Other Halves

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/48018712.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Harry Potter, Ginny
Weasley, Ron Weasley, Original Characters, Narcissa Black Malfoy,
Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson
Additional Tags: Post-War, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts
Professors, Angst, POV Alternating, POV Hermione Granger, POV
Draco Malfoy, Pining Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Theodore
Nott Friendship, Ron Weasley Bashing, Angst and Fluff and Smut,
Eventual Smut, HEA, Some Plot, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley,
Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Hermione Granger, Professor
Theodore Nott, Good Parent Narcissa Black Malfoy, Mental Health
Issues, Eventual Supportive Harry Potter, Explicit Sexual Content,
Trauma, Ron Gets a Redemption Arc, Alcohol abuse (minor character),
Draco Malfoy Has a Large Cock, Light Dom/sub, Harry Potter Being an
Asshole, Praise Kink, Minor Pansy Parkinson/Original Character, Sexual
Roleplay, Edging, Semi-Public Sex, Loss of Parent(s)
Language:
🖤❤️
English
Collections: all-time greatest Dramione , For The Dramione Reader,
LoveStoriesfortheLovers, Dramioneotp, My Favorite Dramione, Fave
Fics to Reread Over and Over
Stats: Published: 2023-06-20 Completed: 2023-07-12 Words: 155,362
Chapters: 37/37
 Other Halves
by westxnorthwest

Summary

Hermione is returning to Hogwarts, this time as a professor of Muggle Studies. It had been
four years since the Battle of Hogwarts and she was more than ready to reclaim her life as her
own, rather than living under the pressures of being part of the Golden Trio. Her personal life
might be somewhat in shambles, but she’s willing to forge her own future and put herself
first, for the first time in her life.

Little does she know, Draco Malfoy is beginning his tenure as a professor this year too. Her
complicated feelings as they pertain to the Malfoy heir resurface as she tries to navigate
them, her failing relationship with Ron, and the infancy of her career.

***

COMPLETED WORK | Author’s Note:

This is, first and foremost, a love story. Mind the tags, but this is not a dark tale, just a few…
less sunny moments. You’ll have some fluff, some angst, some (hopefully) really good smut,
and, of course, some plot to carry us along.

Tags have been updated to reference important themes, even if they only feature briefly, and
chapters will contain relevant content warnings. If I’ve missed one, please let me know! This
story developed into its own as I wrote and posted.
 Returning Home

Hermione’s hands were coated in sweat as she traipsed up the path from Hogsmeade to the
castle. It wasn’t the first time she’d been back at Hogwarts since completing her eighth year
after the war ended. Merlin, it wasn’t even the first time she’d be back this month . But this
would be the first time entering these halls as a professor, something she hadn’t even realized
she wanted until after her gap-year.

She’d spent so much time of her childhood, her schooling years, bracing for impact under the
threat that was Voldemort. While preparing for O.W.L. exams, she was helping Harry and the
Order convince the Ministry and the rest of the wizarding world that Voldemort had returned
to power.

Her first year as a N.E.W.T. level student was even more harrowing, learning the existence of
Horcruxes and ultimately signaling the start of the war.

While other students from years past had the luxury to dedicate their efforts into their studies
and determine their career paths, Hermione and the Golden Trio were fixed in battle for the
fight of man-kind. As dramatic as that sounded, as a Muggleborn witch, that was the reality.
The world she was born into, the one her blood-line came from, where she was raised until
receiving her Hogwarts letter, was under attack. Because Voldemort’s goal was to rid the
world of what he believed to be less-than.

After the Battle of Hogwarts, it took almost a year to clear up the aftermath. Trials were held,
Death Eaters were sent to Azkaban, others were afforded probation and house arrest if they
weren’t as complicet. The process was arduous, but Harry wanted to be a part of it, being the
Chosen One and all that. He felt there was duty on his part, and with that, came justice, but
also mercy for those who deserved it. Hermione and Ron sat by his side while he debated
with the Wizengamot over the fates of hundreds of Voldemort’s followers.

Ron was less than helpful, insisting that the lot of them get what they deserve. What he
lacked in compassion and empathy, Hermione made up for it. It caused horrendous fights
between the two of them, because as he saw it, all of their actions were a personal affront to
her as a Muggleborn.

Hermione, however, said they were no better than the Death Eaters by assigning all of them
to the same fate. Harry, always being less hot-headed than Ron, took her side. Thus ensuing
months of trials for those facing war crimes.

At the culmination of the exhaustive post-war process, Ron and Harry dove straight in to
Auror training and Hermione was filled with such an emptiness, she could hardly cope. She
had already planned to complete her schooling, Hogwarts being rebuilt during the aftermath,
and while she was surrounded by familiar faces, the corridors felt despondently empty.

When Hermione finished her N.E.W.T.s and Headmistress McGonagall pulled her aside to
ask her what her plans were for the future, Hermione froze. For the first time in her
recollection, the Golden Girl didn’t know the answer to a question.
She panicked, not knowing what direction her life was going in, and had a full blown anxiety
attack. McGonagall had to give her two doses of a calming draught before Hermione’s breath
regained a normal cadence and her face was streaked with tears.

“Dear,” the Headmistress said in a soothing voice, a stark contrast to the stern tone she
typically used, “there is no hurry. The world will be waiting for you until you decide.”

It wasn’t until half a bottle of Firewhiskey and a vicious argument with Ron later that evening
that Hermione decided she was taking a gap-year in America to figure it out.

“You can’t just leave me!” He’d roared, throwing his glass against the fireplace at Grimmauld
Place, where Harry had chosen to live after the war. “Don’t be daft, Hermione. You belong
here, with me. You said you wanted to be an Auror!”

“You wanted me to be an Auror, Ronald! Not me!” Hermione had yelled back, face red and
curls wild in yet another screaming match with her boyfriend. “Did you ever think to ask me
what I actually wanted to do? Or are you too caught up in your own head that you just
assumed I’d follow you to the ends of the earth?”

“Don’t!” He spat, “You were the one who said we’d be making a difference. That the three of
us would stick together and make the world a better place. And now you’re telling me you
want to leave me? For a whole bloody year so you can fuck off in another continent?”

Hermione remembered how scared she was, seeing Ron so angry. He’d lashed out on her
before, a few times. His own issues with self-worth and jealousy often reared their head when
they argued, but until that moment, she’d never felt afraid of what Ronald Weasley would do
to her.

“I need to figure this out for myself, Ronald.” Hermione said quietly, shrinking herself
against the wall. She was never one to cower before, and she hated herself in that moment.
The proud Gryffindor, the Golden Girl, shirking away like a violet from her drunk, angry
boyfriend.

“Sod off, don’t expect me to be waiting for you when you return then.”

Those were the last words he’d said to her before she left. She silently packed her belongings
and slipped away, staying at the Leaky Cauldron until her passport had been renewed. Part of
her plan for her gap-year was to spend as much time as possible in the Muggle world, which
included travel requirements.

Hermione had held on to so much grief from Obliviating her parents before the war, she
wanted to live an authentic Muggle life, at least as much as she could manage, to try and feel
some connection to them. Because all they knew now was the Muggle world. No more ties to
their magical daughter that they didn’t even remember they had.

Her year abroad didn’t do much to abate the heaviness in her heart, but it did give her a sense
of direction. After she returned, despite how strained things were with Ron, she enrolled in a
mastery program for teaching and was now starting at Hogwarts as the new professor of
Muggle Studies. Her goal was to further secure the bond between Muggles and wizards, in
hopes to never repeat the horrors that came from Voldemort and his rampant obsession with
blood purity.

As she walked through the gates to enter the Hogwarts grounds and up the familiar path to
the main entrance, her nerves increased tenfold. Headmistress McGonagall had her come see
her in her office a few times over the summer to discuss her plans to return, but it was a few
nights before the start of term and all of the faculty was expected to attend a welcome feast.
Despite knowing many of the remaining professors, unease was still churning low in her
belly.

Her boots clicked on the stone floors, echoing through the chamber as she approached the
doors. The sound of laughter and conversation could be heard through the heavy wood, but
Hermione still paused, taking a deep breath before gripping the handle to pull the door open.

“It’s okay,” she told herself. “You’ve done this countless times, and tonight is no different.”
Hermione shook her head as if to dislodge the intrusive thoughts manually.

Finding her Gryffindor courage, she pulled open the doors and walked inside.

The usual four long tables reserved for students in their houses were gone, and in its place
was one long table in the center of the room. The place settings were already out, but food
hadn’t appeared and no one was seated. Instead, professors, Hermione’s new colleagues,
mingled about the room with drinks in their hands. Hermione noticed along one wall a large
bar made of oak filled to the brim with various bottles of wine and other spirits. It had been
enchanted to pour libations whenever someone would walk up to request something.

“Professor Granger!” A familiar voice boomed from her right moments after she entered the
hall. “So lovely to see you, I was wondering when you’d arrive.” Professor Slughorn walked
towards her with arms wide open, bracing her in a tight hug. It was an odd sensation,
considering she never would have received a hug from a professor while she was a student.

But it had been four years since she last sat in his dungeon classroom, brewing potions.

“Hello Professor Slughorn, it’s lovely to see you again.” Hermione gave him a tight-lipped
smile when he released her.

“Please,” he waved away her formality, “Call me Horace. I insist. Would you care for a
drink?” He wasted no time in leading her over to the bar and ordered himself another
Firewhiskey and water. The bottle tipped over into a crystal glass on its own accord before
the glass filled the rest of the way with water.

“Red wine, please” Hermione said towards the bar. Despite living in the magical world for so
long, it was still a little odd ordering a drink from…well, no one. But the message got across
and a deep red liquid filled a waiting wineglass before levitating over into Hermione’s hand.

“I dare say, I was remiss to find out you were taking over the position of Muggle Studies,”
Slughorn said as they moved slowly through the room.
“And why is that, Horace?” Hermione asked with a bite to her voice. Despite how much
she’d learned under his tutelage as a potions professor, she recalled the few comments he’d
made when he returned to Hogwarts in her sixth year. How she was so talented, especially for
being a Muggleborn .

It wasn’t outright prejudice, but it was still the underlying thought that Muggleborns couldn’t
be as adept as other wizards and witches.

“Well quite frankly, my dear, I was holding out hope you’d take over as Potions Master.”
Slughorn said matter-of-factly, nodding and waving in the direction of Professor Sprout.

Hermione almost choked on her wine, not expecting that response. “I didn’t realize you were
planning on retiring,” she admitted, feeling ashamed of her initial defensiveness.

