Now I See You

by The_Alchemyx

Summary:

""It's just one night," she told herself before vanishing into the green flames."

The war is over. Life has moved on.

But Hermione Granger feels stuck, watching her friends chase dreams while she remains trapped in survival mode. That is, until one night changes everything.

A masked stranger. A fleeting, passionate encounter. A spark she thought had died long ago, reignited in an instant. But when the mask comes off, the truth threatens to unravel everything.

Some revelations are impossible to ignore.

And some are even harder to forget.

Notes:

Hello Everyone!

This is my first time writing a fan fic (I wrote one when I was like 12 about one direction but lets not go there)! The dramione fan fic writers is such an impressive group of people and I feel so exciting to now be contributing to this! Hope you like it :)

I am still getting use to using and navigating the AO3 system so please bear with me as I made make mistakes at times.

Chapter 1: Confidence Conjuring for the Chronically Guarded

January 7th, 2001,

 

Hermione sat curled in the corner of her room, nestled into a cushioned window seat, lazily watching as the sun dipped behind thick gray clouds. Slivers of golden light broke through, casting soft, shifting patterns on the deep blue walls around her. Crookshanks perched beside her on the windowsill, both lost in a quiet daydream of nothing at all. From the flat’s main room, bursts of music and laughter drifted in, filling the space with warmth. Ginny and Luna, along with the Patil twins, were caught up in the excitement of getting ready for what they claimed was a once-in-a-lifetime ball in Vienna.

Tilting her head, Hermione watched them fuss over each other through her open bedroom door, their energy infectious. She saw Ginny darting in and out of Luna's room desperately looking for something to tie her outfit together, the Patil twins were sitting on the three-seater settee helping each other with their hair and Luna was sitting off to the side carefully finishing off her make-up. She smiled softly to herself, cherishing the sight—after everything they had endured, here they were, chasing beauty, joy, and the simple thrill of a grand night out. If it weren’t so heartwarming, it might have broken her to realize that was something she was no longer capable of doing.

Almost as if sensing her thoughts, Ginny—wearing a floor-length emerald tulle gown—spun around and sashayed over to where Hermione sat. “Are you sure we can't convince you to come?”

Ginny said to Hermione in a soft, almost motherly tone. Hermione smiled “I don't need to go I’ve got all the beauty here I can admire” she said as she gestured to the other girls in the room.

She wasn’t wrong—the four girls had truly pulled out all the stops. Ginny wore a stunning, floor-length off-the-shoulder tulle gown in a deep emerald green, a shade that perfectly complemented her fiery hair and pale complexion. Luna’s dress was similar in style, though hers was a rich midnight blue adorned with silver, glittering stars carefully affixed to the layers of tulle. Instead of an off-the-shoulder design, a delicate piece of tulle draped elegantly over one shoulder. Padma and Parvarti complimented each other as always. One wearing a soft blue lehenga which was embroidered with delicate pink flowers, the other wearing a soft pink lehenga embroidered with delicate blue flowers and they both carried with them a matching dupatta. They really did all look beyond exquisite, and Hermione doubted she could match them for beauty even if she tried.

Ginny didn't reply to Hermione instead she grabbed her hand, hoisted her out of her chair and spun her around the room holding onto her like a dance partner at a ball. Hermione couldn't help but chuckle at the silly move.

“Well, all the beauty of London might be in this very room but who knows what male beauties the balls of Vienna may entertain” Ginny said as she spun Hermione around one more time and then let her plop down on the couch in the living room.

“Oh, you can’t really be interested in going after muggle boys” Hermione replied in an arch tone

“Oh, So critical of muggles now Hermione?” Padma quipped back at her with a smirk.

“No- I just mean that well, you know, fall in love with a muggle and what a way to have things off to a complicated start” Hermione said, coming to her own defense.

“Who said anything about falling in love?” Parvati chimed in. “I’m sure these grand balls have plenty of dark corners for... various types of activities.” She laughed as Padma gently elbowed her side, joining in.

The two sisters then waltz out of the living room to carry on getting ready in Ginny's room.

“But aren't you guys worried about getting caught?” Hermione said, trying to change the subject.

“Getting caught!” Ginny exclaimed “Who are you? My mother?”

“Well, no but you know what the court of public opinion will have to say if it learns of your outing to a muggle ball, it's all very sensitive to such things since…” Hermione trailed off as she saw the exasperated looks from all the girls in the room.

“Hermione its fine, and anyway it's a masquerade ball-” Parvati chirped as the twins slinked back into the living, lingering close to Ginny's room.

“Meaning our faces would be covered, and anyway what makes you think anyone else from the wizarding world would be there? I haven't heard any other whispers about anyone else going and it's all the way in Vienna. It'll be perfectly safe” Padam finished for her sister.

Ginny walked into her room calling out to the girls to help her choose which shoes to wear. The Patil twins quickly followed her giggling and joking about who knows what. Hermione watched the girls disappear, but the sound of their laughter was carried in the air.

“Are you sure you won't join us; I’m sure Ginny has a spare dress” Luna started.

“No really I-” Hermione didn't get to finish her sentence as Luna carried on.

“No, I know you don’t want to, but you never join us on our outings. All you do is study and sit at home.” Luna moved to sit next to her, gently placed a hand over Hermione's .“I know the war took a lot from you and I know it must be hard to move on, but you cannot live in the past forever you, -and everyone else for that matter-, must move on even if it feels wrong or fake or even painful”

Hermione started chewing on her lip contemplatively. Luna wasn't wrong.

Hermione had been stuck in the same cycle since the war ended. Although losses were felt by everyone, sometimes Hermione felt she had lost the most. She cast her memory back to that day, the last day of war. Neville uses the sword of Gryffindor killing Nagini and then Harry killing Voldemort. There was such a celebration that the war had ended, but as the dust settled and people moved on to tend to their loved one or mourn the dead, left standing there was Harry and Hermione. There were no loved ones who needed them, no home to race back to show that they had survived. No, they only had themselves and in that moment each other.

Following the war, Harry had adjusted to life without the constant need for survival. The Ministry of Magic had paraded him around like a show pony, ensuring everyone could see “The Boy Who Lived—now also The Boy Who Defeated Voldemort.” He was a celebrity in every sense, and though the attention had been overwhelming at first, he eventually learned to thrive in it.

Hermione had not thrived.

Her heart still split in two every time she thought of the moment, she removed herself from her parents' memories. She could never go through something like that again. So, as the world moved on and started to rebuild Hermione promised to herself that she would never let someone in so close. To never be so vulnerable to such indescribable amounts of pain again. She would move on like she knew she had to. She’d become a Cursebreaker, spend her days working, watch her friends get married and have children, and accept that none of it would ever be hers.

“Hermione!” Someone snapped at her.

“Huh, what- sorry Gin what did you say” Hermione said coming out of her dazed thoughts.

“I said we are about to leave but- I’m still hopeful you will change your mind so here” Ginny placed a white envelope, which must have been the invitation to the ball, and a silver demi mask on the coffee table in front of her, giving her a small smirk as she looked back up at Hermione. Hermione signed and picked the items up and looked at them more closely.

The girls then, after a final spray of perfume, walked to the fireplace each taking a handful of floo powder. Parvati and Padma disappeared first, followed closely by Ginny, and then Luna who paused and looked at Hermione to say.

“Really, think about it, it's just one night” And then she was gone.

And Hermione was alone.

Hermione sighed, placing the items she had been holding back down on the coffee table. She flopped back against the couch, her hands covering her eyes as she let out a groan. Luna had been right, why did Luna have to be right! The war had taken so much from Hermione she should be allowed to wallow in as much self-pity for as long as she wanted.

“It's just one night” Luna’s parting words echoed in Hermione's mind. She eyed the silver masks and invitation out the side of her eye. Then she smacked her hands down on the couch and stood up.

“It's just night,” Hermione said out loud.

"It’s just one damn night," she repeated, this time more aggressively, as she marched over to the freestanding oak wardrobe in her room. She tore through the hanging clothes with quick, determined hands until she found what she was looking for. Still tucked inside its original garment bag, she yanked it from the wardrobe and tossed it onto the bed before unzipping it.

Inside was an exquisite silver A-line ball gown. The fabric was soft, shimmering with a breathtaking iridescence. It featured a simple scoop neckline with delicate thin straps, while the skirt, supported by layers of tulle, flared out in a perfect, elegant puff. After the war, the Ministry had given Harry, Ron, and Hermione a significant sum of money—a token of gratitude, though they all knew it was just to save face for their years of failing to listen or intervene. Not long after, Hermione passed a small boutique near her flat and saw the dress glistening in the window. On a whim, she bought it, hoping it might stir excitement for the future.

It hadn’t.

It had sat in her wardrobe ever since, gathering dust. A metaphor for her life after the war.

Hermione wasted no time sliding it on, the hem of the dress come to rest just below her mid-calf and admiring herself in the mirror. The silver really did compliment her brown hair and eyes. She ran a finger gently through her soft curls contemplating what she should do with it. Her mother only ever had the chance to teach her one basic up- do, a French twist. Her mother told her it's the perfect look when going for job interviews, a sense of professionalism mixed with classic chic. So, that's what she did. Using her wand to make quick work of it, straightening it then carefully weaving it into a roll and then tightly securing it with a charm. She gave it a quick shake to make sure it wasn't going anywhere.

Hermione hardly ever saw herself with her hair tied back in a way it was all out of her face. It made her look so elegant and restored some of the youthful look in her eyes she had long since seen. As she looked at herself in the mirror her eyes fell to the now visible scars the war had left behind, one on her forearm and one along her collarbone. Hermione quickly cast a glamour charm on them both, hoping the dark magic that lingered in them wouldn't cause the spell to wear off before the night was through.

Now onto her shoes.

Shit, she thought. She didn’t own a single pair of heels, and sneakers were definitely out of the question. Letting out a sigh, she scanned the collection of shoes she did have, searching for the best pair to transfigure. Her eyes landed on an old pair of ballet flats—those would do. With a quick flick of her wand, the spell took effect, transforming them into a pair of shimmery, stiletto mid-height heels. It had been a long time since she’d worn heels, and her first few steps were hesitant, her balance wobbly. But soon enough, she found her footing, adjusting quickly to the unfamiliar height.

Hermione glanced at the clock and did a quick time conversion in her head. Austria is 1 hour ahead meaning it's now 7:45 PM. The invitation had stated the ball would begin at 8 PM. She needed to hurry. With the heels clicking softly beneath her feet, Hermione walked over to the coffee table and picked up the silver demi-mask.

It was exquisitely intricate—crafted with a solid silver back, the mask was adorned with delicate, wire-like flowers that seemed to bloom across its surface. The polished silver shimmered under the soft light, giving the mask an almost ethereal glow. At the top, three perfectly white feathers were attached, their soft strands fluttering ever so gently as the mask shifted in her hands, adding a touch of grace.She placed it gently on her face, shocked by how much it concealed her identity when she looked at the mirror. Padam and Parvarti had been right, the chances of someone from the wizarding world being there let alone recognizing her was very low. But she had no interest in entertaining the idea more than she needed to, so using the thick black ribbons she tied it and then secured it with a tightening charm, it would take a fair amount of force to pull it off her face now.

The clock now showed 7:55pm. Ready or not it was time to go. Hermione gave herself a puff of the perfume that had been left on the coffee table and stood in front of the fireplace.

“It's just one night” She reminded herself, taking a breath to ease the nerves that were now creeping up on her. She exhaled before taking a handful of floo powder and disappearing into the green flames.

Chapter 2: Unidentified Flirting Objects: A Field Study in Masquerade Balls

As the green flames faded from her vision, Hermione took in her surroundings. A bathroom—but not just any bathroom. It was a masterpiece of excess and elegance, fit for royalty. Gold accents gleaned from every surface, catching the flickering light of the grand fireplace she had just stepped from. A plush fainting couch, upholstered in deep velvet, sat before the fire, an invitation to linger in luxury. The sinks were carved from lavish marble, their basins deep and glistening, while gilded mirrors stretched high above, reflecting the opulence of the room. Ample space allowed for women to gather, adjusting their gowns and perfecting their appearances for the evening ahead.

Yes, Hermione thought, taking it all in—she had arrived at precisely the right place.

Straightening out her dress and glancing in the mirror to make sure her hair was still in place Hermione pushed through the door into a lobby of the venue, Hermione guessed it was an old, but well cared for, palace of sorts. She started her way up the red carpeted stairs and handed her invitation to one of the well-dressed stewards who inspected it and welcomed her in.

Immediately, her breath caught in her throat. Hermione could hardly believe the sheer magnificence before her. The soaring ceilings were adorned with intricate frescoes, their golden accents gleaming under the soft glow of countless chandeliers. Each chandelier dripped with shimmering crystals, casting a cascade of light that danced along the deep red walls, rich as velvet.

She stood atop a grand, sweeping staircase gilded in gold, its railing carved with the most exquisite details—flourishes of ivy, delicate filigree, and elegant scrollwork. As she descended, her fingers traced the artistry beneath them, marveling at the craftsmanship. Garlands of fresh flowers wove their way along the banister, their fragrance mingling with the warm air, while delicate bouquets rested atop polished brass stands, carefully placed throughout the room.

Below, the ballroom was alive with splendor. Servers in crisp attire wove seamlessly through the crowd, balancing silver trays of sparkling champagne. Couples glided across the dance floor in perfect harmony, the skirts of their gowns billowing like silk clouds. At the base of the staircase, nestled just beneath the grand landing, an orchestra played a waltz, each note swelling and soaring, weaving a melody as rich and opulent as the setting itself.

Hermione recognised the song immediately 'Symphony No. 5 in D major' by Felix Mendelssohn . Her parents regularly played classical music, and this was one of their favourites they always played. She expected this memory to cause bitterness and a desire to run and leave but instead standing here listening to one of their favourite songs felt like a stamp of approval, it was okay for her to be here and for her to enjoy herself. And she would, she told herself. She would drink all the champagne she could, take a stranger’s hand if they asked her to dance, and spend every remaining moment soaking in the beauty life had to offer—because tonight might be the only taste of it she would ever have.

Hermione sauntered along the edge of the dance floor, watching as couples twirled and swayed in perfect harmony. Their flowing gowns blended into a mesmerizing whirl of color, a living rainbow in motion. She stood there for what felt like an eternity, captivated by the splendor, the joy, and the electric excitement that filled the air. Every now and then, she would step aside to let the champagne servers pass, casually switching out her empty glass for a fresh one as they went by, or shift slightly to get a better view of the dance floor.

Suddenly her now-empty champagne flute was slipped from Hermione’s hand, only to be swiftly replaced with a fresh one. The seamless exchange caught her off guard, and she turned to offer a polite thanks to the seemingly extra-attentive waiter—only to find herself face-to-face with a tall, lean figure, impeccably dressed in a black suit with a white waistcoat and masked in mystery.

She couldn’t see the man’s face behind his ornate mask, which covered the upper half and was adorned with intricate, hand-painted designs. Swirling gold and deep emerald traced its edges, exuding quiet opulence. Something about his presence made her breath hitch in her throat.

“Apologies if I startled you,” he murmured, voice as smooth as silk. “But I thought it only right to share a drink with the most beautiful girl in the room.”

Hermione barely managed a small huff, her voice betraying her. Most beautiful girl in the room? Hardly. In her opinion, she wouldn’t even crack the top ten.

The masked stranger tilted his head ever so slightly, as if waiting for more of a response.

“Is that a line you’ve tested on every girl here tonight, just to see if it sticks?” she quipped, regaining her composure.

“You would be the first,” he replied effortlessly, “and, as fate would have it, the last.”

A ghost of a smirk played at Hermione’s lips, but before she could reply, she felt his cool hand settle against the small of her back as he shifted closer, positioning himself at her side.

“I saw you walk in,” he continued, voice low, “and I was drawn to you like a moth to a flame. I believe there’s a fitting saying for what that is at first sight.”

Hermione turned slightly, looking up at him through narrowed eyes. “Are you suggesting it was love at first sight?”

“Well, was it not for you?” he countered smoothly. “Or should I walk past again?”

A genuine laugh burst from Hermione’s lips.

“Oh, come on,” she managed between giggles, “you have to admit, that was awful.”

“Yes, well,” he sighed, amusement lacing his words, “desperation will do that to a man.”

His fingers twitched slightly against her back, a silent question before he spoke again.

“Do you think you could grant this desperate man the kindness of one dance?”

Hermione hummed in feigned indecision, savoring the way he leaned in just a fraction, waiting for her answer.

“What?” he prodded playfully. “Don’t you want to dance with the most handsome man in the room?” His hand now outstretched to her.

She arched her brow. “Well, I haven’t had a good look at every man here yet, so I do think the jury is still out on that statement.”

His outstretched hand remained between them, unwavering. The quartet was preparing to start another song, and couples were already making their way onto the dance floor. Hermione hesitated, chewing her lip for just a moment—then, before she could think twice, she slid her hand into his.

“I’d be flattered,” she said softly.

She let him take her hand and lead them to an empty spot on the ballroom floor. Then turning to face her, he wrapped one hand around her waist and then adjusted the hand he was already holding to a proper waltz position. Hermione quickly followed, slowly sliding her free hand up his arm until it gently rested on his shoulder. Hermione could feel the butterflies growing as she took in the muscular feel of his arm under her hand and she was now beginning to question, who is this man?

The quartet began playing the opening notes of a lively tune— Spring 1 . It was a newer classical piece, but one her parents had adored. A melody woven into her childhood, played on quiet afternoons and danced to with joyfulness. In fact, much of Hermione’s dance experience had come from those moments in the living room—spinning in her father’s arms or watching him twirl her mother with effortless grace. They had both been great lovers of dancing, not only taking the time to master proper ballroom dances but passing that love and skill on to her. Coupled with the lessons Hogwarts had provided for the Yule ball Hermione knew exactly what was coming—a Galop.

The Masked Stranger dipped his head down to be closer to her ear “Do you know how to dance or would you like to stand on my feet”

Hermione chuckled but had no time to cook up a snide remark as the couples around them began to dance. Her and the Masked Stranger quickly followed suit. They moved in perfect harmony.

The Masked Stranger led her through the dance with almost professional skill which made Hermione to wonder even more who this man was. Ballroom dance was not a widely taught skill these days, it was something one had to seek out.

“You dance quite well, and now I’m beginning to wonder if I should have curtsied,” Hermione mused, a teasing lilt to her voice. But as the thought settled, so did a quiet curiosity—who exactly was she dancing with? She wondered if he was someone of significance. She wondered if he might be part of the aristocracy, especially with the way he carried himself and the British accent that came through as he spoke.

The Masked Stranger let out a low chuckle.

 “No, no—just a family of snobs who were convinced that mastering proper dance was essential to society. Deluded, really.” He dismissed the idea before swiftly turning the question back on her. “And you?”

“My parents,” Hermione answered simply, a genuine smile touching her lips. In that moment, she felt closer to them than she had in a long time, the memory of twirling in the living room, her father’s steady hands guiding her, her mother’s laughter echoing in the background. Warmth spread through her, and for the first time in what felt like forever, hope followed. Hope that her life could still be filled with beauty. With love.

They then danced in silence, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the gentle lilt of the music. Every now and then, the Masked Stranger spun her, and each time, his intoxicating scent enveloped her—cedar, sandalwood, and something subtly floral. Hermione couldn’t place it, but it didn’t matter. As far as she was concerned, it was the most exquisite scent she had ever known, and all she wanted was to wrap herself in it, to drown in it completely.

Then, the tranquil silence broke. He dipped his head close to her ear, his breath warm against her skin.

“Follow me.”

A simple command, one that left no room for hesitation. Before Hermione could respond, he was already leading her through the crowd, his grip on her hand unwavering. The further they moved from the heart of the ballroom, the more the crowd thinned, and his pace quickened. Suddenly, she was nearly running to keep up with him.

They reached a grand set of open double doors, and he came to a brief halt—just long enough to pluck two champagne flutes from a passing tray, handing one to Hermione before taking his own.

“For the road,” he said, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

“Wait—stop! Where are we going? Slow down! I can’t run that fast!” Hermione exclaimed, breathless, still trailing behind as he wove them through the courtyard—his hand still firmly holding hers.

They kept going until they reached an old stone gazebo. The gazebo stood like a forgotten relic of a bygone era, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight. Its white marble, once pristine, was now speckled with the gentle touch of moss, as if nature itself had laid claim to the structure over time. The intricate iron dome above, swirled in delicate, winding patterns, appeared almost like a web of stars holding the night sky in place. Two lit candles stood at the top of a short staircase, beckoning in anyone who came close.

The curved marble sides enclosed the space, offering both a sense of seclusion and intimacy, as if the gazebo existed in a world all its own. Inside, marble benches lined the edges, worn from years of use, inviting anyone who wished to sit and listen to the whispers of the breeze.

Outside, the air was thick with the fragrance of blooming flowers that surrounded the base of the gazebo, while delicate vines of star jasmine wound up its marble pillars. Their vibrant colors glowed softly beneath the moonlight, casting a dreamlike aura over the scene. The flowers framed the gazebo, encircling it like a living wreath, their petals swaying gently in the evening breeze as if standing vigil over this quiet, timeless space.

The Masked Stranger dropped Hermione's hand to allow her to fully take the beauty of this secret spot. She couldn't see his eyes, but she felt them on her, watching her closely. Hermione didn't know if it was the unsettling closest of his gaze crawling over her skin or the chilled night breeze, but she felt herself shivering, now wishing she had brought a shawl of some sort. Before Hermione had more time to dwell on it, she felt the heavy material of his black suit jacket being wordless draped over her shoulders.

“Oh, thank you,” Hermione said softly, pulling the jacket tighter around herself in an attempt to trap the lingering warmth. She resumed her slow perusal of the gazebo, her gaze drifting over the sea of flowers that framed the space, their delicate petals catching the moonlight. Above her, the night sky stretched endlessly, twinkling with a thousand stars, as if the universe itself had scattered diamonds across the darkness. The Masked Stranger still silently watching her, taking her all in, twisting a silver ring on one of his pointer fingers. Hermione wondered if that was done out of nervousness or simply habit. Carefully leaning over the marble railing to take in more of the night sky when deep red blooms caught her eye in the garden below. 

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed before hurriedly throwing herself over the railing to reach into the garden bed below.

“What is it?” The Masked Stranger asked, breaking his silence and now moving to be closer to Hermione to catch a glimpse of what had captured her attention so intently.

Hermione let out a few soft grunts as she struggled to reach the garden bed below. Finally she managed to wrap her fingers around the tallest dark red flower that had caught her attention. She wiggled her fingers slightly down the stem before giving it a sharp tug upwards, plucking it from the place it had grown.

Hermione stood upright and turned to face the Masked Stranger holding up the flower to show him.

“Dahlias” She simply said, twirling the deep red flower in her fingers admiring how the moonlight bounced off its petals. “They’re my favourite”

The Masked Stranger gently placed the hand with the ring on it on her forearm slowly running up its length until it came to rest on top of the hand holding the dahlia out to him.

‘Oh Merlin’ Hermione felt her knees weaken and the simple and soft gesture. It had been so long since anyone had touched her like that. Sure, she had tried to date after the war. There was the brief stint with Ron, but Hermione valued his friendship far too much to risk losing it. There was also a brief revival of the romance with Viktor, brief being just one night. One night was all she needed to confirm what she had begun to suspect, ever since the war she was a basket case of whom love was best to stay miles away from. There would be no one for her. 

But she had never felt this before—this kind of electricity from something so simple, from someone whose name she didn’t even know. Her gaze traveled upward, following the connection of their hands until she met his eyes. Or at least, where his eyes would have been. The mask cast a dark shadow on them, but as the moonlight kissed his face, she could have sworn she glimpsed a shade of blue so pale it was nearly silver.

Her breath caught. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if she would ever remember how to breathe again.

“What’s yours?” Hermione asked, her voice a lifeline against the dizzying weight of the moment. If she didn’t break the tension now, she wasn’t sure what would happen—but she knew her knees wouldn’t hold much longer, and her brain was in desperate need of air.

“What?”

“What's your favourite flower?” She ground out.

“I don't have one” The Masked Stranger bluntly replied. Gently pulling away his hand from hers and standing up right again.

“You must, everyone does. Maybe not because you like the flower itself but because of a fond memory” Hermione said, dropping her hand to rest next to her. The Masked Stranger began fiddling with the silver ring on his finger again, seemingly pondering what Hermione had said.

“Green carnations,” he eventually replied, his voice quiet. “My mother always grew them—at first out of pride, to keep the house looking immaculate. But nowadays, I think she uses them as a distraction.” He paused, his shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of his next words. “A distraction from her grief, I guess.”

His voice softened, as though each word was a burden. “Green carnations are meant to symbolize love and adoration. She loved and adored my father, and ever since his…passing, I think they make her feel closer to him—as if by keeping them alive, she’s doing him some kind of service. They were the first flowers he ever gave her when they were dating. They were her bouquet at their wedding. And he would always stop by the garden at home to pick her a bunch whenever he’d been out somewhere.”

He stopped, his gaze distant.

“My father was often a morally questionable man, probably not what you’d consider a good role model, but he cherished her. And she, him.”

Hermione was taken aback by his openness. This was the most she had heard from him all night. The grief he carried was palpable. She could feel the weight of it—the struggle of watching his mother lose the love of her life, and the pain of losing someone who was meant to be a father but never truly was. It was heavy.

Her heart squeezed with sympathy. She wanted to reach out, to hold him, knowing that words could offer little comfort.

But instead, she found herself running her fingers over the dahlia she had in her other hand.

“My parents always grew Dahlias; they were my mum's favourite and my dad would always do anything to make her happy. We had bright pinks, sunny yellows but the deep reds like this were always my favourite” Hermione softly said her eyes fix downcast on the flower in her hand. She didn't speak about her parents very often these days but here tonight with this Stranger who just opened up to her well it felt right.

“Were?” He gently asked

Hermione took in a deep breath before she replied.

“They both… died when I was 17”

“Im sorry” 

“It's okay- well not okay but I’m okay” Hermione brushed it off. She had received plenty of pity when she first oblivated her parents' memories but there was so much loss and suffering during the war it hadn't taken long for that pity to become a forgotten memory for most people. Most people except Hermione of course. The Masked Stranger let out a low laugh bringing Hermione back to reality.

“Of course, at a ball with hundreds of people, the two with the most somber backstories manage to find each other.”

“Find each other? You found me, remember.” Hermione chuckled.

“Ah yes, and what a find that was.” He stepped forward, closing the space between them until barely a handsbreadth remained. Hermione could so easily just reach out and—

“What’s your name?”

