Work Text:
February 28, 2004
“Hullo, Ernie! Have you got that memo about the Welsh Green relocation yet?”
Draco froze mid-step.
He had lived with the Dark Lord for almost a year, faced down the most brutal Death Eaters, duelled in a burning manor, and survived being nearly flattened by an Acromantula in Wales in his last mission, but none of that compared to the absolute panic that gripped him the moment he heard her voice echo off the marble walls of the Ministry atrium.
Because there she was again. Hermione bloody Granger in all her glory. Dark honey-eyed, wild-haired, and all smiles so early in the morning. But of course she was. The witch probably bathes in milk and lavender to be so radiant every day.
He glanced over his shoulder, trying not to make it obvious that he was observing her. She stood near the security desk, scribbling something furiously onto a scroll with the kind of quill that left ink smudges on your knuckles. There were three scrolls under her arm, a biscuit in her mouth, and, Merlin, she was still wearing that lopsided Ministry ID badge that hung too low on her robes.
Draco clenched his jaw. It wasn’t right, this feeling he was pushing down his stomach. He was a Malfoy. A war-survivor. An Auror. A man who could, on most days, Apparate directly into combat without flinching. And yet, every time he saw Hermione Granger, his internal organs threw themselves into a blender and screamed while performing acrobatic acts.
The worst part? She didn’t even notice. Not the looks he was throwing at her. Not the ridiculous palpitations he experienced every time their fingers so much as brushed when they passed one another. Not the way he found himself watching her mouth when she talked, because she bit her bottom lip when she got excited about anything while talking about what she does on a daily basis.
He knew, because he’d stared at her. A lot.
He glanced toward the lift in front of him. Bugger . She was heading that way.
Draco considered taking the stairs. All ten flights of them. He was a trained Auror, he could easily do it. But then she caught up.
“Draco!” she called brightly, bounding over like a Labrador that had just spotted a stick.
He turned with what he hoped was an expression of mild, professional indifference. “Granger.”
“You’re headed up?”
“I do work here,” he said dryly.
She grinned, and for a moment, Draco forgot how to exhale the breath he just inhaled.
The lift dinged, the golden grilles slid open, and they both stepped inside.
Draco stood in the far left corner. It was an unspoken rule by now. She always stood on the right. The distance between them, approximately one metre, was just enough space to keep his thoughts semi-appropriate and his dignity mostly intact.
As the lift lurched upwards, the scrolls under Hermione’s arm slipped.
One fell. Then another.
“Oh—bugger it! Sorry, would you—?”
But Draco was already moving. He crouched, snatching up one scroll, then the other. As he handed the last one over, her fingers grazed his. His breath caught in his throat, staring at the space where their hands touched.
She didn’t seem to notice. She just smiled, said, “Thanks!” and adjusted her grip like nothing had happened.
Draco, meanwhile, was having a full-blown nervous breakdown in silence.
He clenched his hand after she turned away, curling his fingers slowly into a fist, before spreading it wide open, testing the mobility of his fingers. He could still feel it though, the ghost of her touch, soft and warm and fleeting. Like a spell he hadn’t learnt how to cast, but one he was sure would undo him entirely.
Before he knew it, the lift dinged at Level Four, and an intern with a lopsided tie stepped in, humming something annoyingly cheerful. Hermione took the opportunity to talk after greeting him.
“Did you read that new report about the mooncalf population in Dorset? They’re migrating too far north again. We’re trying to coordinate with the Department of Magical Transportation to restrict portkey use near breeding grounds.”
Draco nodded, though he had no idea what she’d just said. He was too busy watching her hands flutter as she spoke. Gods, her hands, all expressive and delicate, the kind of hands you noticed if you’d been noticing everything else about her for years. They were smaller than his, her fingers slender, and her nails were perfectly trimmed and painted in a sheer pink colour.
He said the first coherent thing that entered his mind.
“That’s… very noble of you.”
She paused and frowned slightly. “Er. Thanks?”
Draco wanted to leap out the lift.
Mercifully, the intern got off at Level Six (but not before he threw an exasperated look at Draco), and silence returned. For precisely three seconds.
Then Hermione looked over again at him and asked, “Did you ever like Care of Magical Creatures at school?”
Draco blinked. “What?”
“I just—I mean, it’s funny, isn’t it? You’re an Auror now, and I’m head of the Magical Creatures Regulation Reform Board, and neither of us really seemed the type back then. Remember when Hagrid tried to make us cuddle Blast-Ended Skrewts?”
Draco allowed a small, involuntary smile but he did not really recall anything except for when the huge chicken almost killed him. “I still have the scar.”
Hermione laughed, tipping her head back. Her hair caught the lift lights, all chestnut and madness, and Draco swore he could feel his spine melting at the sight.
“Well, I’m trying to do something good,” she said after a pause. “Maybe… make up for things. Mistakes we made. People we lost.”
That last bit was softer and quieter.
Draco looked at her then. There was a soft crease between her brows. He noticed the faint freckles that only appeared when she hadn’t worn makeup or when she’d been out for too long under the sun. The way she held her scrolls like a shield. And he felt it again, that same sharp, inexplicable ache in his chest that had first started years ago, the day she stood up in front of the Wizengamot and told the truth. For him.
The lift dinged again.
Level Eight.
Hermione turned to step out. “See you at lunch? I’m sitting with Harry and Ron if I don’t have anything to do.”
Draco opened his mouth. Said nothing but nodded.
“Great!” she chirped, and then she was gone, bustling off down the hall with her scrolls and her biscuit crumbs and the faint smell of chamomile clinging to her robes.
Draco stood in the lift for a full ten seconds after the doors closed.
Then he muttered, “Get a grip, Malfoy.”
But his hand still tingled at the loss of her warmth.
The Auror Office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement wing was unusually quiet for a Wednesday morning, save for the rhythmic clack of typewriters and the occasional rustle of parchment. Somewhere near the back, a memo zipped through the air like a demented origami bird and narrowly missed decapitating an junior Auror.
Draco stepped inside the room, still vaguely stunned, his hand half-curled by his side like it had been bewitched.
Hermione Granger had touched him. Again. And smiled. Again. And then asked if he liked Care of Magical Creatures. Which he did not. Or did he? He might, now. If she was involved. He might even volunteer to wrangle another bloody Hippogriff if it meant she’d smile at him like that again.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled, and dropped gracelessly into his chair.
“You alright, mate?” came Harry Potter’s voice from across the room, alarmingly chipper for a man whose tie was on backwards and had a faded print of lipstick on his collar.
Draco scowled. “You’re not allowed to call me that.”
Potter just grinned and tossed him a case file. “Illegal portkey ring in Manchester. Should be a fun one.”
Draco caught it without looking. “Why are you smiling at me like a Kneazle who’s just knocked something off a shelf on purpose?”
“Because you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where your mouth twitches and your ears go slightly pink. That’s your ‘Hermione just breathed in my direction and now I want to pass out’ face.”
“I do not have a face,” Draco said darkly.
“You do have a face,” came another voice, drawling and dry as ever. The youngest Weasley boy slinked into the office with a mug of coffee and the energy of a man who had no business being awake before noon.
Draco dropped his head onto his desk with a dull thunk. “Merlin, take me now.”
The Weasel leaned against the wall, sipped his drink, and watched him suffer. “Lift ride again?”
Draco groaned in response.
“She touch your hand?”
Another groan. This one was longer.
Potter glanced between them like he was watching a Quidditch team lose spectacularly. “Why don’t you just tell her?”
Draco lifted his head enough to glare at him. “Oh, sure. I’ll just stroll into her office and say, ‘Hello, Granger, I’ve been lowkey obsessed with you since you testified for me after the war. Also, your voice does something to my spine and just your touch makes me implode.’ That’ll go well.”
Weasley snorted into his coffee.
“She’d probably appreciate the honesty,” Potter said with an irritating lack of sarcasm.
“That’s not the point, Potter,” Draco snapped.
Then, Weasley came to perch on the edge of Draco’s desk, looking far too amused for someone who hadn't even started his shift yet. “So let me get this straight. You’ve spent the last four years pining after her like a sixth-year writing poetry under the covers, and you still haven’t done a thing.”
“I have not —”
“You haven’t even flirted.”
“I have flirted,” Draco said, affronted.
Weasley blinked and grinned in amusement. “Do tell.”
“I called her noble this morning.”
Potter nearly dropped his quill and blanched. “That’s not flirting, that’s—what even is that? That’s something a history professor says to a student writing a dissertation on goblin rebellions.”
“I panicked,” Draco muttered.
Weasley held up a finger. “Let’s set the bar, then. You panicked, called her noble, and then what? Stared at her like she was a Crup and you were emotionally unprepared?”
Draco stared up at the ceiling. “She mentioned mooncalves, Weasley.”
Potter leaned forward. “You could've made a joke. Been charming. Even asked if she wanted to show you a mooncalf sometime.”
Draco’s eye twitched. “You want me to ask her out by suggesting we go stare at magical livestock?”
Weasley smirked. “You’ve done worse.”
Before Draco could argue the point, a flutter of parchment landed in his lap.
A Ministry memo.
He straightened and opened it.
Malfoy,
Need an Auror consult on the Puffskein smuggling case. Magical Creatures suspects overlap with your ongoing investigation into that Knockturn Alley lot. Third floor, conference room three at noon?
– Granger
Draco blinked after reading it two more times.
“She wants to have an audience with me,” he said, as if reading a prophecy.
“Is that… not normal?” Potter asked, confused.
“She wants an Auror consult. With me .”
Weasley tilted his head. “Isn’t that literally your job?”
“No, you don’t understand—this is cross-departmental.”
Potter looked unimpressed. “Again… not unheard of.”
“She said—” Draco cleared his throat, then read aloud, “‘Need you on the Puffskein case.’”
“Right.”
“Which means she’s read my reports. Recently. She knows my handwriting. My field notes. My conclusions.”
Weasley clapped a hand over his face. “Merlin. He’s going to frame that memo. Was I that obsessed with Hermione when I thought I was in love with her?”
Draco ignored the way Potter shrug at his friend and stared at the parchment instead as if it had written itself in gold leaf. “She trusts me with field decisions. That’s quite significantly huge.”
Potter coughed, clearly trying not to laugh at his words. “She also trusts me with her coffee order, doesn’t mean she wants to snog me.”
“She drinks black coffee, no sugar,” Draco said instantly, then froze. “Not that I—er—noticed.”
Weasley drained the rest of his mug, hopped off his desk, and muttered, “You are so far gone.”
Draco was already folding the memo with embarrassing care and slipping it into the top drawer of his desk. “It’s a case file,” he said defensively.
“It’s a memo ,” corrected Weasley. “You’re going to put it in a scrapbook, aren’t you?”
