Chapter Text
8th Year Day 1 (Draco)
Fuck, Granger’s thoughts are loud. She’s practically projecting them across the classroom. Some of it is predictable swotty bullshit. But some of it is…not that. It’s different, nothing like what he expected to be running through Hermione Granger’s clever head.
I’m so fucking annoying; everyone thinks I’m annoying.
The first time Draco hears one of these unexpected thoughts his eyes snap up to hers in shock - he can’t help the knee jerk reaction. Her eyes meet his for a split second and then she abruptly drops her gaze, looking puzzled and flushed.
Why was Malfoy looking at me? He’s probably annoyed. Did I do something wrong?
What the actual fuck.
After she answers the next question, correctly of course, she isn’t pleased.
God I hate the sound of my voice. And I talk too much. Why don’t I just let someone else answer for once? Do I always have to be first?
Salazar’s saggy balls. Has she always been like this? Is that what the inside of her brain sounds like?
Granger is scribbling notes furiously with a little crease between her furrowed brows, lower lip caught between her teeth, quietly gnawing on the soft flesh. Her knee bounces below the desk. She vibrates with a feeling of suppressed energy; at the same time there are dark circles under her eyes speaking to deep exhaustion. Draco swears she looks worse now than she did at the Battle of Hogwarts. He remembers soaking up the sight of her that day, having last seen her on his drawing room floor, and then being spirited away by Dobby with a spinning dagger in tow.
To see her, dirty but whole, had left him awash with relief.
Draco is an accomplished occlumens, trained by Snape in fifth and sixth years in preparation for the rise of Voldemort. He is also a natural legilimens, the ability passed down through his Black side and nurtured by his mother. However, after frequent exposure to the cruciatus curse, his capacity for controlling access to the thoughts of others has been compromised. It is as if his brain, with its gift of connecting and perceiving, has been flayed open, left susceptible to every passing thought, gift becoming curse.
At first the noise was unbearable. Being exposed to the thoughts of every low level Death Eater with zero occlumency training was…not wholesome. The Battle of Hogwarts was a cacophony of grief and terror like nothing Draco could have ever conceived and from which he will surely never recover. His trial at the Ministry was hell, which left him in no doubt of his new standing in British wizarding society.
Over this period of time Draco was frequently distressed and suffered from migraines. He withdrew from people as much as possible. His only saving grace was his father’s absence, his mother’s ability to shield her own mind and that house elf magic is different enough to constitute a natural line of defense. In the Manor, post-war, Draco could finally have quiet. He almost despaired of being able to return to Hogwarts without losing his mind, and was ready to accept his fate as a disgraced hermit.
But he learned how to employ his occlumency to compartmentalise. It takes a toll – there is a mental tax when occluding so often, but at least it reduces the noise. And it is no less than he deserves. Draco hopes that his mind will heal with time, or perhaps some experimental potionry.
Mostly it is now a low hum he lives with, delegated to the back of the orchard of his head, nothing too distinct rising up above the thrum of inane thoughts about food, schoolwork, sex. Always so much sex.
But Granger is the real problem.
Grange is loud.
Draco noticed her thoughts at the welcome feast yesterday but she was on the other side of the hall. He observed that the overall tone was keyed up, but he couldn’t discern many discrete thoughts with the buzzing of so many excited students between them. Now, in the classroom, he wonders why he can’t seem to occlude her away. He can do nothing but receive her every thought, however swotty or self-flagellating.
Her ruminating is disturbing him. Draco hates himself sometimes, but then he does have valid reasons to feel that way. Granger though? There’s no reason for her to think like that.
Nevertheless –
I’m not surprised no one likes me.
***
8th Year day 10 (Draco)
Why can’t I do anything right anymore?
Granger is getting louder, her thoughts far too easy to discern even across the Great Hall. Thank the Four Fucking Founders he can’t hear her when she’s in Gryffindor Tower.
***
8th Year Day 15 (Draco)
I don’t want to be here.
Granger’s rumination has been worse if possible the last few days. It’s probably not helping that she’s in her luteal phase. Draco knows that the luteal phase can be bad due to Pansy’s lectures; he knows that Granger is in her luteal phase because she thinks her period is due sometime this week and she just wants it to “bloody well come already”.