The question jolted her. Hermione instinctively stepped back, her heart skipping for reasons she couldn't quite place. While she was desperate to know who this man was, she knew that level of familiarity was dangerous. Too risky. Too complicated. Too easy to end up brokenhearted.

“Isn’t the whole point of a masquerade not knowing?” she said, voice wavering slightly. “To be in the moment, to enjoy the thrill of mystery?”

“So, do you think I’m thrilling then?” The Masked Stranger's voice was low as he moved forward, fully closing the space between them now. So close his scent was wrapping around Hermione again like a cloud of intoxication. “And you know the masks come off at midnight anyway” 

He whispered in her ear, the warmth of his breath against her skin causing her skin to prickle in goosebumps. Hermione barely could register his words. Her senses were being overwhelmed. Wait they come off at midnight, oh god what is the time now? Hermione's eye darted frantically trying to find a clock or something that would give away the time. Just then the Masked Stranger moved his arm to straighten his collar, and Hermione was able to spy an analogue watch on his wrist. It was only a quick glance but Hermione could make out the long hand resting on the 6 and the shorthand coming to rest just before the 12. Oh, thirty minutes was all she had left of tonight. She felt her heart tighten and her shoulders slump slightly, she didn't want the night to end. She wanted to stay here- live here for the rest of her days. 

Hermione’s gaze lifted from his watch to meet his hidden eyes, wishing he could see the desperate longing in hers—but knowing he couldn’t. Before she even registered what she was doing, her hand gently found its way to his cheek. She just wanted—no, needed—to know what his skin felt like beneath her touch, to etch the memory into her mind so she could hold onto every detail of this perfect night.

The Masked Stranger softened beneath her hand, almost as if he had never been touched so tenderly before. His fingers came up to enclose hers, holding her there as if afraid to let go. They stood like this for what felt like an eternity—yet somehow, not nearly long enough.

The air between them grew heavier, thick with a longing neither of them dared put into words. The tension coiled, the pull between them undeniable, urging them closer—aching to close the impossible space still lingering between them. It sent riots of butterflies through Hermione’s stomach, stealing the breath from her lips until, without meaning to, she let out the faintest gasp.

As though some unspoken signal passed between them, his lips descended on hers with a force she hadn’t expected. Hermione had braced herself for tenderness, but what she received was a hunger that set every nerve alight. Her knees weakened at the intensity, and before she could steady herself, a strong arm wrapped around her waist, anchoring her against him. The world seemed to dissolve around them as their lips collided, a storm of emotions surging between them.

The tension that had been building for what felt like forever now snapped, tightening between them, urging Hermione to respond with the same fiery passion. Her lips met his with equal fervor, deepening the kiss as though their very souls were desperate to connect. Every touch, every movement felt like it was guided by some unseen force, her body perfectly in sync with his as they melted together in a dance of longing and need.

She felt his other hand dip under the fabric of his jacket she was still wearing and his fingers softly slid up along the curve of her spine, leaving a trail of cooling electricity. His hand paused at the nape of her neck, fingers splayed to keep her tethered, the pressure grounding her in the moment.  As Hermione parted her lips to meet him, one hand tangled in his hair, while the other still clutched the dark red dahlia. 

Hermione felt the grip on her waist tighten, pulling her closer, until the sharp edges of his waistcoat buttons pressed into her upper abdomen, and the cold metal of his sleeve cuff dug into her back. Despite the layers of tulle beneath her dress, she could feel the hard press of his belt against her. But as their bodies pressed together, it wasn’t just the belt she could feel—there was something else, something unmistakable, digging into her.

She couldn’t help but smile, a subtle curve of satisfaction tugging at her lips as their kiss deepened. The strange sense of gratification hit her—turning on a man, a stranger, with nothing more than the allure of their touch, his hunger for her despite the fact that he hadn't even seen her face.

The Masked stranger began to gently slide his hand further up her neck, sliding his jacket off her in the process, until he rested at the bow tying her mask to her face. Hermione didn't pull away or panic; she knew she had charmed it to stay put and she was sure the charm would work. It did, as he gave it a gentle tug it didn't budge at all. The sense of relief that rushed over Hermione was redirected into passion as she knotted her fingers tighter in his hair. But, he went for another tug this time with more sharpness and more strength and to Hermione's horror the charm gave way and the knot came undone.

“No!” Hermione exclaimed, pulling away from their heated embrace. She gripped the mask tightly in her hands and turned her back to him. She couldn't let him see her face—she just couldn't. Panic surged in her chest, her breath shallow and erratic as she fumbled to fasten the mask back into place, tightening it as much as possible. She took a deep, steadying breath before turning back to face him.

He stood there, rigid and unmoving. She couldn’t see his expression under his mask, but she knew that hurt and confusion must have been written across his face. Maybe even a trace of dejection. The thought made her stomach twist. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, but how could he understand? How could he know it was for his own good?

“Sorry, I just... well, it’s not midnight yet,” Hermione offered, her voice faltering slightly. “It’s probably bad luck to remove them before then.”

Not wanting any lingering awkwardness Hermione walked forward to take hold of his wrist. 

“Oh, it's only 5 minutes to midnight, we should rejoin the party” she said, dropping his watch clad wrist back down.

Hermione knelt down, picking up his jacket and wrapping it back around her shoulders, pulling it as close to possible hoping his scent would rub off on her. She offered a polite smile as she walked down the brief staircase, willing him to follow her. He didn't, not straight away, instead he bent down and picked up the dahlia Hermione had dropped in the process and wordlessly tucked it into his white shirt pocket.

Then once at Hermione's side he offered her a bent arm and a smile. Hermione's heart warmed with relief at the simple gesture. Tonight would end on a good note and that's all she wanted.

As they winded back toward the ballroom, they could hear the voice of a well-dressed Austrian man speaking inside. He seemed to be of some importance, giving a speech about how these balls were vital for breaking down social barriers and savoring the fleeting moments when appearances could be set aside. Hermione wasn’t listening to a word he said. Instead, her eyes were fixed on the clock behind him, ticking steadily away. Two minutes left. The weight of the inevitable goodbye began to settle in, making her heart feel heavier with each passing second. She looked down at her feet, then slowly lifted her gaze to meet the man beside her.

"Are you alright?" The Masked Stranger’s voice was filled with genuine concern.

"I—" Hermione struggled to find her voice, the words caught in her throat.

"What is it?" His tone was insistent, his hand gently resting on her shoulder, turning her to face him. One minute.

"I’m… I’m sorry," she managed to say, the words rushing out in a frantic breath. "Thank you. Thank you so much. Tonight has meant more to me than you’ll ever know. You’ve meant more to me than you’ll ever know." The words tumbled out in a hurry, racing against the clock. "But I have to go."

With that Hermione broke free from his hold and took off through the crowd. Weaving around people as quickly as she could. She could hear the heavy footsteps of the Masked Stranger running after her.

“Wait!” he exclaimed, but there would be no stopping Hermione. Her night—and the fantasy she’d lived—ended here, and now.

“Now! Turn off the lights and you may remove your mask!” the important Austrian man shouted to the crowd. The room was quickly swallowed by darkness. Hermione didn’t stop. Using the moonlight that poured in through the tall windows as her only guide, she whispered quick apologies as she bumped into people, never once slowing her pace. She didn’t look back to check if he was still behind her—she had no doubt he was.

As Hermione reached the stairs, she could feel her mask loosening once again. The urgency heightened, and she took two steps at a time. Her feet screamed for her to stop, but she didn’t. Not even when she collided with someone at the top of the stairs, causing her mask to fall to the ground. Fuck! Her hands shot to the sides of her face, desperately trying to conceal her identity.

She flew down the foyer stairs and wasted no time pushing through the bathroom door. She paused for just a second, gasping for breath—he couldn’t follow her in here. After a glance around the room to confirm it was empty she focused her mind and took a handful of the floo powder that was hidden in an inconspicuous container made of fine china. 

The night had ended. It was time for her to go home.

Notes:

Hello! Just wanted to acknowledge that one of the classical pieces I reference in this chapter (Spring 1 - Max Richter) wasn't actually released until 2012. But it was the piece of music that came on as I was writing that scene and I just couldn't hear them dancing to anything else so will just pretend it was released early!

Thanks to everyone who as read so far!

Chapter 3: Projectile Literature and Its Consequences

It had been a week since Hermione's marvelous night at the ball– a week of it consuming her every thought. The crash from such a wondrous, fairytale-like evening had been severe. She had tried her best to push it from her mind, but her will was weak at best. Night after night, she found herself perched at her window, replaying the events over and over until her eyelids grew heavy enough to drag herself to bed. And yet, even in sleep, she couldn’t escape it. She dreamt of that night constantly, but no matter how hard she tried, she could never picture his face when he removed his mask. It changed every time.

When she first arrived home from the ball, Hermione had rushed into her room, slamming the door shut. She knew the others would be back soon, and she couldn’t face their questioning. They knew she had been there– of that, she was certain– but she had managed to dodge their inquiries until, eventually, they stopped asking altogether.

She had barely slept that night, and as the first rays of sunlight poured through her window, she finally forced herself to hang up her dress and his suit jacket before changing into her usual attire. Seeking a distraction, she walked to a nearby market where vendors were selling flowers, hoping to find a few spare bulbs. To her luck, she did- two dahlias and a single carnation. The vendor wasn’t sure of their colors, but Hermione felt an inexplicable connection to them nonetheless. She planted them in the window box that had sat empty for the past two years.

As the days passed, the mercurial high gave way to an aching longing, which slowly unraveled into a sorrow she couldn't quite shake.

But now, standing in front of her mirror, Hermione was preparing for her first day back at university after the winter break. As she examined her appearance, she couldn't help but long for the simplicity of her Hogwarts uniform, knowing exactly what to wear each day. She had already changed her outfit twice, but here she stood in a plain black skirt, a deep red knit jumper, thick black stockings, and winter boots. It all felt so underwhelming compared to how she had felt in her silver dress. The contrast was almost jarring.

She quickly ran a comb through her curls, not bothering to style it in any way. It was far from the sleek updo she had worn at the ball. Hermione let her curls fall as they always did, stray strands drifting in front of her face. Slipping on her winter coat, she grabbed her bag filled with this term's books and headed for the fireplace. 

Like many buildings during the war, the university had been reduced to ruins. Education had been left in limbo for nearly a year until the Ministry announced its decision to relocate the university to what had once been the Ministry of Magic itself, constructing a brand-new building for government affairs in its place. When Hermione first heard the news, she had laughed to herself, of course, the Ministry would use this as an excuse to build itself grand new offices.

During that time, debates arose about the education of the young witches and wizards who had fought in the war. Ultimately, it was decided that the real-life "experience" they had gained on the battlefield outweighed much of the in-class learning they had missed. By mid-1999, they were given the chance to return to school. That school ‘year’ had only been a short few months long and lessons hastily set up in back rooms of the repurposed Ministry building- to complete their N.E.W.T.s and move on to higher education. 

The only exception, of course, was Draco Malfoy. He had been permitted to finish his schooling, but only from the confines of his house arrest as he awaited trial. Hermione had been quietly relieved to learn she wouldn’t have to see him that year.

However, that relief quickly vanished when, on her first day in her first year at university, she walked into class and saw him sitting there. She wasn’t surprised that he had gotten off lightly—after all, he had been just as much a child as she was when Voldemort returned. But the anger that had flared up the first time she saw him after the war had never truly left her. It reignited every time she passed him in the hallways or found herself forced to share a classroom with him.

She had hoped this term would be different, that their schedules wouldn’t overlap as much. But she had little doubt that as he was still on the path to becoming an Auror, likely taking extra alchemy courses on the side,both of which aligned all too well with her own studies. The only solace she found in the prospect of seeing him again was knowing that many of her classes were also shared with Harry. At least she wouldn’t have to face it alone. 

As Hermione cleared the green flames and stepped into the glossy, green-tiled courtyard of the university, she scoffed at the irony of Draco choosing to become an Auror. Shaking the thought from her mind–determined to spend as little time as possible thinking about him–she made her way to the small coffee shop where she had promised to meet Daphne before her first class of the day.

Arriving first, she ordered a coffee for them both before settling at a white metal table with matching chairs. Subconsciously, she began tapping her fingers against the tabletop, a nervous energy bubbling beneath the surface. She wasn’t sure why, but an uneasy feeling sat heavy in her chest as her eyes flicked around the shop, searching for the always impeccably dressed blonde.

“Hermione!” a voice exclaimed behind her, startling her so much that she jumped slightly.

Spinning around, she exhaled in relief when she saw Daphne standing there. The moment their eyes met, Hermione couldn’t help but jump up and wrap her in a hug. Daphne had always been an affectionate person, and Hermione could count on her for comfort when she needed it most. After a week of feeling exceptionally low, this hug was exactly what she needed.

“Are you alright?” Daphne asked, pulling out of their hug to sit at the table with Hermione.

“Yes I’m fine just-” Hermione let out a sigh “-well just nice to see you”

Daphne tilted her head to the side, her perfectly styled french twist staying exactly in place, not believing Hermione's thin attempt at a lie.

“I’m just nervous about the new term, anyway drink up, your coffee will be getting cold” Hermione's second attempt at a lie wasn't much better and she could see on Daphne's face she didn't believe her, but chose not to push the subject much to Hermione's relief.

Daphne was dressed in a gray pencil skirt and a dark green blouse with a neatly tied lavallière. Tasteful black court heels completed the look, along with dainty gold earrings and a matching gold-toned tennis bracelet. It was all very demure, yet Hermione had no doubt the entire ensemble was exorbitantly expensive. The contrast between them was stark—Hermione’s thrown-together outfit made her look as if she'd barely managed to get dressed in time.

Anyone observing the two of them chatting might have found their friendship perplexing. In fact, many people did. After the war, it had surprised many that Hermione grew close to the blonde Greengrass sisters. Since Daphne had been in her year, the two had naturally bonded more. The Greengrass family was cleared of any wrongdoing during the war, despite their status as part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and their historically rigid pure-blood values. That was largely thanks to Astoria, who had rejected such beliefs early in her time at Hogwarts and, in turn, influenced her elder sister to do the same. Hermione had heard whispers that it caused tension within their family—and even played a role in the demise of Astoria’s brief relationship with Draco.

Astoria had even attempted, on occasion, to extend kindness toward Hermione—something most pure-bloods wouldn’t dare. But every time she tried, she would become shy, stumble over her words, and retreat before Hermione could properly respond.

“How was your winter break?” Hermione asked.

“Oh it was lovely, we went to France for Christmas which was just delightful. Went mad on the shopping of course, had to take two floo trips to get it all back!” Daphne chuckled as she sipped her coffee. “Oh! That reminds me I got you a little something. A Christmas present!”

Daphne pulled a small, carefully wrapped present from her handbag. Presenting it to Hermione with a warm genuine smile. Hermione gently took it from her hands, giving it a once over with her eyes racking her brain to what this possibly could be. Delicately she unraveled the paper to reveal-

“A pen?” Hermione exclaimed, trying to feign excitement.

“It’s a fancy pen—some special French ink or something. I’m not sure, but it writes beautifully, and I know how much you enjoy writing,” Daphne said, defending her choice of gift.

Hermione let out a small laugh, a giggle dancing on her lips. “Sorry, Daph, it’s a lovely pen and honestly, exactly the kind of thing I’d use. That being said, maybe I need to get more hobbies if a pen is the best gift for me.”

“You do,” Daphne replied matter-of-factly as she gathered her belongings and stood up. “Anyway, I’ve got to go—and I’d guess you probably do too.”

She was right. Hermione’s first class of the day was starting in just a few minutes. The two girls shared a quick embrace, wished each other a good first day back, and then went their separate ways.

Hermione had already committed her term schedule to memory but she still took out the piece of parchment they were written on to be sure.

0930-  Ancient Magic (Theory) - Professor Sallow

She looked at her watch as she walked down the winding corridors. Perfect she thought to herself she was going to be a punctual 5 minutes early, just how she liked it. That way she could secure a spot at the front of the room for her and Harry, who always seemed to be rushing in seconds before the professor was.

Hermione liked Professor Sallow a lot. Now over a hundred years old, he had lived an intriguing life. He managed to stay under the radar during the war, out of fear that if Voldemort found him, he would be forced to fight on his side. But when the war ended, he came out of hiding and offered to teach. Professor Sallow was incredibly skilled in Dark Magic, and despite his age, he still taught the practical classes. However, after learning about his extensive knowledge of Ancient Magic, he transitioned to teaching theory-based courses. Ancient Magic wasn’t something he was directly skilled in—very few were—but he had shared a close friendship with a witch who was. They often studied it together, which meant that Professor Sallow possessed more knowledge of it than most.

Just as Hermione had predicted, Harry came flying into the classroom and slid into the seat next to her and only a few seconds later Professor Sallow walked in taking up his usual spot at the front of the room.As Professor Sallow strode into the lecture hall, Hermione’s gaze inadvertently landed on the one person she had been hoping to avoid. Draco. He sat a few rows back on the opposite side of the staircase, head bowed as he scribbled something into his notebook with quiet intensity. His usually pristine blonde hair, often styled with meticulous care, had been left untouched today, allowing its natural soft waves to settle in. He wore a crisp white button-down, the top few buttons undone, his cuffs perfectly done up with silver cufflinks hiding his Dark Mark. The shirt was neatly tucked into a pair of dark grey trousers, perfectly tailored, of course. Though she couldn’t see his feet from this angle, Hermione had little doubt they were clad in the finest dragon-hide dress shoes money could buy. He must have sensed her lingering gaze because he suddenly looked up from his notebook and looked towards her. Hermione let out an internal gasp, breaking from his gaze the second it landed on her, now intently focusing on the front of the room.

Hermione found the class riveting, but Harry needed constant prodding to stay awake. She had no doubt he’d be asking for her notes when exam time rolled around, so she diligently wrote everything down, putting Daphne’s gift—her new pen—to good use. 

The two-hour class flew by, and students began pouring out of the classroom as Hermione rushed to finish the last few sentences of her notes. She was one of only two people left in the room, the other being fucking Draco . The moment she noticed, she decided she could finish up in the library instead. Quickly stacking her books into a neat pile, she made a beeline for the door.

But, in some cruel trick of fate, Draco chose that exact moment to leave as well. Hermione cut in front of him just before they reached the doorway, but Draco had never been one to miss an opportunity to display his callousness.

"Mudblood," he whispered, all too close to her ear.

Draco then veered off to the left and regrouped with Theo and Blaise and Hermione started to veer off to the right, making her way to the library. But she stopped in her tracks when she heard quiet chuckles coming from the slytherin trio.

Maybe it was the years of Draco taunting her. Maybe it was the sheer audacity of him living his life after everything he had done. Maybe—most likely—it was the rush of emotions she had felt over the last week coming to a head, none of which were Draco’s doing. But Hermione didn’t care; he was the perfect dumping ground for her wrath either way.

Hermione tightened her grip around a small book sitting atop her pile, spun around, and threw it, hitting him square in the head.

As soon as the book left her grip, she knew she was being irrational. She also knew she'd pay the price for it later. But the catharsis it gave her watching it bounce off his head—felt worth it.

“ What the FUCK!” Draco's hand flew to the back of his head as he turned to face where the book had traveled on. Hermione's vision had blurred with rage but she knew Theo and Blaise were laughing, which only riled her up more. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Granger”

“What's deserved” Hermione said, surprisingly coolly. The corridor where they stood in their tense standoff had completely cleared.

“Are you insane? You think your golden girl powers will stop you from getting in trouble for this”

A newfound sense of strength washed over Hermione and she found herself taking a few steps closer to Draco, ready to stand up for herself.

“Oh, go on, Malfoy—say it. Say your favorite line of all time,” Hermione taunted, sauntering closer and closer to him until she was standing right in front of him, her chin lifted to meet his silver, soulless eyes.

“ Wait till my father hears about this ,” Hermione mocked, imitating his accent perfectly.

“Oh, wait...” she said, bringing a hand to her mouth to stifle a fake laugh. “You can’t”

Draco’s eyes darkened, his pupils narrowing into slits, and the muscle in his jaw twitched visibly, betraying the simmering fury beneath the surface. The air around him seemed to grow thicker, charged with the intensity of his anger. Hermione felt a surge of triumph, a twisted sense of satisfaction knowing she had struck a nerve. It was a low blow, true, but the sharp intake of breath from Draco’s companions—Theo and Blaise—told her everything she needed to know. Their eyes were wide, one with shock, the other with a twisted amusement that reflected her own.

She could practically see the flames of rage beginning to build behind Draco's icy exterior, and she knew it wouldn’t take much longer before he’d snap, turning the tables and regaining the upper hand. But Hermione wasn’t about to give him the chance. She took in the sight of him one last time, her gaze slowly sweeping over his tightly wound form, before letting out a bored sigh. She lifted her chin and allowed her face to fall into a mask of disinterest, her eyes locking onto his for just a moment longer.

Without another word, she pivoted on her heel,  her boots making a muted thud against the stone floor as she strode down the corridor. She silently smiled to herself, savoring her victory. Whatever had just transpired, she knew one thing for sure: she had won. 

The adrenaline from walking away with the upper hand soon began to fade, and Hermione’s calm, collected steps gave way to a frantic haste. When she arrived at the library, she blazed through the aisles until she reached her usual spot — the Muggle Studies section. It wasn’t a place most wizards considered important enough to peruse, which made it the perfect place to hide.

The large dark oak table let out a groan as Hermione set her stack of books on it. She slowly lowered herself into the accompanying seat at the head of the table, letting out a shaky breath as she did.

Regret began to creep in, but what unsettled her more was the loss of control over her emotions. Since the end of the war, she had been nothing short of jaded, yet she had, for the most part, kept her emotions in check. The only other time she had felt such an overwhelming surge of rage—one she couldn’t suppress—was when she had slapped Draco.

" See? He is the problem ," a little voice in her head insisted. She felt little remorse for the person on the receiving end of her outburst—he had used that word, that derogatory term, knowing exactly how it would ignite her fury. As she replayed the interaction in her mind, another thought forced its way to the surface, demanding her attention. Why had he whispered it? Up until now, their only exchanges since the war had been the occasional, begrudging ‘excuse me’ when required during class. Hermione had gone out of her way to avoid eye contact with him, and as far as she could tell, he had been doing much the same. Hermione's mind now flooded with follow up questions. Had he waited to be the last one out for that sole purpose? Did he know he would get that reaction out of her, even more concerning did he want the reaction from her? Had it been a trap to get her to slip up?

Hermione was so deep in thought she didn’t even see her two friends arrive until Ron threw his lone study book on the table creating a loud thud. She would go back to those thoughts later.

"So, I hear you had a go at Malfoy after class?" Harry began, his tone laced with curiosity. Of the three, he had been the most sympathetic to Draco. Hermione could already sense the inevitable follow-up—a gentle but stern reprimand, the kind only a close friend could offer.

Hermione leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest before letting out a blunt reply. 

“I threw a book at his head”

“Hermione!” Harry exclaimed

“The git bloody deserves it, and more” Ron quickly interjected, coming to her defence. 

The two went back and forth for a few minutes—Harry condemning her use of violence, Ron cheering it on. With one on either side of her, it felt like the classic devil and angel perched on her shoulders, locked in a heated debate. Hermione tilted her head back and locked her eyes on a piece of carved stone on the ceiling. She knew she would have to jump in soon and fully explain her action but she wasn't sure she had the words to, as she couldn't even explain it to herself. A slight raise in Rons tone prompted her to make this move.

“Guys stop arguing,” Both boys stopped and looked at her waiting for the rest of her explaination. “He whispered Mudblood in my ear as we walked out and I lost my cool.” 

“He did what? He is lucky to be here you know, he shouldn't be doing shit like that” Ron said, ready to start back into his usual disparaging of Draco. 

“It's okay Ron. Even though Malfoy shouldn't have said that, it doesn't excuse my actions and I’ll be okay with whatever consequences come my way.” Hermione moved to sit more upright, hoping this subject had ended and they could move on idle chatter about classes and study.

Harry didn’t have much to add, having already sat with Hermione in class, but Ron eagerly filled the silence, giving them an update on his Quidditch training. While Ron was taking a small handful of university classes as a backup plan in case his Quidditch dreams didn’t pan out, his focus was always on his training. This year, he was particularly hopeful about making the Puddlemere United team. Hermione couldn’t deny that he had a pretty solid chance.

Their conversation was interrupted when a tawny owl swooped in from a high window and dropped a letter address to Hermione right in front of her. The moment she saw the wax seal, Hermione knew exactly who it was from. It was from the Vice-Chancellor. 

“Well here comes my consequences” Hermione said with a small huff as she tore it open.

“What does it say?” Ron and Harry said almost in harmony, inching forward as though they wanted to read the letter themselves.

“It just says she wants to see me once I am finished with my last class for the day, which-” Hermione looked down at her watch “-starts in 15 minutes so I better go.”

Hermione stood up and started gathering her things excited to go to class but now dreading it finishing even more than usual. “I will let you guys know how it goes when uhh I see you next.”

They exchanged quick goodbyes as Hermione headed off to her next class, Mentally preparing herself for what was to follow.

Hermione's last class of the day flew by, mainly in a blur. She looked down at her notes realizing she had only written the date down. She hoped her subconscious had managed to store a few of the Professor's words away because all that consumed her mind was her Draco. More so, her spiteful words and the consequences that would now befall her.

As if her shoes had been filled with cement, Hermione dragged herself out of the classroom, each step heavier than the last. The Floo sat at the end of the corridor, a far better option than walking—because if she chose to make the journey on foot, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to convince herself to keep going. However, the moment she stepped through the green flames, she wished she had walked instead—just to give herself more time to think. About what? She wasn’t sure. A better argument, perhaps? Or maybe an excuse to feign illness and go home? But deep down, she knew it was pointless. Pulling the band-aid off was the best choice, even if she could already feel nausea bubbling in her stomach, her nerves twisting into knots.

Hermione passed beneath the grand, curved to a point archway leading to the vestibule outside the Vice-Chancellor's office. A brown leather couch with curved armrests sat to one side of the walkway, and on the other, a large stone desk loomed. Behind it, an assistant typed away, the rhythmic clicking of keys filling the otherwise silent space. As Hermione approached, the woman lowered her chin, peering over the rim of her glasses.

“Miss Granger” She greeted. “I will let her know you are here, take a seat I am sure she won't be long”

Hermione had hoped the assistant would offer some friendly words or even just a reassuring smile—anything to ease the growing unease twisting in her stomach. Instead, the woman simply returned to her typing, tearing the paper from the typewriter with brisk efficiency the moment the final letter laid ink to the paper.