“Oh yes,” he said, eyes still roaming the room. “This year will be my last. I mean it this time,
another war itself won’t pull me out of retirement. I told the Headmistress that I was looking
for an apprentice, someone to train under me for a year, so I could finally pack away my
robes and spend my days on a beach in St. Thomas. When I got word you had completed
your mastery program and would be returning to teach, I was hoping it would be for Potions.
Although, you could have your pick of any subject here and would do exceptionally well.”

Hermione beamed under his praise. The validation she’d always received in school for being
an exemplary student never failed to warm her.

“Well, Horace, I appreciate the compliment, but my heart truly lies in Muggle Studies. There
is still so much work to be done in the cooperation of Magical and Muggle worlds, but I feel
teaching our next generations about the world of Muggles is an important start. However,”
she said, taking another swallow of wine and feeling herself relax with every sip, “I am just
grateful for the opportunity to be back here in these halls.”

“Spoken like a true academic, Granger.” He patted Hermione on the arm and smiled warmly
at her.

“Attention!” Headmistress McGonagall’s voice rang through the room, “Dinner will be
served momentarily, please take your seats at the table.”

The energy in the room shifted as everyone made their way towards the long table in the
center of the room. Hermione noticed as she got closer there were placards for each person to
indicate where they were to sit. Her eyes flitted over the name cards until she found hers:

H.Granger
Muggle Studies

Right between A. Cohen, who she knew to be Atlas Cohen, the Transfiguration professor and
current Head of House for Gryffindor, and P. Sprout. At least she would be sat between two
people who she was quite comfortable with.

Atlas Cohen had attended Hogwarts some years ago and taught Transfiguration at Ilvermorny
for a number of years until Headmistress McGonagall took over, leaving both her teaching
position and Head of House role vacant. His first year teaching happened to be during
Hermione’s last year of schooling.

“Evening, Hermione,” Atlas said when he took his seat next to hers. His salt and pepper hair
was styled perfectly and the wrinkles dashed around the corners of his eyes were all the more
prominent when he smiled. He reminded her of her father, of what he might look like now, or
in a few years from now as he aged. Always full of joy and life.

“Hello, Atlas,” Hermione said, stumbling a little bit over the use of his first name. She
regarded him highly, only second to McGonagall herself, and it felt a little strange to consider
they were now equals when just years ago, he was mentoring her through N.E.W.T.
examinations.

Hermione took the time while everyone else was settling into their chairs to take stock of
other familiar faces. This would be the first time seeing all of the faculty in one place.

She immediately recognized Professor Vector and Professor Babbling, both still teaching
Arithmancy and Ancient Runes respectively. Professor Trelawney was also present, as was
Professor Danielson, an American who took over History of Magic when old Professor Binns
decided to finally quit teaching, despite having died a number of years prior. Professor
Sinistra, the Astronomy professor, was still around, too.

A few faces were missing, Hermione knew. Professor Flitwick had passed away two years
prior, a sad affair, leaving the Charms position and the Head of Ravenclaw House behind,
along with his legacy. Hermione sobbed quietly at his funeral, recalling all of the things he
taught her and encouraged in her when she was a young witch still getting used to using
magic, let alone coming to grips with its existence.

Hagrid’s absence was obvious as well, the half giant groundskeeper and Care of Magical
Creatures professor, but she knew he was still teaching. More than likely, there was some
creature or plant that needed his attention.

And there was the ever present question of who was teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts.
That position hadn’t held a single professor for longer than a year the entire time Hermione
had attended Hogwarts. In her eighth year, the course hadn’t been offered at all, despite it
being a standard requirement for students at Hogwarts.

Hermione perused the table for new faces, trying to determine who would be filling those two
roles. She saw an older, plump woman with gray hair loose and wild around her face
laughing along with Professor Vector. She wore a bright blue dress underneath her robes and
Hermione immediately assumed she was Head of Ravenclaw, given the color choice.

Her eyes roved down the table, landing briefly on an empty seat next to Slughorn, and then
over to her side. She craned her neck slightly to look past Professor Sprout who was engaged
in a rapt conversation with Madam Pince, the librarian who sat across from her, and spotted a
shock of curly hair she instantly recognized.

Theodore Nott was seated at the table and looking right back at her.
Hermione wondered how she’d missed Nott earlier, but truthfully, she hadn’t had much time
to explore the room after being pulled into conversation with Slughorn the moment she
arrived. Nott’s green eyes looked at her knowingly and his lips pulled up into a slight smile
before he offered her the slightest tilt of his head in greeting. Hermione returned it with one
of her own.

Hermione personally never had an issue with Nott. He was brilliant, one of the smartest in
their class, and rather quiet. A Slytherin through and through, though, who spent most of his
free time with the likes of Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini. The sons of Death Eaters, Death
Eaters themselves if all the rumors were true. Hermione knew Malfoy had taken the Dark
Mark, but Zabini and Nott were never confirmed. They never stood trial.

Hermione and Nott had even ran into each other a few times over the course of her mastery,
and he shared with her that he wanted to teach Charms, ideally in another country. She had a
sneaking suspicion it had to do with the notoriety the name Nott had these days.

The Headmistress stood from her spot at the head of the table and the room quieted. Her eyes
flicked to the empty seat and her lips formed a tight line that disappeared as quickly as it had
appeared.

“Welcome, faculty and staff of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” she said, her
voice carrying through the quiet halls. “While it appears we’re still short one professor, I’ll
just begin by saying, I am looking forward to this term immensely.”

Just as she finished that sentence, the doors to the Great Hall opened and everyone’s heads
snapped towards the sound. A figure in a dark cloak, soaked with rain, stepped into the hall.
Their shoes could be heard walking across the floor and Hermione stifled a gasp when they
lowered their hood.

Silver blonde hair, styled to perfection as always, emerged first. Angular cheekbones and a
strong jaw, dusted with a bit of stubble only barely visible from the flickering candles, and
steel gray eyes.

Draco Malfoy.

“Apologies, Headmistress, I know I’m rather late. I hope I didn’t miss much.” Malfoy’s voice
lacked the sneering tone it had always carried in his youth, but the deep timber of it settled
right into Hermione’s bones.

She couldn’t explain the way seeing him here, in the Great Hall, made her feel. Or understand
why he was here. Logically, she knew why. But her mind wasn’t making sense of the
information. This was a welcome dinner for Hogwarts professors. So why on earth was
Draco Malfoy present?
 Familiar Faces

“It’s quite alright, Professor Malfoy. Please take your seat,” McGonagall said in a tone
Hermione knew well. Usually, it was reserved to chastise students for misbehaving, the glint
in her eyes telling her she wholeheartedly did not approve.

But what was she going to do, take five points from Slytherin for his tardiness? They weren’t
children anymore.

Malfoy at least had the sense to look embarrassed, a faint pink tinting his cheeks as he gave
her a polite nod and headed towards the empty seat next to Slughorn. She couldn’t take her
eyes off of him as he pulled out the chair and sat silently, giving Nott a smirk and a head nod.

Hermione’s chest began to ache. She curled her hands into fists, nails digging little divots
into her palms. What she wouldn’t do for a calming draught right now. Or a double shot of
whiskey.

Learning to deal with the anxiety and panic attacks since the war ended was a struggle, but
one Hermione had a semblance of control over. There were breathing exercises. Mediation.
Crying, if the environment suited it. Draughts and charms when it became too overwhelming.
But none of those were appropriate right now.

A flurry of emotions ran through her. Malfoy belittling her and putting her down over the
years. His responsibility in the death of Albus Dumbledore. Actively plotting to bring down
Harry. Becoming a Death Eater. Sitting idly by while his aunt carved ‘mudblood’ into her
arm, lying on the floor of his family’s manor.

The look of pain and regret as his world crumbled around him, realizing he’d been on the
losing side all along. How quickly Voldemort turned on the Malfoys when they were no
longer useful to him. His trial, Hermione pleading with Harry to show him mercy. To not
allow him to rot in Azkaban. Advocating, telling him that Malfoy was a product of his
environment and he should get the chance to prove he could be different.

Because there were other moments, ones that no one saw, few and far between, when Malfoy
let his walls drop and Hermione was lucky enough to see them. She didn’t know if that meant
he had redeeming qualities or not. He’d still killed people, still actively participated in the
war. But she also had this sick fascination with the beautiful boy, as a teenager, and she
wasn’t willing to let him rot in a prison surrounded by Dementors.

Malfoy didn’t look in Hermione’s direction, it was as if she wasn’t in the room at all.

“Now that everyone has arrived, I will begin again. Welcome, Professors.” McGonagall
smiled down the table and everyone clapped lightly.

“Before we go over my expectations for you this term, I want to take the time to introduce
everyone. Now, now,” she said when Slugohrn released a long sigh, “this may seem trivial for
our more tenured staff, but I want all of our new faculty to know who their colleagues will be
this year, so Horace, pack it in.” McGonagall snapped, but her lips were turned upward in a
smile.

She started with the Heads of House, Professors Cohen, Sprout, and Slughorn, Hermione
already knew. The older witch, Professor Ambrose, was in fact the Head of Ravenclaw House
and the current Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

Headmistress McGonagall went through the remaining professors, all whom Hermione knew
well from her time as a student. “And finally,” she concluded, “we have three new professors
joining us this term.” She smiled warmly at Hermione.

“Professor Hermione Granger, our new Muggle Studies professor,” she stated and Hermione
swore she heard a low chuckle from down the table.

Deep breath. She reminded herself and focused her attention on the others around her,
clapping quietly and raising their glasses towards her. Atlas nudged her with his elbow,
beaming at her like a proud father.

“Professor Theodore Nott, taking over in Charms after Professor Delmonte has decided to
return to Chile to be with his family,” McGonagall said, and similar applause and kudos
followed.

“And, as an apprentice Potions Master, Professor Draco Malfoy.” She nodded towards Draco
and along with the same reaction from the others, Slughorn clapped him on the shoulder
loudly.

“My boy!” He exclaimed, beaming. Draco’s head was tipped down, but Hermione could see
the smile on his face, even though it appeared he was trying to hide it. He clearly wasn’t used
to accepting the praise.

“Yes,” the Headmistress continued as the chatter died down. “We are pleased to have all three
of them join us here in this capacity, given they are former students themselves. I think we
can expect great things from all three of them, and I hope you’ll join me in guiding them as
they learn what it takes to truly mold the minds of our next generation.

“As you know, the term starts in three days. Students will be arriving on the evening of the
first of September, and I expect all of you to be here no later than four in the afternoon that
day. Those of you who have not received information for your accommodations, or those
who have requested changes, should expect them to come via owl by tomorrow morning.