Draco is quite intimately acquainted with all things Hermione Granger. He knows when she needs to wee, that she thinks her boobs are too small, that she has tried wanking to help with her sleep problems (unsuccessfully), and that she obliviated her parents. He knows that she has finished her Transfiguration paper and has three inches left on the Charms essay that is due next Friday. He knows that she feels disconnected from her friends and that she’s worried things will never be normal again with the Weasel because she gave the wanker a blowjob before they decided to go back to being friends and can you ever really come back from having your best friend’s cock in your mouth?
Fucking Merlin. Draco knows more than he wants to know about Hermione Granger. And now the association of Granger with blowjobs seems to have rewired his already fucked up brain so that every time he wanks he is supplied with the image of wide brown eyes, soft pink lips, nose freckles, and abundant curls bobbing up and down on his length until he comes, imagining the ropes of cum sliding down her pretty throat, instead of up his torso.
Afterwards, he tells himself she’s too pretty and good for him, but it’s not his fault that she’s on his mind, given that he cannot get her out of his. He is trying. He watched her be tortured and has no desire to be violating her privacy now. Draco does in fact respect her highly. But her brain seems to be as uncontainable as her hair.
Despite the noise of Granger’s thoughts, Draco finds himself compelled to perform periodic elliptical revolutions around her, as though the swotty little witch is a planet and he a moon on an orbital plane. It’s only her gravity that makes Draco dilly dally in the Great Hall until she leaves, or causes him to take a path through the castle he knows she favours, or to choose a table near hers in the library.
He is only a spinning satellite.
***
8th Year Day 16 (Hermione)
Hermione is completing her Charms essay in the library. There had been a table of seventh year Ravenclaws studying together for the past two hours, but they just left. It’s getting late and quiet. In this little section of the library, it’s just her, Malfoy (who is studious now), and a couple of sixth years in the stacks across from her who are flirting aggressively. Hermione is completely distracted. The witch, a Ravenclaw with smooth black hair, a heart shaped face, and a beautiful hourglass figure, is whispering with an equally attractive Hufflepuff, his hand ghosting her hip, gaze dipping below her face at almost regular intervals.
It makes Hermione feel lonely. She resents the witch, and hates herself for it. She wasn’t raised to think this way.
Malfoy is sitting at a table on the other side of her. He looked up once when the witch first giggled, rolled his eyes, and looked straight back down at his book. He’s different this year. She sometimes sees him stealing glances at her and feels self-conscious. It’s a strange thing to have your school nemesis witness the worst moment of your life and then suddenly be taking classes together again not half a year later.
Harry and Ron heard her screaming, but Malfoy watched.
Hermione doesn’t blame him for any of it, but she does feel exposed in his presence now, almost as though he has seen her naked. She purposefully doesn’t think about the way she wet herself under the cruciatus and if he noticed the dark patch on her jeans while she lay on his floor. Absurd that she could care about it really.
She wonders if he was tortured when they escaped. Maybe he wet himself too.
She glances at him now, at the white blonde head bent over a heavy tome, fringe falling over pale brows, fair lashes fanning out over his thin cheeks, lips pursed. He’s not objectively good looking, but he is strangely ethereal, almost like a living ghost with the slightest, softest variations in pigmentation.
Before she fancied Ron, Hermione had always liked the idea of a broad man, dark haired and sturdy.
Malfoy is the opposite of this faceless fantasy – pale as pale can be, all long sharp lines, pointy and angular and skinny. His shoulders are broader now than two years ago, but not overly so. His eyes are clever and sharp, not warm and sensual as she would prefer. His appearance fascinates her, more than pleases her.
His hands though.
God, they are beautiful.
Like really beautiful.
All pronounced veins and knuckles, all long elegant fingers, all deftness and precision.
She has cursed the fact that he chose to continue his Potions study, because how is she meant to concentrate with those hands slicing, crushing, measuring, stirring? He is so very competent at Potions. It is so very distracting.
She would like to watch those hands play piano; she would like those hands to play her.
Nope.
Oh god, what is she thinking?
As if anyone would want her. She’s gaining weight around her middle now that she’s no longer surviving on fear, mushrooms, and tinned food, but her boobs are still small, less than a handful, and she knows her face is plain. Features just slightly small, or unbalanced, eyebrows lacking that graceful arch. Fleur says that men like soft bits to hold onto, but Hermione is sure that no one would prefer a soft belly over a soft breast. She’s undesirable, she’s ugly, she’s not sexy, she’s –
“Granger!” Malfoy barks from his table, and Hermione almost jumps right out of her chair, banging the tops of her thighs hard against the solid wood study table. He commands in a deep voice heavy with exasperation, “Stop.”