Hermione took her seat, shifting uncomfortably as she crossed and uncrossed her legs. Her hands moved indecisively—first resting beside her, then clasped in her lap. She fiddled with the hem of her skirt, chewing her lip as the nerves built, rattling through her like they were desperate to escape. Before she even realized it, her knee had begun bouncing slightly, the restless movement earning her an annoyed glance from the assistant. Hermione offered her a small smile as an apology and then planted her foot firmly on the ground. Not a moment later did the large wooden door open with a groan. It gave Hermione a small sense of relief she, at least, wouldn't run the risk of annoying the assistant anymore.

Hermione stood, straightening her attire and smoothing her hair before walking through the doorway into the grand office of the Vice-Chancellor. She paused at the center of a large, heavily embroidered rug that lay in the middle of the room.

“Vice-Chancellor McGonagall” Hermione greeted her.

McGonagall was already looking at her and then without a word gesture for Hermione to take a seat at one of the two armchairs that sat on an angle facing her pedestal desk.

When Hermione’s eyes landed on McGonagall’s face, her nervousness and guilt returned tenfold. McGonagall had been an important figure during her time at Hogwarts—but even more so after the war. She had championed Hermione’s studies when they were finally allowed to return to complete their N.E.W.T.s. Alongside Molly Weasley, McGonagall had helped fill the motherly void left in Hermione’s life.

Over time, their relationship had shifted into something more personal. Hermione would often join her for dinner, and on particularly jaded days, they would sit in comfortable silence, sharing a glass of wine. During those moments, Hermione called her Minerva, and for a time, Minerva had been her closest confidante. In many ways, Hermione had become hers as well.

After the war, McGonagall’s life—like everyone else’s—had been left in limbo. She had been offered the role of overseeing the rebuilding of Hogwarts, followed by the position of Headmistress. But she declined, choosing instead a professorship at the university. Though it was never explicitly stated, most accepted that she had done so to stay close to the students who had suffered alongside her during the war.

Hermione had always been grateful for her presence and had felt a deep sense of pride as McGonagall quickly rose to Vice-Chancellor. But in moments like this, that admiration only made the weight of her own actions feel even more crushing.

The scratching of the quill McGonagall was using was the only sound in the room until she peered over her slim silver framed glasses to look at Hermione.

“You can be at no loss as to why you are here, Miss Granger.” McGonagall plainly stated. Finishing with the letter she was writing and adding it to the pile of paperwork that sat off to one side.

She paused, giving Hermione a chance to respond, but all Hermione could do was shift her weight in the seat and bite her lip. 

McGonagall set her quill down with deliberate care, placing it neatly beside the inkwell before folding her hands atop the desk. A quiet sigh escaped her lips, heavy with unspoken reprimand. Hermione recognized that sigh all too well—it was the kind that made her feel small, like she was a child at Hogwarts again. A lump formed in her throat as a wave of guilt settled over her, shrinking her in her seat.

“It's very simple what I want Miss Granger, I want to know why?” 

Hermione had known this question was coming, and she knew it would be impossible to answer because she simply did not know herself. It made perfect sense what he said got under her skin and it made perfect sense that she would bite back, but throwing a book at his head? Didn't matter how cathartic it was, it wasn't right. Hermione slumped further into the chair as she tried to find the words.

“He whispered “Mudblood” in my ear” Hermione tried, hoping it would be enough. It wasn't.

“Mr. Malfoy did tell me that, in surprising honesty,” McGonagall said, the last part nearly muttered under her breath. Hermione blinked. She hadn’t expected Draco to tell the truth—especially not that truth. McGonagall's eyes flickered momentarily to the desk, and she let out a quiet sigh “And while I can accept the need to retort, I cannot accept the use of violence. Even against those who have, without a doubt, caused much harm themselves.”

Hermione felt a small, tentative wave of relief wash over her. McGonagall’s words—firm but measured—reminded her that, despite the gravity of the situation, she was still standing by her. Still on her side. But it was fleeting, overshadowed by the heavy disappointment in the air.

“Hermione, I will ask you again,” McGonagall pressed, her voice soft but unyielding. “Why?”

Hermione shifted uneasily in her chair, the question pressing against her like a weight. Her eyes dropped to the floor, her fingers unconsciously fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. Her words escaped her as a ragged whisper, barely above a murmur.

“I resent him,” she ground out. It was the only answer she could give. She had wanted to feel justified, to feel her actions were something more than just the echo of years of hate and hurt. But how could she explain the tempest inside her heart? The fact that, despite everything, it had always been easier to hold on to that bitterness than to let it go.

McGonagall didn’t flinch, her gaze steady. “No one could blame you for that,” she replied, her voice laced with understanding. “But need I remind you, it was you who got him excused.”

Hermione’s pulse quickened. She opened her mouth to argue but stopped herself, the words feeling hollow before they could leave her lips.

“It wasn’t just me,” Hermione began, her voice rising with a slight edge of defensiveness. “They asked for the testimonies of myself, Ron, and Harry.”

McGonagall arched an eyebrow, her expression inscrutable. “And Mr. Weasley went into great detail as to why Mr. Malfoy and all those connected to him should be locked away for the rest of their lives. Mr. Potter was adamant that his survival—and subsequently the end of the war—was thanks to Mr. Malfoy and his mother, and so they should be wholly forgiven.” McGonagall paused, her gaze locking with Hermione’s. “And when they came to you, what did you say?”

The question hung in the air like a stone ready to sink. And suddenly, Hermione was there again—back in the Wizengamot chambers, surrounded by the sea of plum-colored robes. The cold, austere stares of the judges piercing into her. The relentless barrage of questions. Most she could answer with ease but when they got to the case of Draco Malfoy, at first only one sentence came out…

“He was only a child” Hermione said out loud, her gaze out off into the distance, focused on nothing in particular. Hermione remembered when she first heard about him getting his dark mark, he would’ve only been 16. At first she was disgusted, her hatred for him multiplied but then when she sat on her bed that night thinking about it, a part of her heart broke for him. He was only a child, in an adult war.  A child, misguided in a world that had asked him to pick sides, to choose a future that was never really his to decide. They were ultimately different sides of the same coin. The war had taken many decisions anyway from herself, Harry and Ron but being under the thumb of Voldermort Hermione had no doubt any punishments to befall Draco would have been more severe.

“If you had condemned him, he would've gone away. But you stood there in his defence saying, like many others, he was only a child who deserved another go at life and because of that they let him off” There now a slight end to McGonagall's voice, a slight end which made Hermione's stomach turn. She thought she might have been let off easy but now she wasn't so sure. 

McGonagall gathered the folds of her crushed velvet robes—deep blue with a subtle shimmer that caught the light like stars scattered across a midnight sky—and rose to her feet. The fabric whispered against the floor as she moved to the side of her desk, trailing behind her like a cloak of authority.She eventually came to a stop just beside Hermione, her hands clasped—whether in sympathy or sternness, Hermione couldn't quite tell. 

“I know it must be hard to move on, and I know it makes things easier when we can pin all our hatred on one person. But you must move on. No, not for Mr. Malfoy and his head's sake. But for yours” Sympath, Hermione decided. McGonagall continued on. “So best place to start is letting go which is why, as a consequences for your actions, you’ll need to go apologize to Mr. Malfoy-”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest but she was silenced with a raised hand. 

“- by the end of the week”. McGonagall lowered her hand, a sign Hermione could start her protests. But Hermione no longer had any words. The ever logical part of her brain had been silenced by the burning hatred part as she realised she had never even entertained the idea of apologizing to him. She had thought of all other consequences from a simple telling off to expulsion but had missed the glaringly obvious and the most logical one. And yet, she could have argued it was the worst. She was going to have to speak with him and be pleasant about it. The thought made her stomach churn. It all seemed backwards considering he had never apologised to her for the endless list of things that happened during the war.

Never one to hide her emotions well, Hermione knew McGonagall could see the train of thought unfolding behind her eyes. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but it might as well have been—the expression on her face gave it all away. The slight tilt of McGonagall’s head told Hermione she was waiting, patiently, for the usual onslaught of reasons and rebuttals. But as Hermione sat with the idea, her resolve quietly slipped away. Maybe... maybe it was right. First the ball, and now this—actually speaking to Draco. Could this be the turning of a new page in her book of endless turmoil she had spent years adding pages to? One where she no longer clung to the past like armor, no longer inflicted pain on herself out of habit. So much of her life there was always someone or something impacting the decisions she made, she never made them for herself. Maybe she could be liberated from that.

 ‘ Oh Fuck’ she thought to herself, McGonagall was right. The small smirk that threatened to surface on McGonagall's face let Hermione know she might as well have also said that thought out loud.

“Well, it would seem we’re on the same page. I’ll let you carry on with your day.”

Hermione took that as her cue to stand and make her exit. The Vice-Chancellor walked beside her as she padded silently across the office. The large wooden door groaned open, seemingly anticipating her departure.

As she crossed the threshold, Hermione turned to offer a polite farewell—some mixture of “thank you” and “goodbye,” purely for courtesy’s sake. But McGonagall cut her off before she could speak.

“I do hope this marks the beginning of some healing,” she said, and then, with the ghost of a chuckle, added, “And who knows, perhaps you and Mr. Malfoy will strike up a friendship. He can be quite good company.”

The door closed in Hermione’s face before she could muster a reply, leaving her standing there, jaw slightly slack with offended surprise.

So much for being on her side , she thought bitterly.

She could feel the amused gaze of the assistant burning into her back, but didn’t spare her a glance. Instead, she turned sharply on her heel and strode toward the floo network.

Most days, she ended with a quiet study session in her shadowy corner of the library. But not today. Today, she was going straight home—to lie on her bed and grapple with the burden of what to do next.

Chapter 4: The Mystery Man, the Handkerchief, and the Nosey Ginger

Hermione arrived home through the Floo in a huff. Ginny was sitting on the couch reading the latest gossip column in The Daily Prophet. She peeked over the top of the pages at Hermione's arrival, letting the pages flop down in half on their natural fold. The look on Ginny's face told Hermione that Harry or Ron had already filled her in, but she wanted the full story from Hermione—and she wanted it now.

Hermione walked out of the living room and flopped on her back on her bed with a huff, staring up at the white-painted ceiling of her room. Ginny was quick to follow her in, as Hermione had anticipated, and came to stand over her head at the side of the bed. Hermione tilted her chin up so she had a better view of her. Ginny stood looking down at her, hands on hips and a very expectant look in her eye. The pink drawstrings of her hoodie hung down, nearly grazing Hermione's face.

Hermione knew she wasn't going to get out of this one. No one loved gossip more than Ginny. She really should've become an apprentice to Rita Skeeter, but she had too much of a moral compass to go down that road. Ginny then placed a hand under Hermione's shoulder and made a slight pushing motion to tell Hermione to sit up, scooch over and get into it. Hermione obeyed and moved to sit against the hard wood endboard of her bed, letting her legs dangle off to one side. Ginny mirrored her position on the other end of the bed.

“So who filled you in?” Hermione started.

“Harry and Ron. I saw them at lunch. Ron thought it was the best thing ever, so he was jumping out of his skin to tell me.” Ginny placed her hand down in front of her, leaning in slightly towards Hermione. “But I want to know the full story, from the source. And what did the VC say to you?”

Hermione recounted the events in the corridor outside her class that morning. Ginny cut in when she retold the line she said to Draco about his father.

“You said that? Oh, Merlin, Hermione—he really got under your skin today,” Ginny said, her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle a laugh. The sight of her struggling not to burst out laughing made Hermione chuckle too. It was ridiculous that she’d said it—but, honestly, it felt good. Hermione's little chuckle now set Ginny off, and quickly both girls were having a full-on laugh at Hermione's blunt dig at Draco.

“No, we really shouldn't laugh. It was a terrible thing to say,” Hermione said in between chuckles.

“No, we really shouldn't, but it must've felt good.” Ginny's head flopped back onto one of Hermione's big fluffy down pillows, laughter still shaking her chest.

“Oh Gin, it really did.” Hermione pulled her head back, so it now hung over the edge of the endboard, letting the tips of her hair brush ever so gently against the wooden ottoman that Hermione used as extra storage for her books.

“You know as well as anyone I agree with Harry when it comes to Draco.” The laughter now paused. Was Hermione about to get another telling-off today? “But that's not to say he doesn't deserve to be… humbled every now and then.” Ginny laughed again, but this time slightly softer before she continued. “Did you even actually do any damage?”

Hermione screwed her face up slightly in thought. Her adrenaline had run so high during the interaction she could barely make out small details, so she wasn't sure. “I’m not sure. It was a small book, and it landed flat against his head. At worst, he probably has a headache.”

“Do you still have the book? You could frame it.”

Hermione could always count on Ginny to find the humour in any situation. Somehow, she always managed to make even the heaviest moments feel a little lighter. Hermione's laughter at the thought, however, was abruptly cut short. “Shit,” she exclaimed.

“What?” Ginny asked.

“Oh no, I didn't pick the book back up. Shit, shit, shit. He probably has it!” Hermione was now up on her feet, pacing in front of her open wardrobe, hands clasped behind her neck. Ginny was chewing on her lip, letting Hermione go through the five stages of grief in the span of ten seconds. Hermione let out a huff before continuing. “McGonagall tasked me with going and apologizing to him as punishment. I guess I could ask for it then. Ugh, I know she let me off light, and she was talking about how it'll be good for—”

“What's that?” Ginny cut off her ramble.

“What’s what?” Hermione spun around to see what Ginny was talking about. But at first glance, there was nothing unusual—just her desk buried in clutter, a small overstuffed bookshelf, and her wardrobe hanging open with clothes spilling out.

Then her eyes landed on it.

Her heart sank.

There, poking out at the very end of the wardrobe, was the suit jacket. His jacket—the one the Masked Stranger had worn that night. The one she’d sworn to hide away with the rest of the evidence from that evening. She had meant to tuck it in the back, but for days afterward it had still carried a faint trace of his scent. Hermione hadn’t been able to resist catching those lingering whiffs whenever she got dressed.

That scent had long faded now, along with her memory of what he smelt like. And now, it was right there in plain sight.

Crap.

“What's that?” Ginny repeated, now getting up to grab the jacket off the wardrobe railing. “Do not even try to pass this off as yours.”

Hermione's brain raced trying to come up with the perfect cover story, but ultimately, she couldn't—and for the second time today, she would have to fall on her sword, of sorts. “Uh well, I went to the ball, met a guy, got cold and he was a gentleman and gave me his jacket. I forgot to give it back.” Hermione informed Ginny while snatching the black suit jacket back. It only stayed in her hands briefly, as Ginny was quick to snatch it back.

“I knew it, I knew it! Everyone else thought you had just taken the mask and invite back to your room, but I knew it! You have to tell me everything! Who was he?” Hermione knew this was going to be the first of many questions from Ginny, and she just hoped she could navigate them quickly.

“I don't know, I left before midnight.”

“Did you dance together?”

“Yes, one dance.”

“And then what?” Ginny’s face was glowing with excitement—it almost made Hermione want to divulge the whole story.

“We went for a look around the courtyard, which is where I got cold and—” Hermione made a gesture towards the jacket to finish the sentence. Ginny was now starting to inspect the jacket closer, popping her hands into the pockets but coming up empty, much like Hermione had. But unlike Hermione, Ginny then dipped her hand into a hidden jacket pocket on the inside of the jacket Hermione wasn't aware of. The two girls drew closer together and Ginny pulled something out of the pocket.

“Looks like a handkerchief.” Ginny turned it over in her hands. Hermione was quick to grab it for closer inspection. Ginny placed the jacket on the bed and moved to look at the handkerchief over Hermione's shoulder. Hermione carefully unfolded it. It was a plain white linen, it had four lines running down and across, meaning it had been pressed. A dark green thread was used to create the embroidered solid border, and in one corner were two initials stitched in.

“D…L? I?” Hermione said, struggling to figure out what the second letter was.

“It looks like it has been unpicked?” Ginny said with a confused look on her face. Both girls were very confused. Hermione brought it closer to see if she could decipher what was meant to follow the slanted line of the second initial.

“Why would someone who took the time to press their handkerchief not fix the missing stitching?” Hermione said, chewing the inside of her lip. She ran her fingers along the rest of the stitching, hoping it would expose more clues. It didn't.

“Or is the question, why did this person not want their last initial on the handkerchief?”

“Maybe.” Hermione sighed and placed the handkerchief on her desk for further inspection later.

“Did you kiss?” Ginny asked, changing the subject with a mischievous look in her eye. Hermione knew that's all she had really wanted to ask all along. She contemplated lying—it would be easy enough—but decided the truth would make Ginny so happy.

“Yes, and it was the best kiss I’ve ever had.” Hermione twisted on her heel slightly as she replayed the kiss she had experienced that night. It really had been the best kiss she had ever had and probably ever would have. She felt a deep blush burn into her cheeks and chest the longer she thought about it.

“You’re blushing.”

Hermione wasn't about to give Ginny the full breakdown of the night. She wanted to keep those memories as something special, sacred, for herself. However, the radiant smile on her friend’s face did make her feel good about the little she had shared.

“I cannot wait to hear the full story, but I’ve got drinks tonight with a few people from my class, so I have got to go.” Ginny said, giving her a hug before she brushed past her to the door. It had been so long since they had shared a hug. It felt nice.

“Oh and Hermione, it must feel nice.” Ginny said from the doorway.

“What feels nice?” Had Ginny just heard her thoughts?

“To know that I am right and should always be listened to,” Ginny said with a smug look on her face.

“Mmm, I don’t know about always, but I’ll give you this one, Gin,” Hermione replied with a laugh. There was no denying it—Ginny and Luna had been right about her going to the ball.

Ginny closed the door behind her, and a soft whoosh from the fireplace followed. Hermione knew she was alone in the flat now. Luna always stayed late to study with Rolf—or at least, that’s what she said they were doing.

Hermione plonked herself down on her bed, her gaze falling to where the suit jacket still lay. She reached out, running her fingers along the collar, recalling the way he had felt beneath her grip—and how her knees had weakened in his. It had never truly occurred to her that she might be able to uncover the identity of the Masked Stranger. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to. He was probably a Muggle. She’d find out who he was only to watch his life unfold from a distance. And truthfully, he’d probably already forgotten about her. Someone that effortlessly charming no doubt had a harem of admirers to keep him company. She had merely been the stand-in for one night.

A soft sigh left her lips as she hung the jacket back in the wardrobe, in the same spot with the jacket peeking out slightly—but this time, on purpose.

Notes:

Hello!

Thank you to everyone who had read and supported so far! I know this chapter is on the shorter side, but I promise they get longer.

Happy Reading <3

Chapter 5: A Beginner’s Guide to Saying 'Sorry' While Definitely Not Meaning It

The rest of the week passed quickly and innocuously. Hermione didn’t see Draco again, even though she knew they would share at least several more classes this term. He was either unwell… or avoiding her. She strongly suspected it was the latter and she was glad for it. If he chose to sulk in the shadows, it would be his grades that suffered. At least now, she could focus properly in class without stealing glances to anticipate his next petty revenge.

Hermione had decided—out of pure, childish pettiness—to wait until the last possible moment to apologise to Draco. However, the weight of it hung over her like a storm cloud, dark and relentless. She didn’t want to carry it with her through the weekend, didn’t want it lingering in the back of her mind like something left to rot.

So here she was, slouched at her desk in the last class of the day, her quill unmoving on the parchment. The lecture blurred into the background as she turned over a dozen versions of the apology in her mind. But every scenario, no matter how she reshaped it, spiraled into disaster. It was either her voice rising in frustration, an object hurled at his smug expression, or her wand drawn with trembling fingers.

Hermione Floo’d back home straight after her class. She was going to have to catch up on all her classwork over the weekend—at least she would have something to do.

Harry and Ginny were curled up together on the couch, heads bent over the latest issue of The Daily Prophet. Hermione had kept Ginny in the loop about her “grand apology” plans, it was helpful to have someone to bounce ideas off. More importantly, it kept Ginny from digging too deeply into what had really happened the night of the ball.

As Hermione stepped into the room, her eyes met Ginny’s, and without a word, the redhead understood. A quiet exchange passed between them. Ginny rose without hesitation and followed Hermione as she turned and headed to her room, leaving behind a confused Harry still holding the paper in his lap.

“Hey, where are you guys going?” Hermione heard Harry call out, followed by, “Yeah, well, nice to see you too,” as Ginny closed Hermione's bedroom door. She felt bad ignoring Harry; he really was such an amazing friend to her. Still, this week had been dragging on, and she needed to rip the band-aid off now. Ginny was the only one Hermione trusted to help. The irony wasn’t lost on her that the friend who loved to gossip the most was the most trustworthy one.

“So, are you still going to do it today?” Ginny asked, settling on the edge of Hermione’s bed. She rested her chin on the top of the footboard, eyes tracking Hermione as she paced back and forth across the room.

“I have to,” Hermione replied, shaking out her arms in a vain attempt to rid herself of the nerves crawling under her skin.

“Do you know what you’re going to say yet?”

“Mmm. I’ve run two scenarios in my head.” Hermione stopped pacing, though her fingers continued to fidget anxiously. “I could find him, spit out the three words, and leave. I don’t care what he has to say after that—or about anything.” She added the last bit under her breath, but Ginny heard it anyway.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Alright… simple enough. And the other option?”

“Or… I could ask for an apology first. For everything he’s done.” Hermione’s voice grew sharper, edged with frustration. “Doesn’t it just seem wrong to you that one of the first real conversations we’ll have—and I’m the one apologising?”

Ginny blinked. “From Malfoy?”

“Yes. It's twisted that one of the first conversations we’re going to have since the war, I’m the one apologising?” Her tone flared with frustration, anger threading through every word. “He never once said sorry. Not for the war. Not for the way he’d stood by while the worst happened. Not for anything. And yet I’m the one expected to grovel, because of a stupid book?”

The thought had struck her late one night when she’d been staring at the ceiling, running over the plan again and again in her head. They hadn’t spoken since the war. Not really. And yet somehow, she was the one expected to offer up an apology and seek forgiveness.

If all Malfoy did during the war was throw a book at me, she had thought, teeth gritted and chest tight, my life would’ve been a lot simpler.

“But…” Ginny started quietly, dropping her eyes down to the floor. Hermione knew that whatever was coming next was going to feed more into her festering anger. “Did Malfoy really do all that much to you during the war?”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. Anger and disbelief flashed across her face like lightning.

“Excuse me?” she hissed, just barely keeping her voice down. Harry was in the next room, and if he caught wind of this conversation, he'd have it passed around like it was front-page news. Honestly, he and Ginny were a perfect match—both nosy as hell.

Ginny raised her hands in surrender.

“Please don’t get mad, Hermione. I just think… if you’re going to confront him, it might help to be clear on exactly what you want an apology for. Malfoy’s smart and slimy. If your words leave any wiggle room, he’ll find a way to manipulate them.”

Hermione exhaled sharply. The anger ebbed, reluctantly giving way to reason. Damn it—Ginny had a point.

“And you remember, I know you do,” Ginny continued carefully, “that Malfoy and his mum… they did try to help. In the end.”

“Oh, are you kidd—”

“In the only way they could,” Ginny cut in, her voice firmer now, anticipating Hermione’s explosion. “It wasn’t brave, but… it was something.”

Hermione didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her body was locked tight, like her memories had crawled up from the depths and wrapped cold hands around her throat.

Ginny watched her carefully. “Can you even name one thing he did to you?”

Had she forgotten? How nice that must be.

And that’s when the flashback glazed over Hermione's vision, and it was all she could see.

The Manor.
The echo of her own screams ricocheting off marble walls.
Bellatrix’s manic laughter as the knife sliced into her skin.
Blood soaking into the wood floors.

Draco stood just feet away.
Arms limp at his sides.
Eyes hollow.

He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t help.

Just watched.

He chose fear.
He always chose fear.

“He stood by,” Hermione spat, her voice hollow and trembling with restrained rage.

She yanked up her sleeve. The word Mudblood, carved into her skin by Bellatrix’s cursed knife, still angry and red after all this time. A memory that never faded.
She hooked her finger into the collar of her shirt and pulled it down, revealing the jagged red line near her collarbone. A mark carved not just into her body—but into her life.

“He stood by,” she repeated, voice lower now. “And did nothing.”

That was his crime. Not action but inaction.
The coward’s path.
Watching cruelty unfold and choosing not to stop it.
Choosing silence.
Choosing safety.

And she would not let him pretend that made him innocent.

Ginny’s face fell. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, searching for something to bring Hermione comfort. But there was nothing she could say. No words could unwind the knot of pain and betrayal wrapped tight in Hermione’s chest.

“I am… so sorry, Hermione, I…” The words trailed off, fragile and helpless on Ginny's tongue.

Hermione tugged her top back into place, hiding the scars, but not the memories. She focused on steadying her breathing, willing the sharp edge of fury to dull. A fresh wave of guilt curled in her stomach. She hadn’t meant to unload like that. Ginny had only tried to help, tried to understand. And Hermione had lashed out, not because of Ginny, but because the weight of the past had become too heavy to carry.

“No, I’m sorry, Gin. I shouldn’t have dumped all of that on you,” she murmured, moving to sit beside her. She placed a hand on Ginny’s shoulder, and Ginny returned the affection by bringing her in for a quiet, grounding hug.

“It’s just…” Hermione’s voice was now quiet. “Whenever I think about the war, it’s his face I see.”

She hated that it was true. Out of all the horrors burned into her memory, it was him—standing off to the side, eyes cold, doing nothing. He hadn’t raised his wand against her that night. He hadn’t carved her skin or cast the spells. But he had watched. He had let it happen. That passive cruelty hurt more than any curse.

And yet…

He had been sixteen. Just a boy.
A scared, angry, confused boy, thrown into the middle of a war he hadn’t chosen, surrounded by expectations and darkness he’d never asked for.
A part of her—the rational part—knew that. She could almost empathize with that version of Draco. Almost.

But that empathy made it worse.

Because understanding didn’t erase what happened.
It didn’t wipe away her scars.
And it didn’t make her hate him any less.

“It’s just so much easier to hate him,” Hermione whispered quietly, more to herself than for Ginny to hear.

Ginny didn’t speak, just held her tighter.

“And now I’m the one meant to say sorry for throwing a book at him?” Hermione laughed bitterly, a hollow, disbelieving sound.

She pulled away, wiping at her face with the back of her sleeve. The apology had been a plan—cold, methodical, calculated. Just a way to clear the air and appease McGonagall.

But now, it had become something else.
Something bigger.
A reckoning.

“I need to do it now,” she said suddenly. Her voice was low, determined.

She didn’t know what she was going to say—not really. She didn’t know if she was still going to offer that carefully rehearsed apology, or demand one in return.
Maybe both.
Maybe neither.

But she knew she couldn’t carry this weight any longer.

She needed to face him.

And if he didn’t flinch, if he looked her in the eye and acted like none of it mattered, then at least she’d know.
At least she could stop wondering if there was any good in Draco Malfoy.

She stood, straightening her shoulders to stand tall and bring an air of confidence over her, however fake it may be.

“Does your web of gossip know where I could find him, Gin?”

“I mean, it’s almost 5 p.m. now. He’s probably just at home,” Ginny replied nonchalantly, as if Hermione should know this. Like Hermione would know anything about his schedule or where he goes.

“Okay, great. But where does he live?” Hermione asked, her tone sharp.

Ginny’s eyebrows rose in confusion. “...Next door.”

“What? When did that happen?”

Something about the thought of Draco being so close made Hermione's skin crawl.

“Umm, like the start of the first term? Did you not know?” Ginny said with a shrug, as if it were no big deal.

How had no one thought to tell her this? How had she never seen him? Then again, she did almost always use the Floo system to get around, so it made sense they hadn’t bumped into each other in the halls. Thank Merlin. She wasn’t exactly a social butterfly, either—she couldn’t even remember the name of the students who had lived there before him.

Her gaze drifted to the wall behind her bed, grateful for the ever-present silencing charms. But then, a thought slithered into her mind, one that made her skin crawl and her stomach churn.

“Which side?” Hermione ground out.

Ginny stiffened, sensing the tension radiating off her. Her eyes flicked around the room, like she was searching for an escape, before she bit her lip and slowly lifted a finger—pointing directly at the wall behind Hermione’s bed.

Hermione exhaled sharply through her nose. Of course. The university owned a row of six Muggle-made flats tucked into this corner of London; each arranged in a particular layout. Something to do with the plumbing, Hermione recalled. Which meant, on the other side of that wall—behind her bed—there was likely a bedroom.

His bedroom.

Great.

“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione muttered, resting her forehead against her raised palm. “He might as well be sleeping in my bed.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Hermione,” Ginny quipped, her signature wit returning with flair, clearly determined to get the last word.

“Do not even entertain the idea,” Hermione retorted bluntly, wondering if she might actually throw up.

“If you’re going to do it tonight, you probably want to go soon. You wouldn’t want to offend his pure-blood manners now, would you?”

Hermione raised a thoughtful eyebrow. She absolutely did want to offend him and his precious manners. Maybe she should wait until midnight. Knock on his door just as he was falling asleep, wake him up, interrupt whatever ridiculous evening routine he probably had.

She shook the thought from her head. That could mean him answering the door half-dressed. No thank you.

“I don’t want it looming over me and ruining my evening,” she said instead.

Ginny nodded, sensing the shift in tone, and slipped out of the room, returning to the couch where Harry still looked just as offended as when they’d left him—arms crossed, jaw tight, pretending not to eavesdrop.

Hermione took a steadying breath and turned to the mirror. She fussed briefly straightening her clothes, smoothing her hair, adjusting her skirt.

Not to impress him. Just to give him fewer things to sneer at.

She then made her way downstairs to their front door, which she was now very aware she didn’t use very often.

“Hermione, what’s going on?” she heard Harry call out.

She ignored him and glanced at Ginny, who gave her a look of reassurance. Reassurance that Hermione could do this—and reassurance that she wouldn’t spill the beans to Harry, who, no doubt, would have twenty questions once he heard the front door close.

Hermione paused, her hand wrapped around the cold brass handle, before pushing the door open. Her footsteps were heavy on the three brick doorsteps as she willed her body to make the quick journey to the next-door flat.

Where he lived, apparently.

Tentatively, she raised a knuckle to knock on the door—when it was suddenly ripped open.

Panic rose in her throat, thinking Draco had been watching her but she felt an odd sense of relief when she saw it was Theo.

She didn’t have as much contempt for him as she did for Draco. He was from a pure-blood family, and his father had been a Death Eater, but Theo had never joined. Post-war, he had even aided the Ministry in understanding the inner workings of dark magic, Death Eaters, and Voldemort himself. He was the type of guy who was friends with everyone and no one. The type who liked or disliked you depending on the day and the setting.

“Oh, hello, Granger. Have you come here looking for me?” he said, with a jovial, flirtatious tone.

“Oh, uh—no, uh…” Hermione stuttered, thrown off-kilter by his unexpected appearance in her plans.

“I’m heading out for a drink. Why don’t you join me?” The smell of alcohol was already wafting off him. Hermione doubted he needed more.

“No, uh, thank you. I’m here to see Malfoy, actually.”

“Oh, you’ve broken my heart!” Theo clamped a hand over his chest dramatically. Hermione felt at ease and smiled despite herself. “Oi, Draco! Someone’s here for you!” he then yelled up the stairs.

She knew him leaving out the fact that it was her was intentional—a sort of prank on Draco. Theo offered her a cheeky smile and pushed past her, leaving the door open behind him.

As she stepped toward the entryway, she heard a crack and turned. Theo was gone.

It made Hermione wonder if there were anti-apparition wards on the house.

Holding her breath, she passed through the threshold of the flat, relieved when some vile anti-Mudblood charm didn’t sting her, set her on fire, or do something equally horrific.

Hermione quickly made her way up the stairs to the living room, which was dimly lit by two tall candelabras and moonlight.

The flat was laid out the exact same as hers but mirrored, just as she had expected. Except this flat was much more nicely decorated.

Instead of dark blue, peeling wallpaper, it had dark green, patterned wallpaper lining the walls. Instead of a small, beaten-up three-seater settee and armchair, there was a large brown Chesterfield with two armchairs that looked like they had been plucked from the Regency era. There was even a bar cart off to the side, which no doubt carried the finest firewhiskeys and wines money could buy.

She wondered if Narcissa had decorated the flat.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?”

She startled slightly when she heard his voice from behind her but quickly regained her composure.

“Theo let me in,” she said, feigning nonchalance, like it was the most normal thing in the world that she’d be standing in his living room on a Friday night.

He closed the door he had just come through behind him before Hermione’s eyes could take a peek at what his room looked like—ostentatious and gaudy, no doubt.

She did notice, however, that on his side—the side that now backed onto her and Ginny’s room—there was only one door. The bastard had the size of two bedrooms to himself.

“I thought you pure-bloods were taught better manners. Shouldn’t you offer me a seat and a drink?” she said coolly. She didn’t actually want either of those things but she did want to get under his skin.

He sneered at her. “Fine. Have a seat—firewhisky, wine, or tea?”

“Wine,” Hermione said, her voice steady, though she remained standing. She didn’t trust Draco enough to relax and sink into one of his pompous, smug little chairs.

She hesitated even accepting anything from him at all, but reasoned that at the very least, she’d walk out of here knowing she’d taken a glass of his overpriced wine.

Besides, a little alcohol might help her keep up the illusion of confidence she was so desperately clinging to.

He placed an under-poured glass of red wine on the gold-detailed coffee table by her knee. She wasn’t surprised. Handing it to her directly would risk brushing against her dirty, Muggle-born fingers, after all.

“I suppose they don’t teach Muggles manners. You’re welcome,” Draco said snidely, still avoiding her eyes. “Are you here to finally apologise?”

Hermione didn’t reply right away. Instead, she glared at him—testing whether he had the backbone to meet her gaze.

He didn’t.

His gaze remained fixed on the small tumbler of firewhiskey in his hand. As she studied him, Hermione noted his appearance. He was dressed almost identically to the day she’d thrown a book at his head. The only difference was the black trousers and the fact that he was barefoot, wearing only black socks. It felt uncomfortably intimate to see him without shoes. Casual. Like the way you might present yourself around friends.

The sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled up to the elbows, and there, unhidden, was the Dark Mark. It wasn’t a new sight, but it always jarred her. A cruel reminder that even in stillness, even in silence, the past refused to let go.

“Yes and no,” she replied plainly.

A derisive chuckle left his lips. Draco's eyes snapped up to meet hers. It was such a small, simple movement, but Hermione felt like the air had been sucked out of her lungs. She had never paid much attention to his eyes, the moonlight that bore through the large lounge window made the iridescence of his silver iris stand out. It would've been a sight to behold if Hermione didn't know the hatred that lived behind them.

All her well-organized thoughts vanished for a second before she steadied herself.

There was a coffee-table-sized space between them, but she realized she didn’t think she had ever stood so close to him before. Not for this long, at least. The strange thing was, she didn’t know how to feel about it. She had expected a deep burning rage or even a shiver of fear to crawl over her but instead she felt at ease. Like she had stared into these eyes before.

But she couldn't have.

Hermione paused, expecting him to start his usual digs, but he stayed silent, staring at her and through her, at the same time.

“I will apologize to you—”

“Well, obviously.”

“— after you apologize to me.” Hermione forced a stern look on her face so he’d know she meant business.

“I guess I missed it when I threw the book at your head,” Draco leaned forward slightly, causing Hermione to instinctively lean back.

“Don’t play dumb, Malfoy. You know exactly what I mean. Apologize for all the things you did during the war.” Adrenaline surged through her veins, and Hermione knew she could stand her ground against Draco and his misplaced self-righteousness.

He stilled slightly, and she could see him trying to find the words—the words that would allow him to keep the upper hand—but they both knew that when it came to the war, he would be second best. That wouldn’t stop him from trying.

“What things?” Draco asked, taking a page out of Hermione’s book and feigning ignorance.

“Everything! Starting at the endless years of torment at the mercy of your cruel words and finishing up at standing by and doing nothing while your lunatic aunt tortured me!” Hermione’s voice rose as she inched forward, fighting the urge to grab him by the collar and slam him against the wall. “I could write you a list if that would help. Maybe that book gave you brain damage and you’ve forgotten the things you did.”

Her heart was beating against her rib cage with such force she could hear it in her ears and feel it in her fingertips. This was what she had wanted all these years — to face off with the cowardly boy who haunted her memories with such a dark looming presence, like death itself. Hermione’s vision blurred as the heightened emotion took over her body. She had no coherent thoughts anymore; she just wanted Draco to see, to understand the hurt. More importantly, to try and fix it.

Draco’s eyes had darkened, but his face showed no emotion otherwise. All she saw was red as the next words tumbled out of her mouth before she could second guess them — or even think them through.

“I regret defending you to the Wizengamot. I regret saving you from a life in Azkaban.”

Hermione moved forward again and knocked the coffee table with her knee, causing her untouched glass of wine to topple over. She jumped back, bracing herself for Draco to tear into her about the cost of the wine, or the now-stained plush rug. But he didn’t move. He just stared at her with an unwavering, intense gaze.

“You defended me?” Draco’s voice came out quiet. Timid.

Had he not known? Hermione blinked. He and his mother hadn’t been present when she gave her testimony, but she had assumed it would’ve made its way back to him.

The air in the room engulfed both of them in a cloud of thick tense silence. For a moment, she thought time had frozen. If not for the steady rise and fall of Draco’s chest, she would’ve believed the revelation had turned him to stone.

Her own breath was shallow. The room tilted slightly, the weight of it all too much to carry.

She needed to break the silence.

“I’m sorry I hit you in the head with a book, Malfoy,” she said, her voice hollow. “I’m sorry it wasn’t a brick.”

The words cut through the room, and she didn’t wait for his reply. She left.

She barreled down the stairs, taking two steps at a time. She flung the door open with such violence it could've ripped off its hinges, she didn't care and closed it in the same manner.

Her heartbeat roared in her ears, drowning everything out but she swore she heard it as she ran.

Her name.

Not ‘Granger,’ but ‘Hermione.’

Desperate. Almost like a plea.

At the bottom of the stairs, she dared to glance back. The curtain upstairs twitched, and a thin sliver of dull light split through.

Had he watched her leave?

She didn’t want to know.

Back in the safety of her flat, she climbed the stairs, grateful to find Ginny and Harry had disappeared into Ginny’s room — the door closed.

She collapsed against her bedroom door, sliding down until she sat curled in on herself. Her arms limp. Her head heavy.

No sobs. No gasping. Just the quiet roll of tears down her cheeks. All the energy had left her. The adrenaline was gone, and she was nothing but an echo of herself now.

And still, when she shut her eyes,

All she saw was his eyes.

Not sneering. Not cruel. Just… looking.

Silver eyes, unreadable, unblinking. Burning into her.

And from that night on, every time she shut her eyes, 

That was all she saw.

Chapter 6: The Science of Forced Proximity: Theory & Chaos

Despite Hermione's best intentions not to ruin her weekend, it inevitably was.

The morning after she fled Draco's flat, Ginny had snuck into her room with a steaming cup of tea and a small selection of cookies - a peace offering to coax Hermione into recounting the previous night, But Hermione was still reeling from it herself. She couldn’t find the words, not yet. So, she sent Ginny away with the promise of filling her in the next day.

Once Ginny left her alone, Hermione managed to get up and grab a book, along with the handkerchief bearing those mysterious initials, hoping they might offer some comfort. She climbed back into bed, where she stayed the rest of the day and night.

That was Saturday.

When Sunday rolled around, Hermione found her strength again. As soon as the morning sun broke through her curtains, she headed for the shower, determined to wash off the twisted, heavy air of Draco’s flat and ideally, any memory of being there at all.

She bumped into Luna on the staircase as she returned to her room, freshly washed and dressed for a full day of catching up on coursework. Luna was off to Rolf’s place, he’d just installed a new vivarium specially designed for Thestrals, and she was eager to see it. Hermione expressed her wish to see it one day too.

Later, Hermione met Ginny in the living room to finally discuss the events of Friday night. They sat closely on the lounge’s beaten-up old sofa, each holding a different hot drink. Ginny was just as stunned as Hermione that Draco hadn’t known about her testimony in court. Hermione admitted she wasn’t sure what kind of consequences would follow. Even though she’d said the words “I’m sorry,” it had hardly been an apology. Ginny wondered aloud whether Draco would update McGonagall on what happened.

“He always had a habit of tattling when things didn't go his way,” she had said.

Their conversation drifted on, and Ginny filled her in on Harry’s behavior – apparently, he’d sulked like a tempestuous child at being left out of the loop.

That night, everyone reconvened at the flat as Ginny attempted her version of a Sunday Roast. Hermione quietly hoped Ginny and Harry would one day be able to afford a house elf... at least for the cooking. Still, being surrounded by friends, food (of sorts), and laughter was something Hermione hadn’t realized she’d needed so badly.

That was Sunday.

Monday came and went as expected. She attended all her classes, compiled her notes, and settled into her usual spot in the library. But this Monday, she was one book lighter. Still missing the small volume, she had thrown at Draco. It had been about older, rarely used spells, and she’d found it fascinating. The library had no other copy. She resigned herself to never finishing it.

When no follow-up letter from McGonagall slid across her desk, she accepted that, for whatever reason, Draco hadn’t reported her non-apology. That bothered her more than she cared to admit. She would probably never know why. But asking would mean bringing it up herself and that, she wanted even less.

That was Monday.

And now it was Tuesday.

Hermione had received a late-night knock on her window the night previous from an ivory owl wearing a gold and diamond-studded collar. It was carrying a note from Daphne, requesting to catch up for coffee the following morning before class. Scribbling a quick acceptance and a time, she sent the owl on its way.

As she cleared the familiar green flames of the university Floo network the next day, she made a beeline for the café where they usually met but stopped in her tracks at the sight of Daphne standing just outside the entrance, talking to none other than Draco.

Hermione had always known they were close friends, but she'd hardly ever seen the two of them together in public. Looking around quickly, she ducked behind the large golden statue of Dumbledore that had been erected in his honour after the war. He must be filling her in, she thought. Maybe he’s trying to get Daphne to hate me.

Carefully, she peeked around the edge of her hiding place. Their body language didn’t seem particularly intense. Both stood with the relaxed posture of old friends catching up. In fact, Hermione could almost swear she saw the beginnings of a smile on Draco’s face.

Their conversation wrapped up with Daphne giving Draco a quick hug and a polite kiss on the cheek, rubbing off the faint lipstick stain she'd left behind. He turned and walked away, hopefully - Hermione thought, far, far away from wherever she was going today.

Straightening her posture, she walked over to the café and greeted Daphne.

“Morning, Daph.”

“Oh, Good Morning, Hermione,” Daphne said warmly, her voice and eyes bright. She pulled Hermione into a big hug, like she always did. They made their way to the counter, placed their usual orders, and tucked themselves into a quiet corner at the back of the café. As they settled in, Hermione tried to read Daphne's expression. Did she know? How much? Was she mad? Or worse… disappointed?

She didn’t have to wonder for long.

“I know,” Daphne said.

“How much do you know?” Hermione replied. No point dancing around it. Daphne was a snob, yes, but judgmental? That wasn't her style.

“That you hit him in the head… is there more to know?” Daphne leaned in, eager now. It was the same pose Hermione had often seen Ginny adopt when desperate for the latest gossip.

“Well, I went to his flat to apologise on Friday — turns out he lives next door to me.” The lack of reaction told Hermione she was, evidently, the only person who didn’t know this. “Anyway, it didn’t go well, and I ended up telling him I testified in court for him. Apparently, he didn’t know that, which kind of derailed the whole thing. I think we hate each other more now, if that’s even possible.”

Their drinks arrived, and Hermione took a sip.

“Wait- you testified in court for Draco?” Great. Another person who didn’t know. Hermione had never encountered a piece of information so thoroughly, bafflingly, well-kept.

“Oh Merlin, I have got to stop saying that. I assumed everyone knew. Please don’t tell anyone.” Hermione felt a blush creep onto her cheeks. Daphne just bit her lip and raised an eyebrow with a pleading look in her eyes. “Okay, you can tell Astoria. But neither of you can tell a single soul.”

“I promise. But I must confess, I’m confused. I thought you hated him. Like... when he was released from Azkaban into home detention, we were all half-expecting you to show up and Avada him yourself.”

“I thought about it,” Hermione joked, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere. But Daphne’s gaze stayed fixed, steely and expectant. She wasn’t letting it go. Hermione sighed and set her mug back onto the saucer with a soft clink.  Truthfully, in those first months after the war, she had thought a lot about the karma she hoped would find those responsible. Draco had sat high on that list. But she’d come to realise that dwelling on ways to hurt him gave him something he didn’t deserve and that was free real estate in her mind. As for casting the Killing Curse… well, unlike Draco, she would never turn to Dark Magic.

No matter how badly she sometimes wanted to.

“Malfoy did many, many, many terrible things during the war. Things I will never forgive him for. But when they asked me to go to the Wizengamot to give my testimony, I found myself stuck on one simple point.” She paused to take a breath.

“He was just a boy,” Daphne finished for her. There was a sorrow in her tone, and her expression matched it. Her perfectly shaped brows drew together in a crease of grief, her eyes glassy like tears might break free at any moment.

“I technically said ‘child’, but yes. The sentiment was the same,” Hermione admitted, shifting in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable. Daphne looked heartbroken, and Hermione wasn’t entirely sure what to do with that.

“He’s walking free because of you!” Elation suddenly bloomed across Daphne’s face, replacing the sorrow in an instant. Hermione was quietly relieved she wouldn’t have to console a crying friend today. That was not something she was particularly skilled in.

“Thank you, Hermione. I know Draco has been and done many… distasteful things, but he’s long been like a brother to me. I always thought he could’ve been something brilliant… if it weren’t for his dreadful father leading him astray. You gave him that opportunity back.”

And for the first time, Hermione felt it. A flicker of pride in what she had done for Draco. People had always held such fierce opinions about it, but hearing those words 'thank you' from someone who meant it? Well, it made her feel good.

Suddenly, the elation that had painted Daphne's face was replaced by something close to fury. This conversation was quickly turning into an emotional rollercoaster, and Hermione wasn’t sure how much more she could handle.

“That insolent brat!” Daphne spat. The sudden shift took Hermione aback, she had just been saying how important Draco was to her, and now she was insulting him. “You did that for him, and he still has the gall to say what he said to you? Let me guess… he still hasn’t bothered to thank you or apologise?”

“Oh, no. But in his defence, Malfoy didn’t know.” In his defence? Had Hermione really just said “in his defence” about Draco? Today really was off to a strange start.

“No, no, no. This will not do! I’m going to have a word with him, and if he doesn’t listen to me, I’ll go straight to his mother. Draco should be on his knees, begging for forgiveness and showering you with tokens of appreciation.”

Hermione couldn't help but cringe at the thought of ever accepting a gift - let alone gifts - from him.

Daphne stood, clearly ready to hunt him down and begin the scolding immediately. As satisfying as it might be to know Draco would get a dressing-down from someone as formidable as Daphne, Hermione wasn’t sure how he would react. Would he lash out again? This time with more than just words? She gently placed a hand on Daphne’s forearm, silently willing her to sit back down.

“I appreciate it, Daph. But please don’t.”

“Fine,” Daphne huffed, crossing her arms. “But if he insults you again, you tell me, and I’ll throw the book at him myself.”

Both girls smiled, the tension broken by a few light chuckles.

Hermione glanced down at her watch. Her mid-morning class was due to start soon, and she was eager to be the first one there, as always.

They said their goodbyes, Daphne’s hug extra tight this time.

As she got into the lifts, she double-checked her class details.

 

‘Herbs! Potions! Curses? - Professor Slughorn.’

Hermione was excited for this class this semester. It started a week later than her other classes due to Slughorn being needed elsewhere. Something about a Ministry trip. It was to be a mix of theory and practical, so many of her classes were theory-based these days, it was nice to be getting back to the actual doing of magic. It was a required class if she was to get her apprenticeship as a Cursebreaker, so passing top of the class was important to her but that wasn’t really different from any other class she took.

The black-stained wooden door to the classroom was open, and she was relieved to find she was the first one there. The desks were large workbenches, clearly set up to seat two students each. As Hermione passed the first table, she noticed two small name cards.

Oh great, she was going to have to work with a partner. A partner she couldn’t even choose for herself, she thought, and let out a huff.

Hermione slowly made her way around the room until she found the desk bearing her name. It was towards the back of the room - an unfortunate position that she wasn’t particularly fond of. Eager to see who her partner would be, she leaned over to read the name on the other side of the bench.

All the colour drained from her face, and a cold shiver ran down her spine as she read in thin black ink: ‘Draco Malfoy’.

This had to be some cruel twist of fate or, more likely, a cruel trick of McGonagall.

Giving the room a quick scan to make sure no one else had arrived yet, she decided she would simply switch the name cards. Anyone could walk in at any moment, so she had to be quick. Scanning the nearby desks, her eyes landed on one that would be perfectly suitable: ‘Hannah Abbott’. Hermione knew she was studying to become a Healer, so she would likely be just as invested in this class as Hermione herself. Without looking back, she quickly plucked Draco’s name card from the desk. But just as she was about to make the swap, she felt it be plucked right back out of her fingers.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a familiar voice rang in her ears.

Fuck.

“Oh, it’s not like you want to be stuck with me this term,” Hermione said as she turned to face Draco, not bothering to take a moment for polite niceties. Where had he come from? The classroom had been empty a mere few seconds ago. He wore the same sullen, stoic expression he always seemed to wear.

“It’s not up to us, is it?” he snarked, taking a seat on the stool next to hers. His long legs stretched out so much so they peeked through the other side of the table. She couldn’t help but notice how much closer they were now than they had been the other night in his flat.

Hermione opened her mouth, preparing to argue, but before she could even begin, the other students began to flow into the classroom.

That was it.

She was stuck with him.

That, or fail the class.

Professor Slughorn followed the last student in, closing the door behind them.

“Good morning, students!” His tone was as chipper as she had remembered, and it brought a soft smile to her face. “Lovely to see you. I think we all know each other here. Let's crack on, shall we?”

There seemed to be a communal sense of relief that he wasn't going to force an ice breaker of sorts on them.

“You will see on the table in front of you a small fishbowl and a fish. Next to it, a small black vial.”

Hermione opened her notebook, ready to take notes and outline this term's assignment.

“In those small black vials are contents of a very potent and dangerous potion. It is a new potion that was developed during the war, being used by Death Eaters.”

Hermione saw a few eyes dart over to Draco. She didn't dare look directly at him but instead let her eyes come to rest on his forearm, where his Dark Mark would be hiding under his black jacket and shirt. He must have felt the brief glances on him, as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, keeping his eyes focused on the vial in front of him.

“Because of that, it is important that the soon-to-be Healers in the room recognize it, its effects, and how to treat it. That the Cursebreakers in the room are able to identify when it's in use on an object and ensure no one touches it. Lastly, the hopeful Aurors in the room are able to protect themselves from it when out in the field and, in a pinch, provide care for someone under its effect until a Healer can intervene.”

Everyone in the room, including Hermione, warily eyed the vial. What was this potion?

“Your assignment this term, in your pairs, is to figure out what the potion is, its ingredients, and how to make it. Now! To help you on your way, best to see it in action first. Please carefully pick up the small vial and tip it into the fishbowl.”

Warily, the students picked up their vials, preparing to pour them into their bowls. But not Hermione and Draco. The moment their instructions ended, they both lunged for the vial between them, neither willing to concede control. Their hands collided- Hermione’s fingers clasping the neck, Draco’s wrapping around the base.

“Let go,” Hermione hissed through clenched teeth.

“No, you,” Draco spat, his own jaw locked tight.

“Where are your manners?” she snapped, twisting the vial upward in an effort to wrench it from his grip.

“You know, you’re right,” Draco said smoothly, and released his grip.

The sudden absence of resistance sent the vial springing up in Hermione’s hand, causing the potion to leap out, arcing through the air and splashing directly onto her index finger.

The effect was immediate. Hermione screamed.

The sound tore from her throat, primal and raw, as the pain surged like a firestorm through her hand. It was as though molten metal had been poured straight onto her skin. Then it changed, it sharpened. It felt as if tiny blades were peeling her flesh back, layer by layer, exposing raw nerves to the open air. Her lungs seized. Her vision blurred. Every cell in her body reeled in agony.

Her eyes snapped shut, but she forced them open, compelled by a need to understand what was happening. But what she saw nearly made her scream again.

The skin on her pointer finger was gone. Stripped. The pink tissue beneath darkened before her eyes, the color of spoiled meat, shriveling and blackening as it died. Then, slowly, the flesh began to fall away, sloughing off in glistening chunks, sliding from bone like melting wax.

Her knees buckled. She collapsed forward onto the bench, her other hand scrambling to keep her upright as her world tilted and spun. Her breathing came in short, ragged gasps. Her entire arm felt like it was being eaten from the inside out. When the effect finally slowed, her hand trembled. The finger was grotesque, bare bone glistening with what remained of the muscle, like something from a cursed corpse or a freshly raised Inferius.

Silence wrapped the room in a chokehold.

Every student was staring, wide-eyed, horrified. Even Slughorn’s usual bluster was gone, his face drained of all color. A pair of hands gently gripped Hermione’s shoulders. She flinched, terrified it might be Draco. But it was Hannah. She helped Hermione upright, bracing her trembling body with quiet strength. As Hermione straightened, her eyes locked with Draco’s.

He hadn’t moved.

His face and its usually held mask of disinterest or disdain showed nothing but shocked horror. A deep frown of concern creased his eyebrow, and his hands sat limp at his sides, fingers splayed as though he wanted to reach for her.

“I think I should take her to see a nurse, Professor Slughorn,” Hannah's voice broke through the silence of the room.

“Ah, yes, yes of course. Ah- here, take this. It has the antidote on it,” Slughorn slipped Hannah a folded-up piece of paper. “You’ll be okay, Miss Granger.”

It didn't offer her the reassurance he was going for, but she was relieved to know there was an antidote. Hannah led Hermione out of the room towards the lifts. It would have been foolish to travel by ways of magic with the state Hermione was in. As they left the room, Hermione heard Slughorn address the class.

“Well, not every day you get a perfect live demonstration. Right, back to your work now.” She could tell by his tone he was shaken by what had occurred.

The pain eased but still hung around enough that Hermione was unable to think straight, which made Hannah’s presence much more of a relief as she did all the thinking for Hermione. Hannah thought out loud, knowing Hermione would lack the clarity to reply. There was the option to go to St. Mungo’s, but Hannah feared that any delay in seeing a Healer might allow the curse to spread further or for the pain to return in all its ferocity. With that in mind, she guided Hermione through the halls to the Healers’ Training Wing of the university. Fortunately, the head instructor, Miriam Strout, wasn’t currently teaching and was able to see Hermione immediately.

They set up in the head teacher’s office, which had all the usual makings of a typical office-bookshelves, a large desk, and mismatched armchairs-but also included two hospital-style beds, a convenient feature given the nature of her work. Miriam read the note Hannah had been given and asked a few quick questions before discussing the best approach. Since Hermione had been affected by a newer cursed potion, and the antidote would need to be brewed from scratch, Miriam instructed Hannah to administer a slightly diluted Sleeping Draught.

They explained it was simply a precaution; in case the pain returned in full suddenly. It would be easier to help her if she wasn’t thrashing in agony. Hermione couldn’t fault the logic, even if the thought of being put to sleep unnerved her.

Still, she took it and woke up a short two hours later.

The first thing she did was look at her finger. It was still a gruesome sight, but the muscle had fully regrown and now had a healthy pink tone. Patches of new skin were beginning to form across the surface. The pain was gone. With that, Miriam dismissed her with strict instructions: go straight home, rest, and return immediately if anything changed.

Once outside the classroom and alone in the hallway, Hermione did contemplate just sneaking off to the library. In her usual dark corner, no one would even know she was there, but looking back down at her finger and seeing the exposed muscle pulsing she decided it was best to go home, out of courtesy to anyone who may see the repulsive sight on her hand. Hermione didn't need to be asked questions and have to explain the story over and over again.

Apparating wouldn't be an option, and something in Hermione's gut seemed even wary of using the Floo. She would have to walk home. Luckily, it wasn't far, and Hermione had done the walk many times; she knew all the shortcuts.

The walk from the university to her flat was actually quite lovely. Most of it followed a Victorian-era footpath, shaded by tall trees and flanked by the occasional flower box. When she turned onto the lane where her flat stood, the path followed alongside a narrow canal, dotted with benches where passersby could pause to enjoy the fresh air and the quiet charm of the city.

It didn’t take Hermione long to arrive home. She pushed through the front door and quickly took up camp on her bed, her term books spread out across her deep red duvet. She spent the afternoon bouncing from subject to subject, scribbling detailed notes in the margins whenever needed. Every now and then she would stop to glance at her finger, starring at it until the pink and pulsing muscle sent a shiver down her spine.

However, her peace didn’t last nearly as long as she’d hoped.

First came the whoosh of the Floo. Then the chitter of two familiar voices. Finally, the clatter of them bursting through her bedroom door- neglecting to knock.

Ginny and Luna.

Ginny wasted no time. “Show us what happened!”

Hermione held up her finger for inspection. The skin was still regrowing in patches, a mottled mix of raw pink and translucent film. Ginny recoiled in queasy disgust, while Luna leaned in with curious intrigue, eyes wide as if observing a rare magical specimen.

Hermione walked them through the events of the day. When she mentioned being paired with Draco, her eyes flicked to Ginny’s, catching the slight arch of her brow that said: we’re coming back to that.

Once the story was told, Ginny went straight into strategy mode, she needed to get Luna out of the room. “I’m going to get my camera. Harry will want to see a photo.”

She stood, and Luna stood with her, clearly taking the bait. Ginny’s plan worked; they left the room together. Seconds later, Ginny slipped back in alone, closing the door behind her.

“You can take a picture, but only if I get a copy,” Hermione said, lightly touching her still-healing finger. It tingled, but the sensation was intact. That, at least, was comforting. Ginny didn’t reply. She simply raised the camera and clicked twice – once close up, then, catching Hermione off guard, once more with her sitting cross-legged on the bed, arm outstretched like a bizarre injury pin-up.

“So. Draco. Again.” Ginny flopped onto the bed beside her. “You really can’t get enough of him lately, can you?”

“It’s not me, Gin. The universe, and I swear McGonagall, are conspiring.” Hermione groaned, rolling over so her feet rested up on the wall.

The universe, still not done with Hermione today, then planted the image of Draco lying on his bed, resting against the wall, his head right under her foot on the other side of the wall.

Determined to fight back, Hermione then imagined kicking him in the head.

“You think McGonagall got Slughorn to do that?” Ginny said as she moved to mirror Hermione's position.

“Yes, I think she is capable of something that… meddlesome.” Hermione replied pragmatically.

The two girls stayed like this in silence for a while as Hermione replayed the look on Draco's face. His horror had seemed almost… personal. Not just shocked. Not like the others. Maybe he knows something about it, she thought. It was a Death Eater creation, after all.

Then, a much more Hermione-like idea formed: Maybe he knows all about it, and I can use that to secure a better grade.

She chuckled quietly, impressed by her own ability to find the silver lining in being pushed into such a dreadful situation.

Ginny broke the silence, launching into a story about her day, and how Harry wanted to organise a night out later in the week.

And that was Tuesday.

Chapter 7: Bias Recalibration 201: Case Study in Unexpected Rescue

Summary:

CW - Events leading up to a potential SA but doesn't go any further.

It was early Thursday morning when Hermione tucked herself into her usual corner of the library. She only had one class that day, just before lunch, but she felt her schoolwork had been slipping. Everything had become secondary to the chaos that had been consuming her personal life.

Just as she began to immerse herself in her studies, her personal life found her again. Appearing from behind the bookshelves came Harry, alone, thankfully. She didn’t have the energy for Ron this morning.

“Hey, Hermione!” Harry greeted warmly, taking the seat beside her.

“Morning, Harry. What brings you to my corner so early?” she asked, closing the book she had only just started.

“I know your usual answer to these things is no, but I think I’ve finally planned it well enough that you’ll say yes.” His tone was confident, even proud, though Hermione remained suspicious.

“What is it?”

“I’ve invited the usual group out for drinks tonight, and I wanted to see if you’d come.”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond with a polite ‘thanks, but no thanks’ - her standard answer - but Harry raised a finger, cutting her off.

“We’re going to a Muggle bar.”

He looked positively gleeful with his announcement, and Hermione could already picture Ginny behind this plan, no doubt trying to piggyback off Hermione’s recent more social approach to life. She only hoped Ginny hadn’t told him about the ball.

“A Muggle bar?” Hermione arched her brow.

“Yes! There’s a nice one at the end of the lane you live on.”

She could tell Harry was hoping for an answer right away. Part of her still wanted to decline, but his smile was too earnest, and there was a hopeful gleam in his eye that softened her resolve.

“Okay, I’ll go,” Hermione said, letting a small smile tug at her lips.

She knew her way around the Muggle world easily enough but the others? Well, tonight was going to be an education. And Hermione had to admit, she was looking forward to watching it unfold.

Harry let out a small sound of celebration before saying goodbye, and finally, Hermione could return to her morning of deep study. It felt good to be so engrossed in a book that the real world simply fell away. She was relieved she’d set an alarm on her watch, otherwise she might have missed class altogether.

After her only class of the day, Hermione Flooed straight home. Her plan was to begin researching the assignment for Slughorn’s class. The likelihood of her and Draco being able to collaborate hovered in the realm of impossibility, so she’d need to ace this on her own. That thought frustrated her. Draco likely held at least some valuable knowledge, if not the answer in its entirety.

But her plans flew out the window the second she stepped through the fireplace and was immediately accosted by Ginny.

“Ah! Harry sent me a Patronus and told me you’re coming tonight! What are you going to wear?” Ginny exclaimed, her face far too close to Hermione’s, causing her to jerk back slightly.

“Um, just this I guess,” Hermione said, gesturing to her dark blue jeans, sneakers, and long-sleeved grey top.

Ginny stepped back to take in the outfit, her expression quickly shifting to mild horror. Hermione suddenly felt very self-conscious.

“Um, no. I’ve done my research, this is a nice place, and you can't wear that,” Ginny huffed. Before Hermione could protest, she found herself being dragged toward Ginny’s room. She knew exactly what was coming and was already dreading it.

“Okay, sit down and let’s figure out what you can wear.”

Clothes began flying onto the bed next to where Hermione now sat. It was a chaotic mix of long dresses, short skirts, and fashionable blouses, none of which were particularly Hermione-esque.

It got off to a rocky start when Ginny held up a pink slip dress covered in floral patterns. Hermione wrinkled her nose at the brightness. Ginny tried again with a formal dark blue blouse and skirt combo. It reminded Hermione of something Daphne would wear. Another shake of the head.

“Shouldn’t you be more worried about what Luna’s going to wear?” Hermione asked, crossing her arms. “Her outfits would stand out like a sore thumb in the Muggle world.”

“Yes, but do you honestly think anything, or anyone could stop Luna from dressing however she pleases?” Ginny replied dryly. “Plus, she’s got Rolf. Their outfits will… complement each other.”

Ginny had clearly chosen her words carefully, but Hermione knew exactly what she meant-they’d both be standing out like sore thumbs, but at least they’d do it together.

After more rummaging, Ginny finally pulled out a simple black dress with a triumphant cry.

“Ah-ha! What about this?”

Hermione studied it thoughtfully. She was still tempted to say no to everything and wear what she wanted, but this dress… well, she actually quite liked it. It was a simple black fitted number, short enough to suit her age but not so short she’d be yanking at the hem all night. It had a sabrina neckline and no sleeves. Flattering, but unassuming in every way Hermione needed it to be.

“Yeah, I think that’ll do. Thanks, Gin,” she said, standing to head for the door. She was hoping for a quick escape back to her own room and some brief solitude.

But Ginny wasn’t done with her yet. She grabbed Hermione by the wrist as she passed.

“Where do you think you’re going? That’s only part of the outfit sorted. Then there’s hair and makeup, of course,” Ginny said brightly, clearly thrilled to have Hermione as her personal doll for the evening.

Hermione’s stomach twisted at the thought. She knew the lead-up to tonight’s drinks would be filled with Ginny fussing over every last detail of her appearance.

“I’m going to grab us a glass of wine, and then we can continue planning. Will you stay here, or do I have to hex you?”

Hermione sighed and sank back onto the bed, wordlessly giving her answer. A few seconds later, she heard the faint pop of a cork downstairs, followed by Ginny’s returning footsteps but this time with two glasses of white wine in hand.

About two glasses of wine later, Hermione was still standing in Ginny's room. She was now wearing the black dress, the zipper half done up, and had slipped on a pair of light denier stockings. They were onto the shoe portion of the evening, and the effects of the wine were beginning to lead to some questionable choices.

“Okay, but what about these?” Ginny said, pulling out a pair of bright red stiletto heels.

“Oh, Merlin, no amount of glamour charms could help me pull those off. Why do you even have these?” Hermione laughed, dodging as Ginny tossed the shoe at her playfully.

“I just like pretty things sometimes,” Ginny replied with a grin.

Their laughter filled the room so much so that neither of them noticed Luna and Rolf arrive downstairs. Luna poked her head into the room as Rolf disappeared to fetch them drinks.

“Hello, you two!” Luna greeted warmly.

“Hey, Luna!” Ginny and Hermione replied, waving her in. She declined, saying she had to get ready herself, then vanished again just as quickly.

After a few more questionable shoe suggestions, they finally agreed on a sensible pair: plain black boots with a mid-height heel. Ginny then dismissed Hermione so she could get ready herself.

Hermione made her way into the living room, where Rolf and Luna were now sitting along with Ron. A half-drunk bottle of red wine sat on the coffee table, surrounded by three glasses.

“You look nice, Hermione,” Luna said kindly, with Rolf nodding in polite agreement.

“Oh, thank you! So do you both,” Hermione replied, returning the compliment. They did look nice, in their own eccentric ways. Luna wore a bright pink and yellow dress; white tights tucked into Mary Janes. Rolf looked like he was headed for a night out in the 1920s in his dark blue and brown ensemble. Ron was dressed plainly but cleanly: jeans and a tidy shirt. Hermione took a seat next to him on the nearby footstool. He gave her a warm smile and asked how her week had been. She was just about to return the question when Ginny swept into the room, now wearing the pink slip dress from earlier, to collect Hermione for hair and makeup.

Back in Ginny’s room, Hermione successfully talked her way out of wearing any makeup, but Ginny remained steadfast about doing something with her hair. As Hermione sat down, she noticed Ginny’s eyes drift to her forearm, where the scar Bellatrix had left her was visible. Hermione rarely let anyone see it, usually hiding it beneath long sleeves or a quick glamour charm. Not wanting an uncomfortable air to settle between them, she discreetly grabbed her wand from Ginny’s dresser and concealed the scar with a small flick.

“What about an up-do of sorts?” Ginny mused aloud, moving the tension away from Hermione’s arm and lifting sections of her hair with thoughtful fingers. Ginny's fingers occasionally caught knotted curls, causing her to pull at Hermione's hair.

“That could work,” Hermione replied, lowering her voice to a whisper. “It’s how I wore it to the ball.”

The two girls grinned, delighted by the secret revelation. Ginny used her wand to replicate the chic style Hermione described, and it quickly took shape.

“Oh, that looks amazing!” Ginny beamed.

“Thanks, Gin. Now what about a jacket?”

“A jacket? Mm, no. Just cast a warming charm. You can’t let a jacket ruin a good outfit,” Ginny said firmly as she rummaged through her drawers, pulling out pieces of jewelry and comparing them to her outfit.

Hermione opened her mouth to protest. It was nearly spring, sure, but it was still absolutely freezing once the sun went down. Before she could argue, an abrupt arrival through the Floo interrupted them. Hermione and Ginny stepped into the lounge just as Harry appeared through the green flames, taking a beat to steady himself on his feet.

“Uh, hey guys, I’ve got to tell you something…” he began. Everyone in the room paused, tension rippling through them as their minds leapt to the worst-case scenario.

“Well, out with it then,” Ron said, frowning.

Harry cleared his throat. “Alright… I invited Malfoy out with us tonight.”

The room erupted with mixed reactions.

“Are you joking?” Ron and Hermione shouted in unison.

“Why?” Ginny asked, more softly.

“That’s nice,” Luna said serenely, while Rolf just smiled.

Harry shifted uncomfortably under their gazes.

Hermione leaned against Ginny’s doorframe, a growing pit in her stomach. Was it too late to back out of tonight?

“Well,” Harry began, “he actually came to speak to me today. And he apologised. For what happened during the war. I think… it was probably the best apology he could manage. And I don’t know, I felt bad. You know, he was a kid too, back then. So… I invited him. And he said ‘okay.’”

The room sat in silence, no one sure what to say or do.

“Well, let’s not let it ruin the night. I’m sure it will still be fun,” a small, resigned voice broke the silence.

Suddenly, all eyes snapped to Hermione, and she realised those words had come from her own mouth. Confusion was etched across every face in the room except for Luna and Rolf, who continued smiling as if nothing was amiss.

“Uh, yeah, exactly. Thanks, Hermione,” Harry stammered through his surprise.

Hermione kept her eyes fixed on the bare wall behind the couch, mentally tallying up all the wine she’d had. That had to be the only explanation for her saying something so... polite.

Unspoken words hung in the air as the room settled into an awkward silence. No one quite knew how to feel about this last-minute addition to their plans. Still sounding as if he felt responsible for the shift in mood, Harry cleared his throat and spoke again.

“I told him he could invite others to join him. He mentioned Theo and maybe Daphne?” He looked at Hermione, knowing she was close to Daphne.

There was a small flicker of relief at the thought of Daphne being there. But then she remembered their brief exchange earlier in the week. After a few glasses of wine, who knew what Daphne's loosened lips might reveal?

“Did you forgive him?” Ron piped up to question.

“Yeah, of course I did, you know I never really blamed him so much for what went down,” Harry answered, shifting awkwardly on his feet.

The general atmosphere shifted again but this time to something like ‘well, no point dwelling on it’ as people returned to their idle chatter. Ginny disappeared into her room to finish getting ready, and Harry followed.

“Oh, Hermione, your zipper is undone. Here, let me,” Luna said, standing to help zip up the back of her dress. Hermione thanked her quietly. The dress now felt absurdly over the top, especially knowing she was about to spend part of her evening in the presence of Draco Malfoy. She hoped he wouldn't be impressed.

“Right, shall we go? I think the, uh, rest will meet us there,” Harry said, re-emerging from Ginny’s room.

They all piled downstairs. Since it was a Muggle establishment, Floo travel or Apparition weren’t options. So, walking it was.

Hermione found herself enjoying the walk. She drifted alongside Luna and Rolf, asking him about his work. Rolf was a Magizoologist-the very thing Luna was studying to become. He spoke passionately, telling her about a baby Niffler that had been entrusted to his care after getting separated from its mother. Apparently, there had been a sudden disappearance of all shiny items at his house since its arrival.

They arrived at the bar a few moments later. Luckily, they were the first ones to arrive. There was no show of Draco and any entourage yet. Maybe he wouldn't come? Hermione thought as she hopped onto a stool next to Ginny at the table they had been shown to. They pooled together their Muggle money, and Ron and Harry fetched a few bottles of cheap wine for the table to share. Twenty minutes had passed, and Hermione started to relax. Maybe he really wasn't going to show up.

But then, almost as if her own thoughts had summoned him, she saw him come through the bar’s door. His eyes landed on hers, but she was quick to look away, pretending to be focusing intently on something Ginny was speaking about.

“Ah, Malfoy, over here!” Harry called out.

Everyone at the table looked up. Hermione let her gaze flicker up just long enough to take him in.

Draco stood there in plain black trousers, a dark pea coat with an untucked navy shirt, the sleeves buttoned at the wrist, a few of the top buttons undone. Harry must have told him to dress ‘Muggle’ for the night but seeing him in any colour at all was strange.

Hermione quickly dropped her gaze, pretending sudden interest in the grain of the wooden table. Ginny nudged her with her elbow, mouthing “Navy?” while lifting a disbelieving brow. Hermione couldn't help but smother a laugh behind her glass.

Theo followed behind Draco, looking livelier and more eager to blend in. He wore casual black pants and a patterned shirt that suited him. Theo quickly stepped in front of Draco, weaving his way around the table to greet everyone individually, arriving last at Hermione and sliding into the seat beside her. Hermione was quietly relieved as she’d much rather have Theo next to her than Draco, who had fallen into conversation with Rolf. If Draco had any sense, Rolf and Luna were the safest people at the table to talk to especially with Ron still glowering at him like he might hex him at any second.

“My God, Granger, don’t you look good!” Theo said as he greeted Hermione. He grabbed her glass and topped it up from the bottle of wine already sitting on the table, then poured himself one. “Now we can have that drink together-the one you couldn’t join me for the other night.”

Hermione felt Ginny’s eyes flick toward her. She had told Ginny about what happened at Draco’s flat, but she’d left out the part about running into Theo, it had felt largely irrelevant. Ginny kept her face trained as she heard this but cocked her head to the side just enough that she would be poking digs at Hermione the second she had the chance.

“Thank you, Theo,” Hermione replied shyly, unsure why. She had paid for the bottle he poured from, after all.

The night rolled on.

Theo floated around the table, charming everyone he spoke to. Luna and Rolf stayed deep in conversation with Draco, who looked stiff and uncomfortable the whole time. Occasionally, she saw his eyes flick across the group, as though he was an observer to some sort of social experiment. Hermione and Ginny, meanwhile, powered through another bottle of wine, their chatter growing less coherent with each glass. Ron and Harry mostly kept to themselves, no doubt trying to prevent Ron from causing a scene.

Eventually, Hermione decided she needed to find the bathroom. Her descent from the stool was less than graceful. Both Ginny and Theo had to reach out to steady her before she fell arse-over-tit.

“Finally falling for me, Granger,” Theo teased, but it met Hermione's ears as slurred garble she couldn't quite make out.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, brushing them off and continuing on her way, though she wasn’t exactly sure where she was going. The effects of the alcohol were becoming painfully obvious. Her thoughts muddled, her steps wobbly. Somehow, despite aiming for the bathroom, she found herself pushing through a door that led outside.

The fresh night air kissed her cheeks, a cool balm against her flushed skin. She leaned back against the wall of the building, hugging herself against the chill. Her eyelids drifted shut, heavy with drink, heavy with the weight of the day. The need for the bathroom was now a distant memory. For a long moment, she just stood there, swaying slightly as she felt the world twist under her feet. Then, in her dazed logic, Hermione decided she should just walk home now.

Bed, she thought. Bed would be warm. Bed would be safe. Bed would stop the spinning.

With her eyes still closed, she pushed off the wall and started her journey, only opening her eyes once her feet started moving. It was basically a straight line back to her flat. Shouldn’t be too hard for an inebriated person to navigate.

The cold breeze continued around her, slowly sobering her ever so slightly. She thought of nothing while she walked; the silence in her brain was a change, and it was enjoyable. Her drunk stupor created a slight wobble that caused her boot heel to catch on the cobblestones every so often.

Hermione was about halfway home when she heard a voice call out from behind her.

“Hey!” the man yelled. He had a thick Scouse accent. Hermione continued walking, sure he was calling to someone else.

“Hey! You! Stop! I saw you in the bar back there!”

The realization that he was talking to her made her quicken her pace uneasily, some clarity now breaking through the alcohol-induced cloud. Reflexively, she reached for the wand, only to realize it was nowhere on her person.

Fuck, she silently cursed to herself.

Between putting on an outfit, the startling news of Draco joining them, and the wine, she had forgotten to grab it. Her pulse quickened as she realized just how defenceless she was. Staying silent seemed like the best thing to do.

But as her pace quickened, she could hear the smack of his shoes pick up the pace as well.

“C’mon, I just want to chat!” he continued on.

His footsteps were getting closer, and Hermione didn’t know what to do. There was no one around and nothing to use to defend herself. She picked her pace up once again. The alcohol had cleared itself from her brain, but she was still unsteady on her feet.

Weighing up her options, she thought maybe she could scare him off if she yelled. Maybe someone would hear it, and it would deter him.

“Fuck off!” she yelled over her shoulder, not daring to look back at the man.

“You ain’t that good-looking to be running your mouth like that,” he spat.

A large hand clamped down on her shoulder. Hermione froze. Ice filled her veins.

He had caught her.

She gasped for air, heart hammering, as she was turned to come face-to-face with him. The man was thickly muscled, crammed into too-tight jeans and a low-cut T-shirt. His face was twisted into something cruel. There was no way she could fight him.

“But you’ll do,” the man’s eyes were empty except for the evil that shone through them.

Hermione tried to fight free from his grasp, smacking against his chest, thrashing like a feral cat. Somehow, she slipped free but as she staggered back, he lunged and shoved her. She hit the bricks hard but barely registered the pain. Fear was the only thing she could feel. He stalked toward her, hunching low, grinning.
Hermione scrambled backwards on the cold brick walkway, but she knew it was useless.

As he was about to close in on her, she let out a guttural scream, hoping someone, anyone, would come save her.

Suddenly, his menacing face was ripped away from her. Instinctively, Hermione froze in fear as well.

The man was gasping, kicking his feet, suspended by a single hand wrapped around his throat- long, strong fingers crushing his windpipe. The veins in the hand that had saved her stuck out; they seemingly pulsed with anger.

As his face started turning a purplish-blue shade, Hermione followed along the length of the arm that had saved her.

It was Draco.

Hermione’s breath stalled in her chest, her eyes as wide as saucers. There was no part of her brain that could process the events that were unfolding. She just sat there, stunned, unable to move.

Draco walked the man backwards, pinning him against a tree. The look of anger and disgust that twisted across his features was like nothing Hermione had ever seen.

Was Malfoy about to kill this man? Hermione thought.

With his other free hand, Draco started laying punches into the stalker. They all landed squarely on his face and his lip split, and then his cheek, blood splattering.

Draco then removed his grip from around his neck, letting the man crumple pitifully onto the ground. The man stuttered out some words that sounded like pleading. Draco grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, arm cocked, ready to go again. Disgust and distance had woven their way onto every feature of Draco’s face, and his jaw clenched in anger.

“Malfoy, stop!” Hermione yelled, breaking free from her frozen state.

Draco looked up at her, looked back down at the man, and then back to Hermione, contemplating what he was going to do next.

With a grunt of disgust, Draco let go, and the man collapsed hard onto the brick walkway. Draco stepped over him, getting in one good kick to the stomach for good measure.

“Let's go.” His voice was rough with restraint. Before Hermione could move, he placed two hands under her arms and lifted her to her feet, as though she weighed nothing.

They quietly and quickly walked down the lane together, Draco looking over his shoulder every so often.

For being in the company of the man she despised with all her being- the man who had been the subject of many nightmares, lived and dreamed.

She had never felt safer.

Chapter 8: Enemy Archetypes and Emotional Reframing

Notes:

Hello Everyone!

Apologies this chapter took so long to post, I wanted to make sure I got it right also I lost my job lol and then my childhood dog died not lol :(

But! I am back a will try to get the chapters out more consistently. Thank you for all the love and support so far <3

CW - Mention of SA

The adrenaline had long since drained from Hermione’s limbs by the time their respective front doors came into view. She didn't even register Draco's arm around her until he dropped it away. The moment he did, she instinctively stepped further away. As she did, a cold breeze sliced through her.

They stood there for a moment, awkward and uncertain. In all the years Hermione had known him, they'd only ever spoken through clenched teeth and insults. Now there was only silence, thick and unfamiliar, stretching between them.

“I’m going to sit for a bit,” Hermione muttered, nodding toward the wooden bench across the narrow lane. “Uh... goodnight.”

She caught a brief flicker of Draco’s expression as she said it, but she didn’t linger. Curling into herself on the edge of the bench, she tried to preserve what little warmth she could.

She heard the shuffle of his shoes on the pavement — assumed he was leaving — when he spoke again.

“Um, I’ll sit with you.”

The bench gave a soft creak under his weight as he sat, placing himself as far from her as possible — thankfully.

Part of Hermione bristled. She had wanted to be alone, to sit in the cold quiet and try to clear her mind. At the very least, she didn't want to sit and make small talk with him. But a larger, more rational part of her felt an undeniable relief. If that man (or someone like him) came after her again, she wouldn’t be alone.

Above them, the night sky stretched endlessly, stars scattered like shards of crystal. The moon, large and opalescent, was hidden behind the trees, but its glow spilled across the gently rippling canal. Hermione fixed her gaze upward, tracing constellations — anything to distract from the suffocating silence around her.

Ursa Major…

Leo…

Hydra…

Eventually, the silence became too heavy to bear.

“Thank you,” she said.
“Are you alright?” he said at the same time.

They both stopped.

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Thank you for…” Hermione trailed off, glancing sideways at Draco, who was already looking at her. “I forgot my wand. Ginny wanted to get ready, and we had a few drinks…” She rambled, heat rising in her cheeks, unsure why she felt as though he needed an explanation.

“How’s your finger?” Draco asked, still looking out over the canal.

Hermione paused, momentarily thrown by the question and by his apparent concern. Then she remembered what had happened in class just a few days ago.

“Oh. Uh, fine, thank you,” she replied, lifting her hand slightly. Not to show him but more to inspect it herself. It still amazed her how much it had hurt, and yet it had healed as though nothing had ever happened.

A soft breeze blew, rustling the leaves and sending a shiver down Hermione's spine.

“Oh, here,” Draco said, slipping off his coat and draping it around her shoulders before she had a chance to protest. Hermione shot him a confused look as he could have just cast a warming charm. “Pure-blood manners, I guess,” Draco said, misreading her expression and offering a half-shrug.

Hermione’s first instinct was to rip the heavy material away from her body — she’d rather freeze than have anything of his touching her skin. But another breeze came, and with it, the scent of his coat wrapped around her.

Cedar, sandalwood, and something faintly floral she couldn’t quite place. It felt oddly familiar, like a hug from an old, dear friend she couldn’t name. The tension in her chest eased, just a fraction.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, breaking into her thoughts. His jaw was tense, almost as if it pained him to say those words.

“For what?” Hermione asked warily, wondering if he was apologizing for giving her the jacket. But the puzzled look on his face told her she was the one misreading now. He twisted a silver ring around his finger, a nervous habit she hadn't noticed before.

“For, well—” he hesitated, then quoted quietly, “‘the endless years of torment at the mercy of my cruel words and finishing up at standing by and doing nothing while my lunatic aunt tortured you.’”

Hermione’s breath caught.

“After we spoke in my flat... I did actually write a list,” he said. “It’s in the jacket pocket if you want to read it. But the point is, I am sorry. For my hand and my family’s hand in all of it.”

He kept his gaze trained across the canal, but his voice was steady, honest.

Words failed Hermione.

She had always wanted an apology but had long given up ever expecting one. Even when Harry mentioned Draco had reached out, she hadn't let herself hope it would be meant for her.

Was that why he had come out tonight?

Thoughts started swirling in Hermione's mind, the list of things she wanted to say. Many mean, many true, but ultimately all would just keep her in this spot she had been in for most of her adult life. An apology from Draco was… a start. She didn't have to forgive him, she doubted any amount of apology would make her do so, but maybe this was a good place to start saying goodbye to the hatred and anger she had placed at his doorstep.

“Whenever I think of the war, you're what I see,” Hermione began, her voice steady with plain honesty. “I know it wasn’t all you, and I know you were just a kid. I appreciate the apology, but I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you. I’m not as… magnanimous as Harry.”

Draco’s face remained composed, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of emotion — a mix of disappointment and understanding. Hermione looked away. She didn’t want to give even the slightest sense that she felt guilty for not accepting his apology.

He nodded once, slowly. “I figured as much,” he said finally, his voice low but not bitter.

Hermione’s gaze lifted to meet his at last. “You were part of everything that tore our world apart. Maybe not by choice, but you were still there. And that… that lives in my memory. It weaves its way into my nightmares — the scars, both physical and mental, that will never leave me.” Her eyes drifted to her forearm, concealed beneath the flap of his jacket. “I’m still trying to unpack so much of what happened over those years. Trying to reconcile who I was with who I am now.”

Draco didn’t look away. “And who are you now?”

The question caught her off guard, not because it was invasive, but because she didn’t know. She opened her mouth to answer, then shut it again, unsure. For a long moment, the silence returned, but this time, it didn’t feel quite so suffocating.

“I’m still trying to figure that out,” she admitted.

He nodded again, slower this time. “Then maybe we’re not so different after all.”

An indignant scoff escaped Hermione's lips. The audacity he had, to think they were alike. They couldn't be more opposite. Hermione had been a force for good in the war. Draco had not.

He took her silence as permission to keep pushing whatever twisted point he was trying to make.

“Someone as bright as you must be able to see it,” Draco said, gesturing vaguely toward the ground, his tone blunt.

Anger seeped into Hermione’s bones, though she didn’t want to admit it was mostly because he was right. She had spent a lot of time considering how they were alike in so many ways. Except one: Hermione had been good. Draco had been bad.

“Both swept up in a war we had no business in. Both ultimately disposable to the true cause. Both sought out isolation afterwards. Both pretending to move on, when in reality we probably never can. Both traumatized out of our fucking minds.”

His voice softened with each point. Something in her bristled, compelled to offer him sympathy, but she shoved the feeling away with everything she had. He didn’t get to say one measly apology, offer a few sad words, and be let off the hook.

“And well, I have a parent locked away, of whom it's easier to pretend is dead than face again. And you have two parents who…”

As he trailed off, Hermione’s blood boiled.

How dare he bring her parents into this.
How dare he imply she was pretending they were dead to make things easier.
How dare he be right.

“…who are in Australia. No thanks to you, might I add,” she snapped through a clenched jaw.

Draco turned to look at her fully, his gaze locking with hers. Hermione didn’t look away this time. They held each other’s stare, faces blank but eyes heavy with emotion — anger, hatred, resentment, sympathy, guilt, and something dangerously close to understanding.

The silence between them stretched, taut as a drawn bow. The air felt thick, humming with everything unsaid.

Draco was the first to look away. His jaw tightened. “It's on the list,” he said, fiddling with the silver signet ring on his finger once again.

Hermione was surprised he had included that. Despite the war that continued to rage on, it was still Hermione’s decision alone to do that. At first, she was just going to move them to Australia and out of harm’s way, but as the situation grew more dire, she knew she couldn’t allow them to feel the pain of losing a daughter or run the risk of one of Voldemort’s lengthy and painful memory searches. They would too easily become a target to draw herself, and in turn Harry, into a trap.

The news did eventually get around in broken details, but she hadn’t expected Draco to hear — let alone register his responsibility in it.

A beat of silence passed between them. And then, with the same raw honesty that had been threatening to surface all evening, she let the words slip.

“I used to wish you had died,” she said, voice brittle. “Back then, I thought it would’ve made things simpler. One less name. One less memory. One less person to forgive.”

He flinched. Just barely. But she saw it.

“I used to wish I had, too,” he murmured.

That brought her up short. Her breath caught. She didn’t want to feel anything about that. Not pity, or grief, or the hollow pang of recognition that stirred in her chest. But it pressed in anyway, unwelcome and disobedient.

Their eyes met again, this time without the fire of emotions.

“I hated you,” she whispered. “A part of me might always.”

“I never stopped hating myself,” he replied. “And I don’t think I ever will. But I’m trying to be better. To be good.”

The last part came out in such a whisper that, had Hermione been focused on the rustle of the leaves or the soft lapping of the canal below, she might have missed it. But she wasn’t. Her attention was fixed on Draco — every word, every inflection — and she heard it.

This time, Hermione couldn’t hold it back. Couldn’t squash it down. The sympathy surged, replacing the anger that had been simmering in her bones. Her heart ached for him before she could stop it. She wanted to reach out, to comfort him, to say it would be okay, but she knew she couldn’t promise that. No one could.
Instead, she looked away as tears threatened to surface. She tilted her head back toward the stars, as if willing them to pull the feeling out of her chest and scatter it across the sky.

One pathetic tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, hoping Draco hadn’t noticed.

In a bid for distraction, her hand slipped into his coat pocket and her fingers landed on a neatly folded piece of paper. She unfolded it quickly, eyes scanning the long list of things Draco believed himself guilty for.

There were years of snide remarks about her blood status, some even with specific dates. How had he remembered such details? Hermione wondered. In her own memory, they had all bled together.

The list continued, bringing up his comment at the Quidditch World Cup. Her skin crawled at the recollection. He’d thought it funny the idea of her being sexually assaulted. But as the memory resurfaced in her mind, so did a question she hadn’t considered before: had he been trying to warn her? They were already leaving, but maybe he’d wanted her to understand the danger and what would happen if she stayed and tried to play hero.

She kept reading. Further down was the mention of Dumbledore’s death. He had written attempted murder, then crossed out the first word. Maybe it was his way of acknowledging that, even if it wasn’t his wand that cast the fatal spell, he still had a hand in the series of events that led there.

And then her eyes landed on it — the one that hit her hardest, the one she could never forget. The torture at Malfoy Manor.
There was a shift in the handwriting here. His usual immaculate, slanted script lost some of its elegance. The ink dragged slightly, uneven. Hermione couldn’t tell whether it was a bad quill, a tired hand, or if the memory itself had made it difficult for him to write.

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again when no words came. None of this was new to her. But for the first time, she was beginning to see it through Draco’s eyes. Just from this list alone, how could the weight of such horrid acts not consume a person?

No, she told herself. Don’t let him get under your skin. Don’t let him earn your forgiveness. He should feel the burden of what he’s done. He should carry it forever. Her mind screamed it at her.

But another voice — softer, deeper, and somehow louder — rose above the noise. Before she could stop herself, the words slipped out in a whisper.

“He was just a child.”

“Did you say something?” Draco asked, the bench creaking as he shifted.

Crap. This evening had been a lot of things, but honesty seemed to be the running theme. Still, Hermione didn’t have the strength to bear it all like Draco, in his own way, had. Maybe one day he’d ask what she said at her testimony for him. Maybe she’d tell him. But tonight wasn’t the night for that.

So, she needed a lie. And quickly.

Clearing her throat, she replied, “You missed something.” She pointed to the list.

“What?” Draco exclaimed, snatching the paper from her hands. Hermione snatched it right back, the paper tearing slightly between them.

“I said — you missed something,” she repeated. “You left off calling me ‘Mudblood’ the other week.”

“Oh. That,” Draco muttered. “I’m sorry about that. I’d had a... rough weekend before, and I guess I was still working through it. That weekend was actually what made me start thinking about atonement. But still, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Hermione couldn’t help a small smile. The irony wasn't lost on her — that corridor altercation had been fallout from them both having had weekends full of heightened emotions that boiled over into the following week. A part of her wanted to ask what had happened. But she knew that wasn’t her place.

She tilted her head to look at him properly and found him already looking back. Their eyes met, locked under the softened moonlight. His eyes looked bluer tonight, less like cold silver and more like something thawing.

“Well, at least I got even for that, I guess.” Humour laced Hermione's tone, soft laughter rattled from her chest.

Then he joined her in soft laughter. A smile broke across his face, unguarded and real. Hermione frowned instinctively — her brain struggling to reconcile this version of him with the one etched in her memory. She had never seen him truly smile before. Smirk, yes. But not this.

Her hand hovered slightly above the bench, a reflex. She had the strange urge to reach out and touch him just to see if this was real. Maybe she hadn't sobered up as much as she had thought.

“What?” Draco asked, his smile faltering.

“I’ve never seen you smile,” Hermione blurted, the words escaping before she could catch them. Draco blinked at her, caught somewhere between surprise and defensiveness. Then he glanced down, as if embarrassed by the expression that had briefly taken over his face.

“Well,” he said, voice quieter now, “I don’t usually have much reason to.”

Hermione nodded slowly, the corners of her lips tugging down. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Another silence settled between them, but unlike the ones before, this one wasn’t jagged or heavy. It felt… tentative. Like neither of them quite knew how to navigate this new version of the other. They didn’t hate each other so much anymore but they didn’t like each other either. Something had shifted. They were no longer enemies, but not friends. Not even close. It was awkward. Unfamiliar.

Hermione’s gaze drifted back to the stars, her eyes beginning to sting with the weight of sleep.

“I’m going to head in,” she said with a yawn. She shrugged off his jacket and handed it back with a quiet, “Thank you.”

Draco took it, nodding. He opened his mouth like he might say something more but the words caught, unfinished. Like he’d run out of nerve, or breath, or whatever energy had carried him this far. He looked down instead, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I also have to thank you… for keeping me out of Azkaban,” he said at last, voice low and awkward.

Hermione didn’t have the energy to press the moment, so settled for a simple, “Oh, that's okay,” she said, waving a hand as she climbed the steps to her door. “But thanks for earlier.” She nodded down the lane.

Her fingers brushed the cool metal of the doorknob, but something made her glance across to his door.

Draco stood at his door, looking across at Hermione. The moonlight washed over him, softening the sharp angles of his face.

“Goodnight, Hermione,” he said.

She stilled. For a moment, she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. He never said her first name before. Usually she was “Granger,” said with a sneer and spiteful tone, but tonight she got to be Hermione.

She opened the door but didn’t go inside.

“Goodnight, Draco,” she said back, softly.

As she closed the door behind her, the click of the latch rang out loud against the barren quiet of the flat. In her exhaustion, she wanted to collapse against the rough wooden frame and sleep there for the night but that would require an explanation when the others got home. And after everything that went down tonight? No chance she had the energy for such drivel.

Pushing herself off the door and heading toward the bathroom, the events of the evening began to replay. As hot water poured over her, Draco’s words danced across her mind. It was too much to digest in one night, and she didn’t even try. Wrapped in a towel, she padded upstairs, closed her bedroom door, and moved through the motions of getting ready for bed.

Sleep had never agreed with Hermione. Nightmares during and after the war often left her awake until the early hours, searching desperately for distractions to lull her to sleep and more often than not, falling asleep at her desk. In recent weeks, those terrors had subsided. But tonight... tonight twisted her stomach in anxious knots. She could already feel what awaited her in her dreams.

She stood at the foot of her bed, staring at it, unsure what to do next. Her eyes drifted to the wall behind her headboard, and something in her chest pulled tight.
She didn’t want to feel anything for him. Not sympathy, not guilt, and certainly not gratitude. But tonight, for the first time, she had seen something other than cruelty behind his eyes. Something fragile and human.

And now that she'd seen it, she couldn’t unsee it.

Almost without thinking, she stepped forward. Her fingers reached for the wall, splaying against the cool surface.

Her voice was barely a breath.

“Thank you,” she whispered, knowing she could scream it and he still wouldn’t hear her.

The weight of everything pressed down at once, and she sank into bed, unable to fight sleep any longer, surrendering to the inevitable horrors that would follow her into her dreams.

Hermione’s eyes snapped open as the cool weight of a wooden floor anchored her beneath bare feet. The dark green wallpaper climbed the walls — she knew exactly where she was.

Malfoy Manor.

Her breath caught in her throat. She had been here before. Too many times in dreams. But something was wrong. This time the air felt thicker. Heavier. She looked down and realised her limbs were insubstantial — ghostlike. Tonight, she wasn’t living it. She was watching it.

An observer. A prisoner in her own memory.

She kept her eyes fixed on the floorboards, heart hammering against her ribs. She didn’t want to see it — not again. Not from this angle. She turned to flee, but her legs refused to move. It was like running through water, every inch of her weighed down by some unseen force dragging her back.

Then a scream shattered the air.

But it wasn’t hers.

It was masculine, almost boyish.

Hermione’s head jerked up despite herself, eyes darting to the source and her entire body locked in place.

There, on the cold floor, Bellatrix loomed over a slumped figure. A body pinned beneath her like prey.

It was Draco.

His face was twisted in agony, pale skin stretched taut, mouth open in a hoarse cry. He wore the same dark robes from that night. But now his left sleeve was rolled up, and Bellatrix, her trademark maniacal laughter in the air, was driving her cursed knife into his forearm. Carving s omething.

Hermione’s stomach lurched.

Each slash of the blade made him jolt violently, his polished shoes squealing against the floorboards as he tried to pull away. Blood slicked the wooden planks. His voice cracked, begging her to stop.

“Please — please — stop —”

But Bellatrix only smiled wider.

“If you want to defend that filthy Mudblood,” she sneered, pressing the blade deeper, “then you can be branded as such.”

Hermione couldn’t breathe. The words hit like cold steel against her own chest. Her nails dug into her palms, willing the pain to wake her up.

It didn’t.

Another scream tore through the room — high, frantic, familiar. Hermione whipped around and saw herself. The real her. Or rather, a version of her from that night.

She was being held down on her knees by two masked Death Eaters, thrashing and shrieking at Bellatrix to stop. Her face was twisted in a kind of helpless fury Hermione barely remembered having. She was sobbing. Begging.

“Leave him alone! Please! It’s me — it’s supposed to be me —!”

The nightmare had collapsed in on itself. Time had folded, memory warped. Hermione stood trapped between both versions. She spun, desperate to escape, but the screams only grew louder. Draco’s cries, her own pleading, Bellatrix’s cackling — they all blended into one horrible symphony of guilt and pain.

She dropped to her knees, bile rising in her throat, and covered her ears.

“Stop it,” she begged. “Please… make it stop…”

Snapping upright in bed, she blinked furiously, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Her breathing was shallow, chest rising and falling in quick, panicked bursts. The sheets clung to her damp skin, soaked in cold sweat from the dream — no, the nightmare.

As her breath slowly steadied, she drew her knees to her chest and rested her forehead against them. She only had one thought.

What the fuck was that.

Chapter 9: Rehumanising the Other – From Prejudice to Possibility

The sun broke over a new day, but Hermione was already awake. Sleep hadn’t returned after the twisted, Draco-centric retelling of that day at Malfoy Manor. Her brain couldn’t begin to process it and Hermione couldn't understand how it had conjured such a nightmare in the first place.

She shoved it to the back of her mind, the best she could do if she hoped to get through Friday’s classes with any sort of focus. Her first lesson passed without incident, but the moment she slipped away to her shadowy corner in the library, her resolve started to crumble.

Determined not to let it win, she forced herself to scan the spines of the Muggle Studies. Books on Muggle diseases, Muggle recipes, Muggle gardening... She ran her fingers along them absently as her mind began to drift again, untethered.

Hermione stood, vacant, staring at the shelf. With dark circles under her eyes and hair messier than usual, anyone passing might have thought she’d finally cracked.

A slight glisten of gold caught her eye. Down off to her left was a small book, no bigger than pocket-sized. It had a gold spine and a plain white cover. It was a book on embroidery. But what surprised Hermione when she opened it was that it wasn’t just any embroidery - it was magical embroidery. It must’ve ended up here by mistake.

Her visions of Malfoy Manor flickered out, replaced by the image of the embroidered handkerchief she’d pulled from the Masked Stranger’s jacket pocket. Without thinking, she added the book to her stack for the day, idly wondering if it might help her learn a little more about the man from that night.

She glanced down at her watch and swore. Two minutes until class. She hadn’t been late once since term began, and she wasn’t about to start now.

Gathering her things, she darted toward the nearest Floo and vanished in a blur of green flame.

Alchemy was an all-encompassing subject, and usually one Hermione adored. But today, her mind refused to cooperate. It wandered endlessly - back to the nightmare, back to the bench with Draco, and then, again and again, to the night of the ball. That memory had begun to shift and blur at the edges, small gaps starting to form… but somehow, it still brought her comfort.

Class ended, finally. Hermione’s notes were messier than usual, half-filled with distracted thoughts and scratched-out lines. She packed up slowly, her limbs feeling heavy with exhaustion and the weight of the day pressing down on her.

As she pushed open the heavy classroom door and stepped into the corridor, her shoulder brushed against someone else’s.

Draco.

She glanced up in surprise, having not even seen him in the class. Her mind was too foggy, too drained, to offer anything more than a fleeting look. He didn’t move out of her way, didn’t say anything but for a second, she thought he might. His lips parted, just slightly, as if there was something on the tip of his tongue.

But nothing came.

Hermione didn’t stop. She just kept walking, eyes forward, heart thudding a little faster than it had been a moment ago.

Once she arrived home, Hermione folded herself into her usual spot, the mustard-coloured velvet armchair by the window. She picked absentmindedly at a frayed hole in the armrest as she flipped through one of her course books. “I still need to do my work for Slughorn’s class,” she reminded herself, though she wasn’t sure whether her recent encounter with Draco made her feel more at ease about working together... or dread it more.

A sudden scratching at the window pulled her from her thoughts.

A pristine white owl, elegant and sharp-eyed, sat perched on the sill, a letter clutched in its talons. It wore a pearl-studded collar. From first glance, there was no clear sign of who it was from, but the crisp paper and shimmery gold wax seal gave it away, it had to be from one of her fancier friends. And she only had two of those.

Opening the window, Hermione caught the letter just before it hit the ground. The owl remained perched on her windowsill, which meant the sender was expecting a reply tonight.

Breaking the wax seal, she unfolded the parchment - rose-scented perfume wafting up from it.

 

“Dear Hermione,

Astoria and I can’t stop thinking about what you’ve done for Draco.

Unfortunately, that boy has the emotional capabilities of a gnarled broomstick and the communication skills of a concussed troll, and he’d never say thank you properly.

So, Astoria and I are stepping in to handle the social niceties.

Please join us at our house tomorrow afternoon for tea.

I would say the dress code is semi-formal… but just do the best you can.

~ Love, Daph and Tori”

 

A postscript note included their address and confirmation the Floo was open to her.

Hermione hesitated. She and Daph were good friends, but their interactions had always been confined to the walls of the university but never tea at each other’s houses. And it had been months since she’d had a proper conversation with Tori.

But then again, her life hadn’t resembled “normal” for weeks now… so why not add this to the list?

She scribbled a quick note of acceptance and thanks, then tied it to the owl’s leg, giving it a few gentle head scratches before it soared back into the night.

After a quick shower, Hermione scrounged around for something to eat, bumping into Ginny and Harry in the kitchen.

“Don’t you have your own flat, Harry?” Hermione teased him. Most days, Harry was at their flat, trailing Ginny like a shadow.

Harry rolled his eyes at Hermione's dig. “Yes, but I’ve got a flatmate. If he isn’t stinking it up with his Quidditch sweat, he’s using it to entertain girls who think they might become WOPQs one day.”

“WOPQs?” Hermione queried with a crinkle in her nose. It sounded like a term Ginny would use.

“Witches of Professional Quidditch Players,” Ginny answered for Harry, confirming what Hermione thought. “Anyway, I’ve just made some soup. Would you like some?”

Hermione’s stomach grumbled at the mention of food, and she found herself lifting a spoon to her mouth before she could think about who had cooked it. As soon as the soup hit her taste buds, Hermione was severely reminded of just how bad Ginny’s cooking could be. “ How does someone mess up pumpkin soup?” she thought to herself as she forced down the first mouthful. Ginny sat with an expectant look on her face, waiting for praise. Hermione didn’t have the heart to ever tell her how bad her cooking was, so she plastered a smile on her face and gave Ginny a big thumbs-up.

The next day, just past noon, Hermione stood in her bedroom contemplating what to wear. Daphne had made a comment (or more accurately, a dig) about dressing formally, but Hermione was struggling to piece together an outfit. In the end, she threw on a plain skirt, stockings, and a long-sleeve t-shirt. She knew it wouldn’t meet Daphne’s standards, but it was all she had the energy to put together - she would have much rather gone in her pyjamas.

The Floo deposited Hermione into the grand foyer of Daphne and Astoria’s home. The space was awash in soft creams, accented with elegant splashes of pale green, powder blue, and glimmering gold. Towering ceilings loomed overhead, adorned with intricate plaster rosettes, each one brushed with gold leaf that caught the light like sun on water. It was decadent but not cold. Unlike the homes of so many in the upper class, this one radiated warmth and charm, as if the house itself was happy to receive guests.

Hermione was so absorbed in taking in the opulence that she didn’t notice the arrival of a small, sweetly dressed house-elf.

“Welcome, Miss Granger,” the elf said brightly, straightening the delicate daisy-chain crown perched atop her head. Her lemon-yellow polka-dot dress puffed slightly as she curtsied. “My name is Bipsy. I will show Miss Granger to the drawing room.”

Hermione offered Bipsy a warm smile before following her through the elegant hallways of the house. Hermione believed that the introduction of House-Elf rights was among the few truly good things to come out of the war. Although there was still a long way to go, progress was being made each day, and House-Elves could no longer be unpaid, indentured servants.

It wasn’t long before Bipsy clicked her fingers, opening a set of large double doors into the drawing room. The space was bathed in natural light from wide, open windows that overlooked the manicured lawns of the back garden. In the center of the room, next to a carefully set tea table, stood Daphne and Astoria, one in pale blue dress robes, the other in a deep burgundy.

“Hello, Hermione!” Daphne called out, stepping forward to envelop her in a warm hug.

“Hey, Daph.” Hermione hugged her back, smiling. “Hello, Astoria,” she added with a polite nod once Daphne pulled away.

Daphne ushered Hermione over to the table, gesturing for her to take a seat as she took her own. With a soft flick of her wand, Astoria charmed the teapot to begin pouring tea for all three of them. Hermione topped hers with milk from the small jug that sat next to her dessert plate.

“Please eat, Hermione,” Astoria offered. Her voice was deeper than her sister’s, but still feminine and alluring and Hermione couldn't say no.

“This does feel like you’re buttering me up,” Hermione quipped. Nevertheless, she picked three sweet treats that were meticulously arranged on the tiered cake stand. One was a small pink sponge topped with delicate marzipan roses. Another was an unassuming madeleine that carried a soft scent of lavender and orange. The last was a candy - squishy, with a satisfying squelch as she bit into it, immediately tasting the lime-flavoured, gooey center.

Hermione had been right about them buttering her up, because as soon as she took that bite, Daphne spoke.

“Hermione, you know why we invited you here this afternoon, thank you for coming, by the way,” Daphne began. “I know this should be coming from Draco, but we simply couldn’t let what you’ve done pass without doing something to show our appreciation. We also know Draco would never say thank you properly.”

Hermione kept slowly chewing her food. She knew the sisters must’ve had a whole speech planned out, and decided it was best (quicker and less painful) to just let them go.

“And we heard that he apologised to you the other night,” Astoria added.

Hermione kept her expression neutral, trying to gauge whether they knew everything that had happened that night. But when no follow-up came, she concluded that Draco must’ve kept the details to only what was strictly necessary.

“And given that he’s like a brother to us, we just wanted to take this opportunity to tell you about his life during the war,” Astoria continued.

Hermione couldn’t help but scrunch up her nose in confusion. “Brother? But didn’t you two date?”

“Yes, well - that’s how we figured out we were better off as friends. The most awkward relationship I’ve ever been in,” Astoria said with a soft laugh, screwing up her face, before Daphne took over.

“We don’t expect you to ever forgive him, but… his life wasn’t easy either. And maybe you’re at a point now where you could come to at least understand that.”

Hermione bristled at the idea. The notion that he had a hard life? Especially after all he’d done to make hers miserable? That night on the bench may have stirred something like empathy in her but not enough to pity the silver-spooned child who had tormented her for years. As a knee-jerk reaction, she couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. Daphne raised her eyebrows at the gesture, silently pleading with her to just listen.

Astoria and Daphne exchanged a nervous glance before continuing.

“I’m sure you know how much appearances matter to Pure-Bloods,” Daphne began again.

Hermione jutted her jaw forward and gave a tight nod. The patriarchal ideals were suffocating- have the perfect house, the perfect wife, the perfect child, or be cast aside.

“Well,” Daphne continued, “with Draco being an only child -something Narcissa was unfairly criticized for- he became the sole heir. That meant he absolutely had to be the perfect son. From the moment he became self-aware, he did everything he could to earn his parents' love. Narcissa… she adored him, no matter what. But Lucius…”

Daphne trailed off, her expression faltering. Her eyes flicked to Astoria, silently asking her to take over.

“He could never do enough to prove himself to Lucius,” Astoria said softly. “No matter how hard he worked, how many hours he poured into his classes, he always came second.”

Hermione drew a slow, steady breath. She remembered every time she’d finished the school year at the top of the class with Draco just behind her. Her eyes stayed locked on Astoria, a flicker of fire behind them. It stung to think they might be laying some of that blame at her feet.

“Lucius always made sure to…” Astoria’s voice trembled slightly, “...make his disappointment known.”

Daphne reached across the table and placed a gentle hand over Astoria’s.

Hermione felt her stomach twist. She understood what that meant.

She knew what that meant.

Part of her wasn’t surprised. This was the same man who’d tried to kill children in the name of blood purity. But that didn’t make it any less horrifying. Draco may have been a cruel, arrogant boy but no child deserved that kind of treatment from someone meant to love and protect them.

“It got worse as he got older. The effects he used to hide so well became harder to miss. He shed the playfulness of his younger years far too soon. And as the war crept closer, and the pressure on his family mounted, he became more protective of us, of Theo, Blaise, and Pansy,” Astoria continued, her voice tight, fighting back the tremble that came with reliving those memories. 

“Draco wasn’t exactly eager to join the war,” Daphne said, her voice steady, polished like someone who had practiced saying this out loud. “But when the idea of taking the Dark Mark was floated, and - maybe for the first time in his life - he saw pride in his father’s eyes, he jumped at it. He thought maybe that was the way to finally be enough. To be loved.”

Hermione’s stomach knotted.

“Then, when Lucius started to spiral, Draco had to take over. Protecting his mother became his job. Lucius had fallen out of favour with you know who and Draco stepped in to make sure the punishments weren’t directed at Narcissa.”

Daphne paused just long enough for Astoria to pick up the thread, her voice quieter now. 

“Voldemort took the Malfoys’ failures out on him. You know the Cruciatus Curse?”

Hermione nodded, slowly. Of course she did. She remembered the burn of it in her bones, the way it broke your mind apart like glass underfoot.

She could still hear the scream from her nightmare - Draco’s scream. At the time, she thought it was just her brain playing tricks, blurring the lines between fear and memory. But now…

Now it wasn’t so easy to dismiss.

Because, in some way, it hadn’t just been a dream. It had been a memory. Just not her own.

Hermione closed her eyes and tried to take a centering breath, but was instantly met with the ever-looming memory of her time at Malfoy Manor. The walls. The screaming. The smell of blood and fear.

But this time, the memory shifted.

Draco’s face, usually a blur on the periphery, came into focus. And the expression she had always assumed was hatred, but it wasn’t. Not really.

There was something else in his eyes.

Not indifference. Not triumph.

Concern.

He knew what she was going through. He had felt the pain that was tearing her apart.

That should make her hate him more. But it didn't.

She hated this.

How was she supposed to feel sympathy for someone who had laughed while she bled? Who had taunted her for her very existence? She’d spent years building walls to protect herself from the memory of his sneer, his slurs, the way he embodied everything she’d come to despise about the world they’d both grown up in.

But now… cracks were forming.

Because this wasn’t about who he had been at Hogwarts, or the cruelty he wielded like a shield. This was about a boy who’d been taught love was something you earned with obedience and sacrifice, a boy who'd stepped into a war not out of belief, but desperation.

Hermione took a breath that felt jagged at the edges.

Daphne and Astoria kept their eyes on Hermione, concern woven into their features as they watched her silently take everything in, watched her wrestle with the internal conflict tugging at her from every angle.

“Are you okay?” Daphne asked gently.

Hermione nodded, unable to speak, and wiped away a single, betraying tear she hadn’t even realized had slipped free.

“How-” she cleared her throat, her voice hoarse “-how do you know all of this?”

Both sisters exchanged a glance, a flicker of hesitation crossing their faces. It was clear they were weighing how much to say.

“When he was excused for his part in the war,” Daphne began carefully, “he had… a lot of complicated emotions about it. That night, something in him snapped. Theo summoned us to the Manor, hoping we could calm him down.”

She paused, as if the memory still carried a charge.

“His wing of the house was completely destroyed. Furniture, windows, just everything. But after a bottle of Firewhiskey, he finally started to settle, and his lips loosened. He told us everything.”

It was obvious they were still sparing some of the details - either out of respect for Draco’s privacy or to protect Hermione, but it only left her more curious. The pieces of Draco’s story were forming a picture she wasn’t sure she was ready to see but couldn’t look away from either.

“Fight to survive or give up and suffer,” Hermione whispered. Words she had told herself so many times they were practically etched into her bones. But now, they applied just as poetically to Draco. From everything she'd heard today, it was painfully clear: he hadn’t been evil but just a boy desperate to survive, desperate to please a father who measured love in expectations and obedience. He had been caught on the wrong side of a war that had started long before either of them had a say in it.

Daphne gave her a gentle, understanding nod. “We all got swept into a war set in motion before we were even born. Draco, you... all the other kids who didn’t want to fight for their beliefs, but because they had no other choice - you were never given another fate. And it’s not fair. Not to any of you.”

The heaviness in the room thickened, wrapping around Hermione’s chest like a weight. She hated lingering on the war too long. Too many memories, too much grief still coiled beneath her ribs. When the past pressed in like this, it felt like her lungs might just forget how to work.

But thankfully, she was in the company of two women who understood the unspoken. Proper hostesses in every sense, Daphne and Astoria sensed the moment the conversation teetered on the edge of too much.

“Please, have another biscuit, Hermione,” Astoria said gently, placing a few delicate, lavender-scented biscuits on her plate. Their soft lilac hue matched the calming floral aroma. “They’re Bipsy’s specialty.”

With a flick of her wand, the teapot floated into motion again, steam curling in the air like a balm.

“We might have emotionally drained you,” Daphne said, bringing an air of humour back into the conversation, “but we can’t have you leaving here hungry.”

“We won’t burden you with any more about Draco,” Astoria said gently, her voice marking the close of their heavy conversation. “But given that he’s apologised, and you seem to be in a better headspace lately, we thought you might be open to understanding him a little more.”

The truth was, Hermione now wanted to know more. What they'd shared today had felt like a peek through a barely opened door. Just enough to see that the image she’d held of Draco Malfoy all these years might have been incomplete. And that glimpse through that barely open door caused a flood of unexpected, confusing emotions. Emotions she had never associated with Draco. It was killing her not knowing the full story, the real story, the one she had always assumed she already knew.

The plush armchair beneath Hermione gave a quiet scrape against the floor as she shifted in her seat, unsure of what to do next. It felt too flippant to suddenly change the subject, but she had nothing left to say. No words, and more surprisingly, no snarky remarks.

Thankfully, Astoria made the decision for her.

“So, how are your studies going?” she asked gently.

Hermione exhaled and gave a brief overview, intentionally skimming over Slughorn’s class and her recent pairing with Draco. He’d likely already told them, anyway. She didn’t have the mental energy for another round of Draco-related conversation.

They chatted, shared gossip, and laughed until the sun dipped below the horizon. The large open windows of the drawing room now showed only the indigo hues of night.

Hermione took that as her cue to wrap up the evening and head home. If she lingered much longer, they'd be offering her dinner - or worse, wine and that was a slippery slope she wasn’t ready for.

“Thank you for having me. The cakes were delicious, please pass my compliments on to Bipsy.” Hermione said with a warm smile. “I think I’ll apparate home. Are there any wards I should know about?”

“No wards go for it whenever you're ready,” Daphne replied, standing with a soft click of her heels on the marble floor. She walked Hermione to the open space behind the table, Astoria joining her with an equally gracious smile.

“Thank you again for coming, Hermione,” Daphne said softly. “I know we dropped a lot on you today, but… Draco...he’s not who he was raised to be. He spent so long chasing approval from people who never loved him the way he needed, following a path that only ever led him further from himself. But there’s goodness in him. I just hope one day you’ll get to see it and not the version shaped by fear and expectation, but the one he’s still trying to become.”

Hermione nodded, taking a deep breath as she steadied her thoughts. She visualised the quiet lane outside her flat, apparating directly inside would only result in a barrage of questions from whoever was home.

Just as the familiar tug of apparition began, she caught the sisters' hushed conversation behind her.

“Did you hear Draco picks flowers for his mum every time he visits?”

“Oh, the green carnations she grows,” the other replied, her voice soft with affection.

The flurry of motion was quick and before Hermione knew it she had been deposited in the lane right outside her flat. She eyed her front door but found her feet pulling her to the same bench Draco had apologised to her on the other night.

There were no stars tonight only a blanket of grey clouds stretching endlessly above her. But the sky, muted and somber, brought its own kind of peace. Hermione sank onto the bench, leaning back and tracing shapes in the drifting clouds, her thoughts finally quiet, her breath slow and deliberate.

The air was cool, almost sharp, but it didn’t bother her. Then came the rain, soft at first, barely-there droplets that kissed her skin. She didn’t flinch. She simply stared upward, letting the rain fall against her face like the gentlest touch of the universe.

As the drops grew heavier, steadier, she still didn’t move. The rain had always mirrored the storm inside her, but tonight… tonight it felt different. It didn’t echo her pain instead it soothed it. As if the sky itself wanted to take some of the weight from her shoulders, to rinse the sorrow from her skin.

The downpour soaked through her clothes, her curls clinging wetly to her cheeks, but she didn’t shiver. She sat there, eyes closed, feeling everything and nothing all at once. And for the first time in a long while, the rain felt like grace.

Then the rain stopped.

But she could still hear it.

Hermione blinked open her eyes, confused. The sky was no longer in view now replaced by the dark canopy of an umbrella.

She snapped around.

Draco stood behind her, holding a large black umbrella over her head. His expression was unreadable. Not warm, not cruel just... blank.

Raindrops clung to her lashes as she stared at him, blinking slowly.

Without a word, he extended the umbrella toward her, his hand steady but hesitant. A silent offering.

Hermione wanted to speak and ask why? Ask how? But instead, she reached out and wrapped her fingers around the brass handle.

Their hands brushed. Just briefly.

She had expected his touch to be cold, like the exterior he always put on. But it wasn’t. His skin was warm.

Once the umbrella was in Hermione's grip, he let go.

Draco turned on his heel and left. Leaving a confused Hermione watching him walk across the lane, walk up the stairs and only once the door clicked closed behind him did she look away.

Hermione remained on the bench far longer than she realised. When she finally peeled herself away and folded the umbrella closed, she glanced up at his window. Curtains parted just enough to spill a thread of golden light, and nothing more. No watching eyes. No proof he’d lingered.

But she did.

She twirled the umbrella handle absentmindedly between her fingers, debating whether to knock on his door and return it. After standing in the still-pouring rain longer than any rational person would, she made her decision: she’d keep it for now. It would give her a reason. A way to speak to him again.

Hermione slipped silently up the stairs, relieved to find the living room empty. She sealed herself inside her room and leaned the umbrella against her desk— next to the handkerchief. She picked it up, fingers grazing the embroidered initials, a secret she could never solve.

Something had shifted.

The night of the ball.
The book through the air.
A word never expected...' sorry .'
Stories shared over tea and too many sweets.
The weight of a silent umbrella, offered without condition.

Her scars hadn’t disappeared. Her doubts hadn’t scattered. But the armour she had worn for so long had cracked. Not from the outside, but from within.

And now, everything felt louder. The colours were brighter. The world… different.

She no longer felt like she was surviving her life. She felt like she had stepped, cautiously, into the edge of something else.

Something like hope.
Something like curiosity.

She wanted to get to know herself and she wanted to get to know him.

 

Chapter 10: Grievances and Gastronomy: An Unplanned Field Study

 

It was Tuesday again before Hermione knew it, which meant Slughorn's class. Hopefully, this time, she would see more than just the first five minutes.

She made sure to arrive early, determined to beat Draco there. Knowing this time when she saw Draco it would be different brought on a wave of anxiety… and something else she couldn’t quite place. It almost felt like excitement but that simply couldn’t be right.

This time, the tables in the classroom were empty, which allowed a bit of relief to wash over her. It must be a theory class today meaning just noses in books and no nasty potions rotting her flesh away. She had Draco’s umbrella tucked into her beaded handbag, just in case she found a chance to return it.

Draco , she thought to herself.

There was such a high level of uncertainty about what this class might bring. The blinded hatred she had clung to for so many years had made never speaking to him easy – preferable, really. But now, she wanted to talk to him. And she wanted him to talk to her. The problem was, she didn’t know how to start.

Once her books and quill were arranged neatly, she found herself fidgeting. Straightening her clothes. Smoothing her hair. Even taking a discreet sniff to check that the perfume she’d spritzed on that morning still lingered.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Draco stride into the room. She kept her gaze trained nonchalantly on her course book, flicking through a few pages for good measure.

The scrape of Draco’s stool across the stone floor jolted the butterflies in her stomach. There was a rustle as he pulled a book from a satchel she’d never noticed before. Hermione’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. The nerves that had set up camp in her stomach early that morning were now migrating through her whole body.

Still pretending to read, she stole a glance at him.

He looked a little more dishevelled than usual. His black button-down was perfectly pressed, but the sleeves were rolled up and the top three buttons were undone. Odd. In class, he always kept his sleeves down, presumably to keep the Dark Mark hidden. And three buttons undone? Even Hermione knew you shouldn’t go past two, even in casual settings.

His hair, too, looked different. It didn't have that carefully styled look she’d come to associate with him, today there was a wave to it with parts of it drooping down over his eyes, which he didn't seem too concerned to fix.

It bothered Hermione that she was noticing these little details. And it bothered her even more that his slightly rumpled appearance stirred something like concern in her.

She hesitated again. If he looked rough, maybe he was grappling with something and whatever that something was might make him lash out. But her heart had already been softened  by Daphne, by Astoria, and by Draco himself.

If something was going on with him…

Maybe this was an olive branch, to ask if he was okay. A way to show Draco that she believed there was some depth, some truth, to his apology. To show him this could be the start of moving on for both of them.

Hermione never expected friendship. But if they could at least pass one another in the university halls  and, eventually, the halls of the Ministry without wanting to hex each other, that would be enough.

“Good morning, Malfoy,” Hermione said, in the warmest tone she could manage. She tried to pair it with a smile, but her brain couldn’t quite reconcile smiling at Draco , so the result landed somewhere closer to a grimace.

Draco seemed completely lost in thought, and it wasn’t until Hermione leaned forward and her chair groaned beneath her that he seemed to notice her at all.

“Oh. Sorry. Hi,” he mumbled.

It wasn’t the friendly greeting she’d been hoping for, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it. He only offered her a fleeting glance but it was enough to see that he was carrying some kind of burden.

His eyes were dull and sunken, and his normally pale but healthy complexion had taken on a grey hue. The jarring change made Hermione jolt back slightly in surprise.

When Slughorn swept into the classroom and launched into his usual lively tone, Hermione knew that broaching any kind of conversation, let alone something even remotely warm or friendly would be difficult. But she’d never been known to quit. Even if the easy option would be to keep pretending that the boy with the shock of platinum-blond hair was just another face in the crowd.

The class continued in silence between them. For Hermione, it felt thick like it could reach out and strangle her. But for Draco, she wasn’t even sure he noticed. The tension, the sideways glances she kept sneaking to see if anything in his demeanour changed – none of it seemed to register. He was buried deep in his book. His quill moved steadily across his parchment, but Hermione could tell most of it was mindless scribble. He didn’t even protest when she flicked the page of the shared course book Slughorn had handed them at the start of the lesson.

She glanced down at her watch. Only ten minutes left.

If she didn’t break the silence now, any progress she had made could dissolve into awkward limbo. Around them, the quiet murmur of the classroom had picked up. Partnered students chatted in soft tones, some about the lesson, others lost in tangents of idle gossip and jokes.

Hermione took a slow breath and turned ever so slightly toward him, her mind still scrambled with what to say.

“You look tired,” she said finally, her voice soft. She’d hoped her tone would convey careful sympathy, but it came out more awkwardly blunt. Why did this feel like the first time she’d ever tried to speak to a human before?

Draco didn’t look up. His quill paused for a beat, hovering just above the parchment. For a second, Hermione thought he hadn’t heard her. But then –

“I am.”

It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t sarcastic. Just… flat. Honest.

She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. He simply resumed his scribbling, though the ink bled into a single dark blotch as his hand stilled again.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. She could push, but something told her not to…not yet. He looked like he was one wrong question away from folding in on himself.

Still, silence wasn’t an option either.

She reached into her enchanted pouch, fingers brushing past potion bottles (some full, some empty) and folded parchment until she found what she was looking for. The black umbrella. She paused, raking her eyes across the classroom. Returning the umbrella now would be an easy segway into a conversation. But, if the gossip mill got wind of Hermione Granger returning something to Draco Malfoy, they’d be relentless. Worse, she’d have to deal with Ginny. She tucked the umbrella back where she stored it earlier.

“Thank you for the umbrella the other night.”

“It’s okay,” he murmured, so quietly Hermione almost missed it.

“It did a good job of keeping me dry.” She said, trying humour on for size.

A beat passed. Then very faintly the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough to make her heart do something stupid, like skip a beat.

The spell broke when Slughorn clapped his hands and began wrapping up the lesson. Chairs scraped. Scrolls were gathered. The chatter around them swelled.

Hermione stood, slipping her quill back into her bag and stacking up her books. There was still the matter of their term project they needed to work together on but that was another thing Hermione felt this wasn't the time to bring up.

“Are you okay, Draco?” Hermione asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

He paused, then turned his head to look up at her. Whatever flicker of softness had been in his expression it vanished in an instant. In its place was the familiar sneer. The mask he wore so well.

“Why don’t you mind your own fucking business,” he spat casuing Hermione to recoil as though she had been slapped.

There he was. The Draco she had always known. Cold. Cutting. Cruel. Whatever had possessed him to help her, to apologise, to offer her an umbrella – it was gone. And with it, all the sympathy Hermione had been foolishly nurturing since that night at Daphne and Astoria’s vanished, scorched clean.

Her face didn’t fall into hurt. No, not this time. It sharpened instead, hardening into a look that matched Draco’s perfectly, equal parts distaste and fury.

“See you next class,” she shot back, the words crisp and cold.

Draco held her gaze a second too long. When he finally replied, his voice was low, but it carried the weight of something unspoken.

“Yeah. See you.”

Hermione could hear the sounds of Draco gathering his belongings as she walked away. Once in the hallway, she was surprised to see Daphne standing just a metre or so shy of the doorway. Hermione opened her mouth to greet her, but Daphne only offered a polite nod before brushing past and making a beeline for Draco.

They walked down the opposite corridor together, their conversation hushed, both of them carrying tight jaws.

Hermione lingered longer than she should have, watching them disappear. She was desperate to know what they were talking about.

Maybe Ginny’s rubbing off on me, she thought, as her brain continued to spiral through the possibilities.

Once her classes had finished for the day, she Floo’d home to find an empty flat. It wasn’t unusual for Luna to be scarce these days, but Ginny was usually around. A note left on her bedroom door quickly cleared up the confusion:

‘At Ron’s Quidditch game, see you later x ~ Gin.’

Hermione crumpled the note and tossed it in the bin under her desk before perching herself on the small desk chair. Crookshanks quickly curled up in her lap, occasionally letting out the faint snore as he fell asleep. She ran her fingers along the spines of her research books until she found the one on Dark Magic. Regardless of whether she and Draco ever managed to have a real conversation, let alone finish their term assignment together, Hermione still needed to submit something.

She quickly flicked to the chapter on potions.

After what felt like hours of reading and re-reading, she finally gave up. There was nothing in the book about potions that caused necrosis or even zombification. Nothing even remotely close. Slughorn had said it was a newer invention of the Dark Army, but Hermione hadn’t realised it was so new that it hadn’t made its way into any literature yet.

Letting out a huff, she leaned back in her chair, tipping the front two legs slightly off the floor.

It didn’t help that she’d barely had a chance to assess the potion. Yes, she’d experienced it firsthand but she hadn’t been able to smell it, note its colour, viscosity, or even observe its effects properly. The pain it had caused her had marred most of her memory of the short encounter.

She was going to need Draco.

Hermione stared at the book still open in her lap, its yellowing curled pages taunting her with their uselessness. She shut it with a little more force than necessary and let it sit there, mocking her.

She didn’t want to need Draco.

The thought alone felt like a betrayal of logic, of pride, of years spent cementing him in her head as something irredeemable. Maybe if he had offered her warmth she had him today she would feel different. But seeing how easily he slipped back into his mask of hatred made this idea of working seem more unbearable.

“Just to finish the assignment,” she muttered to herself, as if saying it aloud might tether her to reason. “That’s all.”

She stood up and paced the room once. Twice. Three times. The fact the assignment wasn't even started was beginning to hang over her like a heavy cloud, she had been determined to get something done tonight. It’s not like it would be hard to find Draco, a 30 second walk at best. Every argument against going to his flat she could come up with was weak. It was simple. Draco may know more about this than any other student, and therefore was likely the key to a good grade.

Before she could overthink herself into a complete standstill, she grabbed her bag, shoved the book inside, threw a coat on and headed out the door.

The lane outside their flats was quiet, still, not a single person about. Her footsteps echoed on the bricks as she approached his door and lifted her hand to knock.

She hesitated. Just for a moment.

Then she rapped her knuckles smartly against the wood.

Nothing.

She knocked again, louder this time. Pressed her ear against the door. Waited.

Still nothing. Taking a few steps back and craning her neck she could see no light radiating from the lounge window or sneaky through the crack in his curtains. A quick Homenum Revelio spell turned up no evidence anyone was home.

She exhaled through her nose, somewhere between frustration and relief. “Of course you’re not home.”

For a moment, she stood there, unsure what to do. Leave a note? Try again later? Just walk away and pretend this wasn’t a wildly uncharacteristic thing for her to be doing?

Hermione shifted her weight from side to side, contemplating her next move. A low grumble from her stomach nudged her toward a quicker decision. After fossicking through her bag, she pulled out a small notepad and the pen Daphne had given her, quickly scribbling out a note.

It took several attempts to get the wording right. Everything she wrote sounded either too demanding, too passive, or too desperate for his help.

‘Need to work on Slughorn’s assignment. Meet at the library tomorrow at 4.’

That was as neutral as she could manage. Her pen hovered over the bottom of the page. What to sign off as?

To the more tolerable version of Draco, she was “Hermione.” But after today’s outburst, she was ‘Granger’ at best.

In the end, she settled on:

‘Need to work on Slughorn’s assignment. Meet at the library tomorrow at 4. – H.G.’

It felt impersonal. Cold. But maybe that was fitting.

Casting a quick sealing charm (mostly to stop Theo from snooping), she slipped the note through the mail slot in his door.

Right. Now for the next pressing issue – her stomach. She could go home and throw something together, but in her navy coat, white T-shirt, and pale blue jeans, she was already dressed well enough for a casual dinner alone. It would be a nice break from her nose being buried in a book.

Taking a deep breath, she cleared her mind and visualized the food alley of Diagon Alley. With a blunt crack, she Apparated.

Diagon Alley was far livelier than the quiet lane she lived on. Witches and wizards bustled past each other, weaving between storefronts and restaurant windows. Small groups clustered outside, debating where to eat or where to drink. As Hermione nudged through the crowd, her eyes landed on the place she was after.

La Stufa Dello Stregone.

The food was delicious, the atmosphere casual, and the history even better. The restaurant had been founded by an eccentric wizard from the Italian wizarding world, and its dishes, while similar to the Muggle Italian food Hermione knew, were elevated in ways only magical ingredients could achieve. A gust of warm, garlicky air rolled out as someone opened the door, and Hermione’s stomach gave an enthusiastic growl.

Inside, she was promptly shown to a table for one tucked beside a large window that was perfect for people-watching. She didn’t need to so much as glance at the menu. She already knew what she wanted. Lunar Leek & Lovage Lasagna. Her usual.

The velvety sauce was brewed with leeks that only grew under the full moon and spiced with wild lovage. The result was aromatic, comforting, and rich. Her mouth watered just thinking about it. It was even rumoured that during a waxing moon, the lasagna brought clarity of mind  but when eaten during a waning moon, it helped one let go of old grudges.

Maybe she should’ve checked the moon cycle before ordering, Hermione mused, just as the waiter returned with her glass of red wine. She accepted it with a nod of thanks, then took a long, grounding sip, letting the warmth settle in her chest.

Her eyes drifted toward the window, where the soft golden lamplight of Diagon Alley painted the cobblestones in puddles of light and shadow. Outside, life carried on in vignettes.

A group of young witches stood huddled beneath a wrought iron sconce, cheeks flushed with cold or cocktails or maybe both. One of them laughed, head thrown back, while the others leaned in eagerly. Were they dissecting the events of the day? Gossiping about a coworker? Plotting which bar to try next? It was impossible to say, but Hermione felt momentarily comforted by their closeness, their ease.

Further down the alley, a witch and wizard stood beside a lamppost in quiet conversation. They weren’t touching, but there was a lean in their posture that betrayed something delicate. Intimate. The witch’s cheeks turned pink every time their eyes met. A first date, Hermione guessed.

And then, across the street and directly in her line of sight,  a more formal group gathered outside a members-only cocktail lounge. The place was overwrought and garish and the clientele matched. The group clustered near the entrance wore muted colours, robes tailored within an inch of their lives. It was the sort of place frequented by old money and older ideologies. People who valued appearances, lineage, and blood status.

At first Hermione paid them no real mind. But then, through the distorted glass, something sharp tugged at her attention.

A flash of pristine blonde hair.

Hermione blinked, leaned forward.

Daphne.

She was unmistakable, perfectly styled and composed even in conversation. Hermione craned her neck slightly, scanning the group until she found what her stomach had already braced for.

Another shock of pale hair. Taller. Broader. Standing next to Daphne.

Draco.

Just then, a waiter appeared with her food, clearing his throat to announce his arrival. Hermione startled and realized she was practically draped across the table, face nearly pressed against the glass. She straightened at once, cheeks warming, and gave the waiter a sheepish smile.

“Thank you,” she murmured, accepting the plate as if nothing was amiss.

The scent of the lasagna was as mouth watering as always, but Hermione just swirled her fork through the layers, unable to bring herself to take a bite. Her gaze flicked back to the window, almost against her will. It didn’t take her long to find him again.

Draco stood just as he had earlier. He was still in his class clothes, still carrying that tired, haunted expression. Daphne had her arm around him, and from the subtle motion of her shoulder, Hermione guessed she was rubbing small circles on his back. It was oddly maternal, comforting in a way Hermione had come to expect from Daphne Greengrass.

The whole group looked intense, faces taut with whatever conversation they were having. Hermione tilted her head, trying to follow the curve of the warped glass to make out who else was there. She saw Draco. Daphne. Theo. Blaise. Astoria. The gang’s all there , she thought, her stomach twisting.

Then it happened.

Draco’s head snapped up, sharp and sudden.

His eyes locked directly onto where she sat.

Hermione jolted, pulling back so fast she nearly knocked over her wine. She hunched down in her seat, silently praying the dim lighting would be enough to conceal her.

Peeking upward through her lashes, she dared another glance. Draco was still facing the restaurant, expression unreadable. The others hadn’t noticed. She watched Daphne’s blonde head bob as she spoke animatedly and everyone nodded in response.

Everyone but Draco.

And then, as though Merlin himself was pulling a cruel prank on her, the group broke from their huddle and turned. Walking across the alley. Heading straight for La Stufa Dello Stregone .

Hermione jittered in panic, unsure what to do. She popped the collar of her coat and hunched deeper into her seat, praying it would be enough to obscure her face. With a trembling hand, she reached into her bag and grabbed the first book her fingers touched, flipping it open to a random page and holding it up like a shield.

She curled in on herself, willing the world to forget she existed.

The bell above the door chimed.

They were inside.

She didn’t dare peek. Instead, she held perfectly still, even holding her breath. Maybe they’d turn around and leave. Maybe they wouldn’t walk past her table. Maybe Draco hadn’t come in at all.

“Hermione!”

A bright, unmistakable voice rang out across the restaurant.

Daphne.

Hermione froze. She’d been seen. Which meant they all had seen her.

And now she looked like an absolute idiot.

With a slow, deep breath, Hermione lowered the book from her face and forced a faux-surprised expression onto her features.

"Daphne!" she beamed, injecting her voice with as much warmth and steadiness as she could muster.

"What are you doing here?" Daphne asked, brow arched.

"Oh, you know," Hermione said with a breezy wave of her hand, "thought it’d be a nice change of scenery for some reading."

She casually lifted the book, not even sure what book she was holding and then l she caught sight of the title: A Witch and Her Wand: Spells to Elevate Your Alone Time.

Every eye in the group zeroed in on the title. Hermione felt her face flush a deep scarlet as she shoved the book back into her bag with unnecessary force, silently cursing Ginny for ever gifting it to her.

"Why don’t you lot carry on, Granger will be fine now that her date has arrived," Theo declared with a mischievous grin, sauntering past the others and plopping himself into the seat opposite her. "No need to worry, Granger. Your love is here."

He dramatically snatched her hand and planted an exaggerated kiss on her knuckles. Hermione yanked her hand back but couldn't help letting out a laugh at his jovial playfulness. Theo was as harmless as a mooncalf really.

"Theo! Stop being a creep!" Astoria scolded, grabbing the back of his robes and hauling him out of the seat. He retreated, grinning, as she trailed after him, still scolding.

The others began to follow, albeit more slowly.

Daphne lingered a moment longer. 

"I’ll catch up with you later, okay?" she said gently, stooping to give Hermione a quick hug and a cheek kiss.

Draco was the last to pass. He walked by as though she were invisible. But before she could stop herself, she heard her own voice.

"Draco."

He paused. Turned.

He didn't speak. He just turned to look at her. The hateful sneer Draco had offered her earlier in the day had vanished, it was just hollow, eyes heavy with sadness. It was almost as if  they were pleading for her to alleviate some of the burden he was carrying at this time. To be the pillar to hold him up so he didn't have to anymore. Hermione felt her heart constrict at the sight of it. Her eyebrows furrowed with concern. She had planned to mention the assignment to him but now… she didn't know what to do. 

"Oh– actually, it’s nothing," she mumbled.

Draco didn’t reply. He simply looked at her for a heartbeat longer and then turned and walked away.

She watched his back retreat into the crowded restaurant, her stomach sinking like she’d missed something vital. Like he’d almost said something. Like she almost had.

Hermione’s appetite had long since vanished. The moment the waiter boxed up her barely-touched meal, she paid and Apparated straight into the quiet of her bedroom. Crookshanks stirred and padded over without a sound, curling tightly against her side as she settled on the bed, container still in hand. She picked half-heartedly at the food, not tasting it, not really seeing it. Her gaze locked on the far wall—eyes glassy, posture still. She was there, and not there at all.

Thoughts moved through her like a carousel—unfixed, flickering—never lingering long enough to hold, only brushing past. The night replayed in fragments. The look on Draco’s face: hollowed, heavy. The ache she couldn’t name.

Then, unbidden, her mind slipped through a crack in her defenses and fell into a quieter room in her memory. One she rarely entered anymore.

Her mother’s laughter under the golden kitchen light. Her father hummed along to the radio as he cooked. The soft weight of Crookshanks in her arms the day she brought him home. Ginny snorting with laughter beside her in their Hogwarts dorm, both of them giddy with something too silly to remember now. 

It had been so long since she’d let herself wander here.

And strangely, this time, the memories didn’t burn. They didn’t carve her open. They sat with her gently, like an old friend who knew the shape of her silence.

She let herself feel them. Not with bitterness. Not with grief.

But with something gentler.

Love.

With those memories she knew she would never truly be alone.

Hermione didn't know when she fell asleep as she woke up the next day, still in her clothes she wore to dinner. It was a loud banging on her door that caused her to wake. Not a moment later Ginny burst through the door, waving the Daily Prophet so close to Hermione's face it almost hit her.

Sitting up, Hermione took the paper from Ginny's hands, holding it out at arms length as her half awake, half asleep eyes adjusted.

And suddenly everything about Draco the day before made sense.

‘Lucius Malfoy Condemned to Dementor’s Kiss!

By Octavia Flint, Senior Crime Correspondent

Lucius Malfoy, former governor on the Hogwarts Board and long-time associate of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, is set to receive the Dementor’s Kiss following the emergence of damning new evidence.

Already serving a life sentence in Azkaban for his role in the Second Wizarding War, Malfoy’s fate took a grim turn earlier yesterday when the Department of Magical Law Enforcement presented this new evidence to Wizengamot. Sources within the Ministry confirm that the new evidence directly links Malfoy to multiple acts of dark magic and war crimes previously unaccounted for.

Once a prominent figure in pure-blood society, Malfoy will now face the most severe punishment sanctioned by the Wizengamot—the removal of his soul.

The Malfoy family refused to issue a statement.

More on page 4: “A History of the Kiss: Rare but Final”
Also see: “The Malfoy Legacy: From Power to Pariah”, p. 6’

Chapter 11: Emotional Recalibration in Post-War Proximity

 

Hermione read the article.

Then reread it. 

Piece by piece, the events of the previous day clicked into place like jagged shards of glass.

She quickly flipped to page six.

There, across a double-page spread, The Daily Prophet laid everything bare: the bad, the ugly, and very little of the good. Draco’s life, once again dissected for public consumption. His family’s past and every shadowed corner dragged back into the light.

Not only had they dredged up the usual wartime accusations, they had somehow managed to get hold of a new array of photographs. Hermione’s stomach twisted. There was the familiar family portrait that had accompanied so many old articles… but beside it was something she hadn’t seen before: a photo from Lucius and Narcissa’s wedding day.

Despite the youthful look in their eyes, Lucius’s face still sent a shiver up Hermione’s spine. She shifted her gaze, focusing instead on Narcissa.

She wore a simple and presumably white gown. Its high neck and long sleeves giving it a severe elegance. The fabric pooled around her feet in a soft train, and her veil trailed even further, edged in intricate lace. The black and white photograph offered no hint of colour, but Hermione recognised the flowers in her bouquet immediately.

Carnations.

Her breath caught for a moment, her finger brushing across the image. She couldn’t help it, she immediately thought of him. He had said carnations were his favourite flower on account of what they signified to his mother. She couldn’t help but wonder if Narcissa was as fond of these buds as much as the Masked Strangers mother was.

After pausing to let her mind ponder her eyes fell to the next ‘never seen before’ picture.

A child.

Blond hair, slicked back. Eyes too big for his face. He couldn’t have been more than five or six. He was sitting stiffly on a velvet chaise, dressed in black robes, far too dark for any child.

Draco.

Hermione had never seen a picture of Draco as a small child and it took her a moment to reconcile the image. The innocence that shone through on this child's face was a stark comparison to the sullen man she now knew. The boy in the photo wasn’t sneering. He wasn’t posturing or spitting venom and superiority. He just looked… trapped. Like someone had told him to sit still and not speak unless spoken to. 

Hermione felt something twist in her chest. Not pity, exactly, but a cold sort of understanding.
How many of his choices had been made before he was even old enough to speak?

She scanned the article again, slower now, and the cruelty of it hit her more sharply than before. The way the Prophet laid it all out as if he were still just a name to be feared or hated, not a person trying to claw his way out of the wreckage of his past.

There was the muffled sound of someone speaking to her, but Hermione was too focused on the newspaper in front of her to pull the words into focus.

“Hermione!” Ginny finally snapped after being ignored for too long.

“Yeah, Gin?” Hermione replied, still only half paying attention.

“I said,” Ginny drawled, “I thought the Ministry kept you three in the loop with these types of things. And I’m guessing, since your jaw is on the floor, you weren't in said loop?”

“No, I wasn't aware of the changes to his sentencing. I guess they didn't feel the need to keep us informed anymore,” Hermione sighed. “It's not like we have any new information to add at this point.”

Before she could stop herself, Hermione cringed and let out a groan. Now firmly back in the real world, she remembered the note she had left Draco.

“What?”

“I’m supposed to meet Draco today to work on our assignment,” Hermione said, resting her head in her hands, already dreading all the awkward interactions that could pass between them. It would be the elephant in the room, no doubt and Hermione didn’t know if it would be easier to address it or ignore it until it didn’t loom so heavily.

“Oooh.” Ginny grimaced. “Good luck… If he even shows, that is.”

After that, Ginny left the room, leaving Hermione to wonder if he actually would show. After the way he bit at her yesterday and now this, she’d be surprised if he even turned up for his classes.

Tossing the paper aside, Hermione got up to get ready for the day. She threw on her usual blue jeans, sneakers, and today, opted for a pale pink knit that slouched off one shoulder. After she had fed Crookshanks and gathered her books, she headed through the Floo to start her day.

On Wednesday, her classes were Draco-free. This was something that had elated her at the start of term, but now she found herself glancing out of her periphery, hoping to catch a glimpse. Hoping to see a flash of pale blonde hair in the hallway or spot the cuff of one of his immaculately pressed shirts. Anything. Anything to know he was here. Anything to see if he was okay.

When the sightings never came, she began to wonder if she had ever seen him milling around the school when they weren't in classes together. Where did he hide, and who with? Was there a corner of the library that held an unspoken reservation just for him, the way hers did?

At the conclusion of her last class of the day, she made her way to the library but paused before crossing over the threshold. He’s not going to show, she told herself, her pulse thrumming with steady apprehension.

But still, at 4:01 p.m., she crossed the line and stepped inside.

Quickly weaving her way around desks and bookshelves in the opposite direction of her usual spot, she made her way through to the Herbology section. There, nestled between two overstuffed shelves, she found an empty table and set her things down. With a flick of her wand, she cast a Muffliato charm over the space. Hermione had a habit of thinking aloud, and she didn’t want to disturb anyone nearby.

“You’re late.” A level voice came from behind her.

Hermione drew a sharp gasp as she spun to see who it was, although she already knew.

It was Draco. 

He had shown.

All Hermione could do was stutter out a reply. Where had he even come from? The table had been empty seconds ago. A part of her had convinced herself he wouldn’t show at all.

She swallowed, steadying herself. Her head buzzed with a dozen things she wanted to say but none of them felt right. So she went with something simple, something neutral. A place where all conversations start.

“Hello, Malfoy,” she said calmly, offering a small, warm smile and pushing the same warmth into her eyes. She thought she saw his shoulders ease at the greeting.

Once settled in her seat, she began unpacking the stack of books she’d already pored through in search of answers, along with her notebook. Draco mirrored her actions, sitting across from her but down one seat.

Silence swelled between them. Awkward. Suffocating. Hermione could feel it curling around her like smoke, and she hated it. She had to cut through it.

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

“I’m sorry about your father.” Her voice was soft but firm, and she met his eyes as she said it.

He looked different from yesterday. The tired shadows were gone from his face, his hair was neatly combed the way she remembered, his clothes crisp and perfectly buttoned.

Draco held her gaze for a moment, then leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling.

“I’m not,” he said at last, his tone flat, almost indifferent. Then his eyes flicked back to hers– bright, cutting silver. “Are you really sorry, Granger?”

Hermione held his words for a beat, studying him. The truth was, Lucius Malfoy had long earned his fate. No matter how her heart tugged for the two people tangled up in his ruin, she couldn’t pretend otherwise.

“No,” she replied in blunt honesty. “But I do feel sorry for you. And your mother.”

She watched something flicker across his face. The blue undertone in his eyes deepened, and his expression shifted into something unreadable. Brief, but there. She saw it.

“You read the article then,” Draco said. There was a faint edge of amusement in his voice, just enough to reassure her that this wasn’t going to spiral into a duel of barbed words or wandwork.

“I live with one of the most notorious gossips in wizarding London,” Hermione replied, matching his tone with a wry smile. “It’s hard to avoid.”

Then, after a beat and wanting to test the waters of their newfound civility, she added,  “You were a cute child… I wonder what happened.”

And then it happened.

For only the second time Hermione could recall in her entire life, Draco Malfoy smiled. A real smile, complete with a soft and genuine laugh. She could tell it was real by the way it breathed warmth into his usually guarded eyes. 

The awkward tension between them melted away, and not wanting to let it creep back in, Hermione pivoted toward the task at hand.

“Do you know anything about the potion?” she asked.

“Yes and no,” Draco replied, then clarified at her confused look. “More no than yes. I knew things were being created and developed in my house, obviously, but I wasn’t exactly part of the brainstorming sessions.”

He raked a hand through his hair, tousling the strands he’d so carefully styled. His eyes shut in concentration, clearly trying to summon something useful from the vault of memory.

“I think... I think there was an Oswin…” He trailed off, brows furrowing. “An Oswin Ferncombe, maybe? Working on something potion-related.”

Hermione’s head snapped up from the book she’d been idly flicking through.

“Ferncombe?”

“Yes. I think so?” Draco now looked intrigued as her eyes lit with recognition. He watched her with growing interest as her mind began to race.

She knew that name. How did she know that name?

And then it clicked.

Without another word, Hermione sprang to her feet and darted off toward the shelves.

“F... F... F…” she muttered under her breath as she scanned the spines. She barely registered the scrape of Draco’s chair as he stood, or his question drifting after her. Her entire focus had narrowed to a single target.

Stepping back slightly to get a better view of the top row, she spotted it. A book. Her heart leapt.

Standing on the very tips of her toes, she stretched one arm as high as she could. Her fingers grazed the spine but couldn’t quite grasp it. Letting out a frustrated grunt, she tried again but this time adding a little hop. Still no luck.

On her third attempt, just as she rose onto her toes again, a presence moved behind her. A warm figure brushed along her back. A pale, shirt-sleeved arm reached out past her cheek, and Draco’s breath danced against her bare shoulder, feather-light.

Goosebumps flared up her arms. Spearmint invaded her senses.

Her breath caught.

Her heart betrayed her and skipped a beat.

Hermione didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her brain had short-circuited the moment Draco’s presence enveloped her like that. It was quiet, unexpected, and dangerously gentle.

He plucked the book from the shelf with ease, his arm lingering for a beat before withdrawing. As he stepped back, the warmth that had momentarily settled along her spine disappeared with him. 

Hermione swallowed hard, turning slowly to face him and looking up at him through hooded eyes. She hoped with all her being that he couldn't see the rose tint in her cheeks

“Thanks,” she managed, her voice hoarse.

Draco held the book out to her, but something in his expression had shifted. His usual cool detachment was gone, now his eyes darted across her face desperately trying to read her.

As Hermione took a soft breath she reached out to take the book from him. Their fingers brushed and Hermione couldn't deny the jolt of electricity that ran through her fingers and tingling in her spine.

Draco broke away first, clearing his throat as he stepped back, leaning his long figure on the side of the table. Hermione didn’t understand what just happened and didn't want to sit in a moment longer.

“Look at the author.” She said holding the book out for him to see. “Althea Ferncombe, she was a Herbologist, well known for her willingness to experiment regardless of if it was ethical or not.”

“You think she's a relation of Oswin?”

“Maybe? How old was the guy?” Hermione asked as she flipped the cover open to where a photo of Althea was. She was dressed in early Edwardian period clothing and looked to be about 40-50.

“Oh, he was old. I never knew him properly but reminded me of Dumbledore.” Draco replied now, rubbing his chin.

Hermione started to flick through the pages in hopes to find more clues, and it didn't take long.

“Look!” Hermione gasped, smacking her pointer finger down on the page with the special thanks and read it aloud. “Dedicated to my husband Oleander, and my kids Briar and Oswin. Thank you for your love and support.”  

They looked at each other, their eyes alight with a hunger of pursuit. They had a direction now and it was satisfying. This is what Hermione loved about research and she was just about vibrating with excitement. Draco couldn't get a word in before she began.

“Accio Ferncombe.” Hermione called out and swished her wand. A few seconds later a stack of four books sat on the table. Two of them penned by Althea and the other two by her husband who as it turned out was a notable potioneer. Wasting no time to split the pill in two, pushing half in front of Draco. “If you read anything of note let me know.”

“You too, Granger.” He replied with a smirk as he cracked the spine of the first book.

They both read silently for a while. Every now and then one of them would shift to a different spot, to be standing, or to be walking around in circles. But neither of them came up with anything of use. Hermione was deep in her second book, hands knotted in her hair in frustration when Draco smacked an open book down in front of her, causing her to startle.

“This.” He pointed at it as he leaned over Hermione. She pulled the book closer to see what he was pointing at. It was Snargaluff. “When they took up residence in my house, they planted this in the garden.”

“Are you sure?” Hermione questioned.

“Yes, I remember mum being upset because it made it too dangerous to do her gardening.”

With her eyebrows furrowed Hermione took to reading the small passage Althea had written about it. 

‘The Snargaluff is a sentient, thorn-covered plant notorious for its aggressive defence mechanisms. While its fruit has historically been used for its noxious odour in defensive tactics, recent findings reveal a far more hazardous property.

When juiced, the fruit retains the stump’s corrosive, carnivorous traits. Direct contact with Snargaluff juice results in rapid chemical breakdown of the epidermis, causing dissolution of the outer skin layer and exposing muscle tissue beneath. Extreme caution is advised in all handling and storage procedures’

“I know these.” Hermione said. “We used them as weapons during the war, just like Althea said.”

“Well where do we get them?”

“Mmm, I suppose the university probably has a greenhouse with a few planted under the restricted section. Harry and I harvested the fruit when we used them… it was hard and definitely a two person job.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “So what? We break into the greenhouse?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Not break in . I’m sure you can just request access.”

“Right,” he drawled, unconvinced. “Because they’re just handing out volatile magical fruit to students these days.”

“Slughorn wouldn't have assigned the class an impossible task, Malfoy, give me a few days I will see what I can do.” Hermione snapped the book she had been reading shut, it had only offered dead ends.

“Well, one ingredient down,” Draco said, his voice low as he leaned back in his chair. “Only two more to go.”

“Only two?” Hermione questioned.

“Oh, after you ah… left, Slughorn gave us all one hint and it was that it was only three ingredients.” Draco clarified. It frustrated Hermione slightly that she hadn't been able to stay and hear this clue for herself and maybe even have squeezed out another one.

“I just wish I’d had more time with the potion,” Hermione said, eyes fixed on the book in front of her though she wasn’t really reading anymore. “The colour, the smell… even the consistency might’ve told us something.”

“I still have the vial,” he said after a beat. “It’s empty, but maybe there’s something left to study. A trace of residue, maybe.”

Hermione perked up, hope flickering in her expression. “Really? That could be incredibly helpful. Can I…?”

He nodded once. “It’s yours.”

The silence returned, heavier now. The adrenaline of their progress had burned off. Hermione’s muscles ached from leaning over books for hours, and her stomach gave a quiet growl, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since lunch. She checked her watch.

7:23 p.m.

Three hours together. Probably the longest they’d spent side by side without drawing wands or insults.

She stifled a yawn and was just about to suggest they call it a night when Draco spoke again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “For the other day. When you asked if I was okay.”

Hermione blinked. She hadn’t expected him to bring it up, not now. And with everything she’d learned since, she couldn’t say she didn’t understand.

She gave him a small, tired smile. “It’s okay. I understand, now at least.”

Draco nodded once, the movement subtle but sincere. His eyes flicked to hers for just a second too long before returning to the table.

“Still,” he added, quieter this time, “you didn’t deserve that.”

Hermione hesitated. She was eager to pick at this frayed seam of his vulnerability.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay… are you okay?”

That landed. His jaw twitched, and his gaze fell to the table between them, the scattered books, the worn parchment, anything but her. Hermione didn’t need him to spell it out. She knew it was complicated.

At first, she’d assumed he must have been distraught. But after her afternoon with Daphne and Astoria, she understood. A part of him had to be relieved. Perhaps even… elated?

When his eyes finally lifted to meet hers again, the full force of them knocked the breath from her lungs. The silver in his gaze was sharp, cutting, but not cruel. It was luminous, like it belonged in the night sky, nestled between scattered diamonds of starlight. Something ancient and beautiful and quietly magic.

Something people looked at in awe, not knowing whether to wish on it or run.

Hermione didn’t look away, though something in her chest begged her to. The moment had taken on a strange gravity, like the room had folded in around them, hushed and still, as if the castle itself was holding its breath.

“I meant it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “About being sorry… for you and your mum.”

Draco’s mouth parted slightly, as though to respond, but no sound came. Instead, he gave a small nod and dropped his gaze again, this time not in avoidance, but in something quieter. Something like acceptance.

He shifted in his seat, reaching down into his satchel, and for a moment thought he was going to give her the vial. But instead, he straightened and set one small book on the table with a dull thud.

The same one she’d thrown at him in untamed fury weeks ago.

“I believe this is yours,” he said dryly, ignoring her previous question.

She smiled despite herself and reached across the table to take the book, fingers grazing his in the exchange. For a breathless second, neither of them moved.

“Thanks,” she said gently, her voice softer now.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything, Granger.”

The smallest pause. The faintest shared look. And for a moment, they both sat there in the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward at all but the kind that said too much.

“I should go,” Hermione said, finally. Her voice sounded different, smaller.

Draco nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

She gathered her things slowly, her fingers lingering a little too long on the cover of the returned book. As she turned to leave, she glanced back to find him already watching her.

Neither of them said goodbye.

Once back at her flat and positioned at her desk she found herself forgoing her usual course reading. Her fingers hovered over the old worn spell book Draco had just returned to her, but she found herself reaching for the equally worn and overlooked book of magical embroidery. It was as though the book was calling out to her for it to be read, to have anyone look over its dusted pages. The spine of the small book let out a soft squeak as she pulled the cover open. A waft of musty vanilla from the broken down lignin reached Hermione's nose, comforting her.

The book contained various stitching patterns only achieved by way of a wand, a section Hermione didn't find particularly enticing. Then there was the chapter on materials used, all to increase the overall lustre of a certain piece of work. One rare and difficult to source ingredient caught her eye. 

‘Silver Thread (Goblin-Wrought):

Goblin-wrought silver thread is a highly sought-after material used in fine magical textiles. Known for its exceptional resistance to wear, fraying, and magical interference, it is often employed to add both durability and ornate detail. When held beneath moonlight, the thread emits a distinctive shimmer, enhancing its visual splendour. Difficult and costly to procure, Goblin-wrought silver is widely regarded as a symbol of wealth and status.’

Subconsciously, Hermione found herself reaching for the handkerchief that belonged to the Masked Stranger from the top drawer of her desk. Under the low amber glow of her desk candles the emerald thread held no shimmer but curiosity pulled her to her feet, handkerchief still in hand, and tugged her to her window. With the curtains open the full moon shone through brilliantly and with skepticism she held the handkerchief up to the window, letting the moon's light wash over it.

At once, a beguiling glow emanated from the handkerchief. It shimmered like the moon was trying to break through the weave itself, threading light into the very fibres. The sight stole the breath from her lungs. In stunned silence, Hermione dropped the handkerchief. It fluttered to the floor, radiant even as it landed. She stared down at it, pulse racing.

Surely not. A coincidence. A trick of the light.

And yet…

Her fingers trembled as they reached for her wand. The tip quivered slightly as she whispered, “Revelio.”

A rush of blue light burst from her wand, sweeping through the room in a wide, whispering arc. It passed over shelves and surfaces, skimming across wood and parchment, until it found the things that held magic. Her pink bag glowed. A few well-thumbed tomes glowed. Her enchanted quills glowed. The little never wilt indoor plant by the window glowed.

The handkerchief glowed, with pulsing blue light.

As quickly as the spell had rushed over the room it vanished, taking Hermione's ability to breath with it.

He was a wizard.