Chapter Text
September 2003
The familiar silhouette of Hogwarts Castle loomed in the distance, bathed in the dusky glow of the setting September sun. A crisp autumn wind swept through the valley, rustling the golden leaves that clung stubbornly to the trees. The sight of the towering turrets and enchanted windows sent a thrill through Hermione Granger's spine, though she told herself it was excitement, not apprehension.
It had been years since she had walked these halls, but now she was returning—not as a student or war hero, but as Professor Granger, Hogwarts' new Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor.
She tightened her grip on her satchel as she approached the castle gates, stepping past the towering wrought-iron entrance with its familiar inscription: Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus.
It felt surreal.
She had spent years at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, catching the remaining death eaters, documenting their Golden Trio adventures, solving magical cases, and strengthening post-war security measures. But despite her successes, she had missed the thrill of discovery, the challenge of academia, and the castle that had shaped her. So when McGonagall had written a few days ago. She immediately accepted the position despite the short notice.
Only later had the realisation struck her.
The Defence Against the Dark Arts curse.
She had scoffed at the idea at first—indeed, such superstitions had died with Voldemort. Yet, history did not lie. For over fifty years, no professor had lasted more than a single school year. Some had resigned, some had been fired, others had vanished entirely.
Quirrell, who had been nothing more than a host for Voldemort's parasitic existence, had perished under the weight of his own choices, his body crumbling as the Dark Lord abandoned him. Lockhart, whose arrogance had been his undoing, had fallen victim to his Memory Charms, the spell backfiring so spectacularly that he still resided in St. Mungo's, unable to recall even his name. Lupin had been one of the finest professors Hogwarts had ever seen, yet prejudice had forced his resignation, his lycanthropy branding him as unfit despite his brilliance.
Then there was Mad-Eye Moody—or rather, Barty Crouch Jr., a Death Eater who had spent an entire year hidden behind stolen features, his deception fueled by endless flasks of Polyjuice Potion. And Umbridge—the mere thought of her name made Hermione's grip tighten, memories of her sickly sweet voice and quill that carved wounds into skin resurfacing like a bad dream. Finally, there was Snape. His tenure had lasted barely a year before… well.
The pattern was undeniable.
Despite her Hogwarts tenure, McGonagall never believed in the curse. If she did, she wouldn't have offered the position to Hermione. It was all fine. She would make it through the school year and prove the curse wrong.
She pushed the thought aside and made her way toward the Great Hall, where the faculty welcome feast was already underway. The grand chamber was as breathtaking as ever, the floating candles casting a golden glow over the enchanted ceiling mirrored the darkening sky above.
The head table stretched across the far end, where her fellow professors sat chatting over goblets of wine and platters of roast beef.
"Ah, Hermione, dear!"
Professor McGonagall rose, her emerald robes billowing as she gestured toward an empty seat. "I'm so delighted you were able to accept the invitation, albeit on such short notice. Welcome home."
A warm smile spread across Hermione's lips. Home.
She slid into the chair beside Professor Aurora Sinistra, Astronomy instructor, exchanging pleasantries as Professor Filius Flitwick, Charms Master, gave her an enthusiastic wave from across the table.
Hagrid, seated near the end, beamed at her. "Good ter see yeh again, Hermione!"
She was just about to reach for her goblet of pumpkin juice when she heard a voice she hadn't thought about in years—but recognised instantly.
"Granger?"
The deep, unmistakable drawl made her fingers tighten around the goblet. No. No, it couldn't be.
Draco Malfoy.
Hermione's breath caught in her throat. She hadn't seen him in years. But if she had, she certainly hadn't expected this.
Gone was the gaunt, sharp-faced boy from their school years. In his place sat a tall, broad-shouldered, and composed man, his platinum blond hair slightly longer, brushing just past his collar. His high cheekbones and sharp jawline had only become more defined with time, though his expression remained insufferably smug.
"What are you doing here?" she blurted.
Malfoy arched a brow, swirling his wine lazily. "Drinking. What does it look like?"
McGonagall cleared her throat. "Professor Malfoy is our new Potions Master."
Hermione's stomach plummeted.
She snapped her gaze back to Malfoy, eyes narrowing. "You—you're teaching?"
Malfoy leaned back in his chair, smirking. "What, surprised I can read, Granger?"
"Surprised you'd willingly return to Hogwarts."
For a fraction of a second, his smirk faltered. Then, just as quickly, it returned. "They were desperate."
McGonagall sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Yes, yes, we are all delighted to be reunited. But please, do try to remain civil."
Hermione clenched her jaw, tearing her gaze away from Malfoy. The smug, arrogant prat had somehow landed the most prestigious Potions position in Britain—and now, she'd have to work alongside him.
This was going to be a long year.
⚘
The following day, Hermione rose before sunrise, eager to prepare for her first class.
The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom was nestled on the third floor, its walls lined with dark tomes, battle-scarred desks, and cabinets of magical artifacts. She ran her fingers over the polished wood of her desk, inhaling the faint scent of aged parchment, dragonhide-bound books, and lingering traces of spell residue.
This was where she belonged.
By midday, her first lesson with the Seventh Years had gone flawlessly—sharp, engaged students, no accidents, no rogue hexes. She had even successfully demonstrated a nonverbal Shield Charm, much to her students' delight.
Feeling pleased, she made her way toward the faculty lounge, craving a cup of tea before her afternoon lesson. But the moment she stepped inside, her mood soured.
Malfoy was there.
Hermione exhaled sharply as she poured herself a cup of tea, pointedly ignoring Malfoy, who lounged in the plush emerald armchair, looking far too comfortable and infuriatingly amused for her liking.
"Done poisoning students, Malfoy?" she quipped, stirring in a spoonful of honey.
He smirked over the rim of his tea. "Only the ones who deserve it."
She scoffed, taking a sip.
"I'm surprised you accepted the job," Malfoy said, "Defence Against the Dark Arts is cursed, you know."
"Oh sod off," Hermione muttered, "As if you can't say the same about Potions. Snape was the last Potions Master that lasted more than two years in that position."
"Oh? You mean Severus Snape? The one who tragically passed away less than a year after teaching DADA," Malfoy tilted his head, silver eyes glittering with mischief. "I'm curious why McGonagall gave you the job instead of me."
Hermione frowned. "What's your point?"
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the armrest, a slow smirk curling at his lips. "Just that it's rather curious. You're the Ministry darling, war heroine, Gryffindor's golden girl—and she still threw you straight into the DADA death trap instead of me. The former death eater and enslaved to dark magic personified." He raised his sleeve to show the Dark Mark. "Almost as if she wants me to stay alive."
Hermione stiffened, her fingers tightening around her teacup at the sight of the tattoo.
The insinuation was infuriatingly logical.
As a former Death Eater, Malfoy had spent years under intense scrutiny, rebuilding his life piece by careful piece. Even though the trials had cleared him of any true allegiance to Voldemort, many still viewed him with distrust, suspicion, or worse—pity. If he had been given the DADA position and something had happened to him, there would always be those who whispered that he had deserved it.
Hermione hated that. Not because she particularly cared about Malfoy's well-being, of course.
Just the principle of it. People delighting in other people’s demise.
Still, she refused to let him see that he had struck a nerve. Instead, she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with cool confidence.
"Or maybe," she said, "McGonagall just thought you were too much of a coward to handle it."
Malfoy chuckled, slow and deep, as he slowly approached the door. "You're deflecting. Don't worry. If anyone can outlast the DADA curse, it's you, Granger."
He didn't give her a chance to reply, as he closed the door with a wave of his wand.
⚘
After the faculty lounge encounter with Malfoy, Hermione spent the rest of the afternoon settling into her office, unpacking tomes on cursed objects, defensive enchantments, and dark creatures. But even as she lost herself in work, Malfoy's words circled in her mind.
"If anyone can outlast the DADA curse, it's you, Granger."
She told herself it was nonsense—another way for him to get under her skin. They weren't silly school kids anymore.
But still, the thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
After finishing lesson plans that evening, Hermione decided to walk through the castle, reacquainting herself with the corridors that had once felt like a second home; the moonlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting eerie patterns against the ancient stone walls.
Despite the warmth of the torches lining the hallways, a faint chill lingered in the air—one that had nothing to do with the changing seasons.
She was nearly at the staircase leading to the Astronomy Tower when something flickered in her peripheral vision.
Hermione turned sharply, her wand already in hand.
Nothing.
The corridor was empty, save for a few suits of armor standing silent and still in their alcoves. And yet…
A whisper of magic stirred in the air.
Her brows furrowed.
Hogwarts has always been strange. Always been alive.
But something about the energy tonight felt different.
With a quiet breath, she lowered her wand and continued forward—only to collide with a solid figure rounding the corner.
"Bloody—"
"Merlin, Granger, watch where you're going!"
Hermione staggered backward, only to realise she had walked straight into Malfoy, who had somehow appeared out of nowhere. He, too, had his wand drawn, though now he was scowling at her like she had offended him.
"Malfoy?" Hermione huffed, taking a step back. "What are you even doing up here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," he drawled, slipping his wand back into his robe pocket. "Bit early for the new DADA professor to be lurking around abandoned corridors, don't you think?"
She narrowed her eyes. "I was walking. Familiarising myself with the castle. What's your excuse?"
He hesitated—just for a second.
Then, too quickly, he shrugged. "None of your business, Granger."
Hermione crossed her arms. "You're being suspicious."
Malfoy smirked. "And you're being nosy."
Hermione let out an exasperated sigh. "Fine. Whatever. But did you feel that?"
His smirk faded. "Feel what?"
She hesitated, glancing around the empty corridor. "There was a… shift. Like a disturbance in the wards."
Malfoy's expression flickered into something almost thoughtful, but then he shook his head. "If you're hallucinating magical anomalies on your first day, maybe McGonagall should've reconsidered that job offer."
Hermione glared. "I am not hallucinating."
"Of course not," Malfoy said smoothly, though there was a hint of something else in his voice—something she couldn't quite place.
A challenge.
A test.
A shared curiosity neither of them wanted to admit.
They stood there for a long moment, the dim torchlight flickering against the cool stone walls, neither willing to break the tense silence.
Finally, Malfoy exhaled, shaking his head. "Whatever it was, if something was wrong, I'm sure we'll hear about it soon enough."
He turned on his heel, heading back down the corridor, his black robes billowing behind him.
Hermione watched him go, her fingers tightening around her wand.
Somehow, she wasn't so sure.
And for the first time since taking the job, a prickle of unease settled deep in her bones.