The canoodling couple looks up at them with raised eyebrows before shuffling off to another, possibly more private section of the library.
Hermione knows that her eyes are wide. Malfoy has not said a thing to her this year. She received an apology letter from him over the summer, to which she replied politely, but he hasn’t once spoken with her directly, and now he yells at her as though they were friends, mid-argument.
“I haven’t done anything,” she squeaks.
He closes his book dramatically. It makes a harsh snapping sound in the hushed space. He stands up and pushes the chair back behind him, again making an excessive amount of noise, which he disregards completely.
Malfoy stalks towards her.
“You are thinking. So.” He pauses. “Loudly.”
He towers over her; she cranes her neck to look up at him.
“What do you mean? I’m studying - I have to think, Malfoy.”
“Not those thoughts,” he shakes his head dismissively, “the other ones.”
“What other ones? What do you mean?”
“You think so much bullshit about yourself Granger. It’s patently absurd.”
“Malfoy, you cannot hear my thoughts.”
He looks at her, hard.
A seed of doubt plants itself in her prefrontal cortex.
“You can’t hear my thoughts, right Malfoy?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Colour blooms high on his cheeks and a flush spreads up his neck, pink petals unfurling over his porcelain skin.
“Malfoy!” she practically screeches in her panic, forgetful of the library around them and Madam Pince in her office. Glancing around, she demands through gritted teeth, “Explain. Now.”
He pulls a chair out and sits opposite her, leaning forward. A piece of hair falls down over his brows again and she registers it as attractive before panicking internally. Can he hear everything? Her face is hot with mortification and dread.
The corner of his mouth twitches.
Fuck.
“Calm down, Granger.”
“Calm down?” she hisses, “Calm down? How the fuck am I supposed to be calm about this?”
“Look Granger, I’m not actively trying to hear anything. I’m a legilimens, a really good one, but something went wrong last year.” He spins the signet ring on his left pinkie finger, one of his nervous tics, and then proceeds in a purposefully level voice, “I was on the receiving end of the cruciatus quite a few times, and I think it left my brain…vulnerable. Like the front door is just wide open and I can’t close it. I don’t seek thoughts anymore, they come to me.”
“Can’t you block them out somehow? You can’t just be listening in on everyone’s private thoughts Malfoy! It’s a violation!”
“Oh trust me, the violation works both ways. It’s fucking loud and exhausting. Do you think I want to be exposed to everyone’s thoughts? All the sick fuckers who came through the Manor last year, everyone who despises me and my family, every horny wizard – and witch – in this castle? It’s unbearable,” he whines. “But yes, Granger I am blocking it out as much as possible. I’m occluding most of it away and it’s draining but it’s manageable and far better than the alternative, but for some reason you -” he says this bit accusingly, “you are the loudest. It’s like your thoughts resist being shunted to the recesses of my mind with everyone else’s. They’re as bloody unstoppable as you are.”
“Jesus Christ, Malfoy.”
“I know nothing of your muggle gods.”
Irritation surges within Hermione and she snaps at him, “Yes, thank you, I actually don’t require any reminders of your pureblood ignorance.”
“That was a statement, not a value judgement.” Malfoy says sternly. “Anyway, the point is all these other thoughts you’re having…”
Is it possible to feel the colour leave your own face? She knows things have got bad, but she never thought anyone would find out. Hermione was perfectly fine suffering in silence.
“Granger, have you always been this way?”
“This is none of your business,” she snaps defensively.
“And yet all day long I’m listening to you shit talk yourself.”
“Well I didn’t know you could hear! It’s not like I want to be this way, Malfoy. I can’t help my own private thoughts.”
He stops spinning his signet ring.
“Is it because of the war?”
God, he’s persistent.
Bugger.
What can she say?
“I…I’ve always been self-critical I suppose,” Hermione admits, “but it’s worse now. It wasn’t really like this before.”
He nods thoughtfully.
“Will you feel a bit better when your period comes?”
“Oh my GOD, Malfoy!”
“Granger,” he rolls his eyes dramatically, “I’ve had a front row seat to your huge brain for weeks now and I’ve known witches my whole life. Believe it or not, I know a thing or two. I am aware of the luteal phase.”
“Oh my goooodd,” Hermione groans. She puts her arms on the desk and leans forward, burying her burning face. “This is not happening,” she mumbles against the coarse knit of her jumper.
From her dark little makeshift cave of humiliation, Hermione wonders idly if he might just leave. For a minute there is quiet – no rustle of movement, no scraping of chair legs.
“You have to know that none of it is true.”
She opens one eye tentatively and peeks up at him. He looks serious. Almost concerned?
“I’m fine Malfoy. I’m sorry you have to listen to my horrible thoughts.”
Hermione begins to hastily gather her notes together. If he’s not going to leave, she will. She reaches for her inkpot, but he continues as if she hadn’t said anything.
“You’re smart. You’re not annoying. Your voice is nice. People like you. Most people I think. You did your best for your parents. You saved their lives certainly. You haven’t forgotten any homework and Hagrid will forgive you for not visiting yet. Your boobs are not too small.”
“Malf - ”
“All boobs are great, trust me. Things will be fine with the Weasel –”
Something short circuits in her brain.
“Oh no.”
“- eventually. You’re not a slut for having done it - you’re eighteen and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with fooling around.”
“Please stop.”
He sniffs, “though I’m not convinced he deserved it.”
And there’s the petty Malfoy she knows.
Hermione rubs her eyes so viciously it takes a long moment for them to refocus and notice that he is smirking.
“And I do play piano.”
Shit.
“I’m so sorry for thinking about your hands!” She scrambles desperately for an excuse, “I’m…I…”
“You don’t have to apologise for thinking about any part of my body.”
She can’t help it. Her brain instantaneously and inappropriately supplies her with thoughts about his cock. If it’s possible to blush any harder, she does. She must be radish red by now and it will probably take a full hour for her face to return to normal at this point.
Malfoy just laughs uproariously, clutching his stomach.
“You fucking set me up for that, Malfoy.” Hermione glares at him, determinedly ignoring the way his face suddenly looks warmer, eyes crinkling in a way that is undeniably pleasant.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
She studies his face shrewdly. “No you’re not.”
“No I’m not.”
They simply look at each other for a moment. Hell is frozen over. Hermione shifts in her seat.
“So what now? You’re just going to keep overhearing everything I think? Can you hear me if I’m in Gryffindor tower?”
He shakes his head, “no, we need some proximity.” He spins his ring again, “Granger, I think you should see a mind healer.”
“I can’t afford it and I don’t have time,” Hermione snaps.
“I’ll pay. And I think you should make time.”
“I’m not letting you pay for me to see a mind healer, Malfoy!”
“Why not? I have the money. I’ll benefit from it too.”
“Absolutely not.”
He ignores her, “I also think you should start jogging around the lake with me every morning.”
“And why would I do that?”
“It clears my head. Makes me feel a bit happier. Might help you too.”
“That’s because of the endorphins.”
“O-kay,” he says, clearly having no idea what she just said. “So you’ll do it?”
“And why can’t I just exercise on my own?” she asks.
“Because I don’t believe you would.”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Ugh. Fine.”
She shoves her books and parchment into her school satchel, ready to exit this whole bizarre encounter, and return to the tower where he can’t eavesdrop on her and she can try to figure out how to fix his stupid open-front-door-brain.
“Excellent. Meet me at 7.30.” He grins at her like this has all been perfectly normal and they just negotiated a real friendship, rather than a mini-intervention.
“Merlin help me.”
***
8th year Day 17 (Draco)
Draco is stretching his hamstrings when he hears Granger coming. She’s reciting the different uses of common potions ingredients alphabetically and aggressively in her head.
A bezoar acts as an antidote to most poisons, with the exception of basilisk venom.
Bicorn Horn in its powdered form is used in the brewing of Polyjuice Potion.
He looks up and there she is, approaching him in very tight black pants that cling to her legs like a second skin, bright hot pink joggers and a big faded black hoodie. Her hair is secured in a braid but curls frame her face prettily. As she gets closer he can see that her nose is pink from the cold air and her eyes look bright, though wary.
He arches an eyebrow, “What’s with the potions revision?”
“Well, if you’re going to hear my thoughts they may as well be instructional,” she replies testily.
Her lips are pursed and it’s adorable.
This was a very bad idea, she thinks.
Out loud she says, “I’m leaving.”
She spins on those outrageously pink joggers and begins marching in the opposite direction, thinking about the curative properties of Billywig Sting Slime. She’s surprisingly speedy in retreat.
Draco follows her, “Why is it a bad idea?”
“I can’t be around you when I know you can hear everything I’m thinking!”
She increases her pace and he matches her easily with his longer legs.
“What about classes and meals Granger? You can’t exactly avoid me. Are you going to transfer to Beauxbatons?”
“No but I don’t have to go running with you and giving you more chances to listen in on my every thought!”
“So you’re going to recite facts every time you see me? It’s not going to work.”
“I don’t know what to do, Malfoy!” Granger stops abruptly. She’s beginning to sound hysterical and Draco feels a pang of remorse for being the cause of her distress. He certainly wouldn’t want her privy to his every thought. If only he hadn’t lost it the other night in the library. It was better for her to not know. Perhaps it was cruel of him to tell her. He just couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t stand her thinking that she’s not attractive, that no one will want her in that way, which is categorically untrue. He didn’t think it through when he told her to stop. All he knew was that he needed her to stop thinking such bullshit.
Her eyes are darting between him and the castle and the lake.
“What are you so afraid I’ll hear? Because I know all sorts of things about you now, Granger, and I still respect you.”
He watches the flash of surprise on her face.
“I…nothing…I just…”
Billywig wings, billywig sting, billywig sting slime –
“Granger!”
She startles slightly at the rise in volume and he once again feels like the monster he is, completely failing to make this insanely brilliant yet emotionally vulnerable witch feel comfortable in his presence.
“You…you…argh,” she growls, actually growls, in frustration, “You’re hot alright?! In your stupid track pants. Your arse looks good. And it’s hard not to look at your…” Granger trails off, but waves a hand demonstratively between his legs.
“Crotch?”
“Yes,” she huffs.
Granger’s eyes are fixed determinedly over his left shoulder and her face is red.
The silence is heavy.
“Then look, Granger.”
She obeys. It sends a spark through Draco, which travels right down to his groin. The weight of her stare is highly arousing. He was honestly half hard already, but now, having given her permission – a command – to look at him in the soft grey fabric which does so little to hide anything happening down there, Draco feels his exhibitionist streak roar to life. He likes being seen. It heightens the sensation to know that he is being observed. Gods, his dick is rising to the occasion, standing up like it’s ready to meet her appraisal with pride.
Fuck. He watches her eyes widen as she notices the tent he is erecting in his pants.
He smirks at her, “Maybe it’s my turn to be on display, Granger.”
She has been surprisingly quiet, possibly too shocked to even think, but suddenly her thoughts crash in.
Fuck he’s so…
Grey track pants – he just had to wear grey track pants. I mean really!
Shit he looks so hard…
What would he look like bare?
Probably beautiful.
Jesus Christ.
I want to…
…I want…
God, I want to suck him.
“You can do anything you want to me,” he says plainly, voice coming out slightly hoarse. He’s not smirking anymore. He’s too turned on, too desperate for her attention.
“You’d let a mudbl – ”
“Don’t.” Draco cuts her off harshly. “Don’t do that, Hermione.”
Her eyes snap to his, registering his use of her given name. And fuck it felt good in his mouth, finally saying it to her face and not just breathing it into his own palm with the curtains closed around his four poster. Draco’s erection has flagged in the face of their complex history, but gods does he want her more than ever. He wants to fold her up in his arms and contend with her every insecurity. He wants to know where they came from and make them go away.
Draco feels this intimacy with her. Something changed when he watched her - rival, classmate - be tortured in his home. When he was tortured for allowing them to get away. When he felt so relieved to see her alive at the battle. When he came back to school and realised he couldn’t block her out.
He knows Hermione Granger. He knows her so fucking well.
“I’m so fucking sorry I ever tried to make you feel like less than you are.”
He exhales sharply and pushes his hand through his hair.
Fuck, he’s practically trembling with the restraint of not touching her. She looks so perfect in her soft worn exercise clothes, with those unruly curls glowing gold in the morning sun, like the muggle idea of an angel. The Golden Girl, just like her Daily Prophet moniker, which he knows she hates. (But Draco loves it. He has a taste for precious things after all. His vaults are full of gold and he wants his hands full of it too, full of her.)
“I want to kiss you. I need you to tell me that I can.”
Oh god, I want him to kiss me.
“I need to hear you say it out loud.”
Oh god, oh god. I want Draco bloody Malfoy to kiss me.
Fuck it.
“I want you to kiss me.”
Something clicks into place in his chest.
“Yes, Hermione. Good girl.”
Oh.
“You like that, don’t you.”
“Shut up and bloody well kiss me before I take it back.”
He does. He puts his large hands, the ones she likes so much, on her face, cradling her, and then his mouth is devouring her sweet little lips.
He swallows her exhale as her every thought drops away.