“Lesson plans are due in my office the first of every month,” she continued, which was met
with a few grumbles, “despite the tedious nature of the task, it is necessary to ensure we stay
on track with the course work. Adjustments may be requested as I see fit. Furthermore, we
are implementing a new policy as it relates to student detention. Detentions will be held in
the Great Hall following dinner every evening, and there will be a rotation for two professors
to be present during the hour. Gone are the days of unsupervised detentions to punish our
students. You may assign essay work, or they can work on other course work, but I will
emphasize that manual labor is not a suitable form of behavior correction.” Her eyes snapped
to Professor Ambrose who just laughed in response.
“You make one second-year clean out Grindylow tanks and it ruins the whole game.”

“Cordelia, he vomited all over the classroom and then had to clean that up as well, without
magic. It hardly seems reasonable,” McGonagall chided, clearly not as amused as Ambrose
was. “My school will not be run in that manner. Now that that’s settled, please, tuck in, and
enjoy your meal.”

Food appeared instantly on the table, a multitude of dishes. Roast duck, grilled chicken, some
decadent smelling fish, steamed vegetables and fresh rolls that made Hermione’s mouth
water. She had missed the food at Hogwarts, especially after living a low-budget life. While
she was completing her mastery, she also worked part time at the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon
Alley to earn a little extra money. The first few years of Auror training didn’t pay well but
Ron contributed what he could, and despite Harry insisting that she and Ron not struggle, and
to use his insurmountable wealth, she refused. That meant many nights of noodles, plain
tomato sauce, and whatever meat she could scrounge up.

Hermione ate until she felt the waistband on her skirt pressing into her belly and her cheeks
were flushed and warm from the two additional glasses of wine she’d had. The conversation
surrounding her was easy and effortless, and despite the feeling that there were eyes boring
into the side of her head numerous times throughout the evening, she refused to look down at
the other end of the table where Malfoy sat.

When dinner disappeared and dessert materialized in front of her, Hermione was too full to
eat another bite and placed her napkin on her plate while Atlas grabbed a heaping portion of
pudding and regaled their section of the table with tales of his backpacking trip through the
Canadian wilderness over the summer.

“I was looking for a damn Sasquatch! Was thinking of some way to, you know, capture one
or something for Hagrid,” he said with a hiccup as he took another sip of the clear liquid in
his glass.

“Good lord, Atlas, you truly thought a Sasquatch would be appropriate to bring back onto the
grounds?” McGonagall snapped, shaking her head.

“Well,” he said, swallowing a mouthful of pudding, “I hadn’t thought that far. Just thought
he’d appreciate it. But they’re elusive bastards, aren’t they?” He laughed a deep laugh that
took over his whole face.

“Oh now, Headmistress, a Sasquatch would hardly be the worst thing ever brought into the
grounds. Need I remind you of the actual giant he kept in the Forbidden Forest in my fifth
year?” Hermione grinned.

“Do not remind me, Granger. Hagrid is already pushing the boundaries enough with the
beasts he calls ‘exciting’, his definition of exciting being very different from mine, thank you
very much. Next time you want to go hunting for a rare creature, Atlas, bring Hagrid with
you instead of coming up with some harebrained idea to try and bring it back here.”
McGonagall said sternly, but there was still a lightness to her voice. Hermione always
enjoyed seeing her like that, slightly more relaxed and clearly enjoying Atlas’ antics.
The night continued with more laughter than Hermione could remember having in a long
time, and as the candles sank lower, everything seemed to be coming to an end. She was
anticipating the walk back to Hogsmeade, back to the Three Broomsticks pub where she’d be
able to use Floo powder to return to the flat in Diagon Alley she shared with Ron, but as the
dessert was cleared and dishes gone, McGonagall offered her own fireplace for Hermione to
use.

“I don’t like the idea of you walking back alone, Granger,” she said with a gentle hand on her
arm.

“Oh, isn’t everyone heading back out of the grounds?” Hermione had asked.

“I’d imagine not, most of them are already moved into their accommodations. Just use my
office, it’s no trouble.” McGonagall smiled at her warmly and led Hermione towards the
door.

Hermione followed, passing Malfoy and Slughorn still seated at the table, engaged in what
looked like a serious conversation. Slughorn was saying something to him and Malfoy was
listening with rapt attention. As she passed, Hermione couldn’t help but watch him, the
intensity of his furrowed brow, nodding along to what Slughorn was saying. His chin was
resting on his fist and the silver of the rings he wore on his fingers glinted in the waning
candlelight. Despite her complicated feelings towards him, she could admit how attractive of
a man he was.

Malfoy’s eyes snapped to hers as she walked passed, his gaze intense as ever, but his
expression didn’t change. Where she’d almost expected a sneer, a look of disgust, she was
met with something…different. Like he was studying her. Hermione averted her eyes quickly,
feeling her cheeks warm even more in embarrassment from being caught staring.

She dutifully followed McGonagall out of the Great Hall and up the familiar path to the
Headmistress’s office to return back home, pushing all thoughts of Draco Malfoy out of her
mind.
 Battle Wages On
Chapter Notes

Content warning: alcohol abuse, depictions of toxic relationship/emotional manipulation

(there is Ron-bashing here)

Note on the Ron bashing, it is not my intention to denigrate his addiction, rather, his
overall behavior. Addiction is a sensitive topic for many, and features a few times in this
tale but in no way do I consider that specific part of Ron’s story “Ron bashing”. He just
kind of sucks overall.

As soon as Hermione stepped through the hearth, the tension was thick in the air. She
assumed as much, as that was the standard setting these days, but she was hoping, praying ,
that tonight would be different. She dusted off the soot from her robes before taking them off
to hang on the coat rack near the fireplace.

“Ron?” Hermione called out into the small flat. There wasn’t much space, just a small living
room that bled into the old kitchen, a bathroom, and their bedroom. She could see candlelight
filtering in through the doorway, knowing Ron would be there. That’s where he usually was.

“Ronald? I’m home!” She called again after she didn’t receive a response. Maybe he was
asleep.

Hermione slipped off her boots and set them next to the front door and went into the kitchen
for a glass of water. The wine had made her head a little fuzzy and she was admittedly tipsy,
but still had her faculties about her. Her feet crunched on something when she stepped over to
the cabinet to get a glass and she felt a sharp sting.

“Shit,” she cursed, waving her wand at the sconce on the wall to illuminate the room. There
was broken glass all over the floor and she had stepped right on it, her foot bleeding through
her black stockings. “God damn it, Ronald Weasley,” she hissed under her breath. A quick
reparo righted the broken glass Ron must have dropped and Hermione placed it in the sink.
She finished with a healing spell on her foot and final cleaning spell for the blood.

Frustrated, Hermione filled her glass with water and stomped into the bedroom.

Ron was sitting on the overstuffed armchair by the window, having moved it so it overlooked
Diagon Alley, a bottle with amber liquid lazily hanging from his fingertips. She could tell by
his posture he was definitely awake, and that just made her angrier.

“Did you not hear me calling you?” She asked with more venom than was probably
necessary.
“How was your dinner ?” He sneered, not bothering to turn to look at her.

This is how it always was with him now. Anger. Spiteful words and hateful tones. She
couldn’t remember the last time they had a civil discussion, let alone the last time they
touched.

Hermione strode across the room and perched on the settee under the window. She used to
love this spot, curling up with a book in the afternoon sun, when she was afforded the time
between training and work. But now, everything in their bedroom was cloaked in darkness.

“It was fine. What have you done today?” She asked, eying the bottle in his hand and taking
stock of her boyfriend. In the moonlight, she couldn’t see his eyes but didn’t need to in order
to know they were bleary and bloodshot. The purple rings underneath them looked even
darker in contrast, and his red hair hung limply over his forehead, in desperate need of a
wash. He reeked of booze.

“How’s Atlas ?” He deflected again, refusing to answer the question. He didn’t need to,
Hermione already knew.

Eighteen months ago, Harry and Ron were on a job in Finland, part of their training, with a
senior Auror. Ron had made a foolish mistake, fueled by his own hubris and need to outshine
Harry. It resulted in the senior Auror being injured and botched the extraction for a Dark
magic artifact, and Ron was sidelined. They determined he wasn’t quite ready for field
missions, but would be able to resume them after additional training and some counseling.

Ron, instead, took to the bottle. He’d somehow managed to function enough to keep his desk
job for about seven months, but after he showed up drunk and passed out at his desk at nine
in the morning, they kicked him out of the program.

Harry had tried to help him through it, urging him to get sober, but Ron had directed all of his
anger towards his best friend. Ginny stopped speaking to him, and no amount of pleading
from the rest of the Weasleys amounted to anything.

Hermione should have left then, if not sooner.

Instead, she promised Harry and Molly and Arthur that she’d help him, she’d be able to take
care of him. That led to countless nights of pulling him off of barstools in pubs, levitating
him to bed when he passed out in the middle of the living room, cleaning up piss and vomit
when he couldn’t make it to the bathroom. When she wasn’t cleaning up his mess, she was
his emotional punching bag.

It infuriated her to see her grow so weak, to not stand up for herself, but there was a part of
her that still held on to Ron. He wasn’t her first love, but their bond was forged in blood and
battle. After the Battle of Hogwarts, they started officially dating. From the beginning, the
chemistry wasn’t quite there, but she attributed it to the fact that they were friends for so
long, she couldn’t expect a big romantic love, like she had with Viktor Krum, however brief
it was.

Their love was different, and it was okay. The Golden Trio was still together.
“Atlas is fine, Ronald. Honestly, when are you going to get over whatever imaginary issues
you have with the man? It’s tiresome.” Hermione huffed, sipping her water.

“I see the way the fucker looks at you,” he snapped, finally turning to look at her. “And how
you look at him. Don’t insult me, Hermione.”

Hermione scoffed. This was another regular fight of theirs. When she was in her eighth year,
and Atlas, then referred to as Professor Cohen, had suggested her name for Head Girl, Ron’s
ridiculous jealousy overshadowed any excitement, instead assuming he just wanted to get
into her skirts. Harry talked him off the ledge that time, assuring Ron that he’d met Cohen
himself, and that Hermione would never cheat on him.

Their arguments these days ranged in variety, but always came back to one thing: Ron telling
Hermione that she couldn’t leave him. When she went on her gap-year, he all but tried to
chain her to the bed. When she began her mastery program to become a professor, he fought
with her daily, saying that teaching at Hogwarts would take up too much of her time, that he
would miss her too much. It was possessive, needy.

He used to tell her that he loved her too much, that being apart for months at a time was too
hard for him. He’d lost so much in the war.

