace the silvery scars of Harry’s sectumsempra spell. She follows it down to his waistline, unbuckles his belt, and pulls it free, dropping it to the ground. Hermione takes his hand and leads him to her bedroom.
Her bedroom is pristine, the bed covered in an orange velvet duvet, sits in the center of the room with a big antique chest at the foot of it. There are Muggle pictures and posters all over the walls. Hanging plants and floating candles hover high above the floor. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases take up the entirety of the left side wall. An overstuffed armchair sits in the corner next to yet another stained glass lamp.
Hermione pulls Draco onto the bed with her. They plop on their backs, holding hands and staring at the ceiling. The silence is thick but not uncomfortable. She feels like she has done this before, in some other life. Magnets whose hands fit perfectly together. Draco turns over and hovers above her body, mere inches from touching his bare skin with hers. Their lips meet once again, and he sinks himself onto her like it was all the permission he needed.
Hermione doesn’t think she has ever been kissed like this before. Doesn’t think she’s ever felt so wanted before. Draco’s firm hand holds her hip, it slides down the side of her thigh and inward. He raises her skirt to her hips and exposes her thin cotton underwear. Hermione gasps into his mouth when the palm of his hand cups over exactly where she needs him. She rolls them over, Hermione on top, and slowly grinds on the hard length inside Draco’s trousers.
“Fuck, Granger,” he hisses.
Hermione unclasps her bra and lets it drop to the side, baring her small breasts to Draco. She leans back down, pressing their bare chests together as she claims his mouth once again. Draco has one large hand spread across her bum with his thumb lightly hooked inside the seam of her underwear. He begins to pull them down, and it is the most sobering thing to happen all night. Hermione takes and sharp inhale and pulls away from him. She stares into his silver eyes, the ones that are frantically examining her own brown ones.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” Hermione stammers out. Draco puffs out a breath he seems to be holding and releases his grip on her. She climbs off of him, hands flying up to her chest to cover herself as she half runs to the en suite bathroom. After she shuts the door behind her, she stands there for a moment, back pressed up against it. Hermione can see herself in the mirror. She’s never seen herself look like this before. She looks hot and mussed, her hair is frizzy, and her lips are kiss swollen and pink. Her chest and cheeks flush red as she looks down at her panties and sees an obvious dampness at the core. Embarrassment colors her cheeks. What am I doing? If there is one thing Hermione Jean Granger is not, it’s the hook-up type. She thinks there is nothing wrong with a witch who is, but doesn’t remember when she became one. Is it Malfoy? Is it him? Or perhaps it’s because she’s drunk? Yeah, that seems right. It’s because she’s drunk.
She smooths down her hair and shrugs on the satin bathrobe that hangs on the back of the door. When she returns to her bed, Draco lies on his side, eyes shut and mouth slightly parted. His lashes are long and blond, and they fan out, casting shadows on his cheeks. His lips are too rosy and swollen, and his chest rises and falls with the steady rhythm of someone who is soundly asleep. Hermione takes in just how handsome he really is. This is something she always knew, heard all the girls in their year always talking about it. But he was her antagonist. He was ugly to her, but right now…under the glow of the candles, she thinks he might be the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.
Draco Malfoy is the first to admit he isn’t a stranger to waking up in flats that he does not live in. But this particular morning, the one where he wakes up with Hermione Granger’s hair in his mouth, does come as quite a shock. Their legs are intertwined, and he is scared that if he moves, she will wake up—and then what? Do they talk about what almost happened last night? Will he see himself out and never speak to her again? Or worse yet, the warmth of her hands and her pouty lips grazing his bare chest disappear.
Merlin, Granger is a heavy sleeper. He slowly pulls himself out from under her. For a moment, he stands in her room trying to sort out the happenings of last night, but truth be told, he wasn’t that drunk. There is nothing really to sort out. Maybe what he does now is closer to reminiscing. Disrupting his thoughts, Hermione shuffles, facing where he stands, her sleepy lids flutter open. Sunbeams pour through the window and cascade onto her sleepy form. Draco sucks in a breath. This witch is ethereal. Like bloody storybook, ethereal. Her tanned skin glows, she’s bathed in mid-morning glory, her eyes are speckled with gold, and her hair is fanned out on the pillow like a crown on the head of a goddess.
“Are you out, then?” For the second time in five minutes, Draco’s racing thoughts are thrown aside by the witch staring at him from the bed.
“Well, I thought I—“ he doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t even know what he means to say.
“Tea, then? Or coffee if you prefer?” She sits up, her satin robe has fallen off her shoulders, and he can see the delicate freckles that dust her shoulders. He missed them the night before, it was too dark. She pulls the robe back on properly and stands up, giving him a raised eyebrow. He realizes he’s stood in front of her like a bloody caveman who can’t speak for far longer than he meant.
“Tea, please. That would be lovely.”
“Okay, Malfoy.” Hermione eyes him with curious amusement as she strides past him out of the room. Like a dog to a bone, he follows her closely out into the kitchen.
Granger’s kitchen is exactly how he would expect it, thoroughly Muggle and devoid of house elves. He notices how many things she does without magic, why anyone wouldn’t use magic for such things makes no sense to him, but he quite enjoys watching her lift to her tiptoes for out-of-reach objects. With the kettle on the stove, she leans against the kitchen counter, gnawing on her bottom lip.
“Plans today, Malfoy?” It’s awkward and forced, but she keeps her eyes on him, waiting.
“Not exactly, this is my last free day before off-season training begins.”
“I’d heard you’d been playing for the Cannons, quite impressive, is it not?”
A laugh threatens to escape his lips. Granger asking about Quidditch? The same girl who'd spent every Hogwarts match with her nose buried in some enormous tome while everyone else screamed themselves hoarse around her. Little Miss Know-It-All, perched in the Gryffindor stands, completely oblivious to the game. Though, perhaps that's unfair. It strikes him suddenly that he has no idea what version of Hermione Granger sits across from him now, seven years later.
“Well, depends who you ask, I suppose. The Daily Prophet says I bought my spot. But The Quill says I’m the most promising Seeker of our generation, no one can decide.”
“Which one is it?” Hermione raises an eyebrow at him.
"Wouldn't you like to know, Granger?" Draco drawled, his lips curling into that familiar smirk that hadn't changed since Hogwarts. He leaned forward across the kitchen counter, close enough that she could smell his cologne—expensive and subtle, like sandalwood and rain. "I know it wouldn't mean anything to you anyway. Never was one for the game, were you? Always buried in some dusty tome while the rest of us lived a little."
"Well, I suppose it does matter a bit if you charmed your way onto the team. Really, Draco, was being the only heir to the Malfoy fortune so dull that mummy and daddy decided to gift you a Quidditch team for fun?"
The kettle screams to be let off the burner, and Granger slides back into her hostess position, pulling out cut fruits and pre-prepared biscuits from her big Muggle ice-box thing and sets them on the table. She nudges Draco to sit down at the small nook table.
"Well, what about you, Granger?" Draco leans forward, his eyebrow arched playfully. "Let me guess—some impressive Ministry title with a nameplate bigger than your desk? I imagine being one-third of The Golden Trio opens quite a few doors." His lips curl into a teasing smile as he watches her cheeks flush pink, finding himself oddly captivated by the way her eyes spark with indignation.
“You know bloody well I don’t work for the Ministry, Malfoy.” He didn’t know bloody well.
“Oh?”
“I teach. At Hogwarts.”
Of course, she does. Draco can’t think of a more mundane and absolutely insulting job for this incredible witch sitting in front of him. Teaching?
“I can’t lie to you, Granger, this disappoints me.” Hermione scoffs at his response.
“And I should possibly care about your opinions on the matter, why? Malfoy, I am changing the world one student at a time. What exactly are you accomplishing, gallivanting across the continent playing Quidditch?” She folds her arms across her chest, sitting up straighter.
“Haven’t you changed the wizarding world enough? Was defeating the Dark Lord and all his supremacist beliefs with him insufficient for The Brightest Witch of Her Age?”
“I didn’t defeat the Dark Lord, Harry did.”
In that instant, everything clicked for Draco. Hermione Granger saw herself as just an ordinary witch with average qualifications. Wasn't she the intellect behind the Golden Trio? Did Potter and Weasley really think they could have defeated the Dark Lord and his followers without her? The thought was so ridiculous that Draco furrowed his brow, trying to comprehend it. Even Voldemort recognized Granger's threat to his plans. He understood Potter was a danger to his life, but Hermione posed a threat to the society he aimed to establish. She embodied everything Purebloods opposed—Muggle-borns who were smarter and more powerful than them. They all knew it, so why didn't she?
A wave of guilt surged through Draco. Why wouldn’t she think so little of herself when he and the other Slytherins had belittled and mocked her for years? When entire wars were fought against her very existence. It was his fault, though not solely, but it was.
Draco sucks in a reflective breath, “That’s rubbish.” He wants to say more, but can’t find the words. You are probably the most clever witch to ever exist, the most beautiful too, you’re better than us all, and Potter and the Weasel would be dead without you.
"Well, I'm sure you have more important things to do than argue with your one-night stand," Hermione says as she stands up and clears his plate, placing it in a peculiar lower cabinet filled with dirty dishes. Bloody Muggles and their odd gadgets.
"Almost one-night stand, if I remember correctly, since no one actually stood..." He catches her eye, and they lock gazes for a moment before she bursts into laughter, a sound he finds thoroughly delightful.
"No, no one did, did they?" she laughs again, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes.
"I'm planning to go on a hike this afternoon if you'd like to join me, I wouldn't mind—”
"Hiking sounds good," he replies.
They walk leisurely side by side. The Thames Valley is exploding with brightly colored wildflowers this time of year. Hermione tells him about the rare orchids that can be found here, and how, in the mossy and wet soil under the tree-blanketed Chilterns, it is the perfect place for them to grow. Draco listens to this swotty witch spew her swotty facts, but he can’t think of anything snide to say. He can only think about how her hand keeps brushing his and how the subtle rushing of the Thames and the singing songs from the birds set a rather serene backdrop for their extended night together.
"What are your summer holiday plans, Professor?" Draco asks Hermione, walking backwards with a handful of dried tree berries he'd been gathering with magic while she talked about a giant moth she had discovered there the previous week.
“Same as I did last summer, there is an old Squib-owned bookshop and café in Brighton. The top level is a flat, and Delia, the owner, lets me stay there in exchange for work. Though I would hardly call it work. I just read all day and enjoy pastries when I want them.”
“So you’re working for free? For a squib in Brighton?”
“Like I said, it’s hardly work. It’s a holiday.” And he can tell that she really means it.
“Reading all day and eating pastry is a holiday? You’re such a swot.” He throws one of the dried berries at her, and it hits her on the tip of her nose. An unpreventable laugh escapes his mouth. She flicks a spark of wandless magic at his legs, and it makes them feel like jelly. For a second, he thinks he’s regained his strength, but ends up on his bum on the dirt path anyway.
Hermione stands over him, her hand outstretched. The sun back-lights her, and there’s that goddess-like mane again in all its glowing glory. She looks tall from this angle, though he knows she’s not. He remembers the way she stood on her tiptoes to kiss him in her entryway. She wears a high-neck tank top now, but he can still see the freckles on her shoulders. He remembers what they looked like, completely bare.
“Take my hand already, Malfoy!” she interrupts his thinking with an annoyed huff. He grabs it, and with ease, she pulls him up.
“Merlin, look at this view,” she says, turning back to the flowery landscape.
“It’s nice,” he can’t think of anything more to say.
"It's more than nice. It's—" she pauses, digging into her small backpack. "Actually, hold on." Hermione pulls out a compact magical camera, similar to Colin Creevey's old one but sleeker. "This moment deserves to be preserved."
Draco reaches for it. "I'll take it. The lighting is perfect on you right now."
He raises the camera to his eye, framing her against the backdrop of rolling hills and wildflowers, but Hermione laughs, the sound carrying across the open air.
"No, I meant of both of us, you prat." She moves beside him, her arm brushing against his. "I want a picture of us together."
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps even pleasure. "Oh."
"Is that so shocking?" She bumps her shoulder against his. "That I'd want photographic evidence of spending a pleasant afternoon with Draco Malfoy?"
"Pleasant? So far, you've only called me a prat and knocked me on my arse."
"And yet here you are." She holds the camera at arm's length. "Come on, before the light changes."
He shifts closer, his tall frame curving down to meet her height. His arm brushes against her bare shoulder as he positions himself in the frame beside her. The scent of her hair, something floral and citrusy that he can't quite name, fills his senses as he takes the camera from her hands.
"I have longer arms," he explains, his voice suddenly softer. Their faces are inches apart as he extends his arm outward, angling the lens to capture them both against the backdrop of the Thames Valley.
"One, two..." he counts, and just before "three," Hermione turns her face slightly toward his, a genuine smile lighting her features. The camera flashes.
For a moment, they remain close, neither pulling away immediately. Her eyes meet his, golden-brown flecked with amber in the afternoon sunlight. Something unspoken passes between them—an acknowledgment, perhaps, that whatever this is between them has shifted from the antagonism of their youth into something entirely new.
"Let me see," she finally says, breaking the spell. He hands her the camera, and they watch as the magical photograph develops.
"Perfect," he murmurs, examining the developing image. "Though your hair tried to attack me."
"It has a mind of its own," she says, reaching for the camera. Their fingers brush, and neither pulls away immediately.
The photo materializes slowly—Hermione's eyes crinkling at the corners, Draco's usual smirk replaced by something softer. In the background, wildflowers dance in the gentle wind, and the Thames Valley stretches out endlessly. They look…nice. Natural together. As if the years of animosity had never existed.
“We should be nearing the end of the trail here.”
“Right.” He ignores how disappointed it makes him feel.
“This was…nice?” Granger says, but it comes out more like a question.
“Yeah, it was.”
“Well, I wish you luck in your training.”
“And you in Brighton.”
“Right.”
They stand in each other’s presence for a moment longer. Hermione pulls her wand out to disapparate, but before she can, the words come out of his mouth before he can even register that it is happening.
“Can I owl you?”
She stops, eyes wide and searching.
“I’d like that.”