Draco tried to act like he hadn’t already labelled a file folder “Misc: Granger Correspondence (Professional)” in his desk cabinet.
“Shut up,” he muttered.
Potter leaned back in his chair and grinned. “You’re bloody tragic, Malfoy. Are all Malfoy men like this? Makes Lucius less scary if you think about it.”
Draco didn’t reply. He just glanced back at the drawer. His heart was still hammering in his chest, like a Knockturn Alley snitch caught in a wandlight.
She wanted to meet. Alone. And she’d picked him over her best of friends who were more superior in titles as Aurors.
It was just work, yes, but when it came to Hermione Granger, even work made him feel like something more might be possible.
Eventually.
Maybe.
… Salazar, help him.
The Ministry canteen, on any given afternoon, was a war zone of chipped mugs, reheated soup, and overworked civil servants pretending they hadn’t just sent a Howler to payroll. It was noisy, chaotic, and smelled vaguely of cabbage and burnt treacle.
Draco hated it with a deep passion. And yet here he was, with a tray in hand, jaw tight, and heart somewhere near his throat, because Hermione was here.
She was seated at her usual table she sat in whenever she had work and didn’t want to be disturbed by neither himself, Potter, or Weasley, in the far corner near the window, bent over a folder so thick it could double as a bludgeoning weapon. Her curls were half-tucked into a haphazard bun, her robes were slightly ink-stained, and she had what looked like mustard on her sleeve.
She looked radiant as always.
Draco slid into the seat across from Potter and Weasley, doing his best not to look obvious. “Is she working through lunch again?”
“She calls it ‘multitasking.’ I call it ‘an intervention waiting to happen,’” said the redhead, unwrapping his (what seemed to be based on the empty paper wrappers in front of him) third sausage roll.
Draco didn’t respond. Because Hermione had just unwrapped a sandwich.
He went still as he watched her. It was always the same lunch every Wednesday. Brown bread with suspiciously healthy filling (something with sprouts?) and a precise, almost methodical removal of the crusts.
She didn’t slice them off with a knife or had asked for crustless bread like a normal person. No. Instead, she tore them carefully with her fingertips. Thumb and forefinger, gentle pressure, peel one edge at a time, like she was unravelling a delicate artefact.
And he watched her do it. Every. Single. Time. And every single time, something inside his chest broke clean in half.
She took a bite of the now crustless sandwich, eyes still scanning her folder, entirely unaware of the man sitting three tables away (one of which had forgotten how to chew because she licked mustard from the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue).
Draco gripped his fork and contemplated using it as a weapon against himself.
Potter glanced over at him. “Are you going to eat, or…?”
Draco blinked down at his lunch. His plate was filled with roast chicken and mash. Basic, comforting, and suddenly disgusting.
“Shut up, Potter,” he said under his breath. “Why does she do that?”
Weasley followed his gaze and blinked. “The crust thing? Yeah, she’s always done that.”
“Since Hogwarts,” Potter added and shoved a spoonful of soup into his mouth. “She used to pass them to Neville.”
Draco was stunned. “You’re telling me this is… a known thing ?”
Weasley shrugged. “She says the texture’s weird.”
Draco could feel it happening again. That stupid fluttery warmth in his ribcage, equal parts awe and despair. Because of course she had a reason. Of course she had at least a crust philosophy. She probably had a flowchart in her office explaining the ethics of bread consumption.
Potter elbowed him lightly. “You’re staring again.”
“I’m just observing .”
“You’re in love with the way she eats her food, Malfoy. That’s not observing. That’s a mental condition, that one.”
Draco picked up his fork, stabbed a potato, then put it back down. “She licks her thumb when she turns pages.”
Weasley made a face. “You’re keeping a list now?”
Draco didn’t answer.
She was doing it though. Flicking through a section of parchment, using the edge of her thumb and pinky to flip pages and occasionally murmuring something under her breath. When she reached for her drink (something green, probably full of kale), Draco nearly sighed aloud.
She was too bright for this place. Too golden. Even with a mysterious stain on her sleeve and a Muggle pen behind her ear like a quill-holstering lunatic, she glowed in the dimness of the canteen like she’d swallowed starlight and forgotten to be humble about it.
Weasley shoved half a sausage roll into his mouth and said, “If you don’t ask her out, I’m going to.”
Draco nearly choked on air. “What?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I love Hermione, but only as a friend. So, it’s just to scare you,” he said around a mouthful of pastry. “You need motivation.”
Potter leaned forward, chin on his hand, clearly enjoying himself. “Imagine it, Malfoy. Ron and Hermione at the Chudley Cannons season launch. Sharing a bag of crisps. Matching jerseys.”
Draco scowled. “That’s not funny.”
“I think it’s hilarious ,” Weasley grinned widely. “You’d spontaneously combust.”
“I’m an Auror,” Draco hissed. “I’ve faced down actual death. I’ve seen cursed objects melt through steel. This is worse.”
“Because she’s working through her lunch break, has habits, and still makes you want to write sonnets like the Muggle poet she rambles about?” Harry offered.
Draco didn’t dignify that with a reply.
As if sensing their banter about her, Hermione looked up then, and all three men froze like schoolboys caught nicking sweets.
She smiled and finished the rest of her sandwich. She wiped her fingers on a piece of napkin before vanishing her trash and performed a wordless Scourgify to clean the crumbs off her table and clothes. She stood up from her table and walked over to them.
“There you are,” she said to their group.
Draco’s stomach flipped. He had no idea if she was addressing the group or him specifically. He chose to believe it was only him. He needed it to be only him.
“Hi, ‘Mione,” Both Potter and Weasley chorused chirply.
“Meeting’s still on at noon,” she said, folding her folder closed. Oh, gods, she was talking only to him and ignored her friends. “Don’t be late, Malfoy.”
He nodded, too quickly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She nodded and turned to her friends. “Bye, boys.” And left the table, brushing close enough to Draco that he caught the faint scent of lavender and ink and whatever parchment smelled like after she touched it.
Once she was gone, Potter gave him a long look. “Do you need a cold shower?”
Draco dropped his forehead against the table.
Weasley laughed loudly and took another bite of sausage roll. “You’re doomed.”
May 28, 1999
The courtroom had been too cold. That’s what he remembered first because it was too odd, for late May. He’d worn dress robes that felt two sizes too tight, and he’d barely slept in the weeks leading up to it. His mother hadn’t spoken all morning. Not even when he’d poured her tea with trembling hands.
There had been whispers when they entered. Murmurs, heads turning, and a few gasps. The most notorious of them all though were spiteful sneers and collective mentions of ‘Death Eater’ and ‘scum’ under their breaths. It was all so familiar, like the time when his father was also tried in court for his crimes during the summer leading to his sixth year. Only this time, the stakes were real for him and his mother.
The charges had been stacked high: aiding and abetting Death Eaters, complicity, magical negligence, and the blanket term “moral failure during wartime”. He hadn’t even argued that last one because they weren’t wrong.
But then, she had walked in. Hermione Granger bravely strolled in the courtroom with her hair pulled back, no-nonsense robes, a file under one arm, and a look on her face like she’d just finished reorganising a bookcase and was ready to dismantle someone’s entire worldview next.
He hadn’t known she would be there and certainly didn’t believe his ears when the Wizengamot clerk announced, “Next witness: Hermione Jean Granger, representing the Order and assigned as independent observer of Mr Draco Lucius Malfoy’s case.”
She sat at the witness box, cleared her throat, and looked directly at him. She was calm, her face was kind, and she gave him a small smile.
Why was she smiling at him? Certainly, she would get back at him for all his sins and mistreatment towards her.
“Miss Granger,” asked one of the elder wizards on the council, “you were present during several key events involving the Malfoy family during the war, were you not?”
“I was,” she replied, her voice steady.
“And yet, you’ve submitted a statement in their defence?”
“I have.”
The murmurs in the courtroom could’ve drowned out a brass band. Draco was stunned in place, heart pounding.
The council pressed. “Why?”
Yes, why? Why was Hermione Granger, the Muggleborn Draco Malfoy liked to pick at all their years at Hogwarts, the witch who suffered and bled at the Malfoys’ drawing room floors, willing to sit and defend him against the Wizengamot and the Wizarding Britain?
Hermione glanced at her parchment, but she didn’t need it. “Because I saw things no one else did. Because truth matters. And because the boy I saw in that manor wasn’t a monster. He was just a seventeen-year-old who was scared, and trapped, and trying desperately not to break in order to save his family.”
There had been a long pause and Draco heard his heart beat louder against his chest. She went on.
“Draco Malfoy made choices. Not all of them were good ones. But he made one , one I will never forget, that I was sure saved my life.”
Draco’s breath had left him. She didn’t need to say more. She could’ve stopped right there. But Hermione Granger never stopped where others did.
She turned to the council. “When Bellatrix Lestrange was torturing me in the Malfoy Manor’s drawing room, it was Draco who looked away and tried to reason with his aunt to stop her torment with me. He also could’ve named us and didn’t. Who could’ve called Voldemort back and didn’t.” She paused, visibly swallowing. “And when Harry, Ron, and I were fighting to escape, it was Draco who slowed things down just enough for Harry to get his wand from him. He pretended to duel Harry, but only threw defensive spells against Harry’s offensive ones that deflected and hit Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Rabastan. That moment changed everything which aided in our escape with Dobby, the Malfoy family’s free elf.”
More murmurs filled the room. One of the council members cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable.
“You believe he deserves leniency, Miss Granger?”
“I believe he deserves a chance.”
“And his mother?”
“The same. She saved Harry’s life in the Forbidden Forest.”
The verdict hadn’t come until days later, but it hadn’t mattered. The trial turned the moment she spoke. Because when Hermione Granger told the truth, people listened. Even when it was about him and his family.
After the hearing, he’d sat in a chair outside the courtroom, shell-shocked. Everyone had filtered out. His solicitors, the Ministry clerks, even his mother, escorted gently by Andromeda Tonks.
And then there she was, standing in front of him. He hadn’t looked up at first when she approached because he was unsure if he could. But she crouched down in front of him. His head snapped up to stare wide-eyed at her and he almost scrambled back to pull himself away from her because she was overwhelming. She had just spoken in his defence and yet, here she was, almost knelt down before him.
“For what it’s worth, I meant what I said in there.”
Her face was tired. Her eyes soft, but not pitying.
“You didn’t have to,” he’d said, voice hoarse.
She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe not. But I wanted to because it was the right thing to do.”
And that had been the beginning. The curse. The bloody unraveling of Draco Malfoy to Hermione Granger.
She’d stood up and walked away before he could say anything else. Just left him there with his thoughts and a whole new problem lodged in his chest. Because for the first time in his life, someone had spoken up for him, not out of duty, or self-interest, or familial obligation, but because they wanted to.