But Hermione had lost so much, too. Her parents. Her future. She put everything on hold to
help Harry, the Chosen One, and never once thought of doing anything but that. It wasn’t a
question, of course she’d help. To the point of erasing everything about her identity aside
from being a witch. A Gryffindor. The Golden Girl.

For her own mental health, Hermione couldn’t be Ron’s crutch. She knew it was selfish, but
she’d deserved a bit of selfish behavior, hadn’t she? Besides, how could Hermione be
expected to be there to take care of anyone when she couldn’t even take care of herself?

That’s what led to her decision to go to America for a year, enter the program to become a
professor, and start teaching at Hogwarts. For the first time since she could remember, this is
what she wanted, not influenced by anyone else’s opinions or needs.

And it cost her relationship with Ron. Maybe it wasn’t the only thing, but it was the catalyst
that helped send him down this spiral. He’d been repressing years of feeling inadequate,
coupled with the sheer grief of losing his brother, and an outright refusal to confront his
problems. Hermione had pleaded with him to see a Mind Healer, or at the very least, confide
in his family, his brothers and sister, because they lost Fred too… but Ron insisted he was
fine.

She felt trapped, unhappy and unfulfilled in this relationship with the man she was once
convinced she’d marry. The more distance that grew between them, gaping like a chasm in
the earth now, she realized that Ron was nothing more than a tie to her past, not someone she
wanted in her future. She just lacked the gall to cut the strings.

How fucking disappointing.

Hermione steeled her eyes at Ron, his unfocused gaze flitting between her and the floor. He
tipped the bottle up to his lips and took a long swallow. Hermione balled her fists and took a
steadying breath to keep herself from saying something she’d ultimately regret. Especially
when he was drunk.

“Go to sleep, Ronald. I’m not doing this tonight.” Hermione stood from her spot and left the
room. She didn’t bother grabbing a bag, and Ron didn’t bother to try and stop her from
leaving.

Once Hermione left the flat and stood in the crisp autumn air outside, she pulled out her wand
and apparated into the night.

She didn’t bother knocking when she arrived outside of Grimmauld Place. It was late, but
Harry and Ginny had enchanted the lock to allow Hermione entrance whenever she arrived,
much like having her own house key. All she needed to do was tap her wand against the knob
and it opened for her in welcome. Hermione rushed inside, grateful to get out of the cool air
considering she didn’t even bother to grab a coat before leaving the flat.

The house was dark, clearly Ginny and Harry were asleep. Harry had done a great deal to
remove the numerous portraits that covered the walls when he officially moved in,
eliminating all traces of the Black family. He and Ginny also took care to decorate, replacing
the dark, gloomy interior with a welcoming neutral palette instead. One could almost forget
that this very house was the residence of blood-purists and supporters of the Dark Lord, with
the exception of Harry’s godfather whom he inherited the house from.

Hermione crept into the kitchen and began fixing a cup of tea before heading to one of the
spare rooms Ginny had set up for her when she officially moved in with Harry.

“‘Mione?” A voice called from the entryway to the kitchen. Hermione spun around to find
her friend lookin sleep rumpled in the doorway.

She gave him a weak smile. “Hey, Harry.” She busied herself with pouring hot water into a
mug, avoiding Harry’s stare. She didn’t have to look at him to realize he was giving her his
full, inquisitive attention.

“Make me one?” He finally asked before moving from his spot to one of the kitchen
barstools. Hermione nodded and summoned another mug from the cupboard, filling it with
more hot water from her wand and a teabag. She silently moved around the counter and
placed a mug in front of her oldest friend before sliding into her own barstool.

The pair sat without speaking for a moment, the steam rising from their mugs. Hermione just
stared blankly at a spot on the counter, letting the last few hours run through her mind.
Unfortunately, she’d been in this exact position a few times before, so Harry had the good
sense to keep quiet until Hermione was ready to talk.

“The welcome dinner for Hogwarts was this evening,” Hermione finally spoke, taking a
tentative sip of her tea. She decided that was the easier course of conversation, rather than the
elephant in the room that was Ron Weasley.
Harry hummed in response and shifted slightly so he was facing her. “And how are our dear
friends Malfoy and Nott?”

Hermione sputtered into her tea. “How did you know he’d be there?” She spun in her stool so
she was looking right at him. She wasn’t talking about Theodore Nott.

He gave her a lopsided smile and a one shouldered shrug. “It’s literally part of my job
description to know what ah…people of interest are doing with their time.”

Of course. Harry would at the very least have access to whatever tabs the Ministry was
keeping on accused or reformed Death Eaters, or their offspring, as was Nott’s case. “You
didn’t think to give me the heads up? I had no bloody idea that Draco Malfoy would be
waltzing into the Great Hall this evening.” She glared at him, but he didn’t look chastised.

“Honestly,” Harry said, grabbing his mug and leaning an elbow on the counter. “I figured
McGonagall would have told you. She didn’t?”

“Nope,” Hermione said flatly. She hadn’t had much time to unpack her initial thoughts from
seeing Malfoy this evening, but there was a lot to untangle. Him, a professor? That thought
never occurred to Hermione. She supposed in the same sense that her own future felt so far
off, so uncertain, that she never considered what the ‘after’ would look like, maybe it was the
same for him? His life was curated for him by the hands of his father and mother, and one
could imagine they never expected to be on the losing side of the war.

“Hmm,” Harry said again, which Hermione had learned was an annoying habit of his lately.
He was always just observing, absorbing information from everyone around him, like he
needed to file it away later for future use, and took great care before ever speaking. That must
be the Auror training taking hold. “Well, I suppose maybe she was concerned you might not
take the position if you knew.”

Hermione’s mouth opened, gaping at Harry to denounce that accusation, the implication that
she’d just give up the opportunity because of a school-age grudge. Okay, it was much more
than a grudge. He’d belittled her and humiliated her for years, before becoming a literal
Death Eater and enemy of not only the Order, but to her own personal identity.

“That’s a fair point,” she conceded. “There would have at least been some second thoughts,
I’ll admit. But clearly, whatever rehabilitation he was required after the trial, McGonagall
thought enough of it to give him the opportunity.”

“A year of house arrest and mandated Mind Healer sessions three times a week is likely to
have some lasting effects,” Harry mused.

“Somehow, that doesn’t feel significant enough. Locked in that big, stuffy manor and being
forced to talk about his feelings for a year? I don’t know if that atones for much.” Hermione
tried to keep the bite out of her tone, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized
how strongly she felt about Malfoy being at Hogwarts with her again.

“‘Mione,” Harry heaved a sigh. “You were the one who advocated for him during the trials. It
was your words that helped keep him out of Azkaban.”
Hermione’s fist tightened around her mug. He was right, she had, but still. Does that mean
she wanted him to be in her space? It was as if she was back in those same corridors, the
same frustrated, angry, hurt teenager.

Take a deep breath.

“Enough about Malfoy,” Hermione said, more to herself than to Harry. She didn’t have the
energy or patience to unpack everything there. Aside from the tall, blond bastard, there was
another man in her life who was currently an active participant in her malaise.

Harry nodded into his tea. “So, Ron then? What happened tonight, Hermione?” His voice
was gentler and it always had a calming effect on Hermione. Harry was a safe place for her,
and as things deteriorated over the years with Ron, she found herself relying on him more
and more.

“The usual, he was drunk, and wanted to pick a fight.” Hermione sighed, feeling guilty. Ron
had always expressed jealousy, especially towards Harry, and for a while, Hermione tried to
limit one-on-one conversations with him. Ron always feared they were talking about him
behind his back, and they never were.

The irony that now he didn’t seem to give a shit if she ran to Harry at a moment’s notice, and
they were talking about him when he wasn’t present, was not lost on her.

“About…” Harry started.

“Me leaving. Abandoning him. Cohen. You know, same story, different day.” Hermione laid
her head on her crossed arms on the counter.

“I see,” Harry responded thoughtfully.

“I can’t do this anymore, Harry. I can’t keep holding on for something that isn’t there any
longer.” She whispered, tears pricking her eyes.

“He’s… he’s lost Hermione. Ron’s never been great about dealing with his emotions, you
know that.” Harry said in defense of his best friend. Despite the fact that they no longer
regularly spoke, Hermione knew Harry was hurting without him.

“So I need to just, what, suck it up and be his punching bag? Harry, he’s a bloody alcoholic,
he’s mean, he’s vindictive, and unsupportive.” Hermione snapped her head up, staring at her
friend.

“That’s not at all what I’m saying, ‘Mione.” Harry placed his hand on her shoulder and gave
a small squeeze. “You shouldn’t have to forfeit your own happiness for his sake. And Merlin
knows how much you’ve tried to help him. Ron isn’t himself, and he’s lost a lot. Losing you
would break him, Hermione. But I’m not saying you should stay for the sake of staying. Just
consider that maybe some distance between you two might be a good thing. One day, he’ll
get the wake-up call and pull his head out of his arse.”
With those final words, Harry gave her a soft smile and collected their mugs to place in the
sink. They said their good nights and went off to their respective bedrooms.

The guest room at Grimmauld Place was comfortable, cozy, and despite her mind running in
a thousand different directions, the sheer emotional exhaustion of the day took her under
quickly, for a deep, dreamless sleep.

Hermione awoke the next morning to a loud commotion in the kitchen. She bolted out of bed
and pulled on a black dressing gown, not even bothering to tame her wild bed head before
running to the source of the noise.

“I told you, until you got sober, I didn’t want to see you!” Ginny’s voice shrieked, and
Hermione’s belly pooled with dread, knowing it would be Ron standing on the other side of
her ire.

“I am sober, Gin! Fucking hell, I just want to see her!” Ron roared back. Hermione snorted at
his definition of ‘sober’. She, Ron, and Ginny all knew that she meant completely off the
booze, meanwhile by Ron’s assessment, sober meant he just hadn’t had a drink yet .

“If she wanted to see you, brother dearest,” Ginny spat with venom, “she would come home.
Clearly, if she’s here, she has no interest in dealing with whatever bullshit you have to share.”

“God damn it, Ginny!” Ron yelled back, even louder, just as Hermione entered the room.
Ron and Ginny both turned to look at her and Ron opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione
just held a hand up to stop him. She moved around her friend, whose face was almost as red
as her hair, and began brewing some coffee.

“Gin, it’s fine, hon. Thank you for sticking up for me,” Hermione said once her coffee was
made. She placed a gentle hand on Ginny’s arm and gave her a small smile.

“Fine,” she hissed, still glaring at her brother. “I’m not leaving, though.” She crossed her
arms over her chest and leaned a hip on the counter, refusing to take her eyes off of Ron.

Ron rolled his eyes dramatically, looking prepared to fire back, but Hermione cut him off
before he could engage.

“What is it that you need, Ronald?” Hermione asked, attempting to keep her voice even. He’d
never come for her like this, usually just waiting around for her to return home after a day or
two.

“An owl came for you this morning,” he said quietly, not meeting her eyes. He shoved a hand
in his back pocket and thrust a cream colored envelope in her direction. Hermione grabbed it
and glanced at the front, recognizing Professor McGonagall’s handwriting.
“Thank you,” she said politely, slipping the envelope in the pocket of her dressing gown.
“Was there anything else?”

“Yeah,” Ron coughed, looking quickly at Ginny and then back and the ground right in front
of Hermione’s feet. “Can we talk privately?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Ginny started.

“Gin, love,” Harry’s voice came through as he entered the kitchen. The air suddenly felt too
constricting, with the four of them in there and tension reaching a boiling point. “Let’s give
them a moment, yeah?” He placed his hands on his girlfriend’s hips and gently started to
guide her away from the kitchen.

Harry met Hermione’s eyes, giving her a look she knew to mean are you good with this?
Hermione gave him a tight smile and a small nod and they left the room.

Ron glared at the retreating form of his sister and best friend, but softened when he finally
looked in Hermione’s direction.

“I, uh, I owe you an apology.” He muttered.

“What for?” Hermione asked, clenching her fists and taking deep, even breaths. The last
thing she wanted to do was get into a screaming match with an audience, because she could
almost guarantee that Ginny and Harry didn’t go far.

“All of it,” he rushed out, “everything. Fuck, ‘Mione, I’ve been a complete cunt. It’s just,”
Ron’s voice choked and even from her distance, Hermione could see the redness growing in
his eyes, for once not because of his drinking. “Everything feels so fucked, you know? The
last few years, really. And it just kept getting worse and I didn’t know how to stop it.”

“Except for the part where I tried , Ron. I tried to help, to encourage you to get help. You
could have stopped it, you just chose not to.” Hermione spoke slowly, as if she was talking to
a child.

“My fucking brother died, Hermione. And then, you left me! For a year, to finish up school,
fine, I can deal with that. But then you had to go fuck off to another continent doing Merlin
knows what for another year! And, my job…everything fell apart. Do you have any idea
what that fucking feels like?”

“No, Ronald, I don’t. I don’t have any siblings to mourn the loss of, nor parents ,” Hermione
seethed, her anger bleeding through her words. It was the same argument, yet again. Maybe
this time he’d remember it. “But do you think you’re the only one who’s lost? We’ve all lost
people, Ronald. Do you think George, or any of your other brothers, or Ginny, don’t know
how it feels? And on top of that, not only did they lose Fred, but they’re actively watching
themselves lose you, too. You still have a family, Ron. I don’t, not anymore.”

Ron’s face flashed with a hint of regret as she said those words, as if he needed to be
reminded that he doesn’t have a monopoly on grief.
“I don’t want to lose you too, Hermione.” He said softly, the words full of sincerity.
Hermione believed him, truthfully. She believed that as his core, Ron didn’t want to lose her,
that he wanted it to work between them more than anything, but he hadn’t been willing to do
the work. “I feel like I already have,” he added even quieter.

Hermione sighed and steeled her spine. “Ron, we’ve been fighting the same fight for years. I
can’t even remember what being yours feels like. I just need some space, some distance from
the situation.”

“Are you…” he choked out “Are you ending this?”

Hermione really didn’t know. In her mind, the relationship was long over. But she still didn’t
have the heart to fully end it, not yet. She wanted him to redeem himself, to get better.
Hermione wanted to see what their relationship could be like, instead of this war it had been
for so long.

“I don’t have an answer to that. I need some time.” Pain slashed across his face. “I am
leaving, today, for Hogwarts. Term starts in just two days, and this letter is confirmation of
my housing while there, so I’m free to arrive whenever between now and the start of the
term. And if this is going to work, you need to get help. I’m serious. I will not be your
punching bag nor your housemaid any longer.”

Ron stuffed his hands in his pockets and toed the ground. “Okay.”

“Okay?” She asked, a bit incredulous. She was expecting more of a fight, just like every
other time she’d begged him to quit drinking.

“Yeah,” He let out a long sigh before looking at her. “I’ll do my best, I promise you.”

Hermione just nodded in response, not convinced he’d follow through. Besides, he said he’d
do his best , not necessarily get sober.

“Can we…” Ron swallowed thickly. It had been a long time since she’d seen him so uneasy
and nervous. It reminded her of when he wanted to define their relationship, after the dust
had figuratively settled following the Battle of Hogwarts. He wanted to know if their kiss had
meant anything, and he was painfully nervous then too. “Can I write to you while you’re at
Hogwarts? Maybe visit you in Hogsmeade or something sometime?”

“You can write to me,” Hermione conceded, bringing softness into her voice. “I’d like it if
you visited, too, but I think I need to work up to that.”

“Okay,” he said, looking a little more steady on his feet. “Goodbye, Hermione.”

Without another word, he turned and left Grimmauld Place. Hermione heard the faint sound
of him disapparating and she had a sinking feeling that their goodbye was the final nail in the
coffin of their relationship.
 Reunion

The quietness of his surroundings used to be unsettling. Quiet never boded well for Draco, it
left too much room for intrusive thoughts, or gave a sense of impending doom. When the
whole manor was silent, typically in the dead of night, Draco used to feel most uneasy.

But silence didn’t have the same hold on him any longer, for which he was grateful. The first
three months of his house arrest after his trial were torturous. Despite his mother residing in
the manor with him, the darkness literally and figuratively covered him with a blanket. It was
the ghosts of his childhood that lingered in the air. Remembering so vividly the horrors he’d
witnessed.

His mother barely left her room, and oftentimes, the only living being Draco would ever
encounter for days at a time was his court appointed Mind Healer, Healer Renault, or Theo,
on his weekly check-ins to ensure Draco hadn’t thrown himself from the highest window in
the manor.

After time, the quiet got easier to endure. When the reality settled that the threats were no
longer present, he began to find comfort.

That’s how he found himself wandering the castle at an ungodly hour in the morning. The
sun hadn’t begun to rise, but Draco felt wide awake. The feeling of being back in Hogwarts’
halls was surreal, not something he really ever expected when he left school after his sixth
year. His future had been decided for him, and becoming a professor was not in the cards. If
his father could see him now, Draco could only imagine the words he’d have for him.

Draco wandered aimlessly for a while, just taking in his environment before the corridors
would be teeming with students in just a few days. Every time he’d been to the castle since
accepting his position as the Apprentice Potions Master, he had only gone to either Slughorn
or McGonagall’s offices, or the Great Hall.

The dungeons were achingly familiar. The damp, coldness that never seemed to dissipate.
The smell of stone and old wood, the sound of his shoes echoing as they clicked along the
floor. The torches burning in the corridors. Countless hours spent here, between the Potions
classroom or Professor Snape’s office, and especially sneaking out of the Slytherin common
room and slipping through these dungeons. He passed the entrance to the Slytherin common
room and ran a finger down the wall, pausing for a moment.

It brought a mixture of feelings forward. Nostalgia for the years when he was carefree, before
Voldemort returned to power and Draco learned the true nature of his family’s role in the war
—not that he didn’t have an idea even at a young age, his father was never quiet about his
distaste for impure bloodlines. A reminder of the sense of escape he had, so briefly, when
things began escalating and the pressure to live up to the Malfoy name began to mount. And
most of all, regret. Regret for all of the years he’d spent in these very dungeons, angry,
scared, and confused with no way out.
Draco shook off the unwelcome thoughts and continued his path. He found himself in parts
of the castle he’d never been before, not recognizing the time slipping by until the morning
sun filtered through a window. He checked his watch and realized he’d been wandering
aimlessly for close to two hours, and now, he was properly lost.

“Fuck,” Draco grumbled under his breath, “what am I, a bloody first year?” He began back-
tracking his way through the castle until he found something familiar, much to the
amusement of a few of the paintings who were eying him curiously and tittering under their
breath.

Eventually, Draco found the corridor he was looking for that led to the staff accommodations
he’d moved into last night following the welcome dinner.

They were tucked in the back of the castle, on the first floor. The long hallway led to an
annex with a large common area and several dormitories for the staff, but Draco wasn’t sure
who all actually stayed in them. He’d all but assumed that professors had sleeping quarters
attached to their offices, but considering he’d never actually seen where professors sleep, that
notion wasn’t based in reality.

He did know that Heads of Houses typically had quarters near their respective common
rooms, as Slughorn informed him as much, but so far, no one had moved in aside from Draco
and Theo.

Upon entering the common room, Draco sunk into one of the couches that faced the fireplace,
the embers from the fire lit last night gone. It wasn’t terribly cold, considering it was the end
of August, but the fires in the evening have been quite comfortable. Draco closed his eyes
and leaned his head back, mind still turning.

He wondered what his mother was doing. How she’d fare this year with him away. She’d
gotten much stronger since father went to prison, after the initial shock and grief of it all had
settled.

“Morning mate,” Theo’s voice snapped Draco out of his thoughts, rough and thick with sleep.
Draco’s eyes opened to see his best friend sauntering into the room still in his pajamas. Theo
flopped down on another couch and ran a hand through his messy curls.

“Hey Theo,” Draco said solemnly, still fully lost in his own head. Thankfully, he’d be seeing
Healer Renault this weekend. After his probation and house arrest ended, Draco still kept up
with their sessions, albeit twice a month instead of three times a week. Despite the fact that
he initially abhorred everything about the idea of therapy , he rather valued his sessions with
Renault. It was where he truly felt like he could be himself.

“Been up for long?” Theo asked with a knowing look. More than likely, there were shadows
forming under Draco’s eyes from the lack of sleep. The pair of them had been friends long
enough that Theo was more than privy to Draco’s bouts of sleeplessness.

“A fair bit,” he mused, shooting his friend a small grin, hoping it would release the lingering
tension in his shoulders.
“Figures.” Theo pushed off the couch and strode over to the kitchenette that appeared to be
perpetually stocked with fruit, pastries, crisps, and other snacks, along with a teapot and a
coffee urn. He poured himself a mug of coffee and added more sugar than deemed necessary
before settling back down across from Draco.

“How are you feeling? About this year?” The question was innocent enough but the look in
Theo’s green eyes relayed everything he didn’t verbalize.

“Well enough,” Draco responded, taking the easy out in hopes his friend wouldn’t push him
further. He should’ve known better.

“I mean, I’m a little anxious, you know? You realize that some of these students were here,”
Theo paused, swallowing a mouthful of coffee, “back then?”

“You mean, do I realize that some of my seventh year N.E.W.T. students were likely some of
the very same first years I used to torment?” Draco said humorlessly. “Yeah, mate, I do. Or
were you referring to the part where either one of our fathers could have killed one of their
family members? That one occurred to me as well. Fucking hell, sometimes I wonder if this
was a mistake. I’m a goddamn Malfoy. That name means something, and more often than not
these days, nothing good.”

Theo heaved a sigh and pushed his shaggy curls off his forehead. He pitched forward, resting
his forearms on his knees before leveling Draco with a serious look. “Draco, mate, you’re not
your father. I’m not my father, either. Granted, I didn’t have to deal with all the trial shit, but
people still recognize the Nott name,” Draco gave Theo a scathing look. He had a much
easier time than Draco did after the war. “Sorry, but you know what I mean. Look, the
Wizengamot didn’t ship you off to spend the rest of your days in a cell with dear old Lucy.
McGonagall gave us a chance. It’ll be fine.”

“Honestly,” Draco admitted, running a hand through his already mussed hair, “I’m more
worried about the sympathizers. You know there are still people who idolize him?
Voldemort? It’s just like when my father told me what happened last time, when he ‘died’
trying to kill Potter,” Draco said with air quotes. “His supporters don’t just vanish.”

“Well, for one, he’s fucking dead. For real this time, no half-cocked ideas that he’s coming
back to life, which surprisingly, weren’t so half-cocked after all. So until some pissant tries to
take his place, fuck the sympathizers. For two, I’d imagine any cheeky little shit with that
half-brained idea will have a rude awakening courtesy of one Professor Granger.” Theo’s
mouth tipped into a wry smile.

Fuck . How had Draco forgotten? Granger was teaching this year too. He was so self-
absorbed in his own shit that he hadn’t given seeing her, albeit briefly, last night any thought.
That was a whole different chasm of feelings, ones he had no interest in confronting yet.
Granger was a complication, to say the least. There was a long, sordid history there. Not only
on a theoretical scale, pure blooded wizard versus Muggleborn witch, but on a genuine
personal level.

He spent six years utterly tormenting the poor girl. Aside from two very specific, very weak
moments on Draco’s part, every interaction with the little firecracker of a woman was
malicious. Guilt seeped into the corners of his chest, but he pushed it away.

“What do you mean by that?” Draco asked, letting his curiosity get the better of him. Had she
and Theo been in contact? Not likely, but he clearly had some knowledge about her plans for
teaching. Draco sauntered over to the kitchenette to pour a cup of tea and grab an apple,
feigning mild disinterest even though he was fully invested in whatever Theo had to say next.

“Well, McGonagall made Muggle Studies a required course now, instead of an elective
option starting third year. I heard Danielson and Cohen talking about it when I was working
with Delmonte before he left. Cohen said it was all Granger’s idea, that by not requiring
students to learn about their non-magical counterparts in the world, we’d be setting up future
generations for the same type of bigotry and hate towards Muggles and Muggleborns. Her
words, apparently, not mine.” Theo looked impressed in his retelling and truthfully, Draco
felt the same way.

Leave it to the know-it-all Golden Girl to ask for such a thing. To further prove that
Muggleborns were just as capable as those born into magical families, something she so
desperately worked towards for years. It was part of why she was so insufferable most of the
time, always out to prove something.

“Interesting,” Draco muttered as he sipped his tea.

“Yeah, I mean, are we surprised? Not one bit. Honestly, now that I’m not actively competing
against her for top marks, I can appreciate how she approaches things. Like a vicious little
dog with a vendetta.”

“How’s forcing students to participate in her class going to change anything, though? Pretty
sure no one could tell us shit when we were thirteen, especially not some fucking professor.”
Draco recalled the countless times he and his friends acted out of line in class, just for the
sake of doing it. Like many of his memories, it was bittersweet. A reminder of being just a
shit kid wanting to act out, and then the underlying guilt that many of these teachers whose
lives he tried to make a little more miserable were now his colleagues.

“Like I said, a vicious little dog.”

Just as Draco was about to say something else, to take the conversation anywhere but the
topic of Granger, the door to the common room opened and a wild fray of brown curls came
into view.

“Granger,” Theo said in a voice, lacking the derision that Malfoy had grown accustomed to
hearing when her name came out of his friends’ mouth. “I see you still haven’t managed to
tame that hair of yours. You know, actually resembling a lion isn’t a requirement for
Gryffindors?”

Draco bristled at his mocking. Something he would have readily participated in now just
made him feel uncomfortable.

“Nott,” she huffed, glaring at him, but Draco could see the amusement pulling at the corners
of her lips as she grew closer. “You’re one to talk, or did you miss the grooming lesson in
your Sacred Twenty-eight classes?”

Were they… teasing each other?

“Har har, Golden Girl. You think I could be friends with this twat if I didn’t know how to run
a comb through my hair?” Theo jerked a thumb in Draco’s direction and Grangers’s eyes met
his for the briefest of moments. “Besides, I’m a reformed Twenty-eighter. This is an act of
rebellion and all that.” He emphasized this by running his hand through his hair again,
making his curls grow wilder.

She rolled her eyes and broke into a proper grin. “Good to see you again, Nott. I had no idea
you’d be taking over for Delmonte. Last I heard, you were looking abroad.”

Draco’s brow furrowed in confusion at their apparent closeness. Theo noticed quickly and
clarified, “Granger and I crossed paths a few times during our masteries.” That made sense.
Draco had done his eighth year via correspondence and subsequently, paid an inordinate sum
of money for private courses for his own mastery, given his temporary distaste for being out
in public.

He looked back to Granger but she was just staring at a spot on the carpet in front of her.
Now that she was closer, Draco could see the faintest hints of purple under her eyes, which
were bloodshot and a little puffy.

“That was the plan, but the position opened up here and Delmonte suggested I go for it. He
was my mentor during the tail end of my mastery, so I felt like I owed it to him.” Theo said
with a shrug. That much, Draco did know. When he finished his eighth year via and mused
over the idea of teaching, thanks to Healer Renault’s suggestion he do something just for him
, Theo told him he’d already applied to be a Professor and would be starting his own soon.

“Hmm, well, it’s wonderful to see you. Both of you,” she added with a tight smile. “I’m just
going to…” Granger trailed off and tilted her head in the general direction where the sleeping
quarters were. Without another word, she walked out of the room.

Once Draco heard the unmistakable sound of the door closing softly, he let out the breath he
didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Well that was painfully fucking awkward,” Theo observed once they were the only two in
the room again. “Come on, you morose looking shit, I want to fly around the Quidditch pitch
this morning.”

Draco forced a smile at his friend who was already getting up and heading towards his own
room, walking as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

He envied him for that.

 Sorted

It wasn’t as if Hermione didn’t expect to see Malfoy or Nott when she officially moved into
Hogwarts again. It made sense. She just hadn’t been expected to see them both, sitting there,
still fresh off her non-break-up break-up with Ron. It was a harrowing night and morning, to
say the very least.

Nott was nonchalant as ever, and despite his teasing commentary, the two of them had a
cordial understanding of one another. It was Malfoy that was a different story. She wasn’t
quite sure where the two of them stood, having not spoken a single word to one another in
years.

After she collapsed on the large four poster bed in her private room, Hermione ended up
falling asleep again until it was late afternoon. She relegated the rest of the evening to reading
quietly in her room and decided to unpack fully in the morning. Her trunk and belongings
had already been placed in her room. She spent a few hours that morning unpacking, placing
her clothing in the large wardrobe and arranging her personal belongings on the walls and
desk.

She had a separate trunk filled with all of the supplies she would be using during the school
term, and when she finally made it to her classroom, it too was there waiting for her.

Hermione took her time setting up her space. She decorated the walls with beautiful posters
displaying the covers from some of her favorite Muggle books and of the ones they would be
studying throughout the year. She’d found them in a bookstore in Dublin over the summer
and thought they’d be perfect for her new classroom.

The shelves in the room were lined with copies of the books, one specifically for texts they’d
be reading, and the other for enjoyable Muggle literature if any of her students had an
interest. She hoped they would.

Aside from asking McGonagall to make Muggle Studies a required course, she also insisted
on not assigning any text books. Coming from the other side of the equation, Hermione had
an idea what a challenge it was for a Muggleborn student to get textbooks, even with the
access of Diagon Alley and converting Muggle money into Galleons. She didn’t want to
subject anyone to the hassle of trying to find George Orwell or Maya Angelou in a Muggle
bookshop if they weren’t familiar with it. And given the sheer number of texts she’d hoped to
study, Hermione felt it was easier to purchase them herself and transfigure copies temporarily
so there were enough for the class.

Maybe in a few years, if things went well, Hermione could convince Madam Pince to start a
small Muggle literature section in the library.

The busy work pushed all thoughts of Ron and Malfoy both out of her mind, which was
welcome. By the time she was finished, she had worked up a bit of a sweat. Her classroom
had large windows, and she hadn’t bothered to open them when she started, so the late
summer sun had brought the room to quite a warm temperature.
Her stomach grumbled and she felt it was a good stopping point, likely time for dinner. She’d
skipped breakfast and had only a banana and a scone in lieu of lunch on her way out of her
quarters, so she was properly ravenous. Hermione pulled her hair into a messy knot on her
head and headed back out into the corridor.

It was then she realized, she wasn’t really sure where she could get something to eat.
Granted, she knew her way to the kitchens thanks to her experiences in her fourth year with
the house elves and S.P.E.W., but something told her even as a professor, popping in to the
kitchen for a bite was probably frowned upon. She supposed, the Great Hall? That’s where
meals were served, but did professors eat there when there weren’t students present or an
organized dinner event?

Her feet led her there at any rate, and before long, she spotted familiar faces.

“Ah, Hermione!” Atlas’s deep voice boomed from down the corridor. He was standing with
Slughorn, both looking decidedly casual, as casual as they could.

Atlas’s hands were tucked into the pockets of his trousers, a deep red cardigan over his button
down shirt sans tie. Slughorn looked similarly, although he was wearing a gray jumper that
looked hand knit. It almost reminded Hermione of Mrs. Weasley’s Christmas jumpers.

She looked down at her own appearance and winced. Her version of casual was a lot…less
polished. She was wearing her well beaten running shoes, black spandex leggings, and an
oversized Bulgarian National Quidditch team shirt, complete with Viktor Krum’s name and
number on the back. She had stolen it from him during their brief relationship, and despite
the fact that there were only platonic feelings left between them, it was still one of her
favorite shirts. Ron fucking hated it.

“Er, hello,” Hermione stuttered, feeling entirely unprofessional. She made a mental note to
ensure she was properly dressed when wandering the castle, regardless of the circumstances.
Merlin, imagine if a student saw her dressed like this.

“Headed for supper, Miss Granger?” Slughorn regarded her.

“Yes, well, I was…” Hermione shifted in her spot.

“Join us, we insist.” Atlas waved his hand over, gesturing for her to come with them.

“I don’t think I’m dressed appropriately for dinner, so I think I’ll just get something from the
Three Broomsticks later.” Hermione’s cheeks flushed, embarrassed to be seen like this. Given
the fact that these men had literally taught her, knew her well, she felt this compelling desire
to impress them, to prove that she was an equal now. Right at that moment, she did not feel
anywhere on their level.

“Nonsense, my dear.” Atlas countered and Hermione relented. He was persistent, so it was
easier to just go along with it lest he make it into a whole thing .

They entered the Great Hall and instead of the long table that was set up last night, the room
was dotted with smaller tables, enough for four people to sit at each. At the front of the room,
where the Professors typically sat during meals, was a large buffet of food. Instead of the
usual fare of a decadently prepared feast, Hermione was greeted with the sight of, well, what
she could only describe as comfort foods.

Creamy pastas, fried chicken, perfectly grilled cheeseburgers, pizza, for goodness sake. There
were even the makings for a full English breakfast and Hermione thought she saw sushi
down at the end of the table.

Atlas must have caught her bewildered expression and he chuckled lightly. “It’s become sort
of a tradition. The kitchens have all the professors’ and other faculty’s favorite foods
prepared for the last dinner before term starts. So, it’s not quite as fancy as we’d normally
have, but it’s still delightful.”

Hermione nodded in agreement and began filling her plate with a heaping portion of pasta,
some roasted Brussels sprouts, and the most amazing smelling garlic bread she’d ever
encountered.

Dinner conversation was light, Hermione listening attentively while Atlas and Slughorn
discussed their choices for Prefects for their houses. She didn’t know the students by name,
but she filed them away for future reference. Fortunately, there was no sign of Malfoy at
dinner. She idly wondered where he’d taken his evening meal, but since running into him and
Nott yesterday morning, she hadn’t seen either one of them at all, not even in passing.

Maybe she’d be lucky and that would carry through the school year. The less she saw of
Draco Malfoy, the better.

The next day, Hermione had been tittering with nerves and excitement. It was the official
start of the new term and students would be arriving this evening.

She started her day with a long run through the grounds, skirting the edges of the forest,
lapping around the Black Lake, and even found herself taking a path around the Quidditch
pitch. It was there she saw the two unmistakable figures on brooms.

As she got closer and heard Nott’s loud laughter carrying through the stands, she decided to
alter her route away from where Nott, and she presumed Malfoy, were out on the pitch. It
also gave her a familiar sense of longing, remembering those early days during summers at
the Burrow, seated under a tree with a good book while Harry, Ron, and the Weasley boys
played pick-up games of Quidditch.

She didn’t care much for the sport, and since things with Ron went sour, the memories were
no longer comforting.
Hermione stopped by Hagrid’s cabin as she was nearing the end of her run, hoping to pop in
for tea and to catch up. They had somewhat regular correspondence over the years, but
writing letters wasn’t always Hagrid’s strong suit and she longed for a face-to-face
conversation with him. Unfortunately, Hagrid didn’t seem to be home when she was passing
by.

The day was rounded out by spending time in her classroom, putting the finishing touches on
her pre-approved lesson plan for the first month, and pouring over her schedule. The old
habit of memorizing it clearly hadn’t died. She was only slightly disappointed, but not
entirely surprised, that there were only a handful of N.E.W.T. level students this term.
Hermione was determined to change that in the coming years.

Hermione used the last few hours before she was expected to turn up for dinner and the
Sorting ceremony by reconfiguring her classroom once again. She moved the shelf filled with
non-course related books to the other side, tucked into a corner in the back, and transfigured a
few cozy pillows and low-sitting poufs, creating a sort of reading nook. In her mind, students
could spend a quiet moment there reading the works of the Brontë sisters, Jane Austen, or
Mark Twain.

Maybe it would give a shy Muggleborn witch some comfort, reprieve, from their new life. Or
maybe, it would bring a new world of wonder and curiosity for a young wizard who might
not have been exposed to anything like it before.

When Hermione entered the Great Hall this time, it was familiarly decorated in all the house
colors. Long tapestries for each of the tables, the hourglasses tracking house points on full
display…it was the first time she’d really felt home.

Her fingers trailed delicately on the deep red and gold tablecloth on the Gryffindor table as
she made her way to sit at the head of the room, for the first time ever in official capacity.
Other professors were already seated. Professor McGonagall caught her eye and gave her a
small smile, seated in the largest chair in the center of the table. The seat to her right was
vacant, which Hermione surmised was for Atlas. As Deputy Headmaster, he was likely
waiting with the first years to bring them in to be sorted.

A firm hand on her shoulder made Hermione flinch.

“Seems like jus’ yesterday you were walkin’ in here, all fresh faced and eager, waitin’ to be
sorted. Now look at ye, a bloody professor .” Hagrid’s gravelly voice poured into Hermione’s
ears.

“ Hagrid ,” she breathed, spinning around to wrap her arms around as much of him as she
could. He patted her on the back, gently, by his standards, but it still nearly knocked the wind
out of her. Tears pricked her eyes as she finally stepped back to look at his smiling, bearded
face. Although his beard was beginning to streak with wiry silver hairs, he still looked just as
he always had.

“I’m so bloody proud of you, ‘Mione. I know I tell you that all the time, but,” Hagrid sniffed
and Hermione knew he would begin crying soon. He always wore his emotions on his sleeve.
“You really are somethin’. Now, would you do an old, silly groundskeeper the honor of
sitting with him at dinner?”

“I’d love nothing more, Hagrid,” Hermione said with a bright smile, tucking her hand in the
crook of his offered elbow as he led her to the end of the high table, his usual spot given the
sheer amount of space he took up.

Others filled in around them and Hermione’s eyes kept traveling to the entrance. She
wouldn’t admit it, but each time someone walked in and she didn’t see distinctive silver-
blonde hair, her chest deflated a little. She also wouldn’t further admit that when said certain
wizard that fit that description entered the Great Hall, Hermione’s breath caught in her throat,
just a touch.

Try as she might to ignore his presence, it was impossible. Her brown eyes tracked him as he
walked along the tables, Theodore Nott close by which was without surprise, and she kept
her eyes on him as he approached the head table.

Malfoy didn’t do much of anything when their eyes met, his cool gray ones boring straight
into hers, a stoic expression on his face. He offered her the slightest nod in acknowledgement
before heading to the other side of the table. Nott, however, gave her a wink and a two-
fingered salute while he followed his friend to their seats.

“Still can’t get over that one,” Hagrid said from beside her, nodding in the direction Malfoy
and Nott had just gone.

“Hmm?” Hermione asked, pretending she too hadn’t just been watching him.

“ Malfoy ,” the half-giant replied, his voice laced with incredulity. “Nott, doesn’t surprise me
one bit. Boy was always bright, even if he was a right shit with the lot of those Slytherins. I
thought ol’ McGonagall was putting one on when she said Malfoy was coming to apprentice
under Sluggy. Never would have guessed.”

“Yeah,” Hermione said, now watching the second through seventh year students enter the
halls, dressed in their robes and house colors, heading to their tables. “I was shocked as well.
He doesn’t seem like the type, does he?”

“Guess we don’t really know people as well as we’d like to, eh?” Hagrid said succinctly,
beaming and waving at a few students who’d caught his eye. “I’m skeptical, but maybe he’ll
surprise us all. And besides, if McGonagall trusts him to give him a second chance, then so
do I.” Hermione smiled at Hagrid’s never wavering locality. He stuck behind Dumbledore
until the end, so it was no surprise that he would follow his current Headmistress to the ends
of the earth if she asked him.

“I suppose you might be right, Hagrid,” Hermione mused, although she didn’t fully agree
with Hagrid’s sentiments. His compunction for forgiveness ran much stronger than
Hermione’s own, and she considered herself quite a forgiving person. She wasn’t quite ready
to forgive the sins of Draco Malfoy. Sure, she wholly agreed that he didn’t deserve the
Dementor’s Kiss or a lifetime in Azkaban, but did he really need to be at Hogwarts?
Teaching? Living a normal life?
Hermione wasn’t sure when she had developed such a propensity for others’ suffering, but
when it came to Malfoy, she wasn’t ready to let bygones be bygones.

Those thoughts were quickly pushed aside as Atlas Cohen strode into the hall with a mass of
first years trailing behind him. Hermione could literally feel the magic in the air, and the awe
and wonder she remembered feeling the very first time she entered this hall filled her chest
once again.

Their young faces were a mixture of awestruck, eager, and terrified. One young witch seemed
to be in tears, taking in the enchanted ceiling. Another wizard with a shock of red hair looked
ashen and on the verge of passing out. He reminded Hermione so much of Ron when he was
a boy.

Atlas directed the first years to stand in the space in front of the house tables, surrounding the
same old stool Hermione had once sat upon before sealing her fate as a Gryffindor.

Professor McGonagall stood from her seat and raised her hands, signaling the room to quiet.
She moved from around the table to the dias, facing the room, and began projecting her voice
throughout the Great Hall.

“Good evening, students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We welcome you
warmly to yet another year within these halls. Of course, before I regale you with important
announcements for the coming year, we will begin with the Sorting ceremony.

“To the allustrious witches and wizards standing in front of me now, your journey into this
world is just beginning. It matters not what lienige you come from or from which corner of
the nation you reside. Here, at Hogwarts, all are welcome. The Sorting Hat will take a peek
into your mind and sort you into your future houses. For the next seven years, these will be
your counterparts, your classmates. You will form irrevocable bonds with the other students
in your house. Whether you’re found to be cunning and ambitious, brave and altruistic, loyal
and patient, or witty and intellectual, you will find commonality amongst your peers.

“Please do remember, that there is no right or wrong House to be sorted to. The world as we
know it is not black and white, nor can our personalities be diminished into a few core
components. That is to say, while we encourage inter-house competition in the form of the
House and Quidditch Cups, there may not be much separating a Gryffindor from a Hufflepuff
from a Ravenclaw from a Slytherin. You are all more alike than you realize. Now—let us
begin. Professor Cohen, please call forth the first student.”

Professor Cohen went through the list of names and Hermione watched attentively as each
young witch and wizard was sorted into their houses. Each table erupted in raucous cheers
when their house was called, welcoming their newest members with zeal. There was a
healthy mix of students whose houses were determined at the faintest touch of the Hat on
their head, and others that seemed to go on for ages. And of course, Hermione couldn’t help
but beam with pride each time “GRYFFINDOR” roared from the battered hat’s mouth.

Once the sorting was complete, Professor McGonagall once again raised her hands to silence
the room.
“Congratulations to our newest students. The Head Boy and Head Girl, as well as the
Prefects for each house, will do well to help you acclimate to your houses and to Hogwarts.
Before the feast begins, there are a few announcements, yes, Hargrove, you’ll be waiting just
a touch longer before you can eat,” McGonagall said, looking directly at a Hufflepuff student
who loudly groaned once she said announcements .

“As always, the Forbidden Forest is exactly that—forbidden. Students are not to enter
without being accompanied by Professor Hagrid. Quidditch tryouts will be taking place in
two weeks, and each hopeful must have written permission from their Head of House. This
includes those on the team last year.” This was followed by another pointed glare and a few
grumbles from the students.

“Finally, we have three new professors joining us this year, for whom I hope you give the
warmest of welcomes to. First, taking over the position of Charms for Professor Delmonte,
please welcome Professor Theodore Nott.” McGonagall waved her hand in the direction
where Nott was seated and he stood up, giving a casual wave to the room.

No surprise to Hermione, the room applauded enthusiastically and she caught a few older
female students with their mouths gaping, eyes glued on Nott, or fanning themselves. He
was, by all accounts, very attractive.

“We have also filled the vacancy for Muggle Studies; as most of you are aware, we’ve had
professors fill-in since the passing of Professor Burgage,” a somber silence filled the room
before McGonagall continued, remembering Hermione’s old Muggle Studies professor who
died directly at the hands of Voldemort at the start of the war. “But we now have permanent
instruction for Muggle Studies, which is now a required course for all students.”

There were more grumblings, but nothing excessive.

“I am personally very pleased to introduce Professor Hermione Granger to Hogwarts this

year.” Hermione looked over at Professor McGonagall who was giving her a warm, wide
smile. It was rare, but when McGonagall smiled, really smiled at her, she felt genuine warmth
and pride.

Hermione stood from her seat and smiled at her new students who were giving her quite the
welcome. More than likely, many knew of her role in the Second Wizarding War and her
closeness to Harry. She was, of course, the Golden Girl. While she typically avoided the
spotlight that was associated with her in that capacity, it did give her a boost of confidence
that she’d be accepted here, in this capacity.

Hagrid, of course, was clapping the loudest, and not-so-subtly sobbing while he did so.

Once Hermione took her seat and the applause died down, McGonagall cleared her throat to
welcome the final new professor. Hermione wondered how Malfoy would feel, being in the
spotlight. Nott seemed to take it in stride; she believed that there may be a few students didn’t
know what role Theodore’s family played in the war unless they were rather close to it. As
far as she knew, Nott Sr. was not high ranking enough, despite his severe brutality. Their
name wasn’t blasted through the papers as often.
“And finally, as our beloved Professor Slughorn has expressed he’d like to retire at some
point…”

“Soon!” Slughorn’s booming voice called through the hall.

“He has taken an apprentice Potions Master who will be assisting with instruction this year.
Please, everyone, welcome Professor Draco Malfoy.”

Silence descended briefly over the room. Hermione didn’t dare look in Malfoy’s direction,
for her own sense of embarrassment was taking over on his behalf.

After a beat, applause started from the Slytherin table, although less enthusiastic than it had
been for Nott and Hermione. There was an undercurrent of grumbling and whispering;
Hermione heard “ Malfoy ”, “ Lucius ”, and “ Death Eater ” more times than she could count.

Hermione gripped the edge of the table, wishing McGonagall would say something,
anything. Despite her feelings about Malfoy being here, he didn’t deserve the whispers, the
commentary about his past right in front of him.

“ If McGonagall trusts him, so do I. ” Hagrid’s words played in her mind. He was right. He
deserved the chance. She personally didn’t have to forgive him, but Malfoy didn’t deserve a
tribunal from his students.

“Quiet,” McGonagall’s stern voice carried throughout the hall without the aid of magical
amplification. “For those of you who have reservations about any of our staff,” she paused,
giving the room a terse look, “disrespect, insubordination, or otherwise harmful behavior will
not be tolerated. As I previously stated, all are welcome at Hogwarts. Should you have
concerns, please direct them to your Head of House. But I expect tolerance and respect from
each and every one of you.”

Her words had the desired effect on the students and Hermione took a glance down at the
other end of the table. She couldn’t fully see Malfoy’s face from this vantage, but enough that
she could tell his head was tipped down. Not in full dejection, but he was clearly
uncomfortable.

Slughorn, however, was giving a hard glare to the house tables, his back ramrod straight. The
other heads of houses appeared to be doing the same, and even Hagrid had tensed beside her.

They were, for all intents, posing a united front. It seemed minuscule in the grand scheme of
things, but Hermione took it for what it was.

All are welcome at Hogwarts.

“Now,” McGonagall finally spoke before the silence became too uncomfortable, “let us begin
our new year and please, enjoy the feast.” With a single clap of her hands, food appeared on
the tables and the previous tension seemed to be forgotten as the gasps and excited chatter
immediately filled the room.
Hermione’s appetite had suddenly waned, but that didn’t stop her from enjoying her dinner,
as much as she could. While she couldn’t completely let go of her errant thoughts and
conflicting feelings, she’d learned well enough over the last few years to simply quiet them a
bit, and she enjoyed her dinner with Hagrid and the other professors as much welcome
company.

It would be a good year, a new chapter in her life. She was determined to make it so.
 The Apprentice

Gods, Draco thought to himself as he observed the first year Ravenclaw and Gryffindor
students milling into the dungeon, was I ever this twitchy?

The young, eleven year old witches and wizards mostly bore similar looks of apprehension
and anxiety. Draco tried to recall his first feelings upon entering Hogwarts, but for the life of
him, he never remembered feeling as scared as some of them looked.

Then again, his younger self bore a disgusting sense of entitlement and arrogance. Who was
he kidding? At his core, Draco was still an arrogant bastard.

He chose to assume it was because the dungeons could be off putting, unless you were a
Slytherin who quite literally lived in said dungeons, rather than any misgivings anyone had
about having Professor Malfoy teaching them.

They all looked so small in their fresh robes and cheeky new house-colored uniforms. It was
the second class of the morning, but the first that Draco would actually be teaching. He’d
merely observed Horace with the fifth year Hufflepuffs earlier, and even that was just a
lengthy lecture on O.W.L.s and what would be expected of them this year.

But Horace had made it explicitly clear that Draco would be doing all of the lessons for the
first years, and at least half for non-O.W.L. or N.E.W.T. level students. They’d be working up
to those ones.

So, Horace was sat in the corner of the dungeon, behind his remarkably untidy desk, flipping
through The Daily Prophet whilst Draco stood in front of the classroom with his hands
tucked in the pockets of his trousers. He’d forgon wearing robes, the look being all too stuffy
for him, and opted for a simple white button-down and emerald green tie. After carefully
reading through Hogwarts’s handbook for professors, there was nothing stating specifically a
dress-code—only that professors were expected to look professional .

Draco’s eyes flicked to the clock mounted on the back wall of the room, waiting for the
second hand to complete its sweep before the minute turned over and class began.

With a flick of his wand, the door to the dungeon shut and the sound echoed throughout the
room.

“Good morning,” Draco said, keeping his voice even. He wanted to garner their respect,
knowing he’d likely be working harder at that in most cases given who he was, not only as a
new professor, but he also did not want to employ outright fear and intimidation. The latter
would only prove any preconceived notions they might have of him.

After his reception last night, Draco’s fears that his past would be haunting him were
confirmed.

“My name is Professor Malfoy, your Potions Master.”

A hand immediately shot in the air, a bright eyed wizard with unruly black curls and a
pinched brow seated in the front row had a question. Already?

“Yes, Mr…?” Draco asked, annoyance clipping his voice.

“Westcott, sir,” the Gryffindor answered. He sat up a little straighter and maybe it was his
demeanor or the red and gold of his uniform or that hair that looked like it had never seen a
comb, but he almost reminded Draco of Granger when she was young. Maybe a bit of Potter
too. He could almost be their child.

The thought of Potter and Granger reproducing had him repressing a shudder.

“Yes, Mr. Westcott?”

“I thought you were the Apprentice Potions Master? Sir? I mean, isn’t Professor Slughorn
teaching this class?” The boy's eyes slid quickly to Horace who was completely uninterested
in the conversation.

“Professor Slughorn is indeed the current Potions Master at Hogwarts, yes, and I am here to
learn, not unlike you all.” Draco made a sweeping motion to the students in the room as he
paced the front of the dungeon. “However, we both feel strongly that I possess the ability to
impart my knowledge of Potions to first years, no? My Outstanding marks in both O.W.L.
and N.E.W.T. levels for Potions surely makes me qualified.” Draco’s lips pulled into a smug
smirk. Yeah, he definitely hadn’t outgrown his arrogance.

“Are there any other questions, or might I continue?” Westcott visibly shrank in his set, and
no further interruptions ensued.

Draco spent the first fifteen minutes lecturing students on the various natures of Potions,
delving into the chemistry of how the ingredients, when properly managed, interacted with
each other. The sheer uses for potions, those that provide the drinker with physical or mental
relief, some intended for ill purposes like poisons, and others with superfluous uses like love
potions or ones that give the drinker a synthetic euphoric feeling, much like alcohol would.

He was pleased to see diligent note taking, although that was to be expected in a room full of
Ravenclaws. Gryffindors weren’t necessarily known for their penchant for academics, but the
red-and-golds in the room were equally as attentive.

“Now, we have roughly an hour and forty minutes of class remaining which I would like all
of you to attempt a Forgetfulness Potion. It’s rather simple, and there should be more than
enough time to complete it. Please turn to page twenty-three in your texts, and if you
purchased the recommended ingredients from your school lists, you’ll find you have all that
you need. Otherwise, spare ingredients are located in the cupboard.” Draco flicked his wand
in the direction of one of the supply cabinets to open it and students immediately got to work.

“Nice work, Draco,” Horace commented when Draco slipped his stack of notes into a neat
pile on the corner of the otherwise messy desk.
“Thank you, sir,” Draco gave his mentor a nod. Despite his closeness to Snape, his Potