Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy was an idiot.
This wasn't any great revelation, rather a gradually growing certainty that he had tried to ignore for most of his life. The first evidence appeared when he was eleven, when with confidence worthy of a better cause, he extended his hand to Potter on the Hogwarts Express, as if he was doing him some bloody favour. Some part of his brain—apparently the only functioning part—was already trying to make him realise that perhaps it would have been better not to insult the first person Potter had spoken to in the wizarding world. But no, Draco Malfoy, future heir to fortune and name, didn't need to concern himself with such trivial details as "tact" or "common sense."
Then there was that embarrassing situation with the hippogriff in third year, when he decided to ignore the teacher's clear instructions—even if it was Hagrid, whose qualifications one might have had certain doubts about. Instead of exercising elementary caution, he approached the magical creature with the arrogance of someone who believes that even mythological beasts should fall to their knees before him. It ended with a slashed arm and months of pretending to be more injured than he actually was, which in retrospect seemed so pathetic that at the mere thought of it, Draco felt his face burning with shame.
It was also hard to forget the moment when Granger had punched him in the face. In that moment, he was too stunned to react, but a voice in his head whispered: "What did you expect, you idiot?" The same voice that over the years became his internal commentator, growing louder and more merciless.
But the real proof of his idiocy—the one that should dispel any doubts—was the decision to take the Dark Mark. Even if he did it mainly out of fear for his family, the fact that for a moment he had actually felt proud of it showed how mistaken his understanding of reality was. Voldemort was a monster, not the saviour of the wizarding world, and only a complete idiot could fail to see that. And Draco, for a time, was exactly that sort of idiot.
Then there was that catastrophe in the Room of Requirement, when he allowed Crabbe to use Fiendfyre—a spell that the idiot couldn't control, which ended in his death. Draco still sometimes woke up at night, hearing the screams of his former companion. Further proof that his judgment of people was about as accurate as a house-elf's weather forecast after Firewhisky.
After the war, instead of taking advantage of the second chance he got thanks to Potter's testimony, he lingered for years in a strange limbo, not fully accepting the new reality. He played Quidditch because it was the only thing he was truly good at, but off the pitch his life was a series of spectacular mistakes.
Like when at twenty-one, under pressure from his mother, he almost married Astoria Greengrass. Astoria was beautiful, elegant, and from a good family—everything Narcissa Malfoy expected from a future daughter-in-law. The problem was that Draco didn't love her, and she didn't love him, which seemed rather significant when planning a life together. Fortunately—on the eve of their official engagement—they had an honest conversation, during which they both admitted that marriage would be a mistake. Astoria accepted this with relief that was almost offensive, and Draco's mother with a resignation that suggested this was exactly what she expected from him.
Or that evening at the Three Broomsticks, when after a few Butterbeers he began singing the Hogwarts school song to the tune of "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love," which ended with him being asked to leave the premises and a three-week ban. He was twenty-eight then, not fourteen, which made the whole situation even more pathetic.
Later, there was that memorable interview for the Daily Prophet, in which he decided to be honest about his past as a Death Eater, which ended with the headline "MALFOY SHOWS NO REMORSE: 'I'D DO IT AGAIN'"—such a gigantic misrepresentation of his words that even Rita Skeeter had to admit the editorial staff had gone too far.
Despite all this evidence, Draco still deluded himself that perhaps it wasn't so bad. Perhaps he was merely making "mistakes" rather than being a complete, utter idiot?
But now, at the age of thirty, flying over the Quidditch pitch in the orange robes of the Chudley Cannons—a team that hadn't won the championship for over a century—Draco finally had to admit to himself that he was an idiot. An absolute, hopeless, incurable idiot.
Because only an idiot would abandon a lucrative contract with Puddlemere United to join the worst team in the league. Only an idiot would agree to wear a robe in a colour that made him look like a patient in the magical diseases ward in the final stage of dragon pox. Only an idiot would voluntarily choose to play for a team whose motto—"Let's all keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best"—was as inspiring as the slogan "Maybe this time we won't lose too badly."
But the greatest proof of his idiocy—the one that finally dispelled all doubts—was the fact that the captain of this team was Ronald Weasley.
"MALFOY!" Weasley's voice broke through the whistling wind as they hovered twenty metres above the ground. "WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT?! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO KEEP TO THE FORMATION!"
Draco executed an elegant, almost lazy turn on his broomstick and looked at Weasley with an expression of polite boredom that had driven teachers at Hogwarts to distraction, and now apparently worked just as effectively on ginger Quidditch captains.
"The formation was senseless at that moment, Weasley," he replied, maintaining perfect position on his broomstick without effort, which always irritated opponents. "The Snitch was on the left side, and your wonderful plan assumed I should be circling on the right. What was I supposed to do? Send it an invitation to kindly fly to the other side of the pitch?"
Weasley flew closer, his face almost as red as his hair. Draco noticed that when he was irritated, his freckles became more pronounced, as if each one wanted to personally express its indignation.
"The plan is for you to stick to the strategy, Malfoy! We operate as a team, not a collection of individuals who do whatever they please!"
"Strategy? You call it strategy to tell the best Seeker in the league to ignore the Snitch because your brilliant plan says he should be somewhere else? That's not strategy, that's sabotage."
"Best Seeker in the league?" Weasley snorted. "You're getting carried away, aren't you? Last time I checked, you hadn't once won the award for best player of the season."
"Because awards are given out by journalists who still remember I have a Dark Mark on my arm," Draco replied with a perfectly measured dose of bitterness in his voice. "But statistics don't lie, Weasley. I caught more Snitches last season than any other Seeker. Including your ex, Cho Chang."
That was a blow below the belt, but he couldn't help himself. Weasley looked as if he had just swallowed something particularly sour.
"If you're so brilliant, then why the hell did you join the Cannons?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.
That was a question Draco couldn't answer honestly. He couldn't say that after that unfortunate interview in the Prophet, when his words about regret for the past magically transformed into a declaration of eternal loyalty to Voldemort, the atmosphere at Puddlemere United had become unbearable. That teammates who previously treated him with cautious neutrality now looked at him as if they expected him to show up for training one day with an army of Inferi. That the coach had taken him aside after the last match and suggested that "perhaps a team with a less public profile would be better for you, Mr Malfoy." As if the fact that he had caught the Snitch in record time meant nothing compared to a headline in a rag whose level of journalism was comparable to the level of mud in the Forbidden Forest.
No, he couldn't say that. Especially not to Weasley, who would probably shrug and say something like "you earned it yourself, you git."
"To irritate you, Weasley," he answered instead, smiling maliciously. "I thought—what could annoy Ronald Weasley more than the fact that a former Death Eater and heir to the Malfoys joins his beloved team and proves to be better than all its members combined? And I see my plan is working perfectly."
Weasley snorted.
"It's always about you, isn't it? The great Draco Malfoy and his grand plans."
"Of course it's about me," he shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Who else would it be about?"
In reality, deep down, Draco knew that this time it was about something more. About escaping from suspicious glances. About a chance for a new beginning, even if it involved orange robes and a team that was more of a joke than real competition in the league.
"All right, Malfoy, let's leave the philosophical reflections for later," Weasley interrupted, running his hand through his ginger hair with impatience. "We have a charity match for the Ministry on Saturday and, believe me, I intend to win it, even if it's the only victory for the Cannons this season."
"Charity match?" Draco raised an eyebrow. "Nobody mentioned that to me."
"Because you joined the team three days ago, genius," Weasley snorted. "Anyway, we're playing against the Department of Magical Law Enforcement team. Most of them are office workers, but they have a few former professional players. Get to work!"
Draco rolled his eyes but obediently soared higher, positioning himself as Seeker. From this height, he had an excellent view of the entire pitch and his new "teammates"—a term he would only use under the influence of Veritaserum. He observed them with a mixture of professional curiosity and chronic scepticism.
Jenkins, one of the Chasers, was executing a complicated manoeuvre that might even have been impressive if not for the fact that every few seconds he looked down, as if afraid of heights. He was tall and thin, with shoulders so narrow that Draco wondered how he maintained balance on his broomstick at all. However, he had surprisingly quick hands, passing the Quaffle from one to the other with a precision that suggested years of training. Perhaps not all was lost.
Next to him flew Thompson—the only woman on the team. She was short, stocky, and aggressive in the air, as if every centimetre of space was her personal territory that needed to be defended at all costs. Her movements were more instinctive than technical, but she made up for it with determination. When Jenkins passed her the Quaffle, she caught it without looking, as if she knew exactly where it would be. That was a skill that couldn't be taught—either you had it or you didn't.
The reserve Chaser was Lewis, who Draco had heard joined the team straight from Hogwarts, without any professional experience. And it showed. He flew uncertainly, as if every gust of wind could knock him off his broomstick. His passes were weak and his catches unsure. Then he noticed how Lewis suddenly accelerated, performing a zigzag in the air that was so unexpected that even Draco, with his years of experience, was impressed. The boy had a talent for unpredictable movements that could surprise an opponent. Perhaps he wasn't hopeless after all.
The Matthews brothers, the Beaters, were twins, which he found ironic—Weasley clearly had a weakness for twins with bats. These ones, however, had dark hair and were much more synchronised than Fred and George had ever been. They moved as one organism, hitting Bludgers with a force that could break bones. The problem was that they focused so much on each other that they sometimes forgot about the rest of the team. Twice he had seen a Bludger nearly hit Jenkins because the brothers were too busy showing off their skills to each other.
Stevens, the reserve Seeker whom Weasley had mentioned, was young—perhaps twenty—and so green he was practically emitting chlorophyll. He flew quickly, that was a fact, but without finesse. His movements were predictable and his gaze scattered. Instead of looking for the Snitch, he spent half his time staring at the other players, as if he were in the stands rather than on the pitch. Draco sighed inwardly. If this was his potential replacement, he didn't need to worry about losing his position.
And finally, the Keeper—Robinson, a veteran of the team, as he'd heard. A man in his forties, with the beginnings of a beer belly and a balding head, but with reflexes that defied his age. He stopped Quaffles with precision, predicting trajectories seconds before the shot. His only problem was that he never left the hoops—not by a millimetre. As if an invisible circle had been drawn around them that he couldn't cross. This was a good strategy against average Chasers, but an experienced player would quickly exploit it.
Above all this hovered Weasley, the third Chaser, shouting instructions and gesticulating so energetically that he seemed to be in three places at once. His face was almost as red as his hair as he yelled at Lewis for a failed pass, but a moment later he patted him on the shoulder when the boy executed a successful manoeuvre. Draco had to reluctantly admit that Weasley as a captain had something that many professional teams lacked—passion. He wasn't playing for fame or money, but because he loved the sport. It was almost admirable, though he would rather swallow the Snitch than admit it aloud.
He observed all this from the corner of his eye, as the main part of his attention was focused on spotting the Snitch.
The individual elements of this team weren't as hopeless as he had initially assumed. Jenkins, Thompson and Robinson had real talent. The Matthews brothers were brutal but effective. Even Lewis, despite his uncertainty, had flashes of genius. The problem lay elsewhere—in how they functioned as a whole. Or rather, how they didn't.
They were like precisely made cogs from different watches. Each operated according to its own mechanism, its own rhythm. Thompson passed the Quaffle, expecting Jenkins to be five metres further than he actually was. Lewis performed manoeuvres that nobody expected, so nobody was prepared to support him. The Matthews brothers sent Bludgers to places where one of the Chasers had been a moment ago, instead of predicting where they would be in a second.
Draco suspected that this was exactly why Weasley was so attached to his idiotic strategy—he was trying to impose any common rhythm on a team that without it resembled an orchestra in which each musician played a different melody. The problem was that this strategy wasted their potential instead of utilising it.
Suddenly, a golden flash on the left side of the pitch caught his attention. The Snitch! He felt the familiar rush of adrenaline that always accompanied the beginning of a chase. This was the moment he lived for, this feeling of pure, unbridled freedom, when his entire body and mind focused on a single goal.
This time, however, he decided not to just catch the Snitch. He decided to show this bunch of idiots calling themselves a team that they had the best bloody Seeker in the league in their ranks. One spectacular display of skill should cut short any doubts about whether he was up to it. And, incidentally, it might shut Weasley up about his alleged lack of commitment.
He dived suddenly, executing such a sharp turn that any other player would have been knocked off their broom. He accelerated violently, feeling the wind tousling his hair. The Snitch, as if sensing the danger, changed direction, now flying in a zigzag pattern just above the ground, straight towards the stands.
Perfect.
Draco followed it, lowering his flight so much that his feet almost brushed the grass. This was a manoeuvre that required absolute control over the broom and a complete lack of self-preservation instinct—exactly what he excelled at.
The Snitch turned right, darting along the empty stands, as if it wanted to give him the best opportunity to show off before an imaginary audience. Draco slowed down slightly, deliberately prolonging the chase, building tension. Now that he was so close, he could catch the Snitch within a second, but where was the fun in that? Where was the spectacle?
He executed a fluid rotation around his own axis, flying between the benches of the stands with a precision that was the result of thousands of hours of training. The Snitch changed direction again, now flying straight up along the stairs of the stands. He followed it, flying so close to the structure that he felt the coolness of the wood on his cheek.
And then he saw her.
Hermione Granger was sitting in the lowest seat, dressed in official attire, with a notebook on her lap and a quill in her hand. Her curly hair was tied in a careless bun, a few locks falling on her face as she bent over her notes.
It was such an unexpected, such an absurd sight that for a fraction of a second, he thought he was hallucinating. What the hell was Granger doing here? And alone, without any official delegation, without Potter?
This question, and the sight of her face—so familiar, yet changed by the years that had passed since their last meeting—made Draco do something he hadn't done since his first year of professional play: he lost his concentration.
He turned his head to get a better look at Granger, completely forgetting that he was racing at breakneck speed along the stands at a height of just two metres. This moment of inattention was enough for him not to notice the approaching post.
The impact was so violent that he heard the crack before he felt the pain. The force of the collision knocked him off his broom and sent him flying through the air like a rag doll. For one terrible moment, he felt himself falling, helpless against gravity, and then he hit the ground with a force that squeezed all the air from his lungs.
The world exploded in a kaleidoscope of pain, and then darkness fell.
The last thing he registered before losing consciousness was the sound of Granger's voice, shouting some spell, and the strange feeling that his fall was slower than it should have been, as if something had softened his collision with the ground at the last moment.
But that had to be an illusion. Because why would Granger save him, Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater and the man who for years had called her the worst possible names?
The world sank into darkness, and his last thought was that if he survived, he would never, ever admit that he had crashed into a post because he was staring at Hermione Granger.
* * *
He regained consciousness slowly, as if fighting through a particularly dense fog or trying to surface from the depths of a lake. First came the sounds. Distant, distorted, as if reaching him through a layer of water. Voices, raised, concerned, someone speaking rapidly, someone else answering in a tone that sounded familiar, reassuring. He heard other sounds too—the rustle of wind, the flutter of robes, a distant whistle that could have been a bird or the signal of a referee's whistle.
But all these sounds were irrelevant, completely unimportant, because when he finally managed to lift his eyelids, he understood that he had apparently arrived in heaven.
An angel was leaning over him.
It wasn't the sort of angel that would adorn the walls of cathedrals—powerful, majestic, with severe, inhuman beauty. This was an angel with a delicate face, with features that were simultaneously gentle and distinctive—brown eyes the colour of the finest chocolate from Honeydukes, long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, a perfectly defined nose with barely visible traces of freckles, full lips, now pressed together in an expression of concentration. Dark, curly hair surrounded this face like a halo, or rather... no, it wasn't just hair. Behind the angel's head was an actual halo, a golden glow that encircled her like a nimbus in medieval paintings.
This angel also had a voice—quiet, melodious, which sounded strangely familiar, though Draco couldn't place it in his memories.
"...should regain consciousness within a few minutes. No, Ron, we can't move him until we're sure there's no spinal damage. Yes, I know this will delay training, but would you rather have a disabled Seeker on your conscience?"
The angel was apparently capable of sarcasm. That was unexpected. Draco had always thought heavenly beings were more lofty. Less mundane. And yet this angel sounded a bit like an irritated nurse at St Mungo's, explaining something to a particularly dense patient.
He opened his eyes wider, trying to focus. The halo around the angel's head was blinding, making it difficult to discern the details of her face. Draco blinked several times, and the world slowly became sharper, clearer. From afar came sounds that sounded like angelic trumpets—loud, piercing, calling to...
"...complete idiot! What was he thinking?! He could have killed himself and you, Hermione! What were you even doing there? I told you we were training from nine!"
Wait. Hermione?
Draco blinked once more, feeling his brain trying to process this information. Hermione. Not a typical example of an angelic name. In fact, he only knew one Hermione in his life, and she certainly wasn't...
Suddenly everything fell into place with brutal clarity.
Dark, curly hair. Intelligent, brown eyes. That specific tone—a combination of patience and irritation—that he had heard hundreds of times during lessons at Hogwarts.
This wasn't an angel. This was Granger.
And that golden glow around her head wasn't a halo, just the ordinary, bloody bright sun, positioned directly behind her head, blinding him and apparently causing hallucinations. And those sounds he had taken for angelic trumpets were nothing more than Weasley's shouts, who was currently experiencing a spectacular panic attack.
"...don't understand! This charity match is our chance to show that the Cannons aren't completely hopeless! That we have a chance for something more than last place in the league! And now our new Seeker, for whom we paid a fortune—all right, maybe not a fortune, but significantly more than we should have—is lying unconscious because apparently he doesn't know how to avoid fixed structural elements of the stadium!"
"Calm down, Ron," Granger's voice was calm but firm. "I was under a Shield Charm. And now, if you'll allow me, I'm trying to assess whether your new Seeker has a damaged spine."
Spine. That explained why he couldn't move. Not because the angel (Granger, he corrected himself mentally, it was Granger, not an angel) was keeping him pinned to the ground with her heavenly power, but because he had just crashed into a post at a speed that had probably crushed half his bones.
"I'm alive," he croaked, surprised at how hoarse his voice was. He sounded as if he had swallowed a kilogram of gravel. "Though I'm a bit disappointed. I thought I was in heaven, but it turns out I'm still stuck in this nightmare with orange robes."
Granger immediately looked at him, and her face—which he had just considered heavenly beautiful, which was clearly the effect of a concussion—took on an expression he knew all too well. A mixture of relief and irritation, as if she was simultaneously glad he was alive and regretted having to endure his presence.
"Lie still, Malfoy," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder when he tried to get up. Her hand was warm, much warmer than he expected—angelic or not, Granger apparently had a normal body temperature. "You've had a serious accident. I cushioned your fall with a spell, but you still hit your head on the ground. You have a concussion and probably a broken collarbone."
"Brilliant," he muttered, ignoring the pulsating pain that radiated from his left shoulder and slowly spread to the rest of his body, like a particularly nasty potion. "Now I'll not only be the idiot who crashed into a post, but also a cripple."
"Can you explain what you were actually doing?" she asked, furrowing her brow in a way that brought back memories of long sessions in the library, when he observed her surreptitiously from behind bookshelves. "You were flying straight at the post. As if you didn't see it at all."
Draco felt warmth spreading across his neck and face. Gods, no. There was no way he would admit that he hadn't seen the post because he was too busy staring at her like a complete moron. A post that had been there forever, a post that any player with a modicum of common sense would instinctively avoid without even thinking about it. If he admitted that he had crashed because he saw her, Weasley would never let him forget it. And Granger herself... well, he preferred not to think about how she would interpret this fact.
"I was testing... a new manoeuvre," he invented on the spot, trying to make his voice sound confident and convincing. "Very advanced. Requires extreme precision. I apparently misjudged the distance."
"Right," said Granger with that irritating, know-it-all smirk that suggested she could see right through him. "A manoeuvre involving smashing your aristocratic face into a post. Very advanced, indeed. I bet you've been practising it for years."
Weasley, who had been circling around them like an agitated hippogriff, suddenly leaned over him, blocking the sun. His face was so red that it almost merged with his hair, creating a uniform, fiery image of fury.
"What do you think you're doing, Malfoy?" he growled, waving his arms like a windmill. "First week with the team, and you're already trying to kill yourself?! And during my training?! Do you know how much paperwork I'd have to fill out if you actually died?! Not to mention that Hermione could have been injured because of you!"
"Ron!" Granger's voice was sharp. "First of all, I had a shield. Secondly, he can't hear you right now because he's just lost consciousness after hitting a post at a speed exceeding stadium regulations. And thirdly, paperwork? Really? That's your biggest concern?"
"I can hear you," mumbled Draco, though indeed Weasley's voice was reaching him as if through a thick layer of cotton wool. "And I'm not a concern. As I said, it was a planned manoeuvre."
"A planned manoeuvre to end up in St Mungo's a week before our first match?" Weasley sounded as if he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. "Great plan, Malfoy. Brilliant. Perhaps you should also plan to break both legs?"
Suddenly everything began to blur. It grew dark before his eyes again, and the world around him began to spin like a carousel. The voices became distant, distorted, as if coming from behind thick glass. Something about transferring him to Mungo's. Weasley's shouts, which sounded as if someone had just told him the Cannons were going to be disbanded. Granger's angry responses that "no, he can't be Apparated in this condition, that's elementary medical knowledge, Ron."
Draco tried to blink, to sharpen the image, but his eyelids seemed to weigh a tonne, and his eyes refused to cooperate. The world now consisted of blurred patches of colour—the orange of the team robes, the red of Weasley's hair, the dark brown of Granger's curls.
Someone—most likely Granger—was casting stabilising spells. He felt the magic permeating his body, immobilising broken bones, reducing pain.
"...need to call for professional help," reached him a voice that now sounded as if it was coming from the bottom of a very deep lake. "Ron, send a Patronus to Mungo's. Ask for a trauma team. And you, Jenkins, bring me more water. Thompson, can you find a blanket? And tell the gawkers to get off the pitch, this isn't a spectacle!"
Draco felt a sudden surge of respect for Granger. Even now, in the midst of a crisis, she maintained her composure and issued commands with the precision of a general on the battlefield. All this respect, however, was pushed into the background by a powerful wave of pain that rolled through his body when someone (most likely that idiot Weasley) moved carelessly, nudging his broken collarbone.
Darkness pressed on his consciousness more and more strongly, and he no longer had the strength to fight it. But before he completely surrendered, he heard Granger's irritated voice once more.
"So I take it you won't be able to give me that interview today, Malfoy?"
Interview? What interview? What the hell was she talking about?
He tried to ask, he really did, but his mouth refused to cooperate, as did the rest of his body. His tongue seemed to be made of lead, and his jaw of concrete. Instead of words, only a quiet, pathetic moan escaped his throat, which was rather a poor start to any conversation, let alone an interview.
And before he could force his body to cooperate, darkness consumed him completely. The last thought that flashed through his mind was that at least he had fainted with dignity—if one can lie with dignity on a Quidditch pitch with broken bones, surrounded by a bunch of idiots in orange robes and Hermione Granger, who apparently wanted to conduct an interview with him.
Considering his life so far, this wasn't even in the top ten of his most humiliating moments.
Chapter Text
When Draco regained consciousness for the second time, he was convinced that this time he had gone straight to hell.
A demon was pacing before him—a creature with flaming hair, its face contorted in a grimace that could only be hellish anger. The demon was muttering curses under its breath that would be considered indecent even in Azkaban, and its hands were making violent gestures, as if trying to summon even more torments for the unfortunate damned souls.
"...completely irresponsible! And what am I supposed to do now? Stevens isn't ready! Last time he tried to catch the Snitch wearing protective gloves because he was afraid the wings would cut him! CUT HIM! As if the bloody thing could cut anyone!"
Ah. Not a demon. Weasley.
Though, given the circumstances, the difference was rather academic.
Draco blinked several times, trying to focus. He was in a hospital room—white ceiling, pale walls, the smell of healing potions and disinfectants. St Mungo's, without a doubt. The Magical Injuries Ward, judging by the blue shades of the staff's robes who flitted past the partially open door.
Weasley—definitely not a demon, though his current behaviour suggested otherwise—was pacing in front of his bed like an agitated hippogriff in a cage. He apparently hadn't yet noticed that Draco had regained consciousness, because he continued his tirade, directed at someone sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed, out of Malfoy's field of vision.
"...and he can't play! The Healers clearly said—two weeks of absolute rest! Two weeks! The match is in five days! FIVE DAYS, Hermione!"
Ah, so it was Granger sitting beside him. He felt a strange pang of... something. Not irritation, no. Rather... curiosity? Why was Granger still here? Didn't she have more important matters at the Ministry? Saving house-elves, fighting for werewolf rights, or whatever she did on a daily basis presumably as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement or some other lofty institution?
"I see you can count, Ron," Granger's voice spoke up, calm and matter-of-fact, as always. "And yes, I understand this complicates things. But instead of pacing around like a madman and stressing out the patient—who, by the way, has just woken up—could you focus on finding a solution?"
Weasley stopped mid-step and turned around abruptly.
"Finally!" he growled, as if Draco had deliberately remained unconscious just to annoy him. "How do you feel, Malfoy? And the answer had better be 'excellent, I can play on Saturday,' because otherwise I'll have to field Stevens, and he recently caught a bee instead of the Snitch and was convinced we'd won the match!"
"Ron!" Granger hissed, and this time he could see her as she rose from her chair to stand beside the bed. "He's just regained consciousness after a serious injury! Can you stop thinking about Quidditch for just five minutes?"
"No," Draco and Weasley answered simultaneously, then looked at each other with a mixture of surprise and reluctant amusement.
"I feel as if a herd of hippogriffs has trampled over my body," said Draco, trying to sit up and immediately regretting it when a wave of pain shot through his left shoulder. "So no, I rather won't be playing on Saturday. Unless you want me to fly with one arm, which might be an interesting tactic, but probably wouldn't bring us victory."
"Bloody hell," muttered Weasley, slumping into the chair on the other side of the bed. "Just... bloody hell."
"Very eloquent," commented Draco, unable to help himself. "I've always admired your gift for speech, Weasley."
"Shut up, Malfoy," Weasley replied, but without real malice. More with fatigue, as if this was simply part of a routine they both played out. "Do you have any idea what trouble we're in now? This match isn't just for fun. It's a chance to show potential sponsors that the Cannons still have potential. That it's worth investing in us."
"And you thought the best way to prove that would be to play against office rats from the Ministry?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. "Ambitious."
"They're not ordinary office workers," interjected Granger, crossing her arms over her chest. "Several of them played professionally before joining the Ministry. Their captain, Rodgers, was a Chaser for the Harpies. And their Beater, Smithwick, trained with the Baltic Stormers."
"So what?" he shrugged, or at least tried to, before remembering his broken collarbone. "All you'll prove by beating them is that you're marginally better than amateurs and retirees. Great achievement."
"Do you really not understand the gravity of the situation?" Weasley leaned over the bed, his face taking on the shade of a ripe plum. "Are you really not going to play on Saturday? Because if so, we might as well start preparing for defeat now. Perhaps I should give each player a bag so they can discreetly vomit when the Ministry receives the cup?"
"Maybe you should stop being so dramatic, Weasley?" Draco snapped back, as pain and frustration began to erode his remaining patience. "I've broken my collarbone. Quite spectacularly, as I've noticed. So no, I rather won't be flying on a broomstick in five days, unless you want to pump me so full of pain potion that I won't be able to tell a Snitch from a Bludger."
"Ron, stop being hysterical," Granger intervened. "You're only making the situation worse. Instead of tormenting the patient, perhaps you should check on the rest of the team? From what I saw, Lewis didn't look too good after that training session either."
Weasley opened his mouth as if to protest, but after a moment closed it with a sigh of defeat.
"Fine," he muttered. "I'll go check on the team. But this conversation isn't over, Malfoy. We need to figure out what to do about the match."
"Sure, Captain," Draco replied, not hiding his sarcasm. "I'll lie here and think intensely about strategies, as soon as I stop feeling like my body has been trampled by a herd of centaurs."
As soon as Weasley left, silence fell in the room. A strange, tense silence that Draco couldn't interpret. Granger stood by his bed, looking at him with an expression that could have been concern, irritation, or perhaps something completely different.
"What?" he finally asked, unable to bear her scrutinising gaze. "Do I have something on my face? Besides the bruises, of course."
Instead of answering, she came closer and rather indelicately began examining his arm and collarbone. She pulled back the hospital gown, exposing his bare arm and upper chest, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Her movements were methodical, but Draco still felt a strange twinge in his stomach when her fingers touched his skin.
She leaned over him to get a better look at the purple bruise that was spreading across his collarbone like a map of some cursed archipelago. Her hair—the same hair he once considered the worst nest in the history of wizardkind and no longer tied in a bun—fell forward, brushing against his face and neck. It was surprisingly soft, almost silky, and smelled of something that brought to mind books, rain, and some flowers whose names he couldn't recall. It was disorienting.
"Do you consider yourself better than the Healers, Granger?" he asked, trying to sound sarcastic, though his voice came out more hoarse than he intended. "Is this new Ministry policy? Department heads personally examining injured Quidditch players?"
"I took an intensive healing course last year," she replied, not interrupting her examination. Her fingers gently pressed different points around the fracture, and Draco had to clench his teeth to avoid hissing in pain. "As part of... well, I simply wanted to learn," she added after a moment, as if suddenly realising she didn't need to explain herself. "I've always thought that medical knowledge is underappreciated in wizarding education. So I signed up for a course. At weekends. For six months."
He blinked, trying to process this information. Granger had spent half a year of her weekends learning healing. Just like that. Because she wanted to know more. It was so very... Granger.
"Healers always give a longer timeframe to ensure patients don't do anything stupid," she continued, finally moving away and allowing the gown to cover his arm again. "Honestly, it looks better than I expected. The Skele-Gro potions are already working—the initial bone mending is visible."
Suddenly, without any warning or logical transition, Granger leaned over him and began adjusting the pillows under his head. Her movements were strangely uncertain, as if she'd never done this before, which was absurd because she had spent years taking care of Potter and Weasley during their numerous stays in the hospital wing.
"Granger, what are you...?" he began, but stopped when she practically shoved a pillow behind his back with a force that suggested she was trying to smother him rather than provide comfort.
"You need to be positioned properly," she said in a tone that sounded as if she were reciting a passage from a textbook. "For better flow of healing magic."
"Flow of healing magic?" he repeated incredulously. "What the bloody hell does that mean?"
Instead of answering, she reached for the glass of water standing on the bedside table and thrust it under his nose, almost spilling the contents on his face.
"You need to stay hydrated," she stated firmly, as if she were giving him an antidote to a deadly poison rather than ordinary water. "For... for better tissue regeneration."
He looked at her with a mixture of confusion and suspicion. What was happening? Was this some strange ministerial protocol towards injured Quidditch players? Or had Granger been replaced by some clumsy Metamorphmagus?
"Can you explain what you're actually doing?" he finally asked, trying to take the glass from her before she actually spilled its contents on his hospital gown. "Because you're behaving as if you've never seen a patient in your life."
"I'm helping you," she answered quickly, too quickly. "It's normal behaviour towards... towards an injured colleague."
"Colleague?" he repeated in disbelief. "Since when are we colleagues, Granger?"
She looked as if she had just swallowed an exceptionally sour lemon. She sat uncertainly on the edge of his bed—a gesture so unexpected that for a moment he wondered if she might have been hit with a Confundus Charm.
"Well, perhaps not colleagues in the traditional sense of the word," she admitted, mechanically smoothing the blanket covering him. Her movements were nervous, almost spasmodic, as if she needed to occupy her hands with something. "But now... we're collaborating, aren't we? You as a Quidditch player, me as a Ministry representative for this charity match. It's a kind of professional relationship."
Draco observed her unnatural behaviour with growing consternation. Granger had always been confident—irritatingly confident, if he were to be honest. Seeing her now, nervous and lost, was as disturbing as seeing McGonagall in a pink tutu.
"Granger, are you feeling all right?" he finally asked, unable to ignore this bizarre spectacle any longer. "Because you're acting as if you're under the influence of some particularly poor Calming Draught."
"Me? Of course I am," she answered too quickly, still obsessively smoothing non-existent wrinkles on his blanket. "Why would I feel otherwise? This is a completely normal situation. I'm sitting by the bedside of a former schoolmate... acquaintance, who is now a professional Quidditch player, and will soon play in a match organised by my department. Everything is perfectly normal."
"Yes, that sounds absolutely normal," Draco agreed, not hiding his sarcasm. "Except that you look like you're about to have a panic attack, and you're behaving as if you've never spoken to another human being before. What's going on, Granger? Really."
She stopped her hands mid-smoothing, looking like someone caught in the act. For a moment it seemed she was considering more excuses, but finally her shoulders dropped in resignation.
"I need a favour from you," she said quietly, as if admitting to something disgraceful.
"A favour," he repeated flatly. "You. From me."
"I know how it sounds," she sighed, finally stopping her assault on his bedding. "But it's... it's really important."
"I'm sure it is," he said, crossing his arms over his chest, which immediately reminded him of his broken collarbone. He hissed in pain but didn't change his position. "So? What is it? Need someone to do your dirty work at the Ministry? Looking for a scapegoat for some failed policy? Or perhaps you want me to be your secret agent in the ranks of the purebloods?"
"I want to interview you," she blurted out, looking him straight in the eye.
He blinked, confused.
"Interview," he repeated. "About what?"
"About your Quidditch career," she answered, suddenly more confident. "About your transition from Puddlemere to the Cannons. About how fans, media, other players reacted to it. About your experiences as..." she hesitated "...as a person with a controversial past."
"A person with a controversial past," he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "You really can't say 'former Death Eater', can you, Granger? After everything that's happened?"
"I'm trying to be diplomatic," she replied, her cheeks turning slightly pink. "This would be a professional interview. Not sensationalist."
"And since when does the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement conduct interviews with Quidditch players?" he asked, looking at her suspiciously. "Isn't that more the role of journalists?"
"It's a special project," she said, her eyes shifting to the side—a clear sign she wasn't telling the whole truth. "The Ministry wants to promote the idea of second chances, reintegration, and reconciliation. Your story could be inspiring to many people."
"My story," he repeated, not hiding his scepticism. "The story of a former Death Eater who plays Quidditch in orange robes. Yes, that sounds like material for the cover of 'Inspiring Tales for Young Wizards'."
"You're mocking, but it actually could be," she said with a note of irritation that sounded much more like the old, familiar Granger. "It shows that you can rise again after making mistakes. That wizarding society gives second chances. That not everything is black and white."
"And you really think anyone would want to read that?" he asked, though something in her argument—in how she defended the idea of his redemption—made him feel a strange warmth in his chest. It must have been a side effect of the potions.
"Yes," she answered confidently. "I think many people would like to know your story. Hear it from your own mouth, not in the Prophet's manipulated version."
At the mention of the Prophet, he grimaced involuntarily. He still remembered that horrible article that had made the atmosphere at Puddlemere unbearable.
"And where would this... interview be published?" he asked cautiously. "Because if it's the Prophet, I'm not interested."
"Not the Prophet," she denied quickly. "It would be in... a new publication. One that emphasises accuracy and objectivity. No sensationalism. No manipulation."
"Such a publication doesn't exist in the market, Granger," he observed, looking at her with condescension. "Wizards want scandals, gossip, and conspiracy theories. Not honest journalism."
"Perhaps it's time to change that," she replied. "And perhaps you can help me do it."
He looked at her for a moment, trying to understand what was actually happening here. Hermione Granger, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, war heroine and paragon of virtue, was sitting on his hospital bed, asking him for an interview for some enigmatic publication she wouldn't even name. It was so absurd it was almost amusing.
"Tell me honestly, Granger," he began, watching her carefully. "What is this really about? Because I won't believe that you've suddenly become interested enough in me to conduct interviews. Especially since we haven't exchanged a word for years."
She looked as if she were fighting an internal battle. Finally, she took a deep breath, as if preparing for a plunge into icy water.
"I made a bet with Rita Skeeter," she blurted out, the words flying from her like a flock of released Snitches. "That I would create my own section in a newspaper and publish better, more accurate materials than she does. And... and I need your interview to prove it."
For a moment he was silent, processing this information. And then, to his own surprise, he began to laugh. It wasn't a mocking laugh, but genuine, sincere amusement, which made his broken collarbone throb with pain.
"You... you made a bet with Skeeter?" he spluttered, when he was finally able to speak. "You, Hermione bloody Granger, icon of responsibility and good sense? With Rita Skeeter?"
"It's not that implausible," she muttered, clearly offended by his amusement. "I have a complicated history with her."
"Oh, I know," he said, still smiling. "I remember how in fourth year you trapped her in a jar."
Granger raised her eyebrows.
"How do you know about the jar?"
"Hogwarts was full of rumours," he shrugged with his healthy shoulder. "And I always liked to know what was going on. Especially if it concerned the Golden Trio."
"So..." she began uncertainly. "Will you help me? Will you give me this interview?"
He looked at her, considering his options. On one hand, the idea of giving anyone an interview after what the Prophet had done made him nauseous. On the other hand... there was something immensely satisfying in the thought of helping Granger defeat Skeeter. Besides, the prospect of spending more time in the company of this new, strangely uncertain version of Granger was... intriguing.
"On one condition," he finally said, looking her straight in the eye.
"What's that?" she asked, looking as if she were ready to agree to anything.
"Stop smoothing my blanket," he answered with a crooked smile. "It's starting to be disturbing."
She immediately jumped off the bed, as if the bedding had suddenly burst into flames. She nearly tripped over her own feet, trying to get away from him as quickly as possible, then collapsed into the chair beside him. From her bag, which lay on the floor, she pulled out a leather-bound notebook and a self-writing quill.
"Excellent," she said, her voice suddenly high and official. "So we begin. Thank you for agreeing to this interview, Mr Malfoy."
"Mr Malfoy?" he repeated in disbelief. "Seriously, Granger?"
"This is an official interview," she replied, not even looking at him, busy preparing her quill. "Let's maintain professionalism. First question: How do you assess your Quidditch career so far and what prompted you to change teams from Puddlemere United to the Chudley Cannons?"
He opened his mouth to answer, but Granger apparently wasn't waiting for a response, because she immediately moved to the next question.
"Was it difficult to adapt to the new team? What differences have you noticed in playing style and atmosphere between the two teams?"
"Granger, I—"
"How do fans react to your presence in the Cannons? Have you encountered any negative reactions due to your past? Or perhaps the opposite—have fans shown you support?"
"Granger, could I—"
"How do you assess the Cannons' chances in the upcoming season? Could your joining the team change its position in the table? What goals have you set as a team?"
"GRANGER!" he finally shouted, taking advantage of the moment when she had to catch her breath between questions. "Are you actually going to let me answer any of these questions?"
She blinked, looking genuinely confused.
"Of course," she replied, as if it were obvious. "That's exactly why I'm asking them."
"But you've already asked four questions without giving me a chance to answer even one of them," he observed. "This isn't an interview, it's an interrogation."
"I was just..." she began, and then sighed, looking somewhat lost. "I'm sorry. I've never conducted an interview before. I prepared a list of questions and wanted to make sure I asked all of them."
"It shows," he muttered, shaking his head. "Your questions are so bland and flat that no one would want to read such an interview. 'How do you assess your chances?' 'What are your goals?' Seriously? This sounds like a job interview for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes."
Granger looked as if he had just doused her with cold water. Her shoulders slumped, and an expression of disappointment so deep appeared on her face that he almost felt remorse.
"But... but these are standard questions," she said quietly. "I read all the sports interviews in the Prophet from the last five years to prepare this list."
"And that's exactly why they're so terrible," he replied, softening his tone somewhat. "You want to beat Skeeter, right? And she, however repulsive she may be, knows how to attract readers. She doesn't do it by asking questions that can be found in 'Journalism for Dummies'."
"So... what do you suggest?" she asked, and a note of desperation appeared in her voice. "Should I ask questions about your personal life? About scandals? Gossip?"
"No," he shook his head. "But perhaps questions that are actually interesting? That touch something more than the surface? For example, instead of asking 'how do I assess my chances', you could ask how I felt when I first saw the orange Cannons robes in my locker. Or what it feels like to train with Weasley, who was once my school enemy. Or what I think about the media still bringing up my past, as if it were the only aspect of who I am."
She looked at him for a moment, and then began frantically taking notes in her notebook.
"These... these are excellent suggestions," she admitted, not looking up from the paper. "You're right. My questions were too general, too safe. I need something that will show the real Draco Malfoy, not just his official image as a Quidditch player."
"Exactly," he agreed, surprised that she accepted his criticism so easily. "But not today."
She raised her head, furrowing her brow.
"Not today?"
"Granger, I've just woken up in hospital after smashing into a post on a Quidditch pitch," he reminded her, pointing to his immobilised arm. "I'm on pain potions that make me feel as if I've drunk half a bottle of Firewhisky. I don't think this is the ideal moment to give an interview that's meant to beat Rita Skeeter."
"Oh," she said, her cheeks turning pink with embarrassment. "Of course. I'm sorry. That was inappropriate of me."
"A bit," he agreed, but without malice. "We can arrange this interview for when I leave hospital. Which is probably tomorrow, if the Healers don't find any additional injuries."
"Tomorrow," she repeated, her eyes lighting up with hope. "That... that would be wonderful. Thank you, Malfoy. Really."
"Don't thank me yet," he warned, raising an eyebrow. "You don't know what I'll say in this interview. Maybe I'll decide to reveal all your school secrets. For example, how in third year you used a Time-Turner to attend more classes than was physically possible."
She blinked, clearly surprised.
"How do you know about...?"
"As I said, Hogwarts was full of rumours," he answered with a mysterious smile. "And I always had my ears wide open."
"Well, that... that's not something that should appear in an interview about Quidditch," she said, trying to sound firm, though her voice trembled slightly.
"That depends," he teased her further. "Maybe I'll start talking about how your obsession with learning influenced my own approach to Quidditch training? That would be an interesting thread, don't you think?"
"My obsession with learning?" she repeated indignantly. "It wasn't an obsession, it was simply a thorough approach to education!"
"Call it what you want, Granger," he shrugged with his healthy shoulder. "But the fact is that you spent more time in the library than all the Ravenclaws combined. And I know that because I was often there."
"You? In the library?" she asked in disbelief. "What for? To torment younger students?"
"To study, of course," he replied, feigning wounded innocence. "What do you think I maintained the second position in our year's rankings through? My father's bribes?"
"Well..." she hesitated, clearly unsure if this was a trick question.
"Yes, that's exactly what you thought," he sighed theatrically. "Typical. Everyone assumed the Malfoys bought everything, including grades. The truth is, I spent almost as much time in the library as you did. I was just better at hiding it."
Granger looked at him as if he had just announced he was related to Dumbledore.
"I never saw you there," she finally said, though it sounded more like a question.
"Because I sat in the nooks of the potions section, where nobody looked," he explained. "Except for Snape, of course. And sometimes you, when you were looking for some obscene ingredients for your experimental mixtures."
"They weren't obscene!" she protested. "They were advanced."
"As I said, call it what you want," he smiled, deriving a strange satisfaction from how easily he could provoke her. Some things never changed.
"That's... interesting," she said after a moment, and her face took on that specific expression that appeared when she was analysing a particularly difficult problem. "I would never have thought we had something in common."
"Because we don't," he answered quickly, suddenly feeling strangely uncomfortable. "You were a swot with an obsession about proving your worth to everyone. I just liked being good at everything I did."
"Hmm," she murmured, clearly unconvinced. "That sounds suspiciously similar, Malfoy."
"Maybe in your world, Granger," he replied, feeling his eyelids becoming heavier. The pain potions were beginning to take full effect, numbing his mind and loosening his tongue. "Anyway, as I said, we can arrange this interview for tomorrow. Now I really need to rest."
"Of course," she said, immediately standing up. "I'm sorry for tiring you out. I'll come back tomorrow. What time would be convenient for you?"
"Afternoon," he mumbled, feeling sleep slowly overtaking him.
"Of course, of course," she nodded, rummaging in her bag. "In that case, I'll leave you my address. I have a connection to the Floo Network, so you won't have to Apparate with that arm. Tomorrow at two should be perfect. I'll prepare tea. And biscuits. Unless you prefer coffee? Or perhaps pumpkin juice? I also have Butterbeer, if—"
"Granger," he interrupted her, though his voice was already soft and distant, as if coming from behind a thick curtain. "Address...?"
"Yes, yes, I'm giving it now," she said, and then suddenly he felt her pushing something into his hand. A piece of paper, folded in half. "I've also written down the Floo coordinates for you, though I don't know if you have Telefloo at home, but just in case."
Draco struggled to open his eyes, which had already closed under the weight of potions and fatigue. He looked at the note in his hand, and then at Granger, who was standing over him, nervously biting her lower lip.
Only then did it dawn on his foggy mind what was actually happening.
"Wait," he said, trying to sit up and immediately regretting it when a wave of pain shot through his arm. "Your address? You want me to come to your home?"
"Well, yes," she answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It would be difficult to conduct the interview here, in hospital. Besides, there we'll have peace. And privacy."
"Privacy," he repeated dully, wondering whether it was the potions that made this conversation seem so surreal, or if the world had simply gone mad when he hit his head on the post. "You and me. In your home. Alone."
"Of course alone," she frowned, clearly confused by his reaction. "Surely you didn't think I'd invite Rita Skeeter to listen in on our conversation? The whole point of this interview is to show that one can write honest articles without her sensationalist methods."
"No, that's not what I mean," he shook his head slightly, which only increased the feeling that his brain was swimming in a sticky fog. "It's just... you really want to invite me to your home? Me?"
She looked at him for a moment, and then sighed with what could have been irritation, impatience, or—most disturbingly—fondness.
"Yes, Malfoy, I want to invite you to my home," she said, emphasising each word as if explaining something to an exceptionally dense troll. "The war ended many years ago. We're both adults. I'm interviewing you, and my home is the best place to do it in peace. It's really not a complicated concept."
"But..." he began, though he wasn't sure what he actually wanted to say. She was right—the war was in the past, they were both adults, and an interview in a private home made sense. So why did he feel as if she had just invited him to dance naked in the Great Hall of Hogwarts?
"No 'buts'," she cut him off, crossing her arms over her chest. "Two o'clock. Tomorrow. You have the address in your hand. And yes, I have Earl Grey tea, which, as I know from well-informed sources, you drink every morning."
"How..." he began, but his mind was already too dull to finish the question. How, the hell, did she know what tea he drank? Was Granger spying on him? Did she have an informant in the Cannons? Or perhaps...
His thoughts began to blur, and his eyelids to droop despite desperate attempts to keep them open. The last thing he registered before sleep consumed him was the sight of Granger leaning over him to adjust his blanket—the same gesture he had called disturbing just a few minutes ago.
"Until tomorrow, Malfoy," he heard her quiet voice, as if coming from very far away. "And try not to smash your head into anything until then."
Chapter Text
Draco was discharged from the hospital in the early hours of the morning, much earlier than he expected. The Healer who signed his release papers was clearly irritated by the fact that he had to spend time in the company of a former Death Eater longer than absolutely necessary. Draco didn't protest. He wanted to leave the sterile walls of St Mungo's as quickly as possible and return to his own home.
And his home was definitely not Malfoy Manor. After the war, he couldn't bear to stay in the residence that had become a prison and torture chamber. Too many memories, too many screams echoing off the marble walls. Instead, he had purchased a small estate on the outskirts of a wizarding village in Devon—close enough to civilisation not to feel cut off from the world, but far enough to avoid prying eyes and whispers.
The house had a typically wizarding character, with moving portraits on the walls (though none of his family members), self-cleaning windows, and a fireplace connected to the Floo Network. At the same time, it was much more modest than the family residence—two floors, five bedrooms instead of twenty, a living room that could be taken in at a single glance, and a kitchen where he sometimes actually prepared meals himself (to the horror of his mother, who still couldn't understand why he hadn't hired at least one house-elf).
His arm still hurt, but he had to admit that Granger was right and it was healing faster than the Healers had predicted. He could already perform basic movements without feeling like someone was stabbing a knife into his collarbone. By Saturday's match, he should be able to fly, though catching the Snitch might still be a challenge.
He tried to occupy himself with something productive—he reviewed the Cannons' strategy for the upcoming match (so simple that a bloody first-year Hufflepuff could decipher it), checked his correspondence (mostly bills and letters from his mother worrying whether he was eating properly), and even tried to read a book about the history of Quidditch that he had received from Blaise for his last birthday.
Nothing helped. His thoughts kept returning to Granger and her absurd invitation. For the last decade, he had seen her sporadically, usually once a year when they happened to pass each other in the corridors of the Ministry, where he was dealing with formalities related to his work. These meetings were limited to stiff nods and perhaps, if it was an exceptionally good day, a brief "Malfoy" from her and "Granger" from him.
And now suddenly she had appeared in his life, as if from nowhere, with some interview, a bet with Skeeter, and an invitation to her home. It was disorienting. And irritating. And completely wouldn't leave him in peace.
What did Hermione Granger's house look like? Was it filled with books from floor to ceiling, as one might expect? Did she have her school badges and awards displayed like trophies? Did she live alone, or perhaps have a flatmate? A cat? (He remembered that monstrous, flat-faced creature she used to drag around Hogwarts). What kind of furniture did she have—modern or classic? Muggle or wizarding?
These questions swirled in his head, refusing to go away. And although the meeting was scheduled for two o'clock, and the clock showed only twelve, he approached the fireplace and for the hundredth time glanced at the piece of paper with the Floo call coordinates she had thrust into his hand yesterday.
This is absurd, he thought. I'm an adult wizard, a professional Quidditch player, and I'm standing here like a first-year outside the headmaster's office, wondering if I can come earlier for an interview with Granger.
And yet... what was he supposed to do for the next two hours? Stare at the wall? Count the minutes? Gaze at this bloody note as if it would reveal the secrets of the universe?
With a sigh of resignation, he reached for the small bowl of Floo powder that he kept on the mantelpiece. He threw a pinch into the hearth, watching as the flames changed colour to emerald green, and then spoke the Telefloo spell—a connection that enabled voice communication between fireplaces without physical travel—and then clearly stated the address from the note.
He waited a moment for the connection to be established, and then cleared his throat. "Granger? It's Malfoy. I know we arranged to meet at two, but..." he hesitated, searching for an excuse that wouldn't sound like "I can't wait to see your house". "...but I have training with the Cannons later and Weasley will be furious if I'm late. So I thought perhaps we could move the meeting to an earlier time? Of course, if you're busy, I understand."
He waited a moment, listening for a response, but heard only the soft crackling of fire. Granger was apparently not at home or didn't have her Floo connection activated.
"This is a message," he added, remembering that he had to clearly indicate this for the system to know to preserve his words. "Contact me when you can."
He ended the connection, feeling strangely disappointed. It's irrational, he told himself. After all, I'll see her house at two o'clock anyway. What difference does it make whether it's now or in two hours?
But there was a difference, though he couldn't exactly pinpoint why. Perhaps because for those ten years since the war their paths had so rarely crossed, and now suddenly he was going to spend a few hours with her, talking about his life. Perhaps because for the last decade, Granger had functioned in his mind more as a symbol than as a real person with a home, private life, and bets with Skeeter.
Or perhaps simply because despite the passage of years, he still remembered her fist hitting his face in third year and wanted to see if the same girl who had had the courage to punch him would now be serving him Earl Grey tea in her own living room.
He was about to move away from the fireplace when suddenly he heard her voice, coming from the green flames.
"Malfoy?" sounded from the fire, and Granger's voice was strangely breathless and higher than normal. "Give me... give me a moment..."
There was a pause, filled with sounds of shuffling, something falling, and heavy breathing. It sounded as if she were in the middle of some intense activity, which she had interrupted to answer his message.
A thought crossed his mind that he absolutely should not have imagined—that perhaps Granger was just doing something intense. Alone. In her flat. This thought was so absurd, so ridiculous, that he immediately felt heat spreading across his face and neck. And even more absurd was his reaction to this thought—a sudden twinge in the pit of his stomach and an image of Granger, breathless, with the buttons of her shirt undone, her hair in even greater disarray than usual...
No. Absolutely not. This was the effect of the pain potions. And hitting his head. And... and whatever else could explain why he was suddenly imagining Hermione Granger in a situation that should be the last thing on his mind.
"Sorry," he heard her voice, now calmer, though still slightly out of breath. "I just got back from the Ministry. I was running up the stairs because I thought it might be an important message from my assistant."
Draco breathed a sigh of relief. She was running up the stairs. Of course. That was the logical explanation for her breathless voice. Not... anything else. What idiotic thoughts.
"Yes, sure, of course you can come earlier," she continued. "Actually, it works out well because I'll have more time for this interview before my afternoon meeting. Just... don't be scared by the mess, all right? I wasn't expecting guests this early, so the flat is in... hmm, rather creative disarray."
"Creative disarray?" he repeated, regaining control of his voice, which, to his horror, sounded somewhat hoarse. "Is Miss Perfection not keeping her flat in the same order as her essays?"
"Very funny, Malfoy," she replied. "Just come whenever you want. I'm at home. You know the address."
"I'll be there in a moment," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, though his heart was beating slightly faster than it should. "And don't worry about the mess. After years of sharing changing rooms with Quidditch players, there's not much that can scare me."
"We'll see about that," she muttered with a note of amusement, and then the connection was broken.
He stood for a moment before the fireplace, trying to calm down and gather his thoughts. Everything was fine. He was going to conduct an interview. At Granger's house. Which was in disarray. And in which she was alone. Breathless after running up the stairs. In disarray. Alone.
He shook his head, trying to expel these irrational thoughts. It was just an interview. A professional meeting. Nothing more.
He took a deep breath, reached for a larger handful of Floo powder, and threw it into the fireplace. The flames turned emerald green, and he clearly stated the address, stepping into the fire, ready for teleportation to Hermione Granger's flat.
Spinning, jerking, and then a sudden loss of balance—as always with Floo travel. When the world stopped spinning, Draco opened his eyes and froze.
He had expected anything—an organised library, a sterile space in the style of a ministry office, a cosy Muggle flat with electric gadgets he had heard of but never seen.
Anything but finding himself in a jungle.
Because that was exactly what you could call the room he found himself in. Plants. Everywhere. Large, exotic specimens with glossy leaves hung from the ceiling in macramé plant hangers. Ferns grew in the corners of the room, their long, feathery leaves brushing his face as he stepped out of the fireplace. On the windowsill stood small pots with herbs. Draco recognised basil, mint, rosemary, but also more exotic potion ingredients, like dittany leaves, carefully planted in miniature purple pots.
Ignoring this botanical chaos, he moved deeper into the flat, passing through a narrow corridor where moving photographs hung on the walls—he noticed Potter and Weasley, a group photo of the Gryffindors, and several Muggle, motionless photographs of a middle-aged couple—presumably her parents.
He stopped at the threshold of the living room, which was just as chaotic as the hallway. In the centre stood a coffee table on which books were stacked—old volumes with yellowed pages, new, glossy publications, Muggle magazines and wizarding manuscripts, all in a great, organised disarray. Under the window, to his surprise, stood an easel with an unfinished painting—a landscape of Hogwarts, painted from the perspective of the lake, with an evening sky and the lights of the castle reflected in the water.
Granger was standing with her back to him, fiddling with something at a tall, wooden cabinet, standing on tiptoe to reach the top shelf. She was wearing plain jeans and a loose, blue blouse, and her hair was tied in a careless bun from which unruly curls escaped.
But all of this—the plants, the books, the paintings, even Granger standing on tiptoe—was nothing extraordinary compared to what he saw on her sofa.
"Granger," he said instead of a greeting, unable to tear his eyes away from the massive shape stretched out on the soft cushions. "There's a lion lying on your sofa."
She turned around abruptly, almost losing her balance and had to hold onto the cabinet to avoid falling.
"Malfoy!" she exclaimed, placing her hand over her heart. "You scared me! I didn't hear you come in."
"Floo isn't known for its noisiness," he replied automatically, still not taking his eyes off the sofa. "But I must reiterate my question—why is there a lion lying on your sofa?"
"It's not a lion, Malfoy," she answered with a note of amusement in her voice. "It's my cat, Rudy."
"Are you sure?" he asked, suspiciously eyeing the massive, ginger creature that was stretching out on the sofa like a small tiger. "Maybe they tricked you at the shop?"
"It's a Maine Coon," she explained, rolling her eyes. "It's a breed of domestic cat. They're known for being larger than average cats. And yes, I'm absolutely certain it's a cat, not a lion."
Draco carefully observed the animal, which lazily opened one eye to look at him with a mixture of indifference and contempt that even his father could have envied in the peak of his aristocratic hauteur. The cat was enormous—it must have weighed at least several kilograms—with long, thick ginger fur, tufts of hair growing from its ears, and a bushy tail that could serve as a decent duster.
Although the animal still gave the impression of dozing, he suddenly realised that he had absolutely no desire to enter into any closer relations with it. His self-preservation instinct—the same one that warned him against hippogriffs, werewolves, and furious witches with fists like hammers—rang an alarm: "keep away from this beast".
Suddenly Granger appeared beside him—so close that he could smell her shampoo, something floral with a hint of vanilla—and to his absolute horror, she grabbed his hand.
"It's just an ordinary cat, it just looks like that," she said gently, as if explaining something to a frightened child. "He's completely harmless. Unless you're a mouse."
He wanted to respond, but all words caught in his throat when he realised that Granger was holding his hand. Of her own free will. Her hand was warm, surprisingly soft, and definitely smaller than his. And worse, it was the same hand that was attached to the arm that was attached to the collarbone that had been broken just yesterday.
The pain that shot through his shoulder when she pulled him slightly towards the sofa was nothing compared to the feeling that Hermione Granger was touching him voluntarily, without disgust or reluctance that had accompanied all their previous physical interactions (counting exactly one slap in third year).
"What... what are you doing?" he choked out, when he realised she was definitely directing his hand towards the ginger monster on the sofa.
"Showing you that Rudy is harmless," she replied with a smile that he might have found sweet if not for the fact that she was evidently leading him to his death by mauling. "He loves being petted behind the ears."
"I'm sure lions also love being petted behind the ears," he replied, trying to gently pull his hand from her grip, but she was determined. "Right before they bite off the petter's hand."
"Don't be childish, Malfoy," she scolded him, now openly smiling. "Don't tell me you're afraid of a cat?"
"I'm not afraid of a cat," he protested. "I'm afraid of something that's the size of a pony with dagger-like claws."
"So you're afraid of a cat," she summarised, not stopping guiding his hand towards the quadruped. "The heroic Chudley Cannons Seeker, former Slytherin, who could face Potter on a broomstick, is afraid of a domestic pet."
"I'm not afraid..." he began, but stopped when his fingers—directed by Granger's unwavering hand—touched the fur of the ginger monster.
At that moment, the animal emitted a low, guttural sound that could only be interpreted as a harbinger of imminent death by mauling. Draco, instinctively, reacted in the only logical way—he let out a very inelegant squeak that was so high it could have competed with sopranos in a banshee choir, then tried to back away, forgetting that his hand was still in Granger's grip.
"What was that?!" he exclaimed, freezing in place, as if the slightest movement could provoke the beast to attack.
Granger looked at him for a moment with an expression that indicated a heroic struggle to maintain her composure, then burst into laughter so intense that she had to hold her stomach.
"He's... he's just... purring..." she squeezed out between fits of laughter. "That... that was... purring!"
Draco froze, listening to the sound which indeed, when he paid attention to it, was rather a steady, deep rumble of contentment than a threatening growl. The cat didn't even open its eyes, evidently enjoying the caress that had been temporarily interrupted.
"I... of course I know it's purring," he replied, trying to salvage the remnants of his dignity. "I was just... testing your alertness."
"My alertness?" she repeated, wiping tears of amusement. "Of course. Nothing tests alertness quite like a squeal of terror at the sight of a purring cat."
"It wasn't a squeal of terror," he protested, feeling a blush of shame spreading across his face and neck. "It was an exclamation of surprise. A completely different category of sounds."
"Ah, yes, now I understand," she nodded with feigned gravity, though her eyes still sparkled with amusement. "An exclamation of surprise. Absolutely not a squeak of fear. My mistake."
"Exactly," he nodded, trying to maintain the remnants of his dignity. "Besides, you can't blame me for caution. This cat is the size of a pony."
"You're exaggerating," she replied, shaking her head. "Rudy is a large cat, but he's still just a cat."
As if to confirm her words, the animal opened one eye, looked at Draco with a mixture of interest and condescension, then stretched out even more on the sofa, rolling onto its back and exposing its belly in a gesture of complete relaxation.
"See?" she said, pointing to the cat. "He trusts you. He's showing his belly. That's the highest expression of trust in cats."
"Yes, or he's setting a trap," muttered Draco, who had already learned that in life nothing comes for free, certainly not trust. "Just wait until I bring my hand close to that belly, and you'll see how quickly he turns into a killing machine."
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," she sighed, then, to his surprise, extended her own hand and began scratching the cat's belly. The animal responded with even louder purring, arching under her touch as if in some feline ecstasy. "See? Completely harmless."
Draco watched this scene with a mixture of disbelief and fascination. The cat, which just a moment ago had seemed to him the embodiment of all his fears (well, except for the Dark Lord and his father in "I'm disappointed" mode), now looked like an overjoyed, purring ball of fur.
"Maybe for you," he observed, still unconvinced. "You're his feeder. He probably sees me as an intruder who needs to be killed as soon as you turn your back."
"What paranoia," she shook her head, then looked at him with a strange gleam in her eye. "Want to find out? Come over and pet him yourself."
"No, thank you," he replied quickly, stepping back. "I prefer to keep all my fingers. I'll need them on Saturday to catch the Snitch."
"Coward," she stated. "Who would have thought that the great Draco Malfoy is afraid of a fluffy cat."
"I'm not afraid of him," he repeated, feeling that this conversation was starting to loop. "I just have a healthy respect for animals that can scratch me."
"Like hippogriffs?" she asked innocently, though malice flashed in her eyes.
"Exactly," he confirmed, recalling the painful encounter with Buckbeak in third year. "Animals are unpredictable."
"And yet you play Quidditch," she observed, finally stopping petting the cat, who looked disappointed by this fact. "A sport where unpredictability is commonplace. Bludgers, weather, other players—everything can change in a split second."
"That's different," he replied, shrugging his healthy shoulder. "In Quidditch, I have control. I decide how to react to the changing situation."
"And with a cat you can't?" she asked, raising an eyebrow in a gesture that disturbingly resembled his own.
"With a cat, I can't predict when it will decide to use its claws," he explained patiently. "And in Quidditch, I know exactly what to expect from a Bludger—that it will try to hit me. That's predictable."
She looked at him for a moment, as if considering his words, then shook her head with a strange smile.
"You really are a fascinating case, Malfoy," she finally said, getting up from the sofa and brushing cat hair off her jeans. "But let's leave the topic of your ailurophobia for now. Tea perhaps? I promised you Earl Grey."
"With pleasure," he replied, gratefully accepting the change of subject. "And for clarity—I don't have ailurophobia. I just don't trust this particular cat."
"Of course," she nodded with feigned gravity. "It's a completely rational fear of one specific cat, not a general phobia. How could I confuse that?"
He opened his mouth to protest, but seeing her amused smile, he understood that the more he defended himself, the more he would confirm her theory. Instead, he decided on a tactical retreat.
"Can I help you with that tea?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant, though he still nervously glanced at the cat, which was now stretching lazily on the sofa.
"No need," she replied, heading towards the kitchen. "Make yourself at home. Just... maybe don't sit on the sofa. That's Rudy's territory."
"I had no intention to," he muttered, choosing an armchair located furthest from the sofa and its fluffy owner. "I'll wait here."
When Granger disappeared into the kitchen, he looked around the living room again, trying to better understand the space in which she lived. The room was surprisingly cosy—with many pillows, soft blankets thrown over the backs of furniture, and all those plants that gave the interior the character of an oasis. Paintings hung on the walls—some magical, some evidently Muggle, static. Books were everywhere—on shelves, on tables, even on the windowsill. Some were neatly arranged, others lay open, with bookmarks or notes sticking out from between the pages.
It was so very... Granger. Organised chaos, in which only she knew the hidden order.
Suddenly he realised that the cat—Rudy—was watching him intensely from behind half-closed eyelids. Draco froze, not knowing whether he should turn away, pretend he hadn't noticed, or perhaps maintain eye contact to show he wasn't afraid (even if that wasn't entirely true).
"Listen, cat," he whispered, making sure Granger couldn't hear him from the kitchen. "I don't encroach on your territory, you don't encroach on mine. Fair deal, right?"
The cat blinked lazily, which Draco took as a form of agreement. Or complete disregard. It was hard to tell.
"Great," he muttered, looking away. "I'm glad we understand each other."
"Who are you talking to?" asked Granger, returning to the living room with a tray bearing two cups of steaming tea and a plate of biscuits.
"No one," he replied quickly, straightening up in the armchair. "Just admiring your living room."
"Sure," she said with a smile that suggested she knew exactly what he had been doing.
Draco carefully took a cup, trying not to scan his surroundings.
"Right, let's move on to the interview," said Granger, reaching for a notebook and quill. "I've thought about your suggestions from yesterday and I must admit you were right. My original questions were... well, boring. I want this interview to be different. Honest. Real."
"A noble goal," muttered Draco, leaning back comfortably in the armchair. "But difficult to achieve, considering that most readers prefer sensationalism to truth."
"Perhaps," she agreed. "But it's worth trying to change that, don't you think?"
He shrugged his healthy shoulder, watching as Granger prepared the quill, which hovered over the notebook, ready to record every word.
"So..." she began, looking him straight in the eye. "How did you feel when you first saw the orange Cannons robes in your locker?"
He smiled slightly, recognising his own question from yesterday's conversation. So she had taken his suggestions seriously.
"Terror," he answered honestly, and seeing her surprised expression, continued: "Not because of the team. But that colour. Orange is offensive to the eye. Especially for someone who wore green and silver for seven years, and then, for several years, navy and gold. It's like switching from an elegant car to a child's bicycle with a horn."
"But you accepted the Cannons' offer," she observed, allowing the quill to take notes. "Why?"
"Because it was the only offer," he admitted, reluctantly recalling that period. "After that unfortunate interview in the Prophet, when my words about regret for the past magically transformed into a declaration of eternal loyalty to Voldemort, the atmosphere at Puddlemere United became unbearable. Teammates began avoiding me. Fans sent Howlers. The board started suggesting that perhaps I should take 'leave for the good of the team'. The Cannons were the only team that still wanted to hire me. Apparently Weasley said that 'even bloody Malfoy is better than what we have now'."
"Ron really said that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Supposedly," he shrugged. "I didn't ask him for details once I joined the team. But..." he hesitated, wondering if he should continue.
"But?" she encouraged him.
"But when I saw those robes in my locker—that monstrous, garish orange—I thought to myself: 'maybe this is for the best'. No one associates the Malfoys with orange. It's like a new beginning. In the worst possible colour, but a new beginning nonetheless."
Granger looked at him for a moment, as if trying to read whether he was telling the truth, then nodded, and the quill scratched across the paper, recording his words.
"What's it like training with Weasley, who was once your school enemy?" she asked, moving to the next question.
Draco opened his mouth to answer but stopped mid-motion, as if it had just dawned on him that he was speaking for an official interview. He closed it, then opened it again, clearly considering his response.
"Is everything all right?" asked Granger, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, I'm just wondering how to answer this question so that Weasley doesn't try to kill me at the next training session," he admitted with a wry smile.
"This is an interview, Malfoy, not testimony under Veritaserum," Granger observed. "You can answer diplomatically."
"Diplomatically," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "All right. Training with Weasley is... educational."
"Educational?" she didn't look convinced. "That's the most generic answer you could come up with."
"What did you expect?" he replied with a note of irritation. "That I'd say how every day I have an epic duel with him on broomsticks, and then we hurl insults at each other in the changing room? The truth is that Weasley is a tolerable captain. And a surprisingly competent Chaser. And our... conflict from Hogwarts remains where it belongs—in the past."
"That sounds like a rehearsed formula," she commented, putting down her quill. "Listen, Malfoy, if this interview is to be any different from thousands of other boring interviews with Quidditch players, you need to give me something more. Some specifics, some story, some genuine feeling."
"I'm not sure I want my 'genuine feelings' to be dissected in the pages of a newspaper," he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "Even if it's your exclusive, betterthanSkeeter publication."
"I'm not asking you to talk about your deepest fears or secrets," she sighed with frustration. "But perhaps about some specific event? The first training session? Some argument? Anything that would show what your relationship is really like?"
Draco frowned, considering her request. Finally, he sighed and put his cup down on the table.
"All right. My first training session with the Cannons was intense," he began, and something in his voice suggested that was an understatement. "Weasley made me fly for three hours without a break, performing the most absurd manoeuvres he could think of. Spirals, dives, one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turns at full speed. I was certain he was trying to kill me and make it look like an accident."
"And what happened?" asked Granger, leaning slightly forward, clearly intrigued.
"I survived," he answered simply. "I performed every manoeuvre he assigned me, without a word of complaint. And then, when I thought it was over and I could finally come back to earth, Weasley flew up to me and said: 'Nice try, Malfoy. We'll finish tomorrow'."
"Oh," she murmured, trying to hide a smile. "And did you finish?"
"Yes," he confirmed, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "But the next day it was a normal training session. With the whole team. Without murderously difficult manoeuvres. Weasley even said I was 'not bad for someone who learned to fly on his father's Galleons'."
"And what did you reply?" she asked, no longer hiding her smile.
"That I'm quite good because my father, unlike his, could buy me a decent broom, not some museum exhibit," he admitted, but without real malice in his voice. "And he said that he might have a museum exhibit, but at least he knows how to use it. And somehow... we started working together."
"That sounds like an almost normal relationship," observed Granger, reaching for her quill again.
"Almost," he agreed. "It's like taming a hippogriff. You never know when it might suddenly decide to throw you off its back and tear you to shreds, but as long as you observe the basic rules, it somehow works."
"And what are these basic rules?" she asked, allowing the quill to take notes.
"Don't mention the past. Don't comment on his flying technique. Don't suggest that his strategy is as full of holes as Longbottom's cauldron. And above all—don't crash into a post five days before a charity match," he added with a crooked smile, pointing to his arm.
For the next half hour, he answered questions that were surprisingly normal. Granger didn't try to dig into his past, didn't ask awkward questions like "what was it like living with Voldemort under the same roof" or "is your Dark Mark still visible". Instead, she asked about his daily training, his relationships with other players, how he handled the pressure of matches and fan expectations.
After a few minutes, he started answering almost automatically, his mind shifting to autopilot, repeating learned formulas about "the hard work of the entire team" and "the wonderful team spirit of the Cannons". Freed from the need to think deeply about his answers, he could devote more attention to observing Granger.
And there was plenty to observe.
She sat across from him, bent over her notebook, eagerly recording his every word. With each question, she leaned further forward, and her blouse... well, it gave him a view that he absolutely shouldn't be looking at. At least not during a professional interview.
"...and how do you handle the pressure from fans during away matches?" she asked, not looking up from her notebook.
"I try to focus on the game, not the stands," he answered automatically, then his gaze wandered down again, towards Granger's neckline, which from this perspective seemed interesting.
Don't look there , he admonished himself mentally, forcing himself to focus on her face.
"And is it difficult to play against your former team?" she continued, leaning even further to note his previous answer.
"It's always an emotional experience, but..." he began, and his gaze involuntarily wandered downward again.
Don't look there , he repeated to himself firmly.
"But?" she urged him when his answer hung in the air.
"But I try to treat it like any other match," he finished, forcing himself to look at the books on the shelf behind her head. "Focusing on finding the Snitch, not on who I'm playing against."
"I see," she murmured, noting his answer, and one of her unruly curls fell across her face.
Draco watched as she tucked it behind her ear with a gesture that was simultaneously irritatingly familiar and strangely fascinating.
"And how is your cooperation with the other Cannons players?" she asked, finally raising her eyes from her notebook.
"Good," he answered, grateful that he could look her in the eye and not fight the temptation to look lower. "Everyone has their strengths. Jenkins has the fastest hands I've ever seen in a Chaser. Thompson is aggressive in the air, but in a positive sense, fighting for every inch of space. Lewis has a talent for unpredictable movements that surprise opponents."
"And the Beaters?" she asked, leaning down to note his answer, and once again giving him a view that he was trying at all costs to avoid.
Don't look there, don't look there, don't look there , he repeated in his mind like a mantra, but his eyes seemed to have a will of their own.
"The Matthews brothers are well synchronised," he continued, forcing himself to look at the cat, which was watching him from the sofa with an expression that Draco could swear expressed judgment and disapproval. "Sometimes they focus too much on each other, forgetting about the rest of the team, but their hitting power is impressive."
"And Robinson? I heard he's a team veteran?"
"Yes, he's an experienced Keeper," he nodded, now desperately looking for anything he could focus on, anything but Granger and her accursed blouse. "He has reflexes that defy his age, but his only problem is that he doesn't leave the hoops—not by a millimetre."
"That's surely good for a Keeper?" she asked, furrowing her brow.
"Not always," he replied, with relief returning to the safe topic of Quidditch. "Sometimes you need to come forward, interrupt the attack before the Chaser gains momentum. Robinson doesn't do that—he waits by the hoops like... like..."
Like I'm waiting for a chance to look at your neckline again , he finished in his thoughts, immediately cursing his brain for this analogy.
"Like what?" she asked, leaning even further, as if trying to fish the missing words from his mouth.
"Like a statue," he finally finished, feeling his face growing warm. "Motionless, unwavering, but therefore predictable to experienced players."
"Fascinating," she murmured, writing down his words. "I didn't realise that Keeper tactics could be so complex."
"Quidditch in general is more complicated than it seems," he replied, strangely pleased by her interest. "It's not just flying and throwing balls."
"I always suspected that," she admitted with a slight smile. "Though I've never been a fan of the sport."
"Really?" he asked with feigned surprise. "And I thought your life revolved around following league results and collecting cards of famous players."
"Very funny, Malfoy," she replied, rolling her eyes, but the smile didn't leave her face. "I have a few more questions, if you don't mind."
"I'm all yours," he replied, immediately regretting his choice of words when he felt his cheeks growing even warmer.
After the interview was completed, when Granger finally put down her quill and closed her notebook, they both stood up. Draco felt slightly dizzy—whether from sitting in one position for so long, or perhaps from too intensely focusing on not looking where he shouldn't, he wasn't sure.
"I'll see you to the fireplace," she offered, collecting the cups from the table. "Do you want to say goodbye to Rudy before you leave?"
"No, absolutely not," he replied firmly, casting a quick glance at the enormous cat, which was now sitting on the back of the sofa, observing him with a hauteur worthy of the purest-blooded aristocrat. "I think your little lion and I have already built a sufficiently strong bond from a distance."
Granger laughed softly, shaking her head. As they stood side by side, Draco realised how much taller he was than her. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye, and he had to look down to meet her gaze.
And that was a mistake.
Because when he looked down, he again saw that cursed neckline. Not as clearly as before, when she was leaning forward, but enough to remind himself of all those moments when he had fought the temptation to peek there during the interview. And his body, as if to spite him, reacted in a way that was absolutely inappropriate in this situation.
Merlin, save me , he thought frantically, averting his gaze and trying to think of anything that might cool his unexpected enthusiasm. Snape in Longbottom's grandmother's dress. Filch dancing naked. Hagrid in a bikini.
"Is everything all right, Malfoy?" she asked, looking at him with slight concern. "You suddenly turned all red."
"Everything's fine," he choked out, desperately trying to keep his voice at a normal level. "I just remembered that I need to hurry. Training. Weasley. You know."
"Oh, of course," she nodded, though she didn't seem very convinced. "In that case, let's go."
She moved towards the fireplace, and he followed her, maintaining a safe distance and trying to look everywhere but at her figure. Which turned out to be harder than he thought, especially when she walked in front of him, and her jeans...
No , he interrupted his thoughts firmly. You will not stare at Granger's backside. This is Granger, for Merlin's sake. The same Granger who punched you in the face in third year. The same Granger who was Potter's best friend. The same...
His internal monologue was interrupted by the fact that they had reached the fireplace, and Granger turned to face him, standing decidedly too close for his current state of mind.
"So..." she began, unexpectedly seeming somewhat nervous. "Thank you for the interview. It was... it was really good."
"The pleasure was all mine," he replied automatically, praying to all the deities he knew that she wouldn't notice his... enthusiasm. "When can I expect the publication?"
"In a few days," she answered, reaching for the bowl of Floo powder. "Of course, I'll send you a copy before printing, in case you want to change anything."
"I appreciate that," he nodded, taking a handful of powder from her. "And... thank you for the tea. It was good."
"The pleasure was all mine. See you, Malfoy."
"See you, Granger," he replied, stepping into the fireplace and throwing the Floo powder. "Malfoy Residence, Devon!"
The last thing he saw before disappearing in a swirl of green flames was the face of Hermione Granger—smiling, with curls falling on her cheeks, and disturbingly attractive.
I have a problem , he thought, spinning in the Floo network. I have a really serious problem.
Chapter Text
Fortunately, the fascination with Granger's neckline turned out to be merely a temporary anomaly, a disturbance probably caused by a combination of pain potions, the blow to his head, and the fact that he hadn't been close to any woman... well, for longer than he'd care to admit. For the next few days, Granger barely entered his thoughts, displaced by much more important matters—daily training sessions (which Weasley had intensified as if to punish him for his injury), nursing his collarbone, and the upcoming charity match.
Until Friday evening, when a large tawny owl tapped at his window, carrying a roll of parchments in its talons. Draco recognised Granger's careful, regular handwriting on the attached note:
Malfoy,
As promised, I'm sending you a copy of the first issue before printing. If you'd like to change anything in the interview, let me know by tomorrow morning.
Granger
PS. Rudy sends his regards.
Draco snorted at the postscript, but couldn't suppress the slight smile that appeared on his lips. Curiously, he unrolled the parchments, expecting to see a meticulously prepared interview, perhaps with some pitch photograph she had managed to obtain.
What he saw was surprising.
It was hard to call it a newspaper. It was merely ten pages long, of which the interview with him occupied two, and the remaining eight pages desperately tried to pretend to be a normal periodical, focusing on the latest information from the wizarding world. The headline on the first page proclaimed:
"WIZARDING WEEKLY NEWS"
"Your source of reliable information, without sensationalism or speculation"
Beneath this was a small photograph of Granger in the official robes of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, looking extremely serious and professional. Completely different from the Granger he had seen in her flat, leaning over her notebook and showing him her accursed neckline.
Stop it , he admonished himself.
He flipped through a few pages, scanning the articles. There was information about a new law concerning the regulation of magical creature transportation, an interview with Hogwarts Headmistress McGonagall about changes in the curriculum, a brief report on research into a new medicine for dragon pox, and even a recipe for pumpkin pie by Molly Weasley. Everything was written matter-of-factly, without emotion, without gossip, without sensationalism—exactly as Granger had promised.
And then he reached the interview.
"DRACO MALFOY—MORE THAN JUST A NAME"
"On the life of the Chudley Cannons' Seeker, team challenges, and the struggle with the past"
The interview was surprisingly good. Granger hadn't changed any of his words, but the way she had arranged the questions and answers gave the whole a coherent, flowing character. There was nothing compromising, nothing that could be taken out of context and used against him. Even his jokes about Weasley sounded more like friendly banter than genuine malice.
Moreover, she had managed to show him as a person. Not a former Death Eater, not the Malfoy heir, not the protagonist of a press scandal—just a Quidditch player trying to do what he loves despite obstacles. It was nice. And unexpected.
At the end of the interview was a small editorial note:
"Interview conducted by Hermione Granger, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, as part of a new initiative promoting reliable journalism without sensationalism. The next issue of 'Wizarding Weekly News' will appear in two weeks and will contain an interview with Minerva McGonagall about her 50 years of work at Hogwarts."
Draco turned the last page, looking for a price or subscription information, but found none. Was Granger planning to distribute this for free? Was this part of her bet with Skeeter—to show that people will read the truth, even if it's not presented in the form of a scandal?
He was roused from his reverie by another tap at the window. This time it was a small, brown owl, carrying a short note:
Malfoy,
Don't forget about tomorrow's match. You're in the starting line-up, unless you're planning to crash into another post. If so, inform me NOW.
Ron Weasley
PS. Try not to get yourself killed.
Typical Weasley—he couldn't resist a jab, even when trying to be professional. Draco scribbled a brief reply:
Weasley,
I'll be there. No posts. Prepare for victory, because I intend to catch the Snitch in the first five minutes.
D.M.
He tied the note to the owl's leg and released it through the window, then returned to perusing Granger's "newspaper". There was something touching about her desperate attempt to create a real periodical, in this despairing pursuit to show that reliable journalism is possible.
After a moment's thought, he reached for a quill and parchment:
Granger,
I've looked through your "Wizarding Weekly News". The interview is acceptable, though I'd change the part about Weasley—it sounds as if I like him, which is absolutely not true. Otherwise, I have no objections.
As for the rest of the paper—do you really think anyone will want to read about regulations for magical creature transportation? Skeeter may be a rag, but at least she knows how to attract readers. If you want to win this bet, you need to give people what they want. Just in a less disgusting way than she does.
Good luck,
D.M.
PS.Tell your cat that if we ever meet again, I intend to keep my distance from him. Just in case.
He tied the note to the leg of the tawny owl, which had apparently been waiting for a reply, and released it into the night. For a moment he stood by the window, watching as the owl disappeared into the darkness, wondering if his advice would make any difference. Granger had always been stubborn—if she decided she knew better, no force in the universe could convince her to change her mind.
With a sigh, he returned to his armchair, reaching for the book on Quidditch tactics he had been reading before the owl's arrival. Tomorrow was the charity match; he needed to concentrate. Not think about Granger, her neckline, and her desperate attempt to change wizarding journalism.
An hour later, he stood up to refill his tea. His mind was still circling around strategies for tomorrow's match—Weasley was obsessed with a new formation he wanted to try out, which, according to Draco, was suicidal.
As he passed by the fireplace, an unexpected voice sounded:
"Malfoy? Are you there?"
Draco jumped, spilling tea on his sleeve. "Damn it!" he hissed, setting the cup down on the mantelpiece and shaking the hot liquid from his hand.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Granger's voice reached him from the flames.
"You didn't startle me," he replied automatically, though his heart was still beating a bit faster than it should. "I just wasn't expecting a Floo call at this hour."
"I got your owl," she explained, and her voice sounded strangely... uncertain? That was new. "And I have to admit, you're somewhat right. My newspaper really is too dry. Too official."
"Is Hermione Granger actually agreeing with me?" he asked with feigned disbelief. "I should probably mark this date in the calendar."
"Don't exaggerate," she snorted, though there was a note of amusement in her voice. "Unfortunately, it's too late for changes in this issue."
"I understand," he nodded, though of course she couldn't see this through the Floo call. "Well, it was an interesting experiment anyway."
"Actually..." she hesitated, "I thought that maybe I could take your photo tomorrow, before the match? Something more unofficial. For the front page."
Draco raised an eyebrow, surprised by this proposal.
"A photo? Of me?"
"Yes," she confirmed. "I think it would help attract more readers. The interview was good, but people like visual elements. And this will be the first charity match of the season, so having the Cannons' Seeker on the front page would make sense..."
"Granger," he interrupted her exposition, smiling involuntarily. "You don't need to convince me. It's your newspaper, you can put whatever you want in it."
"So...?" she asked, and that uncertainty appeared in her voice again.
"So yes, you can take my photo before the match," he agreed, wondering why she was even asking for his consent. As a Quidditch player, he was accustomed to being constantly photographed, often without warning and in much less convenient circumstances than an official session. "What time do you want to meet?"
"The match is at two, so maybe at twelve? Players have to be at the stadium two hours earlier, right?"
"Yes," he confirmed, surprised by her knowledge of pre-match procedures. "Twelve will be fine. Where do you want to meet?"
"I was thinking the Cannons' changing room," she replied. "Or maybe on the pitch? I'm not very knowledgeable about sports photography, so..."
"The changing room will be good," he decided, not wanting to risk meeting fans or journalists on the open pitch. "Weasley usually gives us an hour to change and warm up before he starts his inspirational speech, so we'll have some time."
"Great," there was relief in her voice. "So... see you tomorrow? At twelve?"
"See you," he confirmed, then added, before he could stop himself: "And next time you drop in for an unexpected visit through my fireplace, warn me. For the sake of my tea."
"I'll try," she replied with a note of amusement in her voice. "Goodnight, Malfoy."
"Goodnight, Granger," he replied, watching as the green flames returned to their normal gold-orange colour.
For a moment he stood by the fireplace, wondering what had actually happened. Granger had agreed with him. Granger wanted to take his photo for the front page of her newspaper. Granger had contacted him via Floo call at ten o'clock at night to talk about it.
It was unusual. And strangely satisfying.
With a slight smile, he returned to his armchair and the book on Quidditch tactics, though his thoughts now revolved around tomorrow's meeting more than the match itself. He wondered what kind of photo she wanted to take—official, in full Cannons uniform? Or perhaps something more casual? And would she be wearing that same blouse again?
Stop it , he admonished himself firmly.
But despite these assurances, he couldn't suppress the strange feeling of anticipation that had nested in his stomach.
The next day, he arrived at the Cannons' changing room half an hour earlier than they had arranged. He wasn't sure why—after all, changing and preparing his equipment usually took him no more than ten minutes. Perhaps he wanted to make sure he would be ready for her arrival. Or perhaps he simply couldn't sit at home any longer, feeling the mounting tension before the match.
As he changed into the disgustingly orange match robes, he decided to slightly soften their aggressive colour with a toning charm. Not enough for anyone to notice—just a bit, so his eyes wouldn't bleed every time he passed a mirror.
" Pallesco ," he muttered, pointing his wand at the material, which immediately took on a slightly softer, more muted shade of orange. "Better. Though still horrible."
He had just finished fastening the last buckles of the forearm guards when the door to the changing room opened and Granger entered. She was dressed in a simple, grey robe, and her hair was tied in a loose bun, from which, as usual, a few unruly curls escaped. In her hands, she held a camera—an old model, but well maintained.
"Malfoy," she nodded in greeting. "You're early."
"So are you," he observed, adjusting the sleeves of his robe. "I thought we agreed on twelve?"
"Yes, but..." she hesitated, looking around the empty changing room. "I thought you might want to have more time. To prepare. For the photos."
"I'm always ready for photos, Granger," he replied with a haughty smile. "But I appreciate the concern."
"Modesty was never your strong suit, was it?"
"Why be modest when you're the best?" he retorted, picking up his Nimbus 3000 from the bench. "So, shall we begin?"
Granger raised the camera to her eyes and began taking photos.
"Just be yourself," she said from behind the lens. "Pretend I'm not here."
Draco straightened up, adopting an official pose—upright, with his broom at his side, with the serious expression he usually assumed for official team photographs. Granger took several pictures, but her expression suggested she wasn't thrilled with the result.
"Perhaps... perhaps you could try looking less like you're in an official Ministry portrait, and more like... a normal person?" she suggested cautiously.
"This is my normal face," he replied, raising an eyebrow.
"No, that's your official face," she corrected him. "The one you show at press conferences and during interviews with the Prophet. I need something more authentic."
Draco sighed, lowering his shoulders. "All right, what do you suggest?"
"I don't know," she admitted, lowering the camera. "You're the professional athlete. How do you usually prepare for a match?"
"Well..." he thought for a moment. "I usually check my equipment. Then I warm up a bit, do some exercises with the Snitch to get my reflexes going..."
"That sounds good," she nodded, raising the camera again. "Let's do this—behave normally, and I'll take pictures. Forget I'm here."
"Easier said than done," he muttered, but obediently began inspecting his broom, examining the twigs, checking the bindings, polishing the handle.
The sound of the shutter accompanied him the whole time, but after a while he really did begin to forget about Granger's presence. These were his normal pre-match rituals—checking equipment, stretching muscles, concentrating on the upcoming challenge.
Only when he reached into his locker for the box with the training Snitch did he realise that Granger was standing right next to him, photographing his movements up close. She was so close that he could smell her shampoo—that same floral-vanilla aroma he remembered from her flat.
"Granger," he cleared his throat, trying to focus on the locker and not on the fact that he could reach out and touch her hair. "Could you give me a bit of space?"
"Sorry," she stepped back, clearly embarrassed. "I wanted to capture the expression on your face when you concentrate on the equipment."
"It's part of the preparation," he explained, taking out a small, silver box with the Snitch. "Every element has to be perfect."
"Fascinating," she murmured, taking another photo as he opened the box. "Could you perhaps show how you practise with the Snitch? That would be a great shot, the Cannons' Seeker in action, even before the match."
Draco shrugged, taking the small, golden Snitch out of the box. The ball immediately came alive, unfurling its wings, which began to vibrate with a characteristic, metallic buzzing.
"These photos feel so forced," he observed, tossing the Snitch up and catching it in flight. "Maybe we should try something more... natural?"
"What do you suggest?" she asked, lowering the camera.
"I don't know," he shrugged. "Maybe a few photos with the broom in a more dynamic pose? Or me tossing the Snitch? Something that shows movement, not just a static pose."
"That's a good idea," she nodded, backing up to give him more space. "Show me how you catch the Snitch."
He smiled slightly, and then tossed the golden ball high into the air. The Snitch immediately took advantage of its freedom, flying towards the ceiling, but Draco was faster—with one fluid motion, he extended his hand and closed his fingers around the golden metal, precisely at the moment when Granger pressed the shutter.
"That was fantastic!" she exclaimed with enthusiasm that seemed to surprise even herself. "Let's do more like that!"
For the next few minutes, he demonstrated various catches and techniques for catching the Snitch, and Granger photographed every move, becoming increasingly engaged. She moved closer, looking for better angles, sometimes kneeling to capture a shot from below, other times climbing onto a bench to look down from above.
"Now maybe something with the broom?" she suggested, when the Snitch was once again safely enclosed in the box. "How do you hold it before take-off? Or how do you rotate it in your hands?"
Draco obediently demonstrated the professional starting grip, and then several more complicated movements he used during flight. Granger came closer to better capture the placement of his hands on the broomstick.
"Could you show how you lean during a dive?" she asked, now standing right beside him.
He nodded, adopting a position as if he were executing a spectacular dive in pursuit of the Snitch—leaning low over the broom, with his hand extended, with an intense gaze focused on an imaginary point in front of him.
"Perfect," she murmured, kneeling to capture him from a better angle. "Now perhaps try turning your head towards me, as if you've just spotted the Snitch nearby?"
Draco followed the instruction, turning his head in her direction, still maintaining his intense gaze. Their eyes met for a moment above the camera lens, and he felt a strange tension in his stomach—as if he were actually diving at full speed, not standing motionless in the changing room.
"Great," whispered Granger, and her voice was strangely soft. "And now maybe..."
The door to the changing room opened violently, banging against the wall with a loud thud. In the doorway stood Weasley, with wide eyes and open mouth, staring at the scene before him—Malfoy leaning over his broom, with his face turned downward, where Hermione was kneeling, her face at the height of his...
"What the BLOODY HELL is going on here?!" exclaimed the captain, his face almost as orange as the Cannons' robes.
Draco felt the blood drain from his face, and then immediately return with doubled force. Time seemed to slow down, stretching seconds into minutes. He stood there, frozen in this absurdly suggestive position—leaning over his broom, with his face turned towards Granger kneeling before him. Images of possible consequences flashed through his mind. In a moment, he would have to explain that he had not been planning to engage in intimate activities with his captain's friend, in the changing room, two hours before a charity match. He opened his mouth, desperately searching for words that wouldn't sound like a poor excuse.
But to his absolute astonishment, Weasley didn't even comment on their position. Instead, with a face contorted in a grimace of pure panic, he moved towards them, waving his arms.
"Two hours!" he shouted, as if announcing the end of the world. "In two hours we go out onto the pitch, and what are you doing? Posing for photos? POSING?! Do you even know what's happening?"
Draco blinked, confused by the sudden turn of events. Beside him, Granger rose from her knees, adjusting her robe and hiding the camera behind her back, as if it were evidence of a crime.
"Ron, calm down," she tried to intervene, but Weasley was already in full captain hysteria mode.
At that moment, he did something Draco completely didn't expect. He grabbed Granger by the shoulders and simply pushed her out the door of the changing room.
"We'll talk later, Hermione!" he called after her. "Now I need to prepare the team! It's an IMPORTANT MATCH!"
Before Granger could protest, the door closed in front of her nose, and Weasley turned around with the expression of a man who had just saved the world from certain doom. In his eyes burned a fire of pure madness that Draco had seen only in the most fanatical captains—those who treated every match, even a friendly or charity one, as if the fate of the universe depended on it.
"And now," he said through gritted teeth, approaching him dangerously, "focus, Malfoy. FOCUS."
Before Draco could respond, the door to the changing room opened again and the rest of the team members began to enter—Jenkins, looking as if he hadn't slept for a week; Thompson, with the face of a warrior ready for battle; the Matthews brothers, constantly elbowing each other; Robinson, calm as always; and Lewis, green in the face with nerves.
Weasley immediately switched to captain mode, forgetting about Malfoy in favour of instructing the entire team about the new, "brilliant" strategy.
Two hours later, Draco was hovering high above the pitch, feeling the cool wind on his face and listening to the roar of the crowd below. The charity match against the Ministry of Magic team had just begun, and he was circling high, watching for the golden flash of the Snitch and allowing the tension of the last few days to slowly leave him.
This was what he loved most—this freedom, this feeling that nothing mattered except him, the broom, and the small, golden ball. No expectations, no past, no complications—just the pure, unadulterated pleasure of flight.
While waiting for the Snitch to appear, he allowed himself a moment of relaxation, looking around at the stands filled with fans. Charity matches always attracted crowds—partly because of the worthy cause (this time they were raising funds for a new ward at St Mungo's for victims of magical accidents), partly because of the opportunity to see famous wizards in unusual roles.
His gaze almost automatically wandered to the press section. Without difficulty, he spotted Rita Skeeter there in a bright green robe, with her inseparable Quick-Quotes Quill hovering beside her notebook and a magical camera ready to capture every stumble, every mistake, every moment of weakness that could serve as fodder for her venomous articles.
A bit further, in the VIP section, he spotted his parents. His mother, elegant as always in a navy blue robe with silver trim, sat upright, with her hands folded in her lap. Her presence was a surprise. She rarely appeared at matches, but Draco knew that deep down she always supported him. She was a good mother, loving, though in her own distant way.
Beside her, with an expression suggesting he had just stepped in something extremely unpleasant, sat his father. Lucius Malfoy was the embodiment of haughtiness—dressed in black from head to toe, with long, white hair flowing down to his shoulders and the inseparable cane with a silver snake's head, which now rested on his knees like a dormant predator. His presence was an even bigger surprise—Lucius had categorically refused to watch the match, claiming that "a Malfoy son should play for a team with class, not for a band of ginger clowns." Draco suspected his father had come solely to see his defeat—something he would take pleasure in reminding him of at every possible opportunity.
And then, to his surprise, he spotted Granger—sitting not in the press section, not in the VIP box, but in the normal stands, among ordinary fans, in the front row. And he had the impression—though perhaps it was just a matter of distance—that she was looking straight at him, following his every move with an intensity that made him feel simultaneously uncomfortable and strangely excited.
There was something peculiarly thrilling in the thought that she was watching his game, especially since the last time she had seen him in action, he hadn't given much of a show, flying straight into a post and breaking his collarbone. Today, however, he felt different. Stronger, more confident, as if her presence in the stands gave him energy that he couldn't explain himself.
In a sudden burst of bravado, he decided to show off a bit—after all, this was his first official match with the Cannons, and he'd had decidedly too few opportunities in his life to impress Hermione Granger. He executed a sharp turn, then a loop, followed by a spectacular spiral descent that required absolute control over the broom and perfect sense of balance.
During this last manoeuvre, Weasley flew right past him with the Quaffle in his hand, his face almost as orange as the robes, and his eyes shooting lightning bolts.
"MALFOY!" he shouted, over the wind and the roar of the crowd. "IF YOU CRASH INTO ANOTHER POST, I'LL PERSONALLY BREAK WHATEVER ISN'T ALREADY BROKEN!"
Before Draco could respond, Weasley was already on the other side of the pitch, passing the Quaffle to Jenkins, who finished the play with a spectacular shot through the central hoop. The crowd exploded in cheers again, and Draco, despite his irritation with Weasley, couldn't suppress a slight smile. The Cannons were leading 30:10, and he still hadn't seen the Snitch—which meant he had a bit more time to enjoy the flight.
And maybe, just maybe, impress a certain witch in the stands who—he could swear—was still following him with her eyes, even when most fans were focusing on the action with the Quaffle.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the Ministry's Seeker making a sudden turn and diving towards the ground. Draco immediately scanned the space in that area, but didn't see the characteristic golden flash. A feint. A poor, amateurish feint.
He shook his head with condescension and returned to circling above the pitch, allowing his gaze to wander from time to time towards the stands where Granger was sitting. Each time he looked in her direction, he had the impression that she was also looking at him, and that feeling—that strange, irrational feeling of being observed by her—made his heart beat a bit faster than it should during normal flight.
Rodgers, the captain of the Ministry team and former Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, intercepted the Quaffle after a failed pass by Jenkins, who was evidently struggling with his fear of heights. Rodgers exploited this weakness mercilessly, launching a counterattack that ended with a spectacular shot at the left hoop. Robinson, as usual, didn't leave his central position, which cost the Cannons another ten points.
30:20.
Draco cursed under his breath. The game was beginning to get out of control. Thompson, trying to make up for the loss, went into an aerial clinch with one of the Ministry's Chasers, which ended with the referee's whistle and a penalty shot for the opponents. Another goal was scored.
30:30.
And then things took a really bad turn. Smithwick sent a Bludger straight into the middle of the formation that the Matthews brothers were just trying to present. The twins, so focused on each other and their own showing off, completely missed the approaching ball, which hit one of them (Draco could never tell them apart) straight in the back. The poor fellow nearly fell off his broom, and the Cannons were left with just one Beater.
It was the beginning of the end. The Ministry took control of the game, scoring point after point. Robinson defended as best he could, but his insistence on maintaining a central position was becoming increasingly costly. Jenkins was still panicking at the altitude, and Thompson was compensating for her lack of technique with pure aggression, which brought more penalties than benefits.
50:30.
60:30.
70:30.
Draco felt cold sweat running down his back. This wasn't how his first official match in orange robes was supposed to look. He searched for the Snitch with a desperation that transformed his usually methodical, calm search into a chaotic dance across the sky. And each time he flew over the stands, he couldn't help glancing towards Granger, whose face—still full of hope, though clearly worried—acted on him like a personal reproach.
Weasley flew past him, red-faced with effort and frustration.
"FIND. THAT. BLOODY. SNITCH!" he rasped, before diving again towards the Quaffle.
Easier said than done. The golden ball seemed to have dissolved into thin air, and the Ministry's Seeker, as if reading his thoughts, had begun shadowing him—following him step by step, preventing him from searching effectively.
By then it was 80:30, and Draco felt panic tightening around his throat. He could already see tomorrow's headlines in his mind's eye: "FORMER DEATH EATER FAILS CANNONS", "MALFOY COULD LIVE WITH VOLDEMORT UNDER THE SAME ROOF BUT CAN'T CATCH A SNITCH AGAINST MINISTRY AMATEURS", "IS DRACO MALFOY DELIBERATELY SABOTAGING HIS TEAM?".
No. Bloody. Way.
He couldn't let that happen. Not after he'd been given a second chance. Not after Weasley, despite their history, had given him a place on the team. Not after Granger had written an article about him that treated him like a person, not a label.
And then he saw it. A golden flash, just above the ground, almost exactly under the stands where Granger was sitting. As if fate were mocking him in the most ironic way possible.
Without further thought, he dived. Almost vertically downward, at a speed that made the air whistle in his ears and his eyes water. The Ministry's Seeker noticed his manoeuvre belatedly but immediately gave chase.
Draco knew it was a race not only against his opponent, but also against gravity, physics, and common sense. The Snitch was still near the ground, now dangerously close to the stands, hovering right in front of Granger's face, as if it had specifically chosen this location to force him into the most risky manoeuvre of his career.
He knew he should slow down. He knew he should correct his course. He knew he was heading straight for the stands at a speed that, in case of impact, would mean something much worse than a broken collarbone.
But he also knew this was his only chance to save the match. To save his reputation. To prove—to Weasley, to the spectators, to Granger, but above all to himself—that he deserved a place on this team.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see people in the stands beginning to stand up, panic appearing on their faces, some reaching for their wands as if wanting to stop him with a spell. He also saw Granger—her eyes wide with fear, her mouth open in a silent scream, her hands extended towards him.
The Snitch was now right in front of him, teasing him with its golden glow. He extended his hand, ignoring the sharp pain in his collarbone, which protested against such treatment just a few days after the injury.
At the last possible moment, literally centimetres away from colliding with the stand, his fingers closed around the Snitch. He pulled on the broomstick handle with all his might, trying to change the trajectory of his flight, but he knew it was already too late—momentum was carrying him straight towards the wooden structure.
And then, in that fractional second before the inevitable catastrophe, something incredible happened. The air in front of him suddenly thickened, creating an invisible cushion that absorbed his flight. Instead of smashing into the stands, he bounced off this magical barrier, performing an uncontrolled somersault in the air.
For a moment everything was spinning—sky, ground, stands, spectators' faces. He lost orientation, not knowing which way was up and which was down. His hand was still clutching the Snitch, but his broom had slipped out of control, spinning wildly.
And then suddenly he found himself in someone's arms. Warm, soft arms that smelled of vanilla and parchment. He was lying in the stands, still clutching the Snitch, with his head resting on Hermione Granger's knees, who was looking at him with a mixture of relief, disbelief, and fury.
"You complete, thoughtless idiot!" she exclaimed. "You could have killed yourself! Did you even think about what you were doing?!"
Draco looked up at her, still dazed, still not fully understanding what had just happened. He only knew that he had caught the Snitch, that the match had ended with a score of 80:180 in favour of the Cannons, and that Hermione Granger had just saved him from being smashed to pieces. Again.
And that, looking into her eyes—those beautiful, brown eyes, now wide with fear and anger—he felt something he hadn't felt for a very, very long time. Something that was as terrifying as diving at full speed straight towards the stands.
Before he could say anything, before he could even rise from her knees, he was blinded by the bright flash of a camera. Once, twice, three times—in a quick, merciless sequence that made white spots dance before his eyes.
"Spectacular catch, Mr Malfoy!" came an overly enthusiastic, shrill voice. "And an equally spectacular landing! Did Miss Granger use a cushioning charm? What's it like to be saved by the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?"
Rita Skeeter, in a bright green robe, with blonde curls arranged in stiff ringlets and a magical camera in her hands, was standing right next to them, and her Quick-Quotes Quill was already dancing above her notebook, meticulously recording every detail of the scene.
Draco could hear Granger and Skeeter arguing fiercely about something—the words "bet", "integrity", and "just the facts" cutting through the air like spells—but honestly, he couldn't focus on that. He was still lying on Granger's knees, with the Snitch clutched in his hand, and suddenly, to his absolute surprise, he discovered that he was quite comfortable in this position.
It must have been a concussion. Or some temporal anomaly in the functioning of his prefrontal cortex. There was no other explanation for the fact that Granger's knees, of all places in the universe, now seemed to him the most comfortable resting point for his aching head.
Granger, still arguing with Rita, placed her hand on his chest, as if to make sure he wasn't going anywhere—or perhaps to check if his heart was still beating. This gesture, so natural and at the same time so intimate, caused his thoughts to completely fall apart. He stared at her, at that persistent curl that fell on her forehead, at those eyes that were now throwing lightning bolts at Rita, at those lips that articulated sharp words with the precision worthy of the best lawyer.
He had a concussion. That was the only logical explanation.
Suddenly his field of vision was completely obscured by a hand—a large, freckled hand that was waving in front of his eyes.
"MALFOY! Hello! Are you even listening to me?!" Weasley's voice broke through the strange fog that had enveloped his mind. "I'm asking if you've hit your head! You're staring like you've been petrified!"
Draco blinked, trying to restore focus to his vision and clarity to his thinking. Weasley was leaning over him, his face contorted in a grimace that could equally well have been concern or irritation.
"No, I... everything's fine," he choked out, suddenly very aware of the fact that he was still lying on Granger's knees, and her hand was still resting on his chest.
"Are you sure?" Weasley didn't look convinced. "Because you have this expression on your face like you've seen a ghost. Or like a Bludger hit you straight in the head."
"Everything's fine," he repeated, this time more firmly, though the truth was that nothing was fine. Nothing at all.
His body was functioning properly, physically nothing was wrong—his collarbone protested somewhat after the brutal manoeuvre, but he didn't feel dizzy or nauseous, the typical symptoms of a concussion. And yet his mind... his mind had evidently suffered some damage, since it had suddenly begun to perceive Hermione Granger as an attractive woman.
"The Healers are coming," said Weasley, straightening up. "Sit still, don't move."
Draco had no intention of moving. Not when his head was resting on Granger's knees, and her hand—now a bit less certain, but still present—lay on his chest like a gentle weight that for some reason seemed absolutely essential to his survival.
Granger finally ended her dispute with Rita, who walked away with a furious expression, and looked down at him, her face so close that he could count the freckles on her nose.
"Is everything all right?" she asked quietly, and her voice was so different from the shrill tone she had just been using with Rita.
"Yes," he replied, though his heart was beating so fast that he was sure she must feel it through his robe. "Thank you for... you know, saving me from being smashed to pieces."
"The pleasure is all mine," she replied with a slight smile that did strange things to his stomach. "Though I'd prefer if next time you didn't test my skills in such extreme conditions."
Draco wanted to respond with something witty, but his brain refused to cooperate. Instead, he simply looked at her, at that face he had known for over twenty years, but which suddenly seemed completely new, as if he were seeing it for the first time.
Definitely a concussion , he thought with determination. Or some exotic curse. There is no other explanation.
"Malfoy?" Granger's voice broke through his chaotic thoughts. "You're really starting to worry me. You're staring so strangely... Are you sure you didn't hit your head during the landing?"
Her eyebrows were now drawn together in an expression of genuine concern, and her eyes scanned his face as if looking for visible signs of injury. He felt her hand move from his chest to his forehead, checking if he had a fever. This simple, medical gesture evoked in him a reaction that had absolutely nothing to do with medicine.
"I'm completely healthy," he lied smoothly, ignoring the fact that his pulse had just accelerated to a speed that was neither normal nor healthy. "Just catching my breath."
"On my knees?" she asked with a slightly raised eyebrow, and only now did Draco realise how absurd this situation must have looked to outside observers.
"It just happened that way," he replied, trying to sound nonchalant, as if landing on Hermione Granger's knees after a spectacular dive was the most normal thing in the world. "They were closest."
"Mmm," she murmured, clearly unconvinced. "And now that you've caught your breath, perhaps you'd like to...?" she gently moved her knees, suggesting it was time for a change of position.
"Oh, yes, of course," Draco felt his cheeks growing warm, which was absolutely unacceptable—Malfoys did not blush, even after falls from broomsticks. Especially not on the knees of former school enemies.
With some effort, he raised himself to a sitting position, feeling slightly dizzy, though this time it was more the effect of the sudden change in position than any injury. Granger also straightened up.
"Thanks," he repeated, before he could stop himself. "For the cushioning charm. And for..." he hesitated, not knowing how to describe the fact that she had allowed him to lie on her knees for a good few minutes.
"You're welcome," she replied simply, and then, as if reading his thoughts, added: "I was sitting in the front row anyway. I was in the perfect position to react."
"Yes, perfect," he agreed, feeling strangely disappointed by this rational explanation. What had he imagined? That Granger had specifically taken a seat in the front row so she could catch him if he decided to crash into the stands?
Before he could say anything more, the Healers arrived, pushing through the crowd with professional determination. One of them, a young wizard with closely cropped hair and an expression suggesting he was dealing with a particularly difficult case, knelt beside him.
"Mr Malfoy, is it?" he asked, reaching for his wand. "Please don't move, I'll examine you."
While the Healer performed a series of diagnostic spells, muttering under his breath and nodding his head, Draco allowed himself one more look at Granger. She was now sitting a bit further away, talking quietly with Weasley, who was gesticulating energetically, probably describing for the hundredth time the spectacular finale of the match.
And though the rational part of his mind knew it was absurd—that it was just the effect of adrenaline, stress, and perhaps a slight concussion—he couldn't suppress the irrational pang of regret that she was no longer sitting beside him, that her hand was no longer resting on his chest, and that her knees were no longer his pillow.
Definitely a concussion. There was no other explanation.
Chapter Text
The next day, Draco woke up abruptly, with his heart pounding wildly and bedding tangled around his legs. Remnants of his dream still swirled beneath his eyelids—fragments of particularly indecent images in which the main roles were played by certain knees on which his head had rested, a blouse with a neckline that constantly distracted him, and brown, curly hair that fell on his face when their owner leaned over him with concern.
"By Merlin's underpants," he mumbled into his pillow, feeling like a teenager rather than a thirty-year-old man. Erotic dreams about Granger. This definitely crossed all boundaries of absurdity.
The shower, which was meant to cool his thoughts, ended with an equally indecent act, whose main inspiration was the same images. Standing under the stream of warm water, with his forehead against the cool tiles and his hand working at an embarrassingly fast pace, he cursed himself for every second of this weakness. But that didn't stop him from bringing the matter to its conclusion, with the feeling that he had just crossed some invisible boundary that he shouldn't have even approached.
When he emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and still full of conflicting emotions, he heard the characteristic tapping on the window. A small tawny owl was sitting on the windowsill, holding a roll of parchments and a small box tied with a ribbon in its talons.
Draco let the owl in, untied the package, and gave it a few treats from the bowl he always kept on the cabinet—a useful thing when living away from an owlery.
The roll turned out to be the latest issue of "Wizarding Weekly News". This time, however, it wasn't a pre-print version—this was the official, published edition.
On the front page, as she had promised, was a large photograph of him—Draco Malfoy, Seeker for the Chudley Cannons. It was the photo she had taken in the changing room—the one where he was holding his broom in one hand and tossing the Snitch with the other, with an expression that could only be described as... relaxed. Natural. As if he weren't posing for a photo, but simply being himself. Below was the interview, in exactly the same form as last time.
When he turned the page, a small note fell out from the middle of the newspaper. He picked it up and recognised Granger's careful, though somewhat hurried handwriting:
Malfoy,
Thank you for the interview and the photos. This issue sold 500 copies within an hour of publication. It seems my bet with Rita is going better than I expected.
- The chocolates are for letting me use the match photo. I hope you like the ones with orange filling.
H.G.
Draco looked at the small box that had come with the newspaper. He opened it and saw perfectly arranged chocolates—from the exclusive Honeydukes confectionery, judging by the packaging. Each was decorated with a small pattern of a broomstick or a Snitch.
He smiled involuntarily. Orange filling. Like the Cannons' robes. Was that a joke? Was Granger actually joking about his team's colour?
Or perhaps—and this thought made his smile fade slightly—perhaps she had simply guessed that it was his favourite flavour? After all, she had interviewed him, maybe she had asked about it in passing, and he had answered without attaching importance to it?
Was it possible that Hermione Granger paid attention to such details about him?
He took one chocolate and let it melt on his tongue. It was perfect—sweet, but not excessively so, with a distinct aroma of orange, which indeed was his favourite.
And even if it was just a coincidence, he couldn't suppress the warmth that spread through his chest—a feeling that had disturbingly little to do with the taste of the chocolate, and far too much with the thought of the woman who had sent it.
A woman about whom he had fantasised in the shower just an hour ago, in a way that would make her blush to the tips of her unruly curls if she ever found out.
"I am totally, completely, absolutely screwed," he stated aloud, reaching for another chocolate.
For the next two weeks, he didn't see Granger once. And there was nothing strange about that—after all, why would he see her? She had conducted the interview, saved his life (twice, if you count that stupid injury during the first training session), sent him chocolates. That's all. End of story. Closed chapter.
The relationship between them was purely professional. Accidental? Non-existent? Draco himself didn't know what to call it. He only knew that there was absolutely no reason to seek contact with her.
Why would she want to see him? She was the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, for Merlin's sake. She had more important things to do than meet with a Seeker for the Cannons, with whom she had been at war for most of her life. She was certainly busy with... well, whatever department heads do. Writing regulations? Pursuing criminals?
And him? Why would he want to see her? He had training. Lots of training. Weasley, elated after winning the charity match, had gone into a frenzy of preparations for the league season. Morning training, afternoon training, evening tactical analysis. Between all that, rehabilitation for his collarbone, which still occasionally made itself felt.
He didn't have time to think about Granger. Of course not. (He thought about her every day. Especially in the evenings. Especially in the shower.)
It was absurd. A thirty-year-old man, former Death Eater, professional Quidditch player, heir to one of the oldest wizarding fortunes in Great Britain—and what? He was pining for Hermione Granger? The same Granger who had punched him in the face in third year? Who was Potter's best friend? Who had always looked at him like he was a worm? (But that wasn't true, was it? She hadn't looked at him like that during the interview. Nor when he was lying on her knees after the match. She had looked differently.)
No, it was simply the effect of a long period of abstinence from female company. It happened. He just needed to release tension. With someone who wasn't Hermione Granger. With anyone who wasn't Hermione Granger.
He even tried once. He went to a bar in Hogsmeade, met an attractive witch there who clearly gave him signals that she was interested. She was tall, slim, had straight, light hair and a perfectly fitting dress. His old type. Everything was going well, until the moment when he imagined those light hairs changing into a mass of brown curls, and the slender body becoming a bit more curvaceous, more... Granger.
He left the bar alone, cursing his imagination and wondering if it was possible that during the match he had been hit by some unknown curse that caused an obsession with irritating, know-it-all witches.
No, he didn't want to see her. Absolutely not. (Three times he started writing her a letter. The first time, a thank you for the chocolates. The second, a question about the next issue of her newspaper. The third... well, he himself didn't know what he wanted to write. All three letters ended up as ashes in his fireplace.)
In the second week, he began catching himself looking for her in the crowd when he went to Diagon Alley. Or glancing at the entrance to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when visiting the Ministry regarding a new permit for international Portkeys for the team. Or—which was the height of embarrassment—browsing the "Daily Prophet" in search of her name.
It was pathological. Unhealthy. Absurd.
And it didn't help that since the publication of that interview, the number of Howlers he received had significantly decreased. Before Granger's article, the daily portion of postal hatred was as inseparable a part of his morning as a cup of strong tea—Howlers accusing him of all possible crimes, from being a Death Eater (fact, he was one, though not by his own choice), to bullying younger students at school (also a fact, though he would prefer people to understand the concept of growing up and changing for the better), to absurd accusations that he personally killed Hagrid's hippogriff (which was complete nonsense—that accursed bird was still alive and well, as far as he knew).
He was indeed guilty of some things, but that didn't mean people had the right to reproach him for them for the next twenty years. And yet, after Granger's article, the number of Howlers dropped from five or six a day to maybe one a week. As if her words—her factual, sensationalism-free presentation of him as a normal person who regrets the past and is trying to move on—had actually changed something. As if people had begun to perceive him as something more than just "the former Death Eater" or "Lucius Malfoy's son".
It was nice. And disturbingly connected to the person he was trying not to think about.
During one of the Saturday evenings, when Weasley graciously cancelled training (mainly because he himself had to appear at some family gathering—the Weasleys apparently had an infinite number of them), Draco was sitting in his living room with Nott and Zabini, drinking Firewhisky from crystal glasses and pretending that life wasn't completely messed up.
"So," Zabini began, making himself more comfortable on the leather sofa, "I heard you put on quite a show during the charity match. Malfoy saved by Granger, who would have thought."
Draco grimaced slightly, taking a sip of whisky. "I wasn't saved. She used a cushioning charm, that's all."
"And you landed on her knees," added Nott, smiling maliciously. "I saw the photos."
"What photos?" Draco felt an icy chill run down his spine. "Granger was talking to Rita, there won't be any photos."
"Not in the Prophet," Zabini pulled a small, square photo out of his robe pocket and handed it to him with a smile that promised trouble. "But people in the stands had their own cameras. And some of those people have children at Hogwarts. And those children have access to the school newspaper. And voilà."
Draco looked at the photo and felt his stomach doing a somersault. It was a magical, moving shot, showing the moment just after his landing in the stands. He was lying with his head on Granger's knees, with the Snitch still clutched in his hand, and she was looking down at him with an expression that could only be described as concerned. Her hand was resting on his chest, and one of her unruly curls was falling on her face as she leaned over him.
However, the real reason for his panic lay elsewhere and was the expression on his face in that photo. The way he was looking at Granger oscillated somewhere between absolute adoration and mental underdevelopment. His eyes were wide open, his lips slightly parted, and his whole face expressed a mixture of shock, relief, and something that dangerously resembled longing. Or desire. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't the expression he would want anyone to see, especially not Hogwarts students.
"Where the hell did you get this?" he said with genuine panic in his voice.
"Adrian Pucey's daughter is in second year," explained Nott, grinning like a hyena. "Remember Pucey? Got married right after school."
"And his daughter sends you school newspapers?" he asked incredulously.
"Not to me," Nott shrugged. "But Daphne keeps in touch with his wife. And Daphne thought that as your friends we should see... how did she put it? Ah, yes—'the new chapter in Draco's love life'."
"Wonderful," he muttered, running a hand over his face. "Just bloody wonderful. The entire Hogwarts is watching me looking like a complete idiot on Granger's knees."
"Not like an idiot," Zabini corrected him, leaning in to get a better look at the photo. "More like someone who's just discovered that parchment smells different when Granger holds it."
"What's that even supposed to mean?" Draco looked at him with irritation.
"I don't know," admitted Zabini. "But it sounds poetic and perfectly captures that hopelessly in love expression on your face."
"I'm not in love with Granger!" he protested, perhaps too vehemently.
Nott and Zabini exchanged glances that spoke more than a thousand words.
"Of course you're not," said Nott in a tone that suggested exactly the opposite.
"Absolutely not," agreed Zabini, nodding with exaggerated gravity. "That would be absurd. You, in love with Granger? Next, you'll tell us hippogriffs wear hats."
"And Weasley has good taste," added Nott.
"And your father is planning to donate his entire fortune to a Muggle-born support foundation," Zabini threw in.
"All right, enough," growled Draco, feeling his cheeks beginning to burn. "I got the message. You're hilarious."
"We're not being hilarious," Nott assumed an expression of innocent surprise. "We're completely serious. We believe you unreservedly that you are absolutely, categorically, in no way interested in Granger."
"Especially since it's impossible," continued Zabini in the same tone of feigned gravity. "Because this is Granger, after all. She hates you. You hate her. That's been your status quo for twenty years. Your own words."
Draco sighed heavily, feeling trapped.
"All right, maybe..." he began, but stopped, searching for the right words. "Maybe I don't hate her as much as I used to."
"Shocking," muttered Nott in a theatrical whisper to Zabini.
"Earth-shattering," agreed Zabini in the same tone.
"But that doesn't mean I'm in love with her," he added quickly. "It's just... well, respect. Professional respect."
"Of course," Nott nodded with feigned understanding. "Professional respect. That's why you're looking at her photo as if you want to eat it."
"And why you blush like a peony whenever someone mentions her name," added Zabini.
"And why you have her newspaper open to your interview, even though it's been two weeks since publication."
"And why your face in this photo looks as if you've just seen an angel, not a woman who once broke your nose."
"It was my face, not my nose," he corrected them automatically, before realising he had just admitted to another thing he was trying to hide.
"Ah, so you remember when she hit you," Zabini smiled. "Fascinating. It's been what? Seventeen years? And you still remember every detail."
"It was a traumatic experience," he mumbled, knowing he was digging himself deeper.
"Mmm, so traumatic that you're sitting here, staring at her photo and blushing like a teenager," Nott shook his head with amusement. "I must admit, this isn't how I imagined the effects of trauma."
"It's not... I mean, it's not about..." Draco desperately searched for words that might salvage his dignity. "I just appreciate her professionalism, okay? Her article made people stop sending me Howlers. It's gratitude. That's all."
"Of course," Zabini nodded with feigned gravity. "Gratitude. That's why your eyes shine like stars when you talk about..."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A quiet but distinct sound interrupted his words. An owl was tapping its beak on the window, holding a small roll of parchment in its claws.
Draco jumped up from his armchair so abruptly that he almost knocked over the whisky table. Then, realising how this must have looked, he froze for a moment, trying to assume a nonchalant expression.
"Probably another Howler," he muttered, approaching the window with forced slowness, which nevertheless did nothing to mask his earlier enthusiasm.
Nott and Zabini exchanged meaningful glances, their mouths twisted in identical, mocking smirks.
"Yes, it must be a Howler," agreed Zabini, barely suppressing his laughter. "That's why you're approaching it so calmly."
"I always react to Howlers like this," he replied, opening the window with an expression suggesting it was the most boring activity under the sun. "With excitement. Because I love when strangers yell at me."
"Of course," Nott nodded, grinning like a hyena. "That's absolutely normal."
The owl flew inside, landed on the back of the armchair, and extended its leg with the attached letter. Draco untied the parchment with the determination of someone who is trying at all costs to prove his indifference.
"Aren't you going to check who it's from?" asked Zabini innocently, as Draco placed the rolled parchment on the table, ostentatiously ignoring it.
"Later," he shrugged, sitting back in his armchair and reaching for his glass of whisky. "We're talking now."
"Mmm, yes, we were discussing your completely professional respect for Granger," Nott helpfully reminded him, not taking his eyes off the parchment on the table.
"Which is absolutely nothing more," added Zabini, also staring at the letter.
"Exactly," agreed Draco, trying to sound confident, though his gaze kept drifting towards the parchment.
Could it be a letter from her? After two weeks of silence? And if so, why was she writing? Perhaps she wanted another interview? Or she had some matter at the Ministry that concerned his family? Or maybe...
Stop , he admonished himself mentally.
"You know, if it's important, you can read it," said Nott magnanimously, pointing to the parchment. "We won't mind."
"It's not important," he replied automatically, though he had no idea if that was true.
"How do you know if you haven't read it yet?" Zabini logically observed.
Draco narrowed his eyes, looking at his friend with irritation.
"Fine, I'll read it so you'll leave me alone," he growled, reaching for the parchment with the expression of someone doing an enormous favour.
He unrolled the letter slowly, trying to look bored, though his heart was pounding like a hammer. As soon as he saw the characteristic, ornate handwriting, he felt his stomach drop. It wasn't her. It was...
"Skeeter," he muttered in disbelief.
"What?" Nott nearly choked on his whisky. "Rita Skeeter is writing to you?"
Draco ran his eyes over the letter, feeling his initial disappointment giving way to irritation.
Dear Mr Malfoy,
As you may recall, some time ago an article concerning you appeared in the Daily Prophet which—as I now understand—may have presented you in a not entirely favourable light. As a journalist guided by the highest standards of integrity, I feel obliged to offer you the opportunity to clarify your position.
After your spectacular performance during the charity match, where you caught the Snitch in such an impressive manner, I think the time has come for Prophet readers to get to know the real Draco Malfoy—the athlete and man who has evidently left the past behind.
I would be honoured if you would agree to a meeting, during which we could conduct an interview that—I hope—will serve to improve your image in the eyes of the wizarding community.
Yours sincerely,
Rita Skeeter
- If you prefer a more private meeting, I am open to suggestions. My apartment in magical London is very discreet.
Draco grimaced in disgust at the last sentence. She was a good twenty years older than him, for Merlin's sake!
"And?" inquired Zabini, seeing his expression. "What does that old gossip want?"
"She wants to interview me," he replied, placing the letter on the table as if it were something unclean. "Apparently my catching the Snitch during the charity match impressed her, and now she wants to, as she put it, 'rectify' that nasty article she wrote about me a few weeks ago."
"The one where she suggested you're still serving Voldemort, even though the bloke's been dead for twelve years?" asked Nott, raising his eyebrows.
"The very same," he confirmed, feeling anger returning at the mere mention. That was the article that had forced him to look for a new team. The article that made him start receiving Howlers again. The article that was full of misrepresentations, half-truths, and outright lies.
"And what, are you going to meet with her?" asked Zabini, looking at him with curiosity.
Draco snorted.
"I'd sooner have tea with a Dementor," he growled. "That woman is a viper. Besides, I've already given an interview."
"To Granger," Nott reminded him with a slight smile. "Who is apparently now competing with Skeeter."
"Exactly," he confirmed, suddenly realising that this might be part of a bigger game. "Granger made a bet with Skeeter that she would create her own section in a newspaper and publish better, more reliable materials than her. And apparently she's winning, since Skeeter suddenly wants to meet me and 'repair my image'."
"Wait," Zabini put down his glass, looking at him in disbelief. "You're saying that Granger and Skeeter have some personal vendetta, and you're a pawn in their game?"
Draco thought about this for a moment. Was that how it looked? Was Granger just using him as a weapon against Skeeter? Were her interview, her concern, her chocolates—was all of that just part of a strategy to win a bet?
The thought was strangely painful.
"I don't know if I'm a pawn," he finally said, trying to sound indifferent. "But Granger is certainly using my interview as an argument in her war with Skeeter. And apparently it's working."
"But you won't meet with Skeeter?" Nott pressed.
"No. Skeeter is the last person I would entrust with my image. If anyone were to write articles about me, I'd prefer it to be Granger."
"Ah," Zabini smiled significantly. "So you do prefer Granger."
"As a journalist," he quickly specified. "She's thorough, accurate, and doesn't add all those sensational nonsense that Skeeter loves."
"Mmm, of course," Nott nodded with feigned understanding. "That's the only reason. And the fact that she has brown, curly hair and knees that are so comfortable to lie on has nothing to do with it."
Draco shot him a murderous look.
"You're impossible," he stated, reaching for the whisky bottle and pouring himself a generous portion. "And no, I won't be responding to Skeeter. She can stuff her interview."
"And what if Granger writes to you with a similar proposal?" asked Zabini innocently. "Would you send her packing too?"
Draco hesitated, which was a mistake. His friends immediately picked up on that hesitation, grinning triumphantly.
"So there it is," murmured Nott. "You'd make an exception for Granger."
"I didn't say that," he protested, but even to his own ears it sounded weak.
"You didn't have to," Zabini shrugged. "Your hesitation said everything."
He sighed heavily, giving up. There was no point in continuing to deny when his reactions betrayed him at every turn.
"Fine, maybe I would agree," he admitted reluctantly. "But only because her previous article was reliable. And it actually helped."
"Of course," agreed Nott, grinning widely. "Only for that reason. And not because you'd want to see again how her hair falls on her face when she leans forward to write down your words."
He felt his cheeks growing hot again. To hell with all this blushing, he was behaving like a fifteen-year-old, not a grown man!
"Get out now," he growled, pointing to the door. "Before I say something that we'll both regret."
"Have we hit a nerve?" Zabini feigned surprise. "Perhaps you'd like to talk about your feelings, Draco?"
"The only feeling I have right now is the desire to strangle you both."
"We know you love us," Nott stood up, finishing his whisky. "Almost as much as Granger."
"Out!" Draco threw a cushion at him, but Nott skilfully dodged it, laughing loudly.
Chapter Text
The next morning, Draco was brutally torn from sleep by persistent tapping on the window. For a moment, in that blissful time between sleep and wakefulness, he thought with an irrational hope, which he would never admit aloud, that perhaps it was an owl from Granger.
But as soon as he opened his eyes and saw the characteristic orange owl, he felt a pang of disappointment. It was Weasley's owl—the same Weasley who forced him to train at inhuman hours and constantly mentioned "giving a hundred and fifty percent."
With a quiet curse, he got out of bed, let the owl in and took the letter from it. The bird made a sound suspiciously resembling a mocking laugh, then flew off through the still open window.
Draco unrolled the parchment and began to read:
Malfoy,
Unfortunately I forgot to tell you that tonight there will be an official gala at the Ministry to celebrate the funds raised for the new ward at St Mungo's for victims of magical accidents—the same one we were raising money for during our charity match.
Attendance by the ENTIRE TEAM is MANDATORY. Yes, Malfoy, that means you too. I know you don't like these kinds of events, but this time there are no excuses. Representatives from all Ministry departments will be there, including the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (so try not to do anything stupid).
Starts at 7:00 PM, formal attire, DON'T BE LATE.
Ron Weasley
Captain, Chudley Cannons
- If you don't come, I'll personally ensure you train with the cadets for the next month. And they like to aim Bludgers at heads.
Draco felt fury rising within him. Notifying him of an official gala on the day it was to be held? He knew Weasley had never liked him, but this was going too far. His first impulse was to immediately jump into the fireplace, find that ginger idiot and strangle him with his bare hands for such late notice.
He was already reaching for the Floo powder when suddenly something in the letter caught his attention. Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Granger worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. She was its head, for Merlin's sake. If representatives from all departments were to be at the gala, that meant she...
He froze with his hand above the container of Floo powder, and his anger gave way to something else—something that disturbingly resembled hope.
She would be there. She would be at the gala. In official robes, probably with that crazy hair of hers pinned up in some complicated bun that would fall apart after an hour anyway, releasing unruly curls. She would be there as the head of the department, as an important Ministry figure, as a war heroine.
And he would be there as... well, as the Seeker for the Cannons. As a former Death Eater who had been given a second chance. As someone who for two weeks hadn't been able to stop thinking about what it would be like if her hand were to rest on his chest again.
"Fuck," he muttered, slumping into the armchair.
What was he going to wear? Were his formal robes elegant enough? Should he go to the barber? Or perhaps buy a gift for the organisers? Flowers? No, that would be strange. A bottle of Firewhisky? Too common. Maybe...
"FUCK," he repeated louder, realising that he was behaving like a teenager before his first date. This wasn't a date. This was an official Ministry gala. A gala where they would see each other for the first time since that fateful match when he had landed on her knees like a complete idiot.
And he was wondering what to wear.
It was pathetic. He was pathetic. A thirty-year-old man should have more dignity.
Yet at six-thirty he was standing in front of the mirror, after spending half an hour considering whether he should wear wizard's robes or perhaps a Muggle suit. He ultimately decided on the latter—elegant, black, with a dark green waistcoat and a silver tie. After all, he wasn't a Ministry representative, so why would he wear official robes? Certainly not to match Granger's official robes. Absolutely not.
And actually, that's good, he thought, trying to convince himself. If she's in robes, then at least he won't be able to stare at any part of her body except her face. And eyes. Those chocolate eyes that had looked at him with concern when he was lying on her knees. And lips that formed a gentle smile when he said something she found amusing during the interview. And hair that...
"Damn it," he muttered, adjusting his tie for the hundredth time. "Focus, Malfoy."
By seven o'clock he was already there. The Ministry Atrium had been transformed into an elegant ballroom—golden fountains gleamed in the light of hundreds of candles floating in the air, tables were covered with snow-white tablecloths, and in the background, gentle music from an orchestra set up in the corner of the hall was playing.
Draco looked around, expecting a crowd of stiff Ministry officials in formal robes, but what he saw made him stop mid-step.
Indeed, the gala at first glance seemed official, but no one, absolutely no one was wearing wizarding robes. Men were in suits—some Muggle, some with distinct magical accents—and women in evening gowns. He also noticed several people who DEFINITELY didn't work at the Ministry—he was certain he recognised a Holyhead Harpies star and a famous Quidditch commentator.
Moreover, several people were already holding glasses of something that looked suspiciously like Firewhisky, and their postures and loud laughter didn't indicate it was their first round.
"What the...?" he began, but didn't finish because he felt a tap on his shoulder.
"Malfoy! You came!" Weasley's voice was surprisingly cheerful, as if he was genuinely pleased by his presence. "And I see you understood the dress code."
Draco turned to look at his captain. Weasley was wearing a navy blue suit which—though not the most fashionable cut—looked surprisingly decent. What's more, his ginger hair was, for the first time in his life, carefully styled, and in his hand he held a glass of champagne.
"Dress code?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Your letter said 'formal attire'. I thought... you know, formal robes."
Weasley laughed, shaking his head.
"No one has worn robes to such events for at least three years. Kingsley introduced this change when he became Minister—he said he wanted to promote integration with the Muggle world and break with outdated traditions. Formal attire now means suits for gentlemen and evening gowns for ladies."
Draco felt his stomach doing a somersault. If no one was wearing robes, that meant Granger would also be in...
"Malfoy? Are you all right? You've suddenly gone pale," Weasley's voice pulled him from his thoughts.
"Yes, yes, everything's fine," he muttered, looking nervously around the hall. "I just didn't expect it to be such a... relaxed atmosphere."
"Oh, this is just the beginning," Weasley smiled broadly, winking at him. "Wait until the orchestra starts playing faster tunes and someone opens the second bar. These Ministry parties can get really interesting."
Draco swallowed hard. This wasn't the vision he had expected. He thought it would be a stiff, formal ceremony during which he would manage to exchange a few perfunctory words with Granger, and then return home to analyse her every word and gesture for the next week.
But if this was going to be a more social event...
"Weasley," he began cautiously, not knowing how to formulate the question. "Are... are all the Ministry people going to be here? I mean, all the department heads?"
Weasley looked at him strangely, as if trying to solve some puzzle.
"Yes, most of them are already here," he replied slowly. "Kingsley, Percy, Robards... Oh, I can even see Hermione, she's standing there by the fountain with Harry and..."
But Draco wasn't listening anymore. His gaze automatically followed the direction indicated by Weasley, and then he saw her.
And he understood that he was absolutely, completely lost.
He immediately looked away, trying to look anywhere but in her direction. At the walls. At the ceiling. At the floor. At the miniature replica of Hogwarts made of snacks on one of the tables. At anything that wasn't Hermione Granger in a gown.
Because Hermione Granger in a gown was a sight that his poor, lost mind couldn't process without the risk of spontaneous combustion.
Fortunately for him—or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it—a waiter with a tray full of glasses of Firewhisky was passing by. He grabbed one and drank it in one gulp, feeling the alcohol burning his throat and spreading warmth in his stomach.
He firmly decided that he would not approach her. He would not get close to Granger even by a few metres. He would stand here, in this safe corner, drinking whisky and talking about Quidditch with anyone who didn't have brown, curly hair and wasn't wearing a gown that looked like...
"Oh no, she's talking to that jerk!" Weasley's voice pulled him from his thoughts.
Draco looked at him in surprise. The captain had suddenly turned red in the face—that specific shade that indicated he might explode at any moment.
"With whom?" he asked reflexively, though he knew he should simply walk away and not get involved in anything related to Granger.
"McLaggen!" Weasley hissed, narrowing his eyes. "That pompous idiot who thinks he's Merlin's gift to Quidditch! He tried to get into the Cannons last season, you know? Said he could be a better captain than me! And now he's circling around Hermione like some... like some..."
"Jerk?" he helpfully suggested.
"Exactly!" Weasley nodded violently. "Come on, we need to interrupt this."
And before Draco could protest, the captain grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him towards the fountain, where Granger stood talking to a tall, broad-shouldered man whom Draco vaguely remembered from Hogwarts.
"But Weasley, I don't..." he tried to protest, but it was already too late.
"Hermione!" Weasley almost shouted, approaching them. "And McLaggen. What a surprise."
Hermione turned towards them, and Draco felt his throat tighten and his heart begin to beat faster. She was wearing a dress in an intense fuchsia colour that caught the eye from across the room. The asymmetrical cut, reaching almost to the ankle on one side and exposing the knee on the other, accentuated her figure in a way that suddenly made him forget how to breathe. But it was the neckline—deep, flowing neckline, which though certainly within the bounds of decency at a Ministry event, was for him decidedly, absolutely too deep—that made him momentarily forget where he was.
And her hair... Merlin, her hair was loose. LOOSE. That wild, untamed storm of brown curls fell freely on her shoulders and back, with a few unruly strands brushing her neckline, drawing attention to places he absolutely shouldn't be looking at.
"Ron," she nodded, and then her gaze shifted to Draco and for a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—something flashed in her eyes. "And Malfoy. Nice to see you."
"Granger," he managed to choke out, thanking all the gods that his voice sounded relatively normal, though he felt his collar had suddenly become decidedly too tight. "McLaggen."
"Malfoy," McLaggen measured him with a cold look. "I heard you somehow managed to get into the Cannons. I wonder who you had to bribe."
Draco felt his hand tightening into a fist, but before he could respond, Hermione cleared her throat significantly.
"Cormac was just telling me about his new position in the Department of Magical Games and Sports," she said, looking at Weasley with an expression that clearly said "behave". "Apparently he'll be responsible for organising the Quidditch World Cup next year."
"Fascinating," muttered Weasley, grimacing slightly. "And weren't you responsible for organising the charity match? The one where the stands nearly collapsed?"
McLaggen tensed visibly.
"That was a minor incident which..."
"Where Malfoy nearly killed himself catching the Snitch?" Weasley interrupted him. "That match?"
Draco looked at Weasley in disbelief. Was he actually defending him against McLaggen? Was this some alternative reality?
"It was a spectacular catch," Granger suddenly said, and her gaze briefly met Draco's. "Risky, but spectacular."
He felt something warm spreading in his chest, and this time it wasn't the whisky. He tried to maintain eye contact with her face, with her eyes, though the neckline of that damned dress constantly drew his gaze like a magnetic Accio.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "And thank you again for... you know, the cushioning charm."
"You're welcome," she replied with a slight smile, and one of her curls fell on her cheek in a way that was absolutely forbidden. "Though next time I'd prefer you didn't test my reflexes in that way."
"Next time?" McLaggen snorted. "I doubt Malfoy will stay on the team long enough for there to be any next time."
Weasley looked as if he was about to strangle McLaggen with his bare hands, but Granger placed her hand on his arm, stopping him.
"Cormac, could you get me a drink?" she asked in a sweet voice. "I'd love something cold."
McLaggen immediately straightened up, evidently pleased with the mission he had been entrusted with.
"Of course, Hermione. Anything specific?"
"Surprise me," she replied with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
As soon as McLaggen disappeared into the crowd, she sighed heavily, and one of the straps of her dress dangerously slipped. She immediately adjusted it, and Draco realised he had been holding his breath.
"He's impossible," she muttered. "He approached me as soon as Harry went to greet Kingsley, and for fifteen minutes I've been listening to his amazing achievements."
"Why are you even talking to him?" asked Weasley, grimacing.
"Because, unlike some people, I try to be polite," she replied, looking at him pointedly. "Even to people who are difficult."
Her gaze briefly shifted to Draco, then just as quickly returned to Weasley. He wasn't sure if she had just classified him in the category of "difficult people," but if so, at least she was being "polite" to him. That was something.
"Besides," she added more quietly, "he's now part of the World Cup organising team, and my department will be responsible for security. We need to cooperate, whether I like it or not."
Weasley muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "pompous prat," but didn't continue the topic.
"By the way, Hermione," he said instead, "is it true that you made a bet with Skeeter that you would create your own section in a newspaper?"
Draco froze, suddenly very interested in the answer, though his eyes still involuntarily returned to the line of her neckline, to the way the material of the dress hugged her waist, to those accursed curls that seemed to have a life of their own.
"Yes," she admitted, and a slight blush appeared on her cheeks. "It was... impulsive. But so far it's going quite well. My article about Malfoy and the Cannons was the second most read piece last week."
"Second?" asked Draco, before he could stop himself. "What was first?"
Granger looked at him, and her blush deepened slightly.
"An article about Lavender Brown's new line of cosmetics," she replied with slight embarrassment. "Apparently readers are more interested in rejuvenating creams than in Quidditch."
Weasley snorted with laughter, and Draco couldn't suppress a smile. It was so ordinary. They were standing here, talking like normal people, without the history of hatred between them, without the war casting a shadow on every interaction.
"Well, I'm still impressed," he said honestly. "That article helped. I mean... people stopped sending me Howlers. So... thank you."
"I'm glad," she replied quietly. "I really am."
Suddenly Weasley froze, staring at a point behind Granger's shoulder. He leaned in and whispered hurriedly:
"Cormac's coming back, Cormac's coming back. He's carrying drinks. By Merlin, that guy is like a Boggart—he appears as soon as you think about him."
"Ron..." Granger began with irritation, but Weasley was already backing away.
"I need to... um... talk to him about... about Quidditch regulations! Yes, exactly! I'll keep him busy for a moment!" he said, and then added more quietly: "You owe me a favour. A big favour."
And before anyone could protest, he moved towards McLaggen, waving his arms and shouting something about recent changes to foul regulations.
Granger sighed heavily, shaking her head, and then—in a gesture that momentarily stopped Draco's heart—she took his arm.
"Come, Draco, I'll introduce you to some people from my department," she said, gently pulling him in the opposite direction from where Weasley had disappeared. "My deputy, Susan Bones, is a big Quidditch fan, though she would never admit it. And my assistant, Philip, collects cards of the most famous Seekers. He would be delighted to meet you."
She continued talking, something about the department structure and how important it was to build positive relations between wizarding sports and law enforcement, but Draco no longer heard a word. His mind had stopped on one single detail.
Draco.
She had called him Draco.
Not Malfoy. Not "that Quidditch prat." Not "former Death Eater whom we're giving a second chance." Just Draco.
His name in her mouth sounded different—soft, as if it were something precious, something to be pronounced with respect. And although it was probably just a coincidence, a momentary lapse caused by haste, it still evoked a wave of warmth that spread from the place where her hand rested on his arm, to the tips of his fingers.
"...and that's why I think it would be beneficial for all parties. Draco? Are you even listening to me?"
He blinked, realising that Granger had stopped and was looking at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Sorry," he muttered, feeling his cheeks growing warm. "I was lost in thought."
"Lost in thought," she repeated incredulously. "At a Ministry gala. In the middle of a conversation."
"It happens," he replied, desperately searching for an excuse that wouldn't sound like "I was too busy processing the fact that you called me by my first name."
"Mmm," she murmured, examining him searchingly. "And was what you were so intensely thinking about more important than my proposal?"
"Proposal?" he repeated, feeling his heart accelerating again. What proposal was she talking about? Had he missed something important?
She rolled her eyes, but a slight smile appeared on her lips.
"Yes, the proposal for the Cannons to participate in an exhibition match for a group of children from the Fred Weasley Orphanage. I was just telling you about it."
"Oh," he felt relief, and at the same time a strange disappointment. "Yes, of course. That's a great idea. I'm sure Weasley... I mean Ron... will agree."
"Ron has already agreed," she replied, and her smile widened a bit. "I was asking if YOU agree. As the Seeker, you'll be the main attraction."
"Me?" he looked at her in surprise. "I thought Weasley was the star of the Cannons."
"He's the captain," she corrected. "But you are the most recognisable Seeker in the league. And after your last feat at the charity match, those kids will be thrilled to meet you."
Draco looked at her, not knowing what to say. Did she really think children would be thrilled to meet a former Death Eater? Did she really believe that people now saw in him something more than just his past?
"You don't have to decide now," she added quickly, seeing his confusion. "Just think about it, all right?"
"I'll think about it," he promised, suddenly realising that she was still holding his arm, and that they were now standing in a much quieter corner of the hall, away from the main crowd. "And thank you. For the proposal. And for saving me from McLaggen."
"Well, Ron actually saved you," she observed with amusement. "I just took the opportunity to escape."
"And you took me with you," he added, unable to suppress a smile. "It's almost like a kidnapping."
"Almost," she agreed, and her eyes flashed. "But I didn't hear you protesting."
"Because I wasn't," he admitted honestly.
"So..." she began. "How are you liking the Cannons after a longer time? Is Ron not too demanding as a captain?"
"He is demanding," he replied, grateful for the change of subject to something more neutral. "But that's good. The team needs it."
"And you?" she asked, looking at him searchingly. "What do you need, Draco?"
And she did it again—she called him by his first name, so naturally, as if she had been doing it for years. And again he felt the same warmth, the same wave of something that dangerously resembled hope.
"I..." he began, not knowing how to respond.
He needed many things. Too many. Some he shouldn't even be thinking about—like tearing off that fuchsia dress that was driving him mad. Like running his fingers through those wild curls that reflected the candlelight. Like pressing her against the nearest wall and checking if her lips tasted as he imagined (vanilla and something sharper, perhaps the whisky she had been drinking).
He also needed more drastic things, like immediately Apparating to the other end of the country. Like throwing himself into a lake to cool all those thoughts circling in his head. Like a Memory Charm that would erase the memory of her in that dress, standing too close, looking at him too intensely.
But before he could formulate any answer that wouldn't end with his arrest by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (ironic, considering he was talking to its head), the orchestra began playing a new, livelier melody, and the voice of the Minister for Magic resounded in the hall, inviting everyone to dance.
And Draco realised that he had never hated Kingsley Shacklebolt as much as he did at that very moment.
"Come on, let's dance," Granger said suddenly, taking his hand. "Otherwise McLaggen will catch me any moment, and I can already see him scanning the room."
Draco looked in the direction she indicated, and indeed—McLaggen, holding two drinks, was pushing his way through the crowd with the expression of a predator tracking prey. His gaze wandered around the hall, clearly searching for Granger.
"It wouldn't be a tragedy," he said, though he was already allowing himself to be led towards the dance floor. "McLaggen seems like an interesting conversationalist."
Granger looked at him with a mixture of amusement and irritation.
"If by 'interesting' you mean 'talking exclusively about himself and staring at my neckline instead of my face', then yes, he's fascinating," she replied, rolling her eyes. "Besides, I prefer dancing with you."
Those last words made Draco immediately change his mind about the Minister. Kingsley Shacklebolt was a genius. A visionary. The best Minister for Magic in history. He should send him a bottle of the finest Firewhisky as a gift. Maybe even two.
"In that case," he said, swallowing a sudden dryness in his throat, "I can't refuse, can I?"
The dance floor was filling with couples as the orchestra played a lively, bouncy tune. Draco placed one hand on Granger's waist, took her hand with the other, and they began to dance. He was grateful for the years of dance lessons his mother had imposed on him in childhood—at least he didn't have to worry about stepping on her foot or making some awkward move.
"You dance well," she observed with slight surprise. "I don't know why, but I thought you'd be as stiff as a broomstick."
"Narcissa Malfoy wouldn't have raised a son who couldn't dance," he replied, allowing himself a slight smile. "That would have been worse than befriending Muggle-borns."
For a second he wondered if he had gone too far with that joke, but Granger laughed briefly.
"Well, in that case I'm glad your mother had priorities," she said as he executed a turn with her. "Because you definitely dance better than Ron or Harry."
"Don't compare me to Weasley and Potter," he feigned outrage. "It's offensive."
"To whom?" she asked innocently. "To you or to them?"
"To the art of dancing," he replied seriously, and then added more quietly: "And to you. You deserve a partner who knows what he's doing."
Her cheeks turned slightly pink, and Draco felt proud that he had managed to evoke such a reaction. The music changed to a slower melody, and he automatically adjusted the tempo, moving slightly closer.
"And do you know what you're doing, Malfoy?"
"Definitely not," he answered honestly. "But that doesn't stop me from continuing to do it."
And they continued dancing, spinning among other couples, and Draco thought that he should send Kingsley not one, nor two, but an entire case of the best Firewhisky that could be bought with Galleons.
The music picked up tempo, and his confidence grew with each beat. At one point, guided more by instinct than reason, he allowed his hand to slide slightly lower to pull Granger closer to him—a move that would not only give him better guidance in the dance but also, quite coincidentally of course, a much better view of that neckline he was trying so hard not to look at.
And then, in a split second, everything changed.
His arms suddenly became empty, as if someone had snatched Granger from right in front of him. And before he could understand what had happened, those same arms were filled with something—or rather someone—that was definitely not Granger, though it also had a female shape.
"Draco, darling! How nice that you accepted my invitation to dance!"
The voice he heard made him freeze mid-step. It was high, excessively sweet, and absolutely terrifying. It belonged to Rita Skeeter, who was now smiling at him, revealing her perfectly white teeth. She was wearing a bright green dress that contrasted strongly with Granger's fuchsia creation, and her blonde hair was arranged in stiff curls that didn't move even during the dance.
"Skeeter?" he choked out, looking around frantically for Granger. "What are you... Where..."
"Oh, Miss Granger had to urgently speak with the Minister," said Skeeter, and her smile didn't reach her eyes hidden behind glittering glasses. "Kingsley practically kidnapped her from the dance floor. Something about a sudden problem in the department, from what I heard. And I thought that such a handsome young man shouldn't dance alone."
He tried to discreetly free himself from her grip, but Skeeter held him with surprising strength, her long, scarlet nails digging slightly into his arm.
"That's very... kind of you," he said, unable to hide his sarcasm. "But actually I was just finishing..."
"Nonsense!" she interrupted him, executing an unexpected turn that almost threw him off balance. "We have so much to discuss! For example, why didn't you respond to my letter? Or perhaps..." her voice became even sweeter, almost venomous "...perhaps you're so busy giving interviews to Miss Granger that you don't have time for a real journalist?"
Draco felt his face harden.
"Perhaps I just prefer talking to someone who doesn't twist every word I say?" he replied coolly.
Rita laughed as if he had said something extremely witty.
"Oh, Draco, you were always so funny! But seriously, darling, you must understand that I have real influence in the wizarding world of media. Miss Granger is playing at being a journalist, but it's just a hobby. A temporary whim. Meanwhile, I can really change how people perceive you."
"You've already done that," he replied dryly. "Thanks to your last article, I lost my place on the team."
"A minor misunderstanding," she waved dismissively. "Which I can fix with one interview. Imagine: 'Draco Malfoy: The True Story of Transformation'. Or better: 'From Death Eater to Quidditch Star: An Exclusive Interview with Draco Malfoy'."
He felt his hand involuntarily tightening on her waist, but not from affection, rather from barely restrained anger.
"I'm not interested," he said firmly. "And if you write lies about me again, I swear that..."
"That what?" she interrupted him, and her eyes flashed maliciously behind her glasses. "You'll complain to your new friend Granger? Or perhaps you'll attack me magically, proving to everyone that you're still a dangerous wizard with a dark past?"
Draco opened his mouth to say something that would certainly end in a libel lawsuit, but he didn't manage to utter even a word. Rita suddenly stopped dancing and with surprising strength for a woman of her build, pulled him to the side of the dance floor, towards one of the waiters.
"Two Firewhiskies," she ordered, taking two glasses from the tray and pressing one into Draco's hand. "To reconciliation."
"To reconciliation?" he repeated in disbelief. "After what you wrote?"
Skeeter sighed theatrically, and her stiff curls didn't even move.
"Listen, Draco, darling, maybe I did... slightly exaggerate with that article," she said, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper. "But you must understand, I have a weekly column to fill, and the editor-in-chief expects sensationalism. And you..." she measured him with her eyes from head to toe "...well, you were sensational material."
"Was I? Am I not anymore?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh, you still are," she assured him hastily. "But I don't want to have you as an enemy, Draco. Really. We can both benefit if our relations aren't hostile."
He looked at her suspiciously, turning the glass in his hand, but not drinking.
"What exactly are you proposing?" he asked cautiously.
"Cooperation," she replied, flashing her teeth in a smile. "You give me some juicy information from behind the scenes of Quidditch from time to time, and I ensure that your image in my articles is positive."
"You want me to become your informant? To report on my own team?"
"No, no, nothing like that!" Rita waved her hand. "Just... small gossip. Who's dating whom, who's having problems with form, that sort of thing. Nothing serious."
He looked at her for a moment, considering the proposal. On one hand, the last thing he wanted was another destructive article about himself. On the other—he didn't trust Skeeter one bit.
"I'll think about it," he finally said, deciding that the best strategy would be to string her along until he could think of something better. "But for now I'd prefer if you didn't write anything about me. Neither good nor bad."
"I understand," she nodded, though her smile faded somewhat. "But don't wait too long with your decision, darling. Such offers don't last forever."
"I'll try," he replied dryly, placing his untouched glass on a nearby table. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to... check something."
Without waiting for her response, he turned and moved through the hall, looking frantically for Granger. He had to find her, explain that he hadn't run off to dance with Skeeter, but had been kidnapped against his will. And of course, he wanted to return to dancing. Just dancing. Certainly not to staring at her neckline, which gleamed in the candlelight, promising...
"Malfoy!"
Draco stopped, hearing a familiar voice. Turning around, he saw Weasley and Potter standing at one of the tables. Potter looked resigned, as if he had just left a five-hour meeting at the Ministry, and Weasley had that typical, slightly confused expression on his face.
"Weasley, Potter," he nodded to them, trying to hide his irritation. "Have you seen Gr... Hermione by any chance?"
"Hermione?" Potter repeated, raising his eyebrows. "Since when do you call her Hermione?"
"Since... it's none of your business, Potter," he replied, feeling his cheeks growing warm again. Merlin, what was happening to him?
"I saw her with McLaggen," said Weasley, clearly displeased. "That jerk caught her as soon as she stopped dancing. They were standing by the fountain, but... oh, they're not there anymore."
Draco felt a pang of something that dangerously resembled jealousy. McLaggen? Again? Didn't that guy have his own life?
"They probably went to the buffet," added Potter, looking at Draco with strange amusement. "Hermione mentioned she was hungry. But if I see her, I'll let her know you're looking for her."
"I'm not looking," he denied automatically. "I just wanted to finish our conversation."
"Sure," Potter and Weasley exchanged glances that clearly said they didn't believe him.
"Have a drink with us," Weasley suddenly proposed, offering him a glass of Firewhisky. "And tell me what you think of the new strategy I've developed for the match against the Harpies. Because Potter claims it's rubbish, but what does he know, he works at a desk."
"Hey!" Potter protested. "I was a Seeker before I became an Auror!"
"Yes, at school level," replied Weasley, rolling his eyes.
And so, instead of continuing to dance with Granger, Draco found himself trapped in a conversation about Quidditch with Potter and Weasley, with another glass of Firewhisky in his hand.
This evening definitely wasn't going according to plan.
He listened with one ear to the discourse on the new strategy against the Harpies, nodding his head at appropriate moments, but his gaze wandered around the hall, searching for a certain fuchsia dress. When he finally spotted it, he felt his jaw clench involuntarily. Granger was standing at the buffet, and beside her, definitely too close, was McLaggen—leaning over her, saying something that he apparently thought was terribly witty.
"...so if you move to the right when the Keeper would expect you to fly to the left..." Weasley's voice reached him as if through a fog.
"Fascinating," he muttered, not taking his eyes off Granger and McLaggen. "Potter, do you really think this strategy is rubbish?"
He turned to Potter just for a moment to throw this barbed comment, and when he looked back—they were no longer at the buffet. For a moment he panicked, thinking McLaggen had dragged her off somewhere, but then he saw them in the middle of the dance floor.
They were dancing. Granger and McLaggen. Together. His hands on her waist. Her hand on his shoulder. Her dress, swirling around her legs as they executed a turn.
He felt something boiling inside him. For a moment he really wanted to go over there, tear McLaggen away from Granger and... and what? Hit him? Cast a spell? Demand that he return his dance partner? Suddenly he shook his head. It was none of his business. Granger could dance with whoever she wanted. She could talk to whoever she wanted. She could...
"Blimey, it's loud in here!" Weasley suddenly exclaimed, shouting over the music. "I can barely hear my own thoughts!"
"As if you had any," Draco muttered, but quietly enough that Weasley didn't hear him.
"We're going to the fourth floor," said Potter, leaning closer. "That's where the Auror Office crowd and a few other departments are gathering. Less official, you know? No speeches and all those bigwigs from international delegations."
"More like a normal party, less like a Ministry gala," added Weasley. "Are you coming with us?"
Draco hesitated, looking again at the dance floor. Granger was still dancing with McLaggen, who was now leaning down, saying something in her ear. His hand, resting on her back, began slowly but definitely to slide lower...
"I'm coming with you," he said quickly, looking away. "I definitely need something stronger."
Because if he stays here any longer and watches McLaggen shamelessly grope Granger on the dance floor, he'll end up in Azkaban. And then he won't be able to stare at that neckline ever again.
"Great!" Weasley patted him on the shoulder with surprising cordiality. "You'll see, it'll be fun. Seamus smuggled in some Irish drink that supposedly knocks you off your feet after two glasses."
"Sounds exactly like what I need," he muttered, casting one last glance at the dance floor.
And that's when he noticed McLaggen's hand sliding dangerously low, and Granger stiffening. For a split second he hesitated whether to stay after all, to see Granger destroy McLaggen. It would be a beautiful sight. But on the other hand, if he stays, there's a risk that he'll join in the destruction, and then he really will end up in Azkaban.
"Let's go," he said. "Immediately."
Chapter Text
An hour later, Draco was sitting... somewhere. He wasn't entirely sure where exactly. Some office? A study? A conference room? Whatever it was, the room was filling with people at an alarming rate. Every few minutes someone would enter, bringing a chair, a bottle of something strong, or both at once.
He had lost count of how many drinks he'd had. A glass of whisky from Weasley. Then that Irish drink from... Finnigan? Two glasses. Or maybe three? Then someone brought dwarven vodka, which tasted like broomstick cleaning fluid, but strangely, after the third sip, it began to taste like the most wonderful nectar.
"...and then I tell him that if he releases a house-elf without proper documentation one more time, I'll personally transform his wand into an electric eel!" a wizard whom Draco didn't know was saying, but whom everyone apparently found hilariously funny, because the room erupted in laughter.
Draco laughed too, though he wasn't sure he understood the joke. Everything was a bit blurry, and sounds were overlapping, creating a pleasant hum. He had the impression that this was the best party he'd been to in years, though for the life of him he couldn't remember who was sitting to his left.
"Oh, here you are, darling!"
That voice. He knew that voice all too well. He blinked, trying to focus his vision, and saw her—Rita Skeeter, who had suddenly appeared beside him, taking the seat vacated by... someone. Who was it? It didn't matter.
"Skeeter," he mumbled, trying to sound hostile, but it came out more sleepy. "What are you doing here?"
"The same as you, handsome," she replied, baring her teeth. "Having fun. I left the Ministry boredom downstairs."
Draco knew he should stand up and leave. Or at least stop talking to her. But when he tried to rise, the world dangerously spun, and his legs refused to cooperate.
"Easy now, you don't have to go anywhere," said Skeeter, and her voice was strangely gentle. "I won't harass you about that interview."
"Really?" he asked suspiciously, though his drunken mind couldn't find any deceit in her words.
"Really," she confirmed, pouring both of them a glass of something that looked like a purple liquid. "Actually, I thought of something else. Something completely unofficial."
"Unofficial?" he repeated, looking at the purple drink with fascination. He was almost certain that he saw small, glowing bubbles moving inside it.
"I'm writing an article about today's banquet," she explained, taking a sip of her drink. "Not about you. About the banquet. I just want to add a few anonymous comments from guests. You know, 'one of the attendees noted that...', 'according to a source close to the Ministry...'—that sort of thing."
"This isn't an interview?" he confirmed, his mind desperately trying to find the catch.
"No, not an interview," she assured him, shaking her head. "Just a brief report. No personal questions. No names. Just an opinion about the banquet. Because, you see, this is meant to be a light social report, not a political piece."
Draco considered—or at least tried to, as much as his alcohol-clouded mind would allow. At this moment, Skeeter didn't seem so frightening. Actually, as they sat there drinking the purple liquid, which tasted like blackcurrants mixed with honey, she was almost... likeable?
"All right," he finally said, shrugging his shoulders. "I can answer questions about the banquet. But only about the banquet."
"Wonderful!" she clapped her hands, and her nails gleamed in the semi-darkness. "So, how did you like today's gala? The decorations, music, food?"
He shrugged, taking another sip of the purple drink.
"It was fine," he replied, feeling his tongue becoming a bit heavier. "Decorations quite nice. Fountain... great fountain."
Rita smiled, and her Quick-Quotes Quill hovered beside her, scratching on parchment.
"And what do you think about that huge ice sculpture at the entrance? That was a snake, wasn't it? Do you like such animal motifs in decorations?"
Draco felt his stomach tighten unpleasantly. He hated animal decorations, especially snakes. He was already sufficiently disgusted by the sight of a snake when he had to look at his faded Dark Mark every day. Sometimes he had the impression that everyone could see it, even when he wore long sleeves. As if that accursed symbol was burned not only into his skin, but also into the eyes of everyone who looked at him.
"It was a phoenix, not a snake," he replied dryly. "And no, I don't have any particular preferences regarding decorations."
"Oh, a phoenix! Of course, I must have confused them," Rita waved her hand, and her quill scratched furiously. "And what about the guests? Quite a lot of influential figures, right? Who do you think made the biggest impression on those gathered? Who seemed to have the most... let's say... power in the room?"
Draco snorted.
"Kingsley, of course. He's the Minister."
"Yes, but apart from him," Rita pressed. "Who else might lead? Dominate? Who was the strongest personality?"
Draco's thoughts involuntarily wandered to times when it wasn't Kingsley who decided the fate of the wizarding world. When his own father knelt before the most powerful wizard of all time, and then came home and spoke with gleaming eyes about the greatness of the Dark Lord. "True power, Draco," Lucius would say, "doesn't need the title of Minister." Sometimes, in the deepest recesses of his mind, he wondered what the world would look like if Voldemort had won. Would he now be one of his most trusted people? Would his name once again inspire respect, not contempt?
"I don't know," he grunted, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. "Potter, I guess. Everyone always crowds around Potter."
"Fascinating," Rita nodded, and her quill worked like mad. "And how would you assess the atmosphere of loyalty at today's banquet? Did you have the impression that people are loyal to the Ministry? Or perhaps their loyalty lies elsewhere?"
"Loyalty?" he repeated, increasingly confused by the direction of the conversation. "What does that have to do with anything? It was a banquet, not a loyalty test."
The word "loyalty" triggered a wave of unpleasant memories in him. Loyalty... How many times had he heard that word from Voldemort's lips? "Your loyalty is most important to me, Draco." "Prove your loyalty, Draco." "Are you loyal, Draco?" And then punishment each time his loyalty was questioned. With the Cruciatus. With the vision of his parents being tortured before his eyes. Fear and loyalty went hand in hand, always.
"Of course, of course," Rita waved dismissively. "I'm just wondering if at such official events people don't put on masks, don't hide their true faces... their true beliefs."
Draco felt his throat tighten slightly. Masks... How many times had he worn a mask? The mask of a Death Eater. The mask of an obedient son. The mask of a cruel kid at Hogwarts. And now the mask of a reformed, good citizen of the wizarding world. Had he ever allowed anyone to see his true face? Did he himself still remember what it looked like?
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, trying to sound indifferent, though the alcohol made it difficult for him to control his voice.
"Let me ask differently," Rita leaned closer, and her eyes sparkled behind her glasses. "What's it like to be at such a gala, talking to all these people who once stood on the other side of the barricade? Don't you sometimes feel marked?"
"Marked?" involuntarily, he placed his hand on his left forearm, where the faded Dark Mark was hidden under his suit sleeve.
Marked. Oh yes, he was marked. And not just by the mark on his forearm. He was marked by his choices, his mistakes, his past. Sometimes, on the darkest nights, he would wake up screaming, feeling the burning agony of the Dark Mark, just as when Voldemort called his servants. The mark had faded, but the stigma remained—in his mind, in his soul, in the eyes of everyone who looked at him.
"I don't..." he began, but the words caught in his throat.
"What I mean," Rita interrupted him, and her smile became almost predatory, "is that many people in this hall have their history. Their past. Some were heroes, others... well, made difficult choices. Don't you think that past and present strangely intertwine in such moments?"
He felt cold sweat running down his back, despite the heat in the crowded room. Difficult choices... That was probably the mildest way anyone had described his decision to join the Death Eaters. Sometimes he wondered if it was even a choice. Did he have any alternative? If he had refused, would Voldemort have simply shrugged and gone looking for another teenager for his dirty tasks? No, he knew he wouldn't have. Refusal would have meant death. His and his parents'.
"I think this conversation is over," he said, trying to stand up, but the world spun again, and Rita placed her hand on his shoulder, gently but firmly holding him in place.
"Just one more question, darling," she said sweetly. "If you had to describe tonight with one word—a word that also captures your current life, your feelings, your situation—what would it be?"
What was that one word? What captured his feelings from this evening, from his entire life?
Rejection? Fear? Guilt? These were words that described his daily existence. He woke up with them and went to sleep with them. But tonight, when he danced with Granger, when he looked into her eyes, when he heard his name on her lips... Then, for the first time in a very long time, he felt something different. Something he shouldn't feel, something he didn't deserve.
"Chance," he finally said, surprising himself. "Second chance."
Rita smiled, and her quill danced across the parchment one last time before stopping and dropping into her bag.
"Thank you, Draco," she said, standing up. "That was extremely enlightening."
And before he could respond, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving him with the disturbing feeling that he had just made a huge mistake. But he hadn't told her anything. There was no way she could make any kind of interview from his half-words. Before he could analyse this thought further, Weasley dropped down beside him with force, immediately filling his empty glass with something that looked like another portion of the purple liquid.
"You've got to try this," he announced, nudging him with his elbow. "Seamus claims he added some Irish herbs to it, but in my opinion he just poured in more alcohol."
Draco didn't have time to respond, because at that moment the door to the room opened violently and Granger burst through it. A flushed Granger, as if she had spent the last hour dancing non-stop. Her hair was in even greater disarray than usual—several strands stuck to her sweaty forehead, others sticking out in all directions, as if she had run through a hurricane. The straps of her fuchsia dress were slightly uneven—one lower, the other pulled higher. Draco didn't even want to consider why.
Her eyes scanned the crowded room until she finally spotted them in the corner. She immediately moved towards them, squeezing between people.
"Oh, Ron, here you are," she said when she reached them. Her voice was slightly hoarse, and her breathing accelerated. She looked around, apparently searching for an empty chair, but all were occupied.
"I'll sit here for a moment, if you don't mind," she said nonchalantly to Draco, and before he could react, she dropped onto his knees as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Draco froze. Literally froze. His body suddenly became as rigid as a statue, and his mind shut down for several seconds. The warmth of her body, the scent of her perfume mixed with something sweet (champagne? liqueur?) and the slight weight on his knees—all of this made him completely lose touch with reality.
Granger, as if not noticing his condition, leaned towards Weasley and began whispering something in his ear. Draco couldn't hear a word, despite her lips being only a few dozen centimetres from him. But he had the impression that even if she had shouted directly into his ear, he wouldn't have heard anything anyway, his mind was completely occupied with registering the fact that Hermione Granger, in that dress, with that hair, was sitting on his knees.
He automatically raised his hand and grabbed the glass that Weasley had filled for him, drinking its contents in one gulp. He needed something to help him process this situation. Or something that would make him forget about it completely—depending on which came first.
The liquid burned his throat, but even that didn't help divert attention from the warmth of her body pressed against his. He felt every tiny movement, every sigh, every change of position as Granger gestured animatedly, still whispering something to Weasley. Her hair, those untamed curls that had been driving him crazy all evening, now brushed against his face as she turned her head to better see Weasley. They smelled of something floral—vanilla? jasmine?—Draco wasn't sure, but he was convinced that this scent would haunt him in his dreams.
Weasley listened to her attentively, occasionally nodding, furrowing his brow or smiling slightly. Sometimes he would glance towards Draco, but would immediately return to Granger, as if what she was saying was much more interesting than the fact that she was sitting on the knees of their former enemy.
He didn't know what to do with his hands. For a brief, mad moment, he considered placing them on her waist—after all, she was sitting on his knees, it would be a natural gesture—but he quickly rejected the idea. Instead, he clutched the now-empty glass with one hand, and with the other gripped the edge of the chair until his knuckles turned white.
At one point, Granger moved, trying to find a more comfortable position, and unconsciously shifted closer to his chest. He held his breath. She was so close that he could count the freckles on her nose, if only she turned her face towards him. Instead, she still focused all her attention on Weasley, apparently telling him something exciting, judging by the way her hands moved in the air, emphasising her words.
Someone approached their table, offering to refill their glasses, but Draco shook his head. He was already drunk enough, and the last thing he needed was to do or say something that might later be even more embarrassing than his current situation.
He tried to focus on anything else, on the conversations going on around him, on the music coming from a distance, on the texture of his suit material, but his mind constantly returned to the fact that Hermione Granger, in that fuchsia dress that had completely distracted his thoughts all evening, was now sitting on his knees as if it were her natural place.
He wondered what would happen if he interrupted her whispered conversation. If he gently brushed those unruly curls from her cheek. If he asked why she looked as if she had run a marathon, and why her dress straps were so unevenly arranged. Did McLaggen have something to do with it? That thought made him feel a sudden surge of irritation, or even jealousy, though he didn't want to admit it.
Suddenly she stopped her whispering and began speaking louder, her words now clearly audible despite the noise in the room.
"...and then Ginny said that if he tries that move with the glove one more time, she'll personally ensure his broom gets turned into a salamander during the next match!" she laughed, and the sound of her laughter spread around them like bells.
Weasley burst into loud laughter, hitting the table with his hand, causing several empty glasses to jump dangerously.
At the same moment, she changed position, moving even more onto his knees and almost pressing her back against his chest. This sudden shift and even greater proximity caused a strange, stifled sound to escape from Draco's throat—something between a sigh and a groan.
Granger immediately turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder with surprise in her eyes.
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said quickly, placing her hand on his arm in a gesture that was meant to be comforting. "Did I hurt you? I'm heavier than I look, aren't I?"
Her face was now so close to his own that he could feel her warm breath on his cheek.
"No, it's fine," he managed to say, trying to make his voice sound normal, though he felt that every cell in his body was in a state of heightened alertness. "You're not... you're not heavy."
She couldn't be further from the truth, thinking that his reaction was caused by pain. In reality, the problem was exactly the opposite, her proximity evoked feelings in him that were definitely pleasant. Too pleasant, considering the place and company.
Granger smiled slightly, as if she didn't quite believe him, but she didn't change position. Instead, she now sat almost sideways on his knees, her legs draped over his thigh, and her arm resting lightly on his chest.
"As I was saying, Ron," she continued, returning to her conversation with Weasley, but not removing her hand from his arm. "Ginny thinks you should give Lewis a chance in the first team. She says he has potential."
As Weasley began explaining why Lewis was absolutely not ready to play in the first team, Granger's fingers began unconsciously playing with the collar of his shirt. They lightly brushed the material, sometimes grazing his neck, sending shivers down his spine.
Draco froze in place, afraid to move, as if the slightest movement might make her stop doing this. Her fingers moved along his collar, sometimes catching on a button, sometimes touching the skin just above his collarbone. It was the most intimate touch he had experienced since... actually, he couldn't remember since when. And certainly the most innocent, yet at the same time the most electrifying.
He tried to focus on anything else—on the conversation about Quidditch, on the sounds coming from the hall, on the fact that they were in a place full of people—but he couldn't think of anything but the touch of her fingers and the warmth of her body against his.
At one point, when her fingers paused for a moment right at his Adam's apple, he swallowed hard, and his own hands, previously gripping the edge of the chair tightly, began to move on their own. One of them hesitantly rose and rested on her back—lightly, as if he were afraid that at any moment she might jump up and run away.
But Granger didn't run away. She didn't even interrupt her conversation with Weasley. Only her fingers froze for a moment at his collar, then continued their lazy journey, as if it were the most natural behaviour in the world.
Draco felt his heart beating faster and his breathing becoming shallower. He wondered if she was aware of what she was doing. Were these seemingly innocent gestures really unconscious? Or perhaps—this thought seemed both crazy and intoxicating—was Hermione Granger deliberately teasing him?
"...I really hope this cooperation on the World Cup goes smoothly," she was just saying to Weasley, while her fingers still played with the collar of his shirt. "McLaggen is good at what he does, but his ego is a completely different story. The Department of International Magical Cooperation should have chosen someone else as coordinator."
Weasley snorted, clearly displeased at the mere mention of McLaggen.
"That jerk has always thought he was the centre of the universe, ever since Hogwarts."
Suddenly, to Draco's surprise, Granger turned towards him, so that she was now looking straight into his eyes, and her face was just a few centimetres from his own.
"You know, I had to run away from him through half the Ministry?" she said, as if it were the most natural thing to suddenly start talking to Malfoy while sitting on his knees. "After you disappeared with Rita, McLaggen decided that I should dance with him and wouldn't take no for an answer. And when we finished, he decided that we should 'find a quieter place'. As soon as he turned away, I ran. Literally ran through the corridors, looking for anyone familiar!"
Draco felt a wave of enormous relief flood his body. Much greater than he should feel in such a situation. Her reddened cheeks, dishevelled hair, and uneven dress straps were the result of escaping from McLaggen, not... something else, as in the darkest scenarios that his mind had been creating for the past hour.
"So that's why you look like you've run a marathon," he said, before he could bite his tongue.
Granger raised her eyebrows, and a half-smile appeared on her face.
"Is that your way of saying I look terrible?" she asked, with amusement resonating in her voice.
"No," he replied quickly, feeling his cheeks growing warm. "That's not what I meant. You look... you look..."
How did she look? With that windswept hair, sparkling eyes, and slightly parted lips? With that light blush on her cheeks and that fuchsia dress that clung to her body after running through the Ministry?
"Have you always been this charming, or is it the effect of that purple drink?" she asked, nodding towards the empty glass he was still holding.
"Definitely the drink," he replied, feigning gravity. "Normally I'm much more unpleasant."
"Yes, I remember," she nodded, but her eyes sparkled with amusement. "You were a real prat at school."
"And you were a know-it-all," he responded, unable to suppress a smile.
"I was," she agreed without hesitation. "And I still am. The difference is that now I can lecture you about regulations concerning international Quidditch championships, and you have to pretend you're interested because I'm sitting on your knees."
Draco laughed, and the sound surprised even himself. He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like that, freely and without pretence.
"In that case," he said, finding a sudden confidence, "I'm going to pretend that I'm extremely fascinated by international Quidditch regulations."
"Weasley! Hey, Weasley!" a voice suddenly came from the other end of the room. "Come here for a moment! Finnigan says you have the recipe for that hangover potion you made after the last match!"
Weasley raised his head, looking around until he located the source of the voice—some wizard whom Draco had seen earlier, though he couldn't recall his name.
"Coming!" he shouted back, then turned to Granger: "I'll be right back. I need to give Thomas that recipe before we all die tomorrow from this purple muck."
He stood up, swaying slightly, and moved towards the group of wizards waving to him from the other end of the hall.
Draco noticed the empty armchair that remained after Weasley, and accepted the terrible fact that he was about to lose the pleasant warmth of Granger on his knees. He was already imagining her saying something like "Oh, now there's a free chair" and getting off him, leaving only the memory of her weight and scent.
To his surprise, she also noticed the empty chair—he saw her gaze slide over it for a moment—but instead of standing up and taking it, she remained exactly where she was. On his knees, with her hand still playing with his collar.
"So," she said, as if nothing had happened, "where were we? Ah yes, Quidditch regulations."
He tried to hide his surprise and pleasure, but he felt the corners of his mouth rising involuntarily.
"Yes, regulations," he confirmed, suddenly braver than a moment ago. "Tell me everything, Granger. Don't skip even the tiniest paragraph."
She smiled at him, and there was something in her eyes that he couldn't quite read.
"Are you sure?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. "It might take all night."
"I hope so," he replied quietly, before he could stop himself.
And indeed, for the next fifteen minutes, Granger delivered a lecture on international Quidditch regulations, delving into details whose existence Draco hadn't even suspected. She talked about standardizing the height of hoops, about permissible modifications to brooms in championships, about protocols regarding catching the Snitch in controversial circumstances.
From time to time, she would reach for a glass from the table, taking small sips, and her throat would move hypnotically as she swallowed. Draco tried to focus on her words, but his mind—and body—had other plans.
His hand, which initially rested timidly on her back, now wanted to pull her closer, to feel more of the warmth of her body. He had to consciously restrain his fingers from wandering along the line of her spine, from tangling in those chestnut curls that fell so temptingly on her shoulders.
"...and then in 1987 they introduced paragraph 27b, which states that each team must submit their brooms for inspection 24 hours before a match, which of course caused enormous controversy among players who claimed that their brooms are like wands—an extension of themselves and no one has the right to touch them..."
Granger was so absorbed in her discourse that she didn't notice how Draco was fighting with himself. How his eyes followed the movement of her lips, how he held his breath when her hand accidentally brushed his neck, how his body reacted to each of her unconscious movements on his knees.
And she moved often—sometimes leaning forward to emphasise a particularly important point in her argument, sometimes turning to gesture, sometimes moving closer when the voices around became louder. Each time, Draco felt his body betraying him, reacting in a way that—if Granger noticed—would be absolutely embarrassing.
"...and that's why the issue of magical broom enhancements is so controversial," she continued, completely unaware of his internal struggle. "Because where is the line between legal modification and cheating? It's like with performance potions, it's hard to determine what's allowed and what's not."
Draco forced himself to focus on her words, not on the feeling of her warmth, the scent of her perfume, on how her dress had ridden slightly up, revealing more of her thigh skin.
"That's... fascinating," he said when she paused to drink from his glass (when had she actually started drinking from his glass? Wasn't his glass empty just a moment ago?). "I didn't realise the regulations were so complicated."
"Most people don't realise it," she replied, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "That's why the Department of International Cooperation has a special division for sports matters. They have to deal not only with regulations but also diplomacy, because imagine an international scandal if Bulgaria accused France of illegal broom modifications!"
Her enthusiasm was contagious, and despite fighting his own reactions, Draco couldn't suppress a smile. There was something captivating about how Hermione Granger could be passionate about literally any topic—even Quidditch, which, as he remembered, she had never particularly liked.
"You've always been so..." he began, searching for the right word.
"Know-it-all?" she suggested with a half-smile.
"Passionate," he finished, surprising them both. "You could talk about ink drying, and it would still sound like the most fascinating topic in the world."
Granger fell silent, clearly surprised by the compliment. For a moment, they looked at each other in silence, and it seemed to him that time had slowed down. The buzz of conversations around them, the music coming from a distance, the laughter of other guests—all of it seemed to recede, leaving only the two of them, suspended in this strange, intimate bubble.
"That's..." she began, and her voice was slightly quieter than before. "That's nice of you."
Before he could respond, she moved, changing position, and this time he couldn't suppress the quiet sigh that escaped his lips when her body brushed against his in a way that was definitely too pleasant in this public place.
Her eyes widened slightly, and a blush appeared on her cheeks, suggesting that this time she had noticed his reaction. And understood its nature.
She cleared her throat nervously, and her body suddenly stiffened. Draco saw panic flash across her face—quick but distinct.
"Oh, I think Ron is calling me," she said suddenly, her voice an octave higher than normal. "I need to... I need to see what's going on."
Before he could react, she jumped off his knees and practically ran towards the door, pushing her way through the crowd of guests as if she were being chased by a herd of hippogriffs.
Draco sat in bewilderment for a moment, still feeling the warmth of her body that had rested on his knees just a second ago. Only after a while did his mind register that Ron Weasley not only hadn't called her, but wasn't even in the room—he had left several minutes ago and hadn't returned.
"Great job, Malfoy," he muttered to himself, reaching for the empty glass. "Just great."
He wasn't sure if he was more embarrassed, disappointed, or simply tired. Probably all at once. Plus drunk. Definitely too drunk to make any sensible decisions now.
With a sigh, he sank deeper into the armchair, wondering if he would ever be able to look Granger in the eye again without remembering this awkward moment. A moment later, he Apparated home.
Chapter Text
Granger was sitting on his knees, this time in his own apartment. Her dress was intensely fuchsia, almost glowing in the semi-darkness of the room. Her hair fell softly on her shoulders, more tamed than he had ever seen it in reality.
"I was wondering where exactly we left off," she said, and her voice sounded both close and distant. Her fingers, which had earlier been playing with his collar, now began unbuttoning his shirt, slowly, one by one.
"Granger, what are you doing?" he asked, but his body wasn't protesting. Quite the opposite—his hands travelled to her waist on their own, pulling her closer.
"Hermione," she corrected him, leaning in so that her lips almost touched his. "I liked it when you called me Hermione."
Her lips tasted like that purple drink, sweet and intoxicating. She kissed him slowly, almost lazily, as if they had all eternity ahead of them. His hands slipped under the material of her dress, finding the warmth of her skin. She was silky under his fingers, more perfect than in his imagination.
Suddenly they were in his bedroom, though he didn't remember how they got there. Her dress had disappeared, as had most of his clothes. Her body gleamed in light that had no source, and her eyes were darker than he remembered.
"I've always wanted this," she whispered in his ear, as her fingers traced patterns on his chest. "Since that dance at the gala."
"You're lying," he said, but his voice was soft, without accusation.
"Maybe longer," she admitted with a smile that had never appeared on the real Granger's face, at least not for him. "Maybe for years."
Her body moved above him in a rhythm that seemed to change with his breath. Her skin glistened as if covered with a million tiny dewdrops. Her hair framed her face like a halo, a changing cascade of browns and gold.
"Draco," she whispered his name like a spell, and each repetition made something tighten inside him. "Draco, Draco, Draco..."
Her voice began to change, becoming more insistent, more rhythmic. Knock, knock, knock. That wasn't her voice. It was something else.
Knock, knock, knock.
Draco opened his eyes, torn from his dream. For a moment, he lay disoriented. Then he heard it again—knocking on his bedroom door, firm and impossible to ignore.
"Come in!" he called hoarsely, convinced it must be Nott or Zabini. One of them must have dropped by, probably to mock him or persuade him into some absurd plan for spending a free Monday.
Draco had no desire whatsoever to get out of bed. His head was pulsing with a dull pain, and his mouth was so dry as if he had swallowed all the sand from a desert. Additionally, certain parts of his body, still aroused by the dream, definitely shouldn't be exposed to public view. He pulled the duvet higher, turning slightly to his side.
The door opened, and Draco froze in place. It wasn't Zabini. Nor Nott.
It was Granger.
Granger, dressed in official Ministry robes, holding some paper in her hand. Her face was contorted in an unpleasant grimace—of fatigue? irritation?—which immediately changed when her gaze fell on Draco in bed. Her eyes widened comically, her lips opened into a small 'o', and her cheeks were flooded with an intense blush.
Draco felt the blood drain from his face, only to return with doubled force. For several seconds he simply stared at her, incapable of any reaction. His mind, still clouded by alcohol and sleep, couldn't process the fact that Hermione Granger was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, looking at him lying in bed. In the same bed where just a moment ago he had been dreaming about...
"GRANGER!" he exclaimed, sitting up abruptly, which was a mistake, as the duvet slid dangerously low. He immediately grabbed it and pulled it back to his chest. "What are you... How did you... WHY ARE YOU...?"
He couldn't finish any of these questions. His heart was beating wildly, and his mind was desperately trying to come up with any explanation—for her presence in his apartment, for the fact that someone he hadn't invited had entered, and above all for the fact that he had just been waking up from a very detailed dream about the woman who now stood before him in reality.
"I... I'm sorry," she mumbled, stepping back and averting her gaze, though Draco noticed that her eyes wandered over his exposed chest for a moment before she turned away.
"How did you get in here?" he asked in disbelief, wrapping himself more tightly in the duvet. "My apartment has security!"
"Normally, through the fireplace," she replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You've been to my apartment, remember? And then you returned via the Floo network and shouted your address. Quite loudly, I might add."
"Why did you come at this hour?" he asked, glancing at the clock on the bedside table and froze. It was three o'clock. Three o'clock! He had slept through half the day.
"It's already three in the afternoon," said Granger, as if reading his thoughts. "I didn't expect to find you in... such a situation. I thought you'd be up by now. Most people are at this time."
"And you came because...?" he asked, still bewildered by her unexpected visit.
Granger's face immediately took on an irritated expression that he knew all too well from Hogwarts days—furrowed brows, tight lips, eyes narrowed in a way that spelled trouble.
"I came because during our last interview you agreed that I would be the only person to whom you would give interviews," she said, her voice icy. "Do you remember such a declaration, Malfoy?"
Draco frowned, trying to recall such a promise. Indeed, he had given her an interview. In her apartment. But to promise her exclusivity? He didn't remember anything like that. Admittedly, during most of that meeting he had been busy staring at the neckline of her blouse, which definitely didn't help him focus on the content of the conversation, but...
"I'm not sure if..." he began cautiously, but then the full meaning of her words hit him. They sounded as if he had given an interview to someone else. Someone who wasn't Hermione Granger.
His gaze travelled to her hand, and only then did he notice that what she was holding wasn't a document, as he had initially thought. It was a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet.
"Oh no," he muttered, feeling cold sweat running down his back. "The Prophet? Today? What's in it?"
She threw the newspaper onto his bed, and her face was a mixture of irritation and... was that disappointment?
"See for yourself," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Apparently Rita Skeeter found a way to convince you to talk. I wonder what it was?"
Draco felt his stomach tighten into a painful knot. He unrolled the newspaper and began to read, and with each word his horror grew. Across the entire page was a large photograph—him and Rita Skeeter, dancing at the banquet. And beneath it, text that made the blood freeze in his veins.
DRACO MALFOY HONEST ABOUT THE PAST: "THE DARK MARK STILL DEFINES ME"
In an exclusive interview for the Daily Prophet, the former Death Eater, now Seeker for the Chudley Cannons, talks about his loyalty, guilt, and life in the shadow of the past.
Rita Skeeter, exclusively for the Daily Prophet
Daily Prophet: Draco, your transformation from villain to Quidditch hero is a fascinating story. Do you feel that people have accepted this change?
Malfoy: No, I don't think so. Sometimes I have the impression that everyone can still see my Dark Mark, even when I wear long sleeves. As if that accursed symbol burned not only into my skin, but also into the eyes of everyone who looks at me.
DP: You speak of feeling marked. Is that why you so rarely appear in public?
Malfoy: I am marked. Not just by the mark on my forearm. I am marked by my choices, my mistakes, my past. Sometimes, on the darkest nights, I wake up screaming, feeling the burning agony of the Dark Mark, just as when Voldemort called his servants. The mark has faded, but the stigma remains—in my mind, in my soul, in the eyes of everyone who looks at me.
Draco felt the blood draining from his face. These words... these were his thoughts. His deepest, darkest thoughts, which he had never spoken aloud to anyone. How was this possible? He continued reading, feeling growing panic.
DP: Some question your intentions, claiming that your transformation is just a facade. How do you respond to these accusations?
Malfoy: Did I have any choice in joining the Death Eaters? Sometimes I wonder if it was even a choice. If I had refused, would Voldemort have simply shrugged and gone looking for another teenager for his dirty tasks? No, I know he wouldn't have. Refusal would have meant death. Mine and my parents'.
DP: You speak of a mask that you wear. Do you ever show your true face?
Malfoy: How many times have I worn a mask? The mask of a Death Eater. The mask of an obedient son. The mask of a cruel kid at Hogwarts. And now the mask of a reformed, good citizen of the wizarding world. Have I ever allowed anyone to see my true face? Do I myself still remember what it looks like?
Draco felt his hands beginning to tremble. This was impossible. He had never spoken these words. Never. But these were his thoughts, his fears, his nightmares. How could Rita Skeeter know this?
"If you were planning to give such an interview to Skeeter," said Granger in a cool, composed voice, "you could have just told me straight away, instead of stringing me along with false promises."
Her face was now a mask of professional coolness, but Draco saw something more in her eyes—disappointment, which hurt more than anger.
"Granger, I swear, I never..." he began, but she interrupted him, raising her hand.
"Spare me, Malfoy. I thought you had changed, but apparently I was naive. You're still the same lying, manipulating..." she broke off, as if stopping herself from saying something worse. "Never mind. It was a mistake."
She turned on her heel and headed for the door.
"Granger, wait!" he called after her, jumping out of bed. "It's not like that!"
Hermione didn't stop—she left the bedroom, slamming the door so hard that it shook in its frame.
Draco rushed after her, ready to beg her to stay, to listen to his explanations, to believe that he wouldn't betray her trust in this way. He took two steps towards the door when suddenly the awareness of his own nakedness struck him. He looked down and froze—he was completely naked.
Fortunately, the door had already closed behind her. If he had run after her in this state... Draco groaned, covering his face with his hands. That would have been the crowning glory of this nightmarish morning—chasing Hermione Granger through his apartment, naked as the day he was born, begging her to believe that he hadn't betrayed her with Rita Skeeter.
"Damn," he muttered, falling back onto the bed. "Damn, damn, damn."
How could Rita Skeeter know his thoughts? How could she publish things he had never spoken aloud? And, more importantly, how was he to convince Granger that he hadn't betrayed their agreement?
Draco couldn't allow one of the few people who didn't treat him like a former Death Eater (and she perhaps had the greatest right of all to do so) to believe that he was still the same person he had been long ago. Hermione Granger, of all people in the world, was the only one who had given him a chance to prove that he had changed. He couldn't squander that.
Ignoring the pulsating headache, he quickly jumped out of bed and frantically began searching his wardrobe. He pulled on the first pair of trousers he found, and was already buttoning his shirt as he ran to the living room. He didn't even bother with shoes—he grabbed them in his hand, along with his wand, and jumped into the fireplace, shouting her address.
The world swirled around him in a whirl of green flames, and then he landed with a thud in a familiar living room full of plants. He staggered, trying to catch his balance, when suddenly he felt the weight of something that landed directly on his back.
"What the...!" he shouted, reeling under the unexpected attack.
He turned abruptly and came face to face with a massive, ginger creature. Rudy, Hermione's monster cat, was standing on the table by the fireplace, giving him a look that seemed to say: "What are you doing here, intruder?" Apparently he had jumped on Draco's back when Draco appeared in the fireplace.
"Hey, cat," he said cautiously, stepping back. "Easy now. I came to talk to your mistress."
The cat narrowed its eyes, and its tail moved slowly from side to side—a universal feline warning signal. And then, with a grace that was surprising for a creature of its size, it jumped down from the table and rubbed against Draco's legs, leaving a layer of ginger fur on his black trousers.
"Great," he muttered, trying to shake off the hair. "Just great."
He looked around the apartment, but couldn't see Hermione anywhere. She must have been in another room.
"Granger?" he called, moving deeper into the apartment. "Granger, we need to talk!"
Rudy followed him step by step, as if he were a guard watching an intruder. Draco wasn't sure if this was a good sign, or quite the opposite. Perhaps the cat was just waiting for the right moment to bite off his leg?
Following the sounds coming from the depths of the apartment, Draco reached the kitchen and stopped abruptly at the threshold. Granger was standing at the counter, holding a knife in her hand—a sharp, kitchen knife, with which she was cutting some vegetables with surprising precision. In the Muggle way. Without using magic.
Draco felt both surprise and concern. He hadn't expected a witch of her calibre to perform such mundane tasks without the aid of magic. But also—and this was a much more concerning thought—approaching a woman with a knife, especially if that woman was an angry Hermione Granger, seemed an exceptionally unwise idea.
"Ahem," he cleared his throat, stopping at a safe distance.
Granger didn't even look up, continuing to chop a tomato with such ferocity as if she were imagining it was his head.
"Get out," she said only, her voice icy.
"Granger, let me explain," he began, taking a cautious step towards her. "It's not what you think."
"No?" she asked, finally raising her eyes. They were dangerously bright. "Then what is it, Malfoy? Enlighten me. Because from my perspective, it looks like you promised me exclusivity, and then you went and spilled your most personal thoughts to Rita Skeeter. Moreover, you told her things you didn't tell me, even though I thought we were starting... never mind."
She put down the knife—which Draco noted with quiet relief—and crossed her arms over her chest, staring at him expectantly.
"Well?" she asked. "I'm listening to your brilliant explanation."
Rudy, as if sensing the tension, jumped onto the kitchen counter and sat between them, narrowing his eyes first at Draco, then at his owner.
"I didn't talk to Rita Skeeter," he said firmly, though he knew how improbable it sounded. "At least not in the way you think. Yes, she approached me at the banquet when you disappeared. Yes, we talked. But I swear on magic, Granger, I never said those things she wrote in that interview."
"Then how do you explain the fact that she knows your deepest thoughts and fears?" she asked, but her voice had lost some of its edge. "Do you realise how that sounds?"
"I know," he sighed. "It sounds like a poor excuse. But it's the truth. Those words... some of them did cross my mind when I was talking to her. But I never, ever spoke them aloud. Especially not to Rita Skeeter."
She studied him for a moment, as if assessing the truth of his words.
"Tell me exactly what you talked about," she finally demanded, reaching for a cup of tea standing on the counter. "Every word you remember."
Draco took a deep breath and began recounting his conversation with Rita—how she first assured him it was just a casual conversation about the banquet, and then how her questions became increasingly personal and disturbing. With each word, the expression on Granger's face changed—from distrustful to thoughtful, and then to increasingly concerned.
"And then she asked me about loyalty," continued Draco. "About whether people are loyal to the Ministry. It was a strange question at a banquet, but I was drunk and didn't think about it too much. But then she started talking about masks, about whether people hide their true beliefs... and that's when I started thinking about my own masks, about how I've hidden my true feelings all my life."
"And about waking up screaming, feeling the burning of the Dark Mark?" she asked quietly.
Draco felt his face pale. This was something he had never told anyone. Never. Not even his closest friends.
"Yes," he admitted quietly. "But I swear, Granger, I never said it aloud. I just... thought about it when she mentioned the past and present."
She bit her lip, and her eyes suddenly widened, as if she'd realised something.
"Malfoy," she said slowly, "did Rita have a quill with her during your conversation?"
"A Quick-Quotes Quill, yes," he confirmed, trying to recall the details. "Green, shiny. It was scratching on parchment as we talked."
"Not an ordinary Quick-Quotes Quill," she shook her head. "Did you see exactly how it was writing the words? Or did you just notice it moving?"
Draco frowned, trying to remember.
"I wasn't looking at the parchment," he admitted. "I just saw that the quill was moving. Why do you ask?"
Granger put down her cup and began pacing nervously around the kitchen. Rudy followed her with his eyes, turning his head as if watching a tennis match.
"I think she might have used some special quill," she finally said. "Something that can read thoughts, not just record spoken words. It would have to be a very rare, very powerful magical artifact. And certainly illegal."
"Rita Skeeter reading minds," muttered Draco, feeling a mixture of relief and indignation. "Wonderful. Just what I needed."
"If that's true," she said, stopping in front of him, "it means you didn't betray our agreement."
"Of course I didn't betray it!" he exclaimed, then added more quietly: "I would never do that, Granger. Especially not to you."
Their eyes met, and for a moment there was silence between them. Even Rudy became still, as if sensing the change in atmosphere.
"I believe you," she finally said, and Draco felt something heavy lift from his heart.
"I'm sorry you'll have to deal with all this now," she added after a moment, leaning against the kitchen counter. "I hope this interview won't negatively affect your position with the Cannons."
Draco froze. In the fervour of defending his innocence to Granger, he hadn't even thought about the broader consequences of this interview. About how his team would react to all these personal confessions, to these references to Voldemort and Death Eaters. To his nightmares and inner struggles.
But after a moment, he shrugged.
"My reputation was already tarnished after that interview in the Prophet," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "The one where I supposedly declared eternal loyalty to Voldemort. Hard to get a worse light than that."
"This is completely different," she observed. "That interview presented you as an unwavering supporter of the Dark Lord. This shows... well, a person with doubts. Someone who regrets their choices."
"And who wakes up screaming in the middle of the night," he added bitterly. "Great material for a professional athlete."
Granger bit her lip, and her eyes were full of concern that made Draco feel a strange warmth in his chest.
"I didn't want these thoughts to see the light of day," he admitted quietly. "But since it's already happened... well, too bad. Nothing will change that."
"They might finally learn that you're not a two-dimensional cartoon villain," she said with a slight smile. "That you have feelings. That you regret. It might even be... beneficial."
"You think so?" he asked doubtfully.
"People like stories of redemption," she explained. "Of reformed villains. Of second chances."
"Second chances," he repeated, remembering that he had used exactly those words in his conversation with Rita. "Maybe you're right."
Granger smiled at him—it wasn't her full smile, but it wasn't a forced grimace either. Something in between, something authentic. And Draco felt that even if the entire wizarding world read about his nightmares, it was worth it if it meant that Hermione Granger no longer looked at him with anger.
"Well, in any case, she stole all my fame again," sighed Granger, reaching for her tea. "Now no one will want to read my interview with McGonagall after something like this."
"Actually," began Draco, leaning against the doorframe, "I never asked what exactly you bet with Rita Skeeter? You seem very concerned about it."
She rolled her eyes, but a small, mischievous smile appeared on her lips.
"If she loses—and I intend to make sure she does—she'll have to register as an Animagus."
"And what if you lose?" he asked, suddenly curious about the other side of the bet. "What then?"
Granger pressed her lips together and looked away, her cheeks turning slightly pink.
"That's not important," she said stiffly.
"Oh, on the contrary," Draco persisted, now genuinely intrigued. "It must be something really interesting if you don't want to tell me. Come on, Granger. I promise I won't laugh."
"No way," she shook her head. "It's enough that you know I don't intend to lose. That's why I needed your interview, your exclusive interview. Now I'll have to find another way to beat Rita."
Draco looked at her for a moment. She was determined and tenacious, as always when she set herself a goal. The same stubborn Granger he knew from school, now focused on defeating Rita Skeeter at her own game.
"You can still have your interview," he suddenly said, surprising even himself. "An exclusive interview with me. A real one this time."
Granger looked at him doubtfully.
"That would only make sense if you agreed to tell absolutely everything that's on your heart," she said, measuring him with a searching look. "And I honestly doubt you'd want to do that. Consciously and voluntarily."
Draco silently admitted she was right. Voluntarily exposing all his fears, doubts, and regrets? It sounded like his worst nightmare. On the other hand, since it had all come out anyway...
"Besides," she continued, "Rita just published her pseudo-interview with you. If I now wrote a similar one, of course, I would have readers, but everyone would say that I simply stole her topic. It would be like admitting that she's better, that she dictates the terms, and I'm just trying to keep up."
"We could think of something," he proposed, not wanting to so easily abandon the idea of helping. "Something Rita doesn't have. Something exclusive."
"Like what?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I don't know... we could..." he broke off, realising he didn't have a specific idea. "I'm open to suggestions."
She smiled slightly, and a shadow of amusement appeared in her eyes.
"I appreciate the willingness to help, Malfoy, really," she said, putting down her cup. "But now I have to go shopping. Rudy is out of food, and when he's hungry, he gets really unbearable."
At the sound of the word "food," the large ginger cat raised his head and let out a low, vibrating purr that sounded almost like confirmation.
"I can go with you," Draco blurted out, before he could consider the sense of this proposal. "I mean, if you want. We can think about that article on the way."
He cursed himself mentally. What was he doing? Proposing joint shopping with Hermione Granger? As if they were some kind of... friends? Or something more? He wasn't a lovesick idiot who couldn't stand five minutes without her company. Certainly not.
"I'm going to a Muggle supermarket," she said, looking at him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "Do you really want to go there? You, Draco Malfoy, among Muggles buying milk and bread?"
Half an hour later, Draco exited the Tesco supermarket, holding in his hands two plastic bags filled with cat food, milk, bread, and several other products whose names he didn't even know. The experience was... peculiar. He had never before gone shopping without using magic.
"That was... interesting," he admitted, when they were on the pavement.
She smiled, then looked around discreetly and pulled out her wand. She muttered a spell, and the shopping bags disappeared from his hands.
"I sent them to the apartment," she explained, seeing his surprise. "Rudy won't have to wait for his food."
"I could have carried them," he protested, suddenly feeling strangely empty without those plastic bags.
"I'm not done shopping yet," she said, walking along the pavement. "I need to stop by one more place. Come."
Draco followed her, wondering what else she might need. They walked several blocks and finally stopped in front of a small shop with a colourful window display. The sign above the door proclaimed "Winston's Art and Painting Supplies."
"What kind of place is this?" he asked as she opened the door, letting him inside.
"An art supply shop," she replied, as if it were obvious. "I need new brushes and paints for my painting."
Draco remembered the easel he had seen in her apartment—an unfinished painting of Hogwarts. He had no idea that Granger painted. This was another thing he didn't know about her.
The interior of the shop smelled of paint, wood, and something chemical that he couldn't identify. The shelves were filled with colourful tubes, brushes of various sizes, blocks of paper, and dozens of other items whose purposes he could only guess at.
"Hermione!" called the man standing behind the counter as soon as he saw them. He was young—perhaps in his mid-twenties—with dark hair tied in a small ponytail and a friendly smile. "It's been a while since you were here!"
"Hi, Alex," replied Granger, smiling widely. "I've run out of some colours. And I need a new brush, the wide one is falling apart."
"The new Van Goghs that you like just came in," said Alex, coming out from behind the counter. "And I have those special squirrel hair brushes you ordered."
Draco felt an irrational twinge of irritation as he observed how freely they conversed. Clearly, Granger was a frequent visitor here, and this Muggle—Alex—knew her preferences regarding painting supplies. It was disturbing. For some reason.
"Alex, this is Draco," she suddenly introduced him. "Draco, this is Alex, the owner of this shop and my painting teacher."
"Teacher is saying too much," laughed Alex, extending his hand. "I just showed her a few techniques. She has a natural talent."
Draco shook his hand, trying not to look as displeased as he felt. Granger had never mentioned any Alex. Nor painting lessons. Nor that she had a "natural talent." Why would she, really?
"Nice to meet you," he said stiffly.
"I'll have a look around," she said to Alex, then grabbed Draco by the elbow and pulled him into the depths of the shop, between colourful aisles.
He felt a strange warmth where her fingers touched his arm. It was just a touch—a completely innocent, practical gesture—but for some reason his heart sped up as if he had just caught the Snitch after a particularly exciting match.
"These are watercolours," she explained, stopping at a shelf with small, colourful boxes. "I use them for my sketchbook. They give that transparent, light effect."
Draco nodded, pretending to be interested in the paints, though in reality he couldn't tear his eyes away from her face. Her cheeks were slightly flushed with excitement, and her eyes sparkled in a way he had never seen before. Even at Hogwarts, when she answered teachers' questions, she hadn't looked so alive.
"And these are oil paints," she continued, pointing to another shelf. "I use these on canvas. Oh, look at this cobalt! Perfect for Hogwarts towers at dusk."
She pressed a tube of intensely blue paint into his hand. He looked at it with consternation, not knowing what he should do with it.
"And these brushes!" she suddenly exclaimed, moving to another shelf. "Look how soft they are!"
She grabbed one of the brushes and ran it across Draco's cheek, who froze in place.
"Mmm, indeed," he managed to mumble, feeling his cheeks burning. Fortunately, Granger had already moved on, too excited by her treasures to notice his reaction.
"Oh, and I must show you the charcoals!" she said, pulling him further.
He followed her as if in a trance, unable to stop marvelling at how much he enjoyed her company. Not Granger, the know-it-all from Hogwarts, but this Hermione—enthusiastic, passionate about something that had nothing to do with books or magic.
As she leaned over the demonstration table, sketching the outline of Hogwarts with charcoal, Draco caught himself not looking at the drawing at all, but at the way several unruly curls fell onto her face, how she bit her lower lip in concentration, how her fingers skilfully manipulated the piece of charcoal.
"How do you...?" he began, not so much surprised by her skills as by the fact that in seven years at school he had never noticed this talent.
"Years of practice," she smiled, shrugging her shoulders. "I started drawing at Hogwarts, during classes that bored me."
"You? Bored in classes?" he asked, seizing the opportunity to get closer to her under the pretext of getting a better look at the drawing.
"History of Magic, Malfoy," she said, rolling her eyes. "Even I had my limits."
He was now standing so close that he could feel the warmth radiating from her body. Why had he never noticed before how intense her presence was? As if she filled every space she was in, not with her voice or movements, but with her very essence.
"Oh Merlin, they have new Schmincke!" she suddenly exclaimed, pulling him from his thoughts. She grabbed a small box and opened it with such enthusiasm as if it were the most precious treasure. "These are the best watercolours in the world. Look at this indigo! And the burnt sienna!"
Draco watched as she dipped her finger in water and touched one of the blocks, creating an intense, reddish-brown colour. Exactly like her eyes in the light of the setting sun. Not that he had deliberately noticed. It just was.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" she asked, looking at him with such brightness in her eyes that he felt something tighten in his chest.
"Beautiful," he replied quietly, and even in his head he didn't pretend he was talking about the paint.
With each new item she put into his hands, he felt increasingly lost—not in the art supplies, but in the strange feeling that grew within him with each minute spent in her company. It didn't make sense. This was Granger. Who was now smiling at him like a friend and showing him her world with such enthusiasm that he couldn't help but smile back.
"Granger," he finally said, when his hands were already full of strange artistic tools. "Are you planning to buy the entire shop, or just the majority of it?"
Granger turned to him, and he saw how she suddenly realised the absurdity of the situation. She laughed, and the sound made Draco's heart do a strange double contraction. Her laugh was different than at school—more open, less restrained, as if the adult Granger allowed herself more joy than the one he had once known.
"I'm sorry," she said, taking back some of the items from him. "I got a bit carried away. I'm always like this in this shop. It's the only place where I completely lose control of my budget."
"And I thought it would be a bookshop," he muttered, struggling to suppress a smile.
"Oh, there too," she admitted, arranging her chosen items in a small pile. "But in a bookshop I can at least justify every purchase with practical reasons. Here... well, I don't need twelve shades of blue, but I buy them anyway."
Draco looked at the collection of items she had decided to keep. It was much less than she had handed him earlier, but still an impressive amount.
"I think this will do," she said, heading towards the checkout where Alex was waiting with a friendly smile. "For now."
Draco followed her, watching as she talked with Alex, exchanging remarks about some new techniques and materials he had never heard of. Again, he felt that irrational twinge of irritation. Who was this Muggle to Granger? A friend? Something more? Why did the thought of the latter make his hands clench into fists?
Suddenly, he caught a word from their conversation that made all his attention focus on the exchange between Granger and this Muggle.
"...with wine?" asked Alex, smiling warmly at her.
Wine? Was this Muggle just asking Granger on a date while he, Draco Malfoy, was standing right next to them? As if he were invisible? Was this some Muggle custom—inviting women on dates in the presence of other men?
"Sounds great," replied Granger, packing her purchases into a bag. "Same time as last time?"
Last time? So this was some standing arrangement between them? Draco felt something hot and unpleasant spreading in his chest.
"Excuse me," he interjected, unable to help himself. "Are you talking about...?"
"Painting with wine," she explained, looking at him with amusement. "A group of people meets, paints a simple picture under the guidance of an instructor, and sips wine. It's very relaxing."
"And fun," added Alex. "Hermione created quite a good landscape with a lavender field last time. Everyone was impressed."
"Because everyone was already on their second glass," she laughed. "Then every painting looks like a masterpiece."
"Nonsense, yours really was good," Alex denied. "You have a natural talent. And next Friday we'll be painting a sunset over the sea. That's your specialty."
Draco, driven by an impulse whose source he didn't want to analyse too much, cleared his throat and looked directly at Alex.
"Sounds interesting," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I think I might drop by as well."
The moment these words left his mouth, Draco immediately regretted his decision. What on earth had he come up with? He couldn't paint! The last time he had held a brush in his hand was during Transfiguration lessons at Hogwarts, when they were learning to change the colour of objects.
But before he could withdraw from this absurd proposition, Granger's face lit up in a way that made words catch in his throat.
"That's a great idea, Malfoy!" she said, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "I always say that painting is an excellent way to relieve stress. And you could certainly do with some destressing."
"I'm putting you on the list," added Alex, taking out a notebook from behind the counter. "Painting with wine, Friday, six-thirty. Payment on entry, twenty-five pounds, includes all materials and two glasses of wine."
Pounds? Draco had no idea how much that was in Galleons, but he nodded as if he perfectly understood Muggle currency. He hoped Granger would help him with this... detail. And with every other detail related to this evening, which with each second seemed like an increasingly worse idea.
"It'll be fun," she said as they left the shop onto the sun-drenched pavement. "I never thought I'd see Draco Malfoy at a Muggle wine and paint night."
"Life is full of surprises, Granger," he replied, trying to sound confident, though internally he was panicking at the thought of sitting in a room full of Muggles trying to paint.
They walked towards her apartment, and Draco couldn't help but notice how the sun reflected in her hair, creating golden highlights among the brown curls. She looked... different than at school. More relaxed, less tense. As if being an adult suited her.
"Well, until Friday," she said when they reached her building. "I'll come by around six, all right? The gallery is nearby, but you might get lost if you go alone."
"Fine," he agreed, though the thought of Granger coming to his apartment evoked a strange feeling in his stomach. "Until Friday."
She looked at him for another moment, as if she wanted to add something, but finally just smiled slightly and disappeared behind the door.
Draco stood still for a moment, staring at the closed door, and then Apparated to his apartment.
"What on earth have I done?" he groaned, collapsing onto the sofa and covering his face with his hands.
Painting. With Muggles. Drinking wine and pretending he knew what he was doing. All of this to... what exactly? To not leave Granger alone with this Alex? Draco shook his head, trying to rid himself of that thought. He was simply curious. Yes, that was the appropriate word. Curious about Muggle customs. It had nothing to do with the fact that Granger looked adorable when she was excited about her paints, nor with how her eyes sparkled when she talked about painting, nor with how her laugh sounded like...
"Merlin, I really have gone mad," he muttered, getting up from the sofa and heading to the kitchen to find something stronger to drink than tea.
Friday. Painting with wine. With Granger and a bunch of Muggles.
Lady_Anakin on Chapter 1 Mon 08 Sep 2025 03:20PM UTC
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