That someone had been Hermione Granger and he had no idea what to do with that.
He still didn’t. Four years later, she still left him breathless. She still tore her toast crusts off like it was a religious rite, still gave him impossible assignments apart from don’t fall in love with me , and still made his spine curl with the memory of a courtroom, a witness stand, and a girl who’d ruined him with a few well-placed words.
March 2, 2004
The Leaky Cauldron was loud and warm, full of clattering glasses and a thick haze of nostalgia. The private dining room in the back was lit with floating lanterns and smelled faintly of treacle tart and wood polish. The war might’ve ended five years ago, but when they gathered like this, Potter, Weasley, Granger, and their mad collection of tag-alongs, it always felt like Hogwarts hadn’t quite let them go.
Draco hovered in the doorway, silently assessing the table.
She was already seated between Potter and Weasley, laughing at something Potter had just said, curls tumbling over her shoulder like they had no respect for order or personal boundaries. She wore a soft green jumper, one sleeve pushed up to the elbow where ink still smudged her skin. Her wine glass was already half-empty. Her eyes sparkled with something bright and unguarded.
Draco didn’t move.
“Are you going to stand there like a lunatic, or are you going to sit down and stop being obvious about it?” drawled Blaise Zabini, appearing at his side and looking both over it and overdressed.
“I’m not being obvious.”
“You’re loitering like a cursed portrait.”
Draco shot him a look. “Don’t you have something expensive and pointlessly French to be doing?”
Blaise smirked and sauntered to the table without waiting for a reply. “You’re welcome for the seat I saved you, by the way. Not that I want to sit next to Potter, mind you.”
Draco followed reluctantly, sinking into the empty seat between Blaise and Pansy, directly across from her.
The gods were cruel.
Some years ago, on the first anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Pansy left their former school after the ceremony and had some drinks at the newly renovated Leaky Cauldron. A few minutes later, Potter’s friend group (which consisted of Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, George Weasley, Longbottom, Lovegood, Thomas, Finnigan, and Hermione Granger) all stumbled in and requested a rather private space. However, Draco and his lot had already occupied it and paid for the space.
It was Potter who further extended an olive branch to his group of friends then, asking if it was okay for them to join them. Since then, their group of friends had merged together and grew larger with the extension of a few more class and batchmates.
Someone shoved a butterbeer into Draco’s hand. The conversation meandered from work to Quidditch to something about Weasley’s new broom that had everyone, including Hermione, in stitches. Draco heard none of it.
He was only occupied with her. She smiled with her whole face. That was the problem. Her laugh started in her chest and lifted her shoulders, and her nose crinkled slightly when she was genuinely amused. She gestured too much when she spoke, nudged Weasley and Potter with her elbows like they were still bickering teenagers, and wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb after a bite of shepherd’s pie in a way that made Draco’s brain grind to a complete and total halt.
He sipped his drink yet he didn’t even taste it.
She looked across the table at one point and caught his eye.
He did what he always did in return. He arched a brow, cool and unreadable, the only defence he had left.
She rolled her eyes at him, but the corners of her mouth lifted anyway.
He looked away before it made him say something stupid. Like you’ve ruined me . Or I can’t look at pie anymore without thinking about your happy little smile . Or thank you, five years ago, for telling the truth about me when no one else would .
She was talking about Kneazles now, an office incident, apparently, and the entire table was captivated. Hermione in full storytelling mode was a force of nature: half-legislation, half-chaos, all charm. Even Theo was listening. And Draco just watched her.
He didn’t smile, but something softened around the edges.
When the rest of the food came, she asked the server for extra serviettes because she always did, and she passed one to him like it was a habit. He tucked it into his lap like it was an important relic.
“Have you ever seen him this quiet?” Pansy murmured beside him over to Theo and Blaise, her tone casual, eyes sharp.
Draco didn’t turn. “I’m eating.”
“You’re brooding. Again.”
“I’m always brooding.”
“True,” she said, popping a chip into her mouth. “But tonight it’s a different kind of tragic.”
He didn’t answer. Across the table, Hermione was explaining something about Puffskein trafficking and jurisdictional overlaps between her department and the Auror Office. Potter and Weasley both looked vaguely bored. Draco, of course, already knew everything she was saying. She’d sent them three memos about it. He’d read them all thrice. Yet, he still listened to every word like it was scripture.
When dessert came, heaps of treacle tart, of course, Hermione leaned in to get a better look at the slices and accidentally bumped her knee against his under the table.
It was barely a touch, yet he still flinched like she’d hexed him.
She didn’t even seem to notice, just murmured “Sorry,” and passed him a plate.
Draco said nothing, because nothing was the safest thing he could say around her.
Eventually, the evening wound down. Weasley launched into a tipsy monologue about the Cannons’ chances this season after the Weaslette mentioned Quidditch, and Hermione started gathering her things—notes she'd scribbled even here, napkin doodles of creature migration routes, her wand tucked behind her ear like a quill.
She quickly said her farewell to everyone, saying that she’d better lock the night in for some overtime work, before looking across the table again and gave him a smile.
“See you tomorrow?”
He nodded, tight-lipped, and pretending his heart hadn’t just flipped itself inside out.
Then she was gone just like that, swept out in a flurry of laughter and conversation and faint jasmine.
Draco stared at the empty spot she’d left behind.
April 02, 2004
Draco Malfoy was not sulking. He was, as it happened, working (or trying to). He sat at his desk in the Auror Office, quill tapping against a file labelled CONFIDENTIAL: KNOCKTURN ALLEY SMUGGLING NETWORK , staring at words that no longer registered in his mind. The words had stopped meaning anything somewhere between “confiscated Puffskeins” and “suspected cross-departmental involvement,” because Hermione Granger had written him an urgent note.
He knew her handwriting now. Loopy, impatient, precise, and yet very neat despite its impatience. She dotted her i’s like she was checking off something in her bucket list. He’d tried not to be annoyed at that, but rather, he found it original and adorable.
The memo from her was still neatly folded beside his inkwell:
Malfoy,
Conference Room Eight, 10 a.m. – re: Puffskeins. Bring your files. I’ll bring the tea.
– Granger
He checked the clock.
It was already 9:57.
Bugger.
He stood too quickly, grabbed the necessary file, and made his way down the corridor at a pace that screamed unbothered while feeling the opposite of unbothered.
The eighth-floor conference room was mostly unused, filled with dust and old Transfiguration Today issues, but Hermione had apparently commandeered one for their “cross-departmental strategy alignment,” which was Ministry speak for you’re working with her, try not to combust .
The door was open. He found her already inside. She stood near the window, turning pages in a blue folder, her wand tapping her lower lip absentmindedly.
She wore her usual robes. They were fashionable but functional, a bit ink-stained, as if she’d fought off an argument and a Hungarian Horntail before breakfast, and the sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and there was something dangerously soft about her face in the morning light.
“Granger,” he said, just to anchor himself as he announced his arrival.
She looked up. “Oh, you’re here early.”
He checked the clock on the wall behind her. “Technically, I’m late.”
She gave a small laugh. “By your standards, you’re practically punctual.”
He tried not to turn pink and pushed the heat back down that was creeping up his neck and took the chair across from her. She slid him a fresh cup of tea, black with a splash of lemon, exactly how he took it.
He ignored the warmth blooming in his chest like an idiot.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” she said, flipping open her file. “I’ve matched our Puffskein trade suspects with your Knockturn Alley watch list. Look, three of them overlap. This lot’s been using magical creature sales to move contraband.”
She tapped a chart with her wand. Draco tried to focus on it and ignore her fingers.
“Here,” she said, “this one, Edgar Vole, he was fined last year for trying to register a troll as an emotional support animal. Sound familiar?”
“Very,” he murmured, taking a sip of tea. Salazar, this was exactly how he makes his tea, too.
“Doesn’t make sense for Vole to be dealing Puffskeins on his own, though. They’re too low-profit unless they’ve been illegally bred. He must be tied to something bigger. Maybe Delaney from my department was right. That it’s part of a bigger ring—”
Draco did not know any Delaney.
She kept talking, animated now, curls bouncing as she gestured over the parchment. Her enthusiasm was blinding and dangerous. Draco knew that tone. It was her I’m solving it, stand back, or help me move the entire Ministry by force tone. He’d heard it in meetings, in hallways, and once in a rainstorm when she argued passionately about thestral transport protocol to some Ministry authorities.
He was sure it had no business sounding this attractive.
“Malfoy?”
He blinked his way back to reality. “Sorry. Was listening.”
“You weren’t. You’re spacing out.”
“I was listening while spacing out,” he said smoothly. “Perfectly efficient.”
She huffed out a breath. “Honestly.”
There was a pause. Then she softened as she leaned back on her chair. “Long night?”
“Just a bit loud,” he said, carefully neutral. “The usual pub chaos.”
She smiled. “It was good, though. Seeing everyone. You looked more comfortable. I mean you and your friends. I hope we didn’t come too strong. Some said we could be overwhelming.”
Last night, they celebrated George and Fred Weasley’s birthday in the Burrow with the rest of the Weasley family. They remembered Fred for the first quarter of the night before a feast of dinner was served by the Weasley matriarch and Draco’s aunt, Andromeda.
Almost four years ago, the remaining Black sisters decided to reconcile and mended their relationship over a cup of tea and some biscuits. Since then, Narcissa had frequented Aunt Andy’s (Andromeda insisted she’d be called that) house and the Burrow because Molly was a great addition to helping raise Teddy Lupin. Since then, Draco was invited to the Weasley family events (even Sunday luncheons). And when two years ago he dragged Blaise with him, the Weasley family decided to extend their invitations to the rest of his friends.
And last night was a blast. All the male Weasley siblings had to build a tent in their vast lawn to accommodate everyone. And yes, it was a bit overwhelming to be in the presence of the most Gryffindors of the Gryffindors, but they were friendly and had been accepting.
Draco didn’t quite know what to say to that. He’d spent most of the night trying to look like he wasn’t watching her. Apparently he’d done a decent job at it.
“I suppose it’s easier,” he said at last, “now that people have stopped waiting for us to break into a soliloquy about the Dark Arts.”
She gave him a look. “No one’s waiting for that anymore.”
“No,” he said. “They’re just waiting for us to turn into a bat and fly out the window.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched.
“I’m not going to thank you, you know,” she said suddenly, flipping another page in her notes.
“For what?”
“For not making last night awkward.”
Draco blinked. “Was there an option where I did?”
“You know what I mean,” she said, a little pink rising in her cheeks. “People always… watch. When we’re together.”
His throat tightened. “Do they?”
She didn’t meet his eyes. “Sometimes.”
He wanted to ask her what that meant. If she noticed. If she thought about it. If she felt anything when their hands brushed in lifts, or when he brought her tea when she was too tired to fetch her own, or when he walked her home that one time after a budget hearing that nearly made her cry.
But he didn’t ask. Instead, he leaned over and nudged the chart between them.
“Right,” he said. “Vole. What’s the next lead?”
They returned to the case, but the air had shifted. And Draco, for the briefest moment, let himself believe that maybe (just maybe ) she wasn’t entirely oblivious.
April 18, 2004
URGENT
Malfoy,
I need backup at the Wandsworth holding enclosure. One of the Jarveys got out and is terrorising the interns. It’s saying things that would make a hag blush.
Bring your wand. And maybe earplugs.
– Granger
Which is how, not two hours after the Aurors’ strategy meeting, Draco found himself on the edge of a fenced-in field in Wandsworth, wand drawn, listening to a magical ferret scream obscenities at a terrified junior researcher.
“You absolute hippogriff’s arse , I’ll piss on your robes!” shrieked the creature, skittering under a bush.
Draco blinked. “That was new.”
“You should’ve heard what it called Delaney,” Hermione muttered beside him. “I didn’t even know that word could be conjugated like that.”
Draco still had no idea who Delaney was.
She stood next to him, arms crossed, curls escaping her ponytail, eyes scanning the underbrush like she might lunge in herself.
“Remind me,” Draco said, “why are we coddling this thing again?”
“It’s evidence. Part of the illegal trafficking ring smuggled from Ireland. Likely overexposed to dark magic.”
“It’s a ferret with an attitude problem.”
If Professor Moody was alive, he’d probably misunderstand and think of him.
“It’s a victim of systemic mistreatment,” Hermione said, with the fervour of someone who had once written a two-hundred-page policy brief on pixie rehabilitation.
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. How do we catch it without being verbally assaulted?”
Hermione held up a small vial. “Sleeping Draught. Harmless. Just need to get it to ingest a drop.”
Draco looked at the vial, then at the furiously swearing Jarvey now gnawing on a bootlace. “You want me to wrestle it into submission?”
“Not wrestle,” Hermione said indignantly. “Distract it.”
“I’m an Auror, not a bloody children’s entertainer.”
She grinned. “Think of it as field experience.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely, Malfoy.”
He shot her a glare. She was already moving, stalking toward the creature with unnerving confidence. Draco followed, his wand raised.
The moment the Jarvey spotted them, it let out a sound that could only be described as a wet shriek and darted toward the shed.
Hermione hissed, “Go left, I’ll cut it off.”
Draco darted. He hadn’t done this kind of scrambling since Hogwarts. His boot squelched in mud, his shoulder clipped a post, and just as he rounded the corner, Hermione slammed into him.
They collided shoulder-first, breath knocked from lungs, and ended up pressed chest-to-chest in the shadow of the shed. Her hands caught his arms instinctively and his went to her waist. They both froze at the contact.
The Jarvey zipped past them, shouting something that sounded like “GOAT-KISSERS!”
Neither of them moved.
Draco was dangerously aware of the scent of lavender and ink, of how close her mouth was, and of how warm her fingers were against his sleeves.
He was going to die. Here. In a muddy field, crushed under the weight of his own internal chaos.
“Sorry,” she breathed, not moving.
“It’s fine,” he said, voice embarrassingly low. “Perfectly normal day. Chased by a foul-mouthed rodent. Bodily contact and mud.”
She didn’t let go of her hold of his arms and neither did he. She looked up at him then, her eyes were soft, wide, and searching.
“Draco,” she said.
He stopped breathing. “Yes?”
She blinked, then pulled back like she’d just realised what they were doing.
“Right,” she said quickly. “Um. Jarvey. The potion.”
“Right,” he echoed. “Of course. Focus.”
They both turned away so fast they nearly tripped over the same root.
Eventually, after more shouting, a minor Stunning Spell, and one spilled dose of Sleeping Draught, the Jarvey was subdued. It was gently tucked into a reinforced cage, still muttering insults in its sleep.
Hermione wiped her hands on a rag, looking flushed and windblown. “That went better than expected.”
“Depends on who you ask,” Draco said under his breath, brushing dirt off his robes and pretending his heart wasn’t pounding like a warded Gringotts vault.
She turned to him as the sun began to dip behind the trees.
“Thanks for coming,” she said. “I know this wasn’t your usual kind of mission.”
He shrugged, eyes on her face. “I go where I’m needed.”
Her gaze caught his, and something flickered. For a moment, he thought she might say something else. But then she nodded and said, “You should write the field report. You’re better with detail than Harry or Ron.”
He smirked. “Just say you dislike their work ethics.”
“Passionately.”
He watched her walk toward the Apparition point, curls bouncing with every step, her shoulders loose, her sleeves still rolled.
He didn’t follow immediately because he knew, with perfect clarity, that if she’d stayed pressed against him for five more seconds, he might’ve done something spectacularly unprofessional. Like kiss her.
June 11, 1999
It had been two weeks since the trial. Two weeks since Hermione Granger had stood in front of the Wizengamot and effectively rewired Draco Malfoy’s life with a single act of terrifying honesty.
He hadn’t seen her since. And he hadn’t expected to, not beyond a passing glance in a corridor or a glimpse across a crowded department hallway anyway. She had her work, while he had his Auror training, and that should’ve been the end of it. But fate, the vindictive little sod that it was, had other plans.
Draco had just left the Auror trainee bullpen for the night, a stack of folders tucked under his arm and a headache forming behind his left eye. He could’ve gone home hours ago. Most of the other trainees had. But he’d stayed late, voluntarily, again, slogging through paperwork that no one else wanted. Partially to make an impression. Partially to make up for his surname. And entirely because he couldn’t stand the idea of being average.
And so, at nearly seven in the evening, he found himself alone in the corridor that led past the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The overhead sconces flickered slightly, casting long, tired shadows. The halls were quiet, save for the faint hum of enchanted parchment and the distant clack of a closing file drawer.
He turned the corner and there she was.
Hermione Granger was standing outside the lifts, scroll in hand, wand tucked behind her ear, and hair pulled back in one of those haphazard buns that always seemed one sneeze away from collapse.
She hadn’t seen him yet. She was frowning down at whatever she was reading, lips pursed, one foot tapping absently.
Draco froze mid-step. His heart had the nerve to stutter. His mouth went dry. He considered reversing course entirely, except his boots chose that exact moment to squeak on the floor.
She looked up at him when he neared her.
“Oh,” she said. “Hi.”
“Granger,” he said, with all the smooth grace of someone who had just forgotten how to speak in polysyllables.
She smiled at him. “Didn’t expect anyone else to still be here.”
He shifted the folders in his arms. “Just… finishing up some reports.”
“Training reports?”
“Field assessments. Filing procedures. Strategy summaries. The real glamour of law enforcement.”
Her smile grew. “Overachieving already?”
He straightened slightly. “I prefer ‘determined.’”
“I’m sure they’ll give you a badge early if you keep colour-coding your duelling logs.”
Draco looked away so she wouldn’t see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What about you? Working late as well?”
She held up the scroll. “Follow-up documentation. The committee for the regulation of Acromantula territory asked for a new draft again.”
“Sounds dreadful.”
“It is, a little bit.”
Silence stretched.
She looked at him then, and that always did something to him. She had a way of studying people like they were books worth reading twice. Like she was trying to figure out what kind of story he was.
“Draco,” she said, softly.
It knocked something loose in his chest. She almost never used his first name. Certainly not back then. Back when they were enemies. Schoolmates. Survivors on opposite sides of a war.
He swallowed. “Yes?”
“Do you mind,” she said slowly, “if I thank you?”
He frowned. “For what?”
“For not making it strange. The testimony.”
He blinked. “You thought I’d make it strange?”
She laughed under her breath. “People don’t always take kindness well.”
He considered that. “I didn’t know what to do with it, if that counts.”
She glanced at the scroll in her hands, then back up at him. “You didn’t say anything after. I thought maybe you were… annoyed.”
“Annoyed?” he repeated, baffled. “You stood in front of half the Ministry and said I wasn’t a complete lost cause.”
“I also called you a scared teenager with poor judgement.”
“Kindly.”
“But accurate.”
He smiled, small and quick. It was gone in a blink.
“I never said thank you,” he admitted. “Not properly and explicitly to you anyways.”
Her gaze softened. “You don’t have to.”
“Still,” he said. “I’m saying it now. So you can’t take it back.”
That made her laugh genuinely and unguarded. The kind of laugh that felt like warmth even in a drafty corridor. With a quick glance at him, she said, “You’re not who you were, you know. Back then.”
“I know.”
“You’ve changed.”
“So have you.”
The lift dinged. She turned toward it.
As she stepped inside, she glanced over her shoulder. “See you around, Malfoy.”
He watched the doors close. Stared at the brass until it reflected nothing back.
She hadn’t said it like a question. She’d said it like a promise that indeed, she will see him around. And he, still clutching half-signed paperwork and dreams he couldn’t name, was helpless against the hope that bloomed inside him anyway.
September 11, 2004
He had faced down dark curses, angry werewolves, and a magical creature that could sneeze you into unconsciousness. But nothing had prepared him for the hell that was shopping for Hermione Granger’s birthday present.
“She’s easy to buy for,” Potter said unhelpfully, lounging near the window display of Flourish and Blotts like he had no idea what kind of psychological minefield they were standing in. “Just get her a book.”
“I can’t just get her a book, ” Draco hissed.
“You’re in a bookshop , mate,” Weasley pointed out, holding a bag of chocolate frogs and already losing interest. “This place is literally her version of Honeydukes. Throw a dart, she’ll like whatever it lands on.”
Draco stared at the shelves like they were taunting him. “That’s the problem. I can’t get her something generic.”
“Then get her something obscure,” said the four-eyed man, now examining a stack of wizarding biographies. “You’re good at obscure. That thing you got Pansy last year made her cry. In a good way.”
“That was easy,” Draco said. “She likes 17th-century duelling scandals and drama.”
“And Hermione likes magical law and oppressed creatures,” Weasley said. “Get her a book about a Puffskein’s right to own property or something.”
Draco glared. “I asked the both of you to come with me because you’re her best friends, but you’re both absolutely no help.”
They wandered to the back of the shop while Potter went off in search of a new copy of Defensive Spells for Stubborn Idiots (for work, he claimed). Weasley got distracted by a signed Cannons memoir. Draco stood alone in the Magical Creatures section, scanning the spines.
That’s when he saw it. A slim, hardcover volume bound in soft forest green leather. The gold-foiled title read: Of Feather, Fang, and Freedom: Landmark Cases in the Evolution of Magical Creature Rights.
It looked untouched and niche. The kind of thing that wouldn’t make it to the front table but would absolutely cause Hermione Granger to gasp like someone had just handed her the keys to a restricted section. He reached out, slowly, carefully, and flipped it open. Inside, in tight, elegant script: First Edition. Only 200 printed.
His breath caught in his throat.
She would love it. She’d read it in a week, annotate every page, then march into her department and quote case law at someone who had no idea what was coming. It was the perfect gift for her.
Which meant, of course, that he started panicking.
Because if he gave it to her… what would it say?
Would she know? Would she see ? Would she understand that it wasn’t just a gift, but a quiet, clumsy declaration? That he’d spent thirty minutes trying to find something that felt like her ? That he’d handled the book like it was her heart in his hands?
He clutched the book to his chest and sank onto the nearest bench like he might throw up.
Weasley reappeared. “Oh good, you found one.”
Draco blinked up at him. “It’s too much.”
“It’s a book , not some jewelry that could be considered a family heirloom.”
“She’ll know.”
He tilted his head. “Know what?”
Draco stared at the green leather cover, the gold letters, and the weight of it all.
“That I’m in love with her.”
The words hadn’t meant to come out. Certainly not to Ron Weasley whom she had a previous relationship with, but they landed in the air like an Unforgivable.
The youngest male Weasley child, to his credit, didn’t flinch.
He blinked. “Right.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say?”
“You’ve been in love with her for years, Malfoy. The only person who doesn’t know is her. ”
Draco slumped. “It’s pathetic.”
“It’s boring,” Weasley said, crossing his arms. “You moon about. She moons about in her own way, which you’re probably too dumb to notice. You both nearly explode when your hands brush. I’ve seen more tension in a cauldron of Bubotuber pus.”
Draco blinked. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I miss Zabini.”
Weasley smirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He gestured to the book. “Wrap it and give it to her. Keep your bloody mouth shut and try not to combust.”
Draco stared at the gift again. It still felt like too much. Which probably meant it was just right.
September 19, 2004
Grimmauld Place looked unrecognisable. At least, that’s what Draco told himself as he stood just inside the entryway, surrounded by flickering fairy lights, floating candle spells, and a suspicious number of glittering banners. One of them blinked “HAPPY BIRTHDAY HERMIONE!!” in alternating gold and scarlet letters.
Subtlety, clearly, was not on the guest list.
“She made me ban the house-elf heads,” Potter said casually, appearing beside him with a butterbeer in hand. “They’re in the attic now. I think Kreacher’s furious.”
Draco gave a nod. “She’s very efficient when redecorating.”
Potter smirked. “That’s not the only thing she’s efficient at.”
Before Draco could throttle him with the hem of a party banner, Hermione appeared. And that was it. That was the moment.
She stood near the drinks table, hair pinned back with loose curls falling around her shoulders, wearing a soft plum dress and boots far too practical for a party. She looked flushed, radiant, and utterly her gorgeous self.
Draco’s lungs performed an uncoordinated waltz.
She turned and caught his eye, waved a hand, and smiled like he was something safe.
He nearly dropped the gift bag.
The night moved in a blur. The Weaslette had charmed the wireless to play Celestina Warbeck ironically, which turned into unironically. The Weasley twin passed around a dodgy bottle of something he called “firewhisky lite” that made Weasley and Theo participate in a hiccup contest for twenty minutes. Pansy flirted shamelessly with anyone breathing, especially Longbottom. Blaise sipped wine and said nothing with great elegance.
Draco mostly hovered.
He didn't trust himself to sit too close to her. Or let alone speak too long or look too much. Which, of course, meant he did all three.
When she laughed, he watched her. When she turned her head, he noticed how the light caught the edge of her cheekbone. When she leaned forward to grab a napkin, her fingers brushed his on the table, and he felt the tingles shoot up his spine. His whole world stuttered at every brush then.
The gift exchange was informal. Someone gave her an inkpot that whistled showtunes whenever she willed it. The youngest male Weasley (he should probably get ahead and learn to call him by his first name) got her Quidditch tickets she’d definitely regift to him. Blaise gave her a book about “obscure magical aphorisms” she pretended to be amused by. Pansy gave her skin serum and a cryptic warning not to “let work give you forehead lines.” The Weaslette gave her new clothes. Potter gave her gold hair clips that he thought to have come from the Potter vault.
The rest gave her different books.
And then it was his turn. He passed her the bag wordlessly.
Hermione raised a brow at the premium packaging. “Should I be worried about what’s in here?”
“Just… open it,” he said, too quietly.
She did. He watched her take out the ornate papers from the bag and then she froze.
He watched every second of her reaction like it might rewrite the terms of his existence. Her eyes went wide at first. Then they softened as she stroked the green leather of the book with utmost care.
Her mouth formed a little oh . She flipped it open, her eyes scanning the inside cover, paused, read it again, and looked back up at him.
The room blurred around them. The noise faded as he fixated his attention to her. She was the only thing that mattered to him anyway.
She held the book to her chest like it was something fragile and precious.
“I…” she started, then stopped. Her throat bobbed with a swallow. “Draco, this is—”
“I saw it and thought of you,” he said simply, which was true.
She blinked rapidly. “It’s perfect.”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
A beat passed. She smiled at him, but it wasn’t her usual smile. It was something different and quieter. Like she was tucking something away for later.
Then Potter called out something about cake, and she was pulled into the chaos, swept toward the kitchen with her gift still in her hands.
Draco sat down before his knees gave out. Blaise appeared beside him like a stylish spectre. “Nice inscription,” he murmured, sipping his wine.
“You read it?” Draco hissed.
“I saw her face. So, I didn’t need to.”
Draco buried his head in his hands.
Across the room, Hermione turned back and looked at him over her shoulder. She was smiling and still holding the book like it meant something.
Draco tried not to let it kill him inside.
To the woman who taught me that courage doesn’t always roar, and that kindness doesn’t ask permission to change the world.
You make laws into poetry.
– D.M.
October 22, 2004
The flat above Mervyn’s Discount Elixirs smelled like stale blood and burnt onions. He had been in worse places, but not by much.
“Tell me again why we’re doing this without backup?” he asked, brushing cobwebs from his robes with the flick of a wand.
Harry (he learned calling him by his first name the moment he learnt calling Ron by his) crouched beside a boarded-up window, peering into the alley below. “Because the last time we called backup, Yaxley bolted and took half the evidence with him.”
“And this time, we get to die quietly with no witnesses. Brilliant.”
Harry ignored him. “Shut it. There’s movement down there.”
They waited quietly, breathing in sync. The flat’s floor creaked with every shift. Outside, boots echoed on wet cobblestones. Then a voice, low and gruff, called out a password. The alley shimmered, and a back door opened on its own.
Draco and Harry exchanged a look.
“Shields up?” Harry murmured.
“Already are.”
They moved slowly and carefully down the narrow stairs and into the alley, wands raised. It was all textbook until the door slammed shut behind them and a noxious green mist exploded from a nearby bin.
Draco swore loudly.
The next few minutes were a blur of dodging hexes, subduing a cloaked figure (who did, in fact, scream like a banshee), and Draco kicking a cursed bottle across the alley before it exploded.
When it was over, they stood over a groaning, stunned suspect, both of them panting, robes scorched, and covered in soot.
Harry sat down on an overturned cauldron and muttered, “I miss only doing paperwork.”
Draco wiped something viscous off his face. “We need to bring the bottle in for analysis. It’s got residual charms. Possibly dark magic and it smells like pickled rat.”
“Are you alright?” Harry asked, glancing at him sideways.
Draco shrugged. “Fine. Nothing singed that wasn’t already cursed.”
“You look a bit… twitchy.”
“Nearly exploded bottles tend to do that.”
Harry gave him a long, assessing look. “Or maybe you’re twitchy because you’re in love with Hermione and can’t figure out how to deal with it.”
Draco froze.
“Sorry,” Harry said, but the smirk on his face says that he was entirely not sorry. “Was that too casual?”
“Too casual?” Draco echoed. “You dropped it like you were commenting on the bloody weather.”
“Well, it’s been five years. Forgive me for getting tired of pretending you just coincidentally attend every event she’s at, remember her coffee preferences, and smell her hair when you think no one’s looking.”
“I do not smell her hair.”
“You hover over her, Malfoy.”
Draco pointed his wand at the bottle instead of at Harry, which he considered growth. “This is not the time.”
“There won’t be a time unless you get your act together. She’s not going to wait around forever.”
“She’s not waiting for anything,” Draco snapped, louder than he meant to. “She doesn’t even—she probably doesn’t think of me like that. She probably thinks I’m just adjacent. One of the reformed ones. One of the tolerable Slytherins.”
Harry leaned back. “And what do you think of her?”
Draco’s jaw worked. He stared at the broken alley tiles then at the soot on his boots, and lastly at the bruised, whimpering smuggler moaning softly at their feet.
“I think,” he said quietly, “that she’s ruined me.”
Harry blinked.
Draco pressed a palm to his temple. “I’ve tried— Merlin’s balls , I’ve tried—not to make it a thing. But then she touches me. Or smiles. Or mentions Puffskeins. And suddenly I’m considering moving departments just to stop watching her tear crusts off her toast like she’s unmaking the bloody world.”
Harry blinked again.
Draco kept going, apparently unable to stop himself now. “She asked me to help her on a case, and I nearly proposed. She bumped into me during an awry Niffler chase and I almost blacked out. And then I gave her that book and she smiled at me like it meant something, and I’ve been utterly deranged ever since.”
Silence filled the whole room.
Harry reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. “You did inhale the Veritaserum mist back there, didn’t you?”
Draco’s eyes widened. “That wasn’t sleeping gas?”
“Nope.”
Draco sat down on the pavement. “Oh, good. Fantastic. Perfect.”
Harry laughed. “Don’t worry. Just me, the soot rat, and the stunned smuggler heard you.”
“I’m going to die in this alley,” Draco muttered. “With no dignity. And all my secrets aired out like bad laundry.”
Harry clapped him on the shoulder. “Malfoy?”
“What?”
“She’s not going to laugh at you, you know.”
Draco didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Because the idea of Hermione Granger knowing the truth was both everything he wanted and the thing he feared most.
October 23, 2004
Draco Malfoy had never, in all his years, wished more fervently for spontaneous magical combustion.
Because that would have been easier and cleaner than sitting in Conference Room Two of the Ministry of Magic at precisely 9:00 a.m., trying not to sweat through his robes as Hermione Granger spread case files across the table like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t confessed, under the influence of street-grade Veritaserum, that he was in love with her. Although Harry had promised he’d said nothing, Draco wasn’t entirely sure he believed him.
“So,” Hermione said, brushing a curl from her cheek and flipping through her notes, “the suspect from the alley matched your original surveillance file exactly. Well done.”
Draco blinked. “Pardon?”
“You ID’d him weeks ago, remember? Edgar Vole’s second cousin. Used to work in Potions regulation, now running black-market banshee tear distribution.”
“Oh. Right. Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Standard deduction.”
Hermione smiled. “I wouldn’t call it standard. Not many people pick out that sort of pattern. You’ve got an eye for—”
She paused when she caught his eyes and looked at him properly. Her brows furrowed together. “Are you alright?”
Draco forced a shrug. “Just a long night.”
“Harry said the mission was... unpleasant.”
Draco cursed Harry Potter under his breath. “Bit of a sting, yes.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re okay.”
She said it gently with a smile. And Draco had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying ‘ You make everything worse and better at the same time’ .
“Thanks,” he muttered instead.
Hermione shifted some parchment around and pulled a chair closer to sit beside him instead of across. His breath hitched when their arms brushed. Her warmth bled through his sleeve like a wave.
“I want to run some of this past you,” she said, pointing to a series of transportation routes on her notes. “I think the traffickers are using abandoned Portkey lines near Wiltshire. See here?”
She leaned in further to him, making their shoulders touch. She was much closer than she needed to be. Draco inhaled her scent, letting himself succumb into the aroma of lavender, bergamot, and vanilla. Her silky curls tickled the edge of his jacket. He stared at the map but he couldn’t see anything.
“Do you… feel okay?” she asked quietly, her brows deepening their frown at him. “You’re being very…”
“Uptight?” Supplied Draco when she trailed off.
“I was going to say quiet . ”
He hesitated to answer. So, she leaned in closer and tilted her head, awaiting for a response. Suddenly, the space between them felt impossibly small.
Draco exhaled through his nose and said, with a calm he absolutely did not feel, “I’m always quiet. It’s part of my charm.”
Her mouth quirked into a grin. “I’d call it brooding.”
“I’d call it tactical silence.”
“Mm. Suits you.”
They stared at each other for a beat too long and Draco could hear his pulse thundering against his neck and wrists. She opened her mouth like she might say something else, but was interrupted by a knock on the glass.
They both craned their necks toward the door and found Harry’s head poking in the door. He had this weird glint of amusement in his green eyes to which Draco narrowed his eyes at.
“Sorry, Hermione. Hi. Malfoy, I need a word with you when you’re done. Nothing urgent.”
Hermione nodded and called out a quick greeting to him before Harry disappeared, but Draco could still feel the smirk.
Him and Hermione turned their attention back to her notes, the moment now gone.
“I’ll copy these notes over for your report,” she said briskly, slipping back into work-mode with ease.
“Thanks.”
She hesitated, then placed a light hand on his forearm. “I’m really glad you were alright last night.”
He looked at her and found her smiling at him with her round doe eyes. He bit his tongue to prevent himself from saying, You’ve been all I think about. Every time I walk into a room and see you in it, I forget what I came for. Instead, he just nodded.
October 31, 2004
The Nott estate was, as expected, obnoxiously perfect. Draco Apparated to the edge of the vineyard at sunset, only to be greeted by a floating lantern shaped like a pair of fairy’s wings, a gravel path lined with glowing stones, and a charming sign that read: Wine & Whimsy — Theo Nott’s House of Poor Decisions
“Subtle,” Draco muttered, adjusting his cuffs and making his way up the path.
The house itself was a sprawling, ivy-draped thing that looked like it had been plucked from a cursed fairytale and heavily invested in by old money. French windows glowed gold from within. Music wafted faintly through the evening air. Laughter echoed from the back terrace.
And then he heard her voice. That quiet, bright laugh that always landed somewhere in his chest and stayed there, pulsing like his own magical core.
He should’ve turned back and Disapparated to his flat, but he was already stepping through the open archway onto the terrace, where a long enchanted dining table floated several inches off the stone floor, glittering with candles and wine glasses and Theo’s ridiculous silver cutlery shaped like serpents.
“Oh good,” said Theo, lounging at the head of the table in maroon silk robes, an obnoxiously large hat, a silver hook(?) for his hand, and an absolute villain energy. “The brooder arrives.”
Draco gave him a flat look. “Lovely place, Nott. What are you supposed to be?”
“Captain Hook,” he answered proudly, puffing his chest out. “Hermione introduced us to Peter Pan a few days ago and I fell in love with the ridiculously attractive pirate villain.”
“You fall in love with all villains.”
Theo nodded, pointing a finger at his direction. “That is true. And we quite had a strong debate over the man. He looked very similar to Daddy Lucius.”
Draco blanched. “...Don’t call him that. And no one ever looks like him. That’s why he dresses so peculiarly.”
The others were already seated. Pansy, Blaise, Harry, Ginny, Ron, Longbottom, Lovegood, Thomas, Finnigan, George, and Hermione, who turned at the sound of his voice and beamed at him.
She was dressed in a strapless bodice of rich burgundy leather, sculpted to fit like armor, with sharp golden detailing that traced across the top in angular, emblem-like patterns. A gleaming gold headpiece crowned her forehead. Her accessories included a matching gold armband and bold red lipstick, all of it tied together by soft, loose waves in her hair, and she was beaming up at him when he approached the long table.. He very nearly forgot how chairs worked.
“Draco,” she said warmly. “We weren’t sure you’d come.”
“I regret it already,” he said, a bit too quickly.
Her grin widened. “That’s the spirit.”
He took the empty seat opposite her. Which meant her knee was within accidental brush range again. (Which also meant he was now at DEFCON ONE, which he learnt was a warning over the US.)
“Who are you supposed to be?” Harry asked him, raising an eyebrow. He was dressed in black velvet robes and his hair was gelled back.
He looked down at his all black outfit, complete with a long black cape.
“Professor Snape,” he answered as if it was the most obvious thing.
Pansy grimaced. “You idiot, you’re supposed to have long black greasy hair.”
“Didn’t you guess it with the cape?” He retorted.
“Ah, we should’ve guessed with the brooding,” Ron piped at the other end of the table. He was wearing half-moon spectacles and had a rather long grey beard. “Who volunteers to transfigure Malfoy’s hair?”
“I’ll do it!” Ginny said cheerily, raising her wand up.
“Dare touch a single hair on me and you’ll regret it, Ginevra,” he said, his eyes narrowing at the red-haired witch who had a large smirk on her lipstick-smudged lips.
Suddenly, he felt movement on his head. Black strands of hair fell in front of his eyes and stopped at his shoulder. His head felt heavier as his friends erupted into laughter. He turned back to Harry who beamed widely at him, his wand in hand.
“Hilarious, Potter,” he deadpanned. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be?”
“You,” he answered, pointing his wand to his head which slowly transformed into a Malfoy shade of blond. “There, the perfect Draco Malfoy get-up.”
“Tosser,” he mumbled, avoiding Hermione’s eyes which shone brighter.
Not too long after, dinner began. Wine was poured—red and bold, probably something Theo imported from a vineyard his family probably owned somewhere in Europe. Conversation flitted from Quidditch to Ministry gossip to someone’s affair with a Gringotts cursebreaker.
But, Draco barely heard a word. He was too conscious of his actions and he was kept distracted by one witch with a dress that displayed too much skin every time she leaned forward to reach for her glass. He swore that the one huge freckle beneath her left collarbone teased him for something more.
Theo caught him staring by course three. He elbowed him subtly that made him look back down at his barely-touched food.
“Do I need to stage an intervention,” he said under his breath, “or are you going to expire quietly on your own?”
“Shut up.”
“She’s actually a Muggle superhero. You can look up Wonder Woman at your leisure.”
“ Shut up .”
“She’s talking to Blaise.”
Draco’s head snapped up. She was, in fact, laughing at something Blaise had said. Blaise, who looked like he was dressed as Harry Potter (complete with the drawn scar on his forehead and round-rimmed black glasses) had leaned in with a slow and easy smile that Draco wanted to hex off his face.
Theo sighed beside him. “Completely tragic.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. You hate yourself. Which, frankly, is more tragic than this.”
Hermione caught Draco’s eye across the table as she was laughing. It died down but the smile on her lips turned softer. He smiled back before looking away and pretended to be occupied by eating.
The table kept talking. Pansy launched into a story about a cursed mirror and a disastrous haircut a witch had when she entered her boutique. Ron was arguing about broom regulations with Ginny. George said something clever about love potions and liability law that Finnigan and Thomas argued about. Longbottom and Lovegood were talking about creatures and plants he had never heard of.
But, Draco only kept glancing at her from time to time whenever he felt like it. And, as if one cruel world, she started to catch his eyes as she glanced back at him like she couldn’t help it either.
Later, when the dessert appeared (some kind of lavender crème brûlée nonsense), she stood and crossed over to his side of the table to refill her wine glass. He straightened his posture when she paused beside him, willing his eyes to stay on his plate and not on the stretch of her long tanned legs. Salazar’s saggy tits, the skirt of her dress was shorter than he originally thought so. It only stopped a few inches below where the curve of her bum ended and met the expanse of her thighs.
He could feel her warmth next to him. He could smell the bergamot, lavender, and vanilla again which was unbearably familiar now.
“Thanks again,” she said quietly, “for the book. I learnt a lot and I keep reading the inscription.”
He swallowed. “Right.”
Then, he decided to look up at her. He swallowed when he realised that she was already looking down at him. “It was… really beautiful.”
Draco looked away before he did something stupid. Like kiss her. Or confess. Or both.
“I meant it,” he said.
She didn’t say anything for a beat and he listened as she poured a good amount of wine in her glass. After a while, she finally stepped back away from him and said, “I know.”
Then, she went back to her seat and immersed in a conversation with Lovegood and Pansy. And Draco sat very still, trying not to unravel all over Theo’s stupid expensive chair over the loss of her presence beside him.
September 28, 1996
He wasn’t looking for her. Draco didn’t do things like look for Hermione Granger. Especially not in sixth year, when the world had already begun to shift beneath his feet, and his lungs had started filling slowly with dread.
No, he was avoiding the Slytherin common room. And his mother’s last letter. And the heaviness in his chest that had nothing to do with exams and everything to do with what the Dark Lord had ordered him to do next.
So, he went to the library to escape his rotten reality with books.
It was nearly empty as it was almost curfew. A rainstorm beat quietly against the tall, arched windows. The lamps burned lower here than in the corridors which made him feel warmer, dimmer, yet safer.
And then he saw her. She was tucked into one of the deep alcove seats, far away from the popular tables and the fireplace. She had her head bent low over a textbook, hair falling around her face like a curtain, her shoulders hunched and shaking slightly.
She was crying quietly. Her hand was fisted on the table beside the open book and past her curtain of curls, he could see her lips trembling.
And Draco Malfoy, only sixteen years old, angry, afraid, and already marked in more ways than one, froze at the surge of pang of guilt in his chest. Of all the years he had bullied and called her names, he never saw her cry. Yet, here she was, in the library, all alone save for the company of books, silently crying.
He stood there for a full ten seconds just watching her try to keep it all in. Why was she crying? Surely, it wasn’t because of him. He had been trying not to cross paths with Potter and his friends since the start of the term.
After a while, she brushed at her face with the back of her hand. He watched her inhale shakily, pulling her hair tighter around her cheeks. She flipped a page sharply and frustrated.
Draco shifted his weight. And he grimaced internally when his shoe squeaked against the stone floor.
She looked up at the sound and his brows rose in surprise to find her eyes red and tired. None of them moved as the air between them went still.
Was she waiting for something?
Was he waiting for something?
He continued to stand there, torn between what he’d been taught to do and what his gut (the strange, traitorous, useless thing) was suddenly whispering: go to her.
But, he obviously didn’t. Instead, he forced himself to give her the smallest possible nod ever and turned away. He left the library with his heart thudding too loudly and his fists clenched in his robes.
He didn’t tell anyone of the encounter then, but he remembered it. Over and over. The way she’d looked at him with sadness, tiredness, and fear in her eyes. And that had done something to him.
Years later, he would still think about it. He would still hear the rain tapping the windows. He still wondered what would’ve happened if he’d sat down beside her that night and said, I see you. I’m scared too.
But he hadn’t. He’d walked away.
And now every time he saw her cry, even from laughter or joy, a part of him still ached for that moment. The one he let pass him by.
December 14, 2004
The Ministry Gala for Interdepartmental Excellence was a waste of robes, wine, and good breath. That was Draco Malfoy’s official stance.
He sat at a round table covered in gold-edged menus and enchanted ivy garlands, listening to someone from the Department of Magical Transportation drone on about Floo congestion while trying not to glance again and again toward the table to his left. And obviously, he was failing.
Because Hermione Granger was over there. She was wearing a stunning, off-the-shoulder gown in a soft, silvery-gray fabric that shimmered subtly under the lights. The dress was elegantly form-fitting through the bodice and hips, then fell straight to the ground in a sleek, minimalist silhouette. A dramatic, cape-like train cascaded from her back, adding an air of regal sophistication.
She was laughing at something. Her smile lit up her whole face. She touched the arm of a man he vaguely recognised from the Department of International Cooperation. French, probably. Too many teeth and the kind of bloke who said things like “Chérie” and meant it.
Draco took a long sip of champagne.
Pansy, who was invited because of her influence on modern wizarding fashion, leaned over from the next seat. “If you clench your jaw any harder, it’s going to snap off.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re glaring at her like you hate her whole existence.”
“I’m fine , Pansy.”
She gave him a look that said, no, you’re not , and then returned to flirting with a junior cursebreaker who looked like he’d only just started shaving.
Draco went back to watching her. It wasn’t fair, really. How she looked. How she moved. How she seemed to belong in every room she entered, like the world adjusted its settings to accommodate her.
She caught his eye, finally, and smiled at him which hit him like a Bludger to the ribs. He lifted his glass in a small, silent toast. Her smile softened before she turned back to French Teeth.
Draco felt something in his chest fracture. It wasn’t new, of course. This had been building for years. His feelings for her weren’t a single explosion. They were a thousand tiny ones, like a slow erosion of sense and self.
He wanted to go over to her and say something. Just anything. But, like the pathetic wizard he was, he stayed seated. Like a coward in dress robes, sipping at bubbles and pretending he was fine.
Harry dropped into the seat beside him a few minutes later, holding two glasses of firewhisky. He handed one to Draco. “You look like you need this.”
“I’m not having a breakdown.”
“You’re having a beautiful breakdown. If I could paint, I’d capture it for posterity.”
Draco took the glass. “She’s talking to someone.”
“She’s allowed to talk to people, Malfoy.”
“He has dimples.”
Harry snorted. “You’re terrifying like this, did you know?”
“I feel terrifying.”
“You feel stupid.”
That, Draco could not argue with. He glanced back at Hermione’s table. Her hand was on the wine glass now. She was nodding, but her eyes slid across the room again and found him. This time, they held their hold on him. Neither of them looked away even when the man beside her said something else, she didn’t break her gaze.
Draco’s breath caught in his throat at the weight of her stare. She raised her brows in silent query, but there was a soft smile on her lips.
Harry leaned in and said quietly, “She’s waiting, you know.”
Draco blinked. “What?”
“She’s been waiting. For you.”
Draco looked back at him and laughed once, dry and bitter. “You don’t know that.”
“I know her.”
Draco looked back at Hermione who was still looking at him. Her head was now tilting and the way she watched him felt like he was the next page of a book she wasn’t sure she should turn.
Maybe Harry was right. Maybe she was waiting. Maybe she was tired of waiting.
Or not.
How could she be possibly waiting for someone like him? Waiting for him?
Draco took another sip of whisky and muttered, “I’m going to say something. Eventually.”
Harry smiled into his drink. “You’d better. Because if she starts dating French Teeth, I’m not sharing an office with you when you crash out.”
Draco didn’t respond. He just kept watching her and wondered, when is eventually?
March 9, 2005
The Magical Creature Rights protest outside the Ministry had been scheduled for weeks. It was supposed to be peaceful and organised, registered with three departments and led by a non-profit with a disappointingly pun-based name: Free the Furballs .
Draco hadn’t been assigned to the protest directly. He was down two levels in Evidences, reviewing a hexed cauldron import from Moldova, when he heard a commotion in the corridor and someone was shouting in alarm.
“Granger’s caught in it!”
His blood went cold. Did he hear it right? He didn’t wait to think and ask for confirmation. He dropped his notes and ran outside. He yelled his way through the forming crowd and dashed to the lifts. Soon, he was out on the atrium, looking across the chaos that had formed.
The protest had swelled beyond its boundaries. Someone was saying that someone had cast a hotheaded spell that backfired. He observed as the air smelled like singed wool and noted that what he heard might be true. Dozens of witches and wizards clustered around the fountain steps. Magical creature cages had been upended and scrolls were scattered all around. There had been a few Aurors casting spells all around already.
And then, there she was. Hermione was near the front, half-shielding a young witch and trying to calm a rogue Hippogriff handler who’d drawn his wand. Her hair had come loose from the bun she had on this morning. Her robes were torn at the hem. Her voice was raised, sure and calm, but her wand was held in both hands.
Draco moved towards her. He didn't remember drawing his wand. He didn’t remember yelling “Auror! Step back!” or casting a shield so strong it cracked the flagstones in front of the man’s feet. He just remembered seeing her turn to him with wide and surprised eyes, and breathe in relief when she saw that it was him.
And in that instant, everything else fell away.
“Malfoy?” she said, breathless.
He grabbed her elbow and pulled her behind him. “Are you alright?”
“I’m—yes—he just lost control, he wasn’t aiming at me—”
“Doesn’t matter.”
He turned and hit the man with a body-bind so clean it made two other protestors flinch.
Hermione placed a steadying hand on his back. “Draco, he’s down.”
He turned to her, breathing hard. The crowd was still noisy around them, but the worst of it was dying down. More Aurors were sweeping in from the flanks now, shouting orders. Harry was sprinting from the entrance. But all Draco could see was her .
“You could’ve been hurt,” he said, low and furious.
“I wasn’t.”
“You shouldn’t have been near the front. That’s what the assigned Aurors are for.”
“I work here.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Merlin’s bloody—Granger, what were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that if I left a dozen half-formed creatures in a bureaucratic bottleneck, they’d die,” she answered in a pointed tone. “And the Keeper was acting in protection of the creatures. The intern was caught in it. I wasn’t just going to leave her alone!”
He exhaled through his nose sharply and raked his eyes up and down her. Aside from her torn clothes, she looked alright. Her wand was held tightly in her hand and her eyes were burning defiantly, looking up at him.
“I thought something had happened to you,” he said, and his voice cracked, just slightly. “I heard the commotion and someone had shouted about you getting entangled in trouble.”
Her mouth parted open as her eyes began to soften. “Draco…”
He stepped closer. “No, don’t— don’t pretend like this hasn’t been happening. You know . You’ve always known.”
She stared at him, stunned at his words.
“I can’t keep doing this. Pretending I don’t want to be next to you in every room. That I don’t watch for your smile like it’s a sunrise. That I haven’t been in love with you since the bloody war ended.”
Hermione said nothing and for one awful moment, he thought he’d gone too far. His heart was hammering loudly against his chest and he could almost feel every vibration tingle through his entire body. His hands shook when his mind finally registered the words that had escaped his lips.
Her eyes widened and her lips stayed open, but no words came out of it.
He said too much and too soon. Oh, gods. He had said too much and too soon. He said too much and too soon. He said too much and too soon. He said too much and too soon. He saID TOO MUCH AND TOO—
She let out a breathless laugh. “You absolute idiot .”
He blinked his thoughts away and frowned down at her.
It was too late when he realised that she stepped closer to him, raised on her toes, and pulled him down to kiss him.
It only occurred to him that she was kissing him when he heard her sigh in contentment against his lips, and he automatically let himself melt into it, feeling her warm lips on his.
This kiss was quick and messy and desperate and entirely overdue. Her hands slithered up to his hair as his arms grabbed her waist. Their foreheads knocked against each other’s and their breath tangled together.
When they finally pulled apart, the crowd had shifted, Aurors were clearing out protestors, and Harry was yelling something about “get a bloody room.”
But Draco didn’t hear any of it. Because Hermione Granger was still in his arms and smiling at him like the world was finally in order with her lips swollen.
March 10, 2005
Draco had lived with the Dark Lord for almost a year, faced down the most brutal Death Eaters, duelled in a burning manor, and survived a nasty slicing curse that was meant to kill him when he finally apprehended Rookwood during the first week of the year, yet none of it had prepared him for the emotional fallout of being kissed by Hermione Granger in the middle of a crowd.
It had been less than twelve hours, and already he’d nearly walked into a lift going the wrong direction, responded to a Ministry memo where he wrote ‘Hermione’ instead of ‘Received’, accidentally set his tea on fire, and told a senior Auror that he was ‘thriving with thanks’ when asked if he’d had his breakfast already.
In short, he was unraveling.
And the worst part? She wasn’t.
He’d seen Hermione earlier before their work day started. She walked into the Department of Magical Creatures like the kiss had been the most natural thing in the world. She’d waved at him across the Atrium. (Waved!) With a small smile like she hadn’t turned his entire reality inside out.
He was still standing there on his spot when Harry found him.
“You haven’t moved in five minutes,” the Chosen One said, sipping his coffee. “You alright?”
“I think she smiled at me.”
“Because you made out with her yesterday, yes.”
Draco scowled. “Don’t call it that.”
“What would you prefer?”
“I don’t know. Life-altering mouth collision?”
Harry rolled his eyes. “You look like you’ve been Petrified.”
Draco groaned into his hands. “I haven’t seen her since or talked to her since.”
“Didn’t she wave at you?”
“And it’s worse!”
Harry blinked. “Isn’t that… accurate?”
“No! I mean… is it? I don’t know. We haven’t spoken about it. Not really. What if it was just the moment? What if it was the adrenaline? What if I imagined it and she only meant it as a friendly post-traumatic snog?”
Harry choked on his coffee.
Draco kept going though. “She hasn’t sent me an Owl about it. Or a memo, briefing about the commotion in the protest yesterday. And she always sends me memos for everything. She once sent me one about a misfiled Puffskein permit and signed it ‘urgent.’ But after kissing me in public? Nothing.”
“She already kissed you.”
“I know that.”
“She hasn’t retracted the kiss.”
“That’s not—” Draco paused. “I mean. Has she?”
“No,” Harry said flatly. “If she’d retracted it, she would’ve already done so. And you’d probably be in bed, wailing about it.”
Draco let out a strangled sound.
Harry clapped him on the back. “You’re pathetic. It’s sort of impressive.”
It wasn’t until late afternoon that she finally appeared. The Auror Office was already half-empty, the lighting slightly dimmer, as the hour slipped into that quiet lull between work and home. Draco was rewriting a field summary he’d already rewritten twice when he felt a presence beside him.
He looked up and nearly fell out of his chair at the bright brown eyes looking down at him.
“Hello,” Hermione said softly.
She looked positively calm and radiant. She was holding two paper cups and a small paper bag was tucked under her right arm.
“I brought you one,” she added, placing the cup on his desk. “Black, no sugar.”
He blinked. “You remember how I take it?”
Her smile tilted. “Of course I do.”
She placed the paper bag beside the coffee. “And a biscuit. Because you didn’t eat at lunch, and if you faint from malnourishment, Harry will never let me hear the end of it if he’d have to do paperwork in your place.”
Draco opened the bag and found a few pieces of chocolate digestive. His favourite. It was offensive how well she knew him.
“I…” he began to say but was distracted when she sat on the edge of his desk, her skirt riding up a bit and revealing more of her stocking-clad legs. He gulped down whatever he was thinking to say, forgetting his words.
She adjusted herself on his desk and said, very simply, “About yesterday.”
His heart stopped. Was she going to retract it? What would she say? Should he have started talking about it instead?
When he offered no reply, she continued, “I meant it.”
Draco blinked and blurted out. “The kiss.”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
She smiled, then. That small, certain smile that had always undone him more than anything else. “I don’t regret it,” she said. “In case you’re wondering or doubting. Or spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling,” he lied.
She grinned wider, amusement filling her eyes. “You absolutely are.”
“I’m more composed.”
“You nearly called your Department Head ‘Granger.’”
“...You heard about that?”
“I was in the lift with you.”
He groaned and buried his face in his hands. He heard her laugh quietly before she reached over and gently tugged one of them down. “Draco.”
He hesitantly met her eyes. She was looking at him with her warm eyes again. They were soft and he honestly thought he could get lost in them forever and he’d be happy all the days of his life.
“Would you like to get dinner? With me?”
He continued to stare at her.
She arched her brow. “You do eat, don’t you?”
“I mean. Occasionally.”
“Good. Then it’s settled.”
She stood, brushed imaginary lint from her robes, and said over her shoulder, “Pick a night. I’m not that patient, Malfoy.”
Then she left, just like that. And Draco, utterly stunned, took a long, slow sip of his coffee and whispered into the empty office, “I think I’m in love with you.” Then, he groaned loudly and continued, “Brilliant. You already know that.”
March 12, 2005
Draco had changed his shirt three times, which was absurd, really, because it wasn’t like he’d been summoned to the Wizengamot again. It was just dinner. With Hermione Granger. Who had kissed him. Who had asked him out.
But still. Three shirts.
And now, seated at a small corner table in a Muggle-adjacent bistro she’d picked, where it was somewhere quiet, casual, with good bread, he was trying to pretend to be normal while feeling absolutely deranged.
She looked gorgeous. Soft jumper, slightly messy curls, laugh lines in the corners of her eyes that she claimed were from too much work and not enough sun. He loved them. He wanted to trace them with his mouth. He wanted to—
“So,” she said, pouring wine into his glass, “are you always this tense on first dates?”
He blinked. “Is this a date?”
She lifted a brow. “Don’t you want it to be?”
He stared at her. She stared back. Then, very softly, she said with a smile, “Because I consider this as a date.”
The words were like the slap she gave him in their third year, but instead of his face, he felt it in his gut. He reached for his wine and tried not to choke on his own heartbeat.
She smiled behind her glass. “You’re blushing.”
“I don’t blush.”
“You absolutely do.”
“This is cruelty,” he muttered.
“No,” she said, resting her chin in her hand. “Cruelty would be never telling you that I’ve been watching you for just as long.”
His head snapped up. “You what?”
“I notice more than you think,” she said, setting her glass down. “We’ve established how you like your coffee, but I also know you stir it exactly four times, anti-clockwise. You always finish your tea but leave the last inch of your water.”
His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out. His head was reeling at the words she spoke. Has she always known these things about him?
“You don’t like chairs with high backs,” she went on. “And you always sit with your wand-hand toward the door. You smooth your cuffs when you’re nervous. You roll your coin pouch in your pocket between your fingers when you’re thinking.”
He swallowed deliberately. “I didn’t realise—”
“I know you hate confrontation in meetings but you’ll start one anyway if someone misquotes legislation. I know you read your case files three times through before you even touch your wand to note it that you’ve received it. I know that when you're furious, you go silent. And when you’re flustered—” she smiled wider, “—you blink. Fast. Four or five times.”
He blinked four times.
She grinned. “Just like that.”
Draco sat back in his chair, stunned. Hermione reached for his hand across the table.
“I’ve been watching you, Draco. Just like you’ve watched me. You’re not alone in this.”
He felt something pull tight in his chest. “All this time?”
She nodded. “You’ve piqued my curiosity in 6th year. I think you have Harry to thank for that for all of the times he’s obsessing that you’re evil. I began to notice your little quirks here and there. But I only really went out of my way to observe your when you began your Auror training. It’s not only Robards you’ve impressed, you know? The first time would be us meeting in front of the lifts when you stayed back for some paperwork when I caught you staring and you didn’t look away.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything.”
He let out a breath. “So this… it’s not just me.”
She gave him a look. “Do you think I memorise how every Ministry employee takes their coffee?”
He nearly laughed. But then she leaned forward, and her voice softened.
“I meant what I said, Draco. I’ve been waiting. Waiting for you to realise I don’t want to be just a coworker, or a friend, or someone who bothers you with miniscule problems in my department for an excuse to see and be with you. I want this . You and me. Not just stolen glances and field memos and near-misses.”
Draco stared at her, something full and sharp and overwhelming swelling in his chest.
“I’m in love with you,” he said quietly after thinking of what to say to that .
She smiled. “I know.”
“I have been. For years.”
“I know ,” she said again, emphasising the word with amusement. “I’ve known for a while. You’re not exactly subtle, did you know? But I needed you to say it.”
He reached for her hand fully now, threading his fingers through hers.
And for the first time in all the years he’d known her, there was no gap between them, save for the table that separated them. But that was no problem.
April 8, 2005
He had never woken up like this before. There was soft warmth that was not just blankets or fire spells or enchanted duvets, but something deeper. It was comforting like trust. Like Hermione Granger’s arm draped across his chest and her thigh hooked over his leg.
She was still asleep, with her even breathing. Her curls were a mess, tucked half under his chin, and her nose was cold where it pressed against his collarbone. It was, objectively, one of the best mornings of his life.
He didn’t move, scared that he might wake her up. Instead, he just stared up at the ceiling of her little flat in Bloomsbury where he was familiar with the old beams, faintly cracked plaster, and a mobile of enchanted constellations twirling slowly above the bed, and let himself feel the impossibility of being here. Of being wanted and of being chosen by the same witch he thought the best among them all.
She shifted a little and tightened her hook on his leg. Then, she mumbled, barely awake, “Are you staring at me again?”
“Only a little.”
She smiled against his skin. “You always seem surprised.”
“I always am.”
She tilted her face up to look at him properly, eyes still soft with sleep and a lazy smile. “It’s real, you know.”
“I’m aware. I’m struggling to process it even almost a month later, but I’m aware.”
She leaned up and kissed him, warm and slow and just messy enough to make his toes curl.
“Come on,” she murmured after. “I’m making toast.”
He groaned, holding her closer against him. “Can’t we stay here forever?”
“No. Because I want breakfast. And I own exactly one bed, and it’s getting full of crumbs and Malfoy hair. Not to mention, Crookshanks’ fur.”
He eventually followed her to the kitchen barefoot, shirt wrinkled, and heart entirely too full.
She bustled about in her oversized jumper (possibly his, he wasn’t too sure), humming something softly under her breath, already pouring tea. He leaned against the doorframe and stared like a man who’d accidentally stepped into someone else’s dream.
Then, her Muggle toaster pinged as two pieces of toast emerged from it. He quickly went to it before she could and pulled the pieces of bread, just slightly burnt at the edges, and set it on a plate. Before she could reach for it, he shielded her from them and without a word, began tearing the crust off her toast. Just as he’d seen her do, countless times. Carefully and neatly, one side at a time.
He felt Hermione froze behind him but said nothing. When he was done, he cleaned the crumbs off his fingers with a wordless and wandless Scourgify, then slid the plate toward her without meeting her eyes.
She reached for it slowly but didn’t eat them right away. Instead, she whispered, “You noticed.”
He looked at her then and raised an eyebrow with a smirk on his lips. Of course he had. He’d noticed everything. The way she stirred her tea clockwise opposed his techniques. The way she always sat with her back to the window. The way she pinched the bridge of her nose when someone said something shortsighted. The way she laughed, full-bodied and bright, but then looked around to see if anyone else had.
“I always notice,” he said.
She stepped toward him, toast forgotten. “Draco.”
“Yes?”
“You do realise this is the part where I fall in love with you all over again, don’t you?”
He pretended to consider, tapping his chin with a finger. “Hmm, I don’t know. I should’ve done it with scones if I knew you would. Better visual impact and flair, you know?”
She laughed, her eyes shining, despite being almost covered by her lids, and craned her neck up to kiss him. They ended up forgetting about the toast entirely.
And when they finally sat down, knees touching beneath the tiny kitchen table, she looked at the plate and smiled so hard it nearly broke him. Because he knew, deep down, she hadn’t needed him to cut off the crusts, but the fact that he had on instinct said everything else she needed to hear.
Draco Malfoy was utterly and irrevocably in love with Hermione Granger.
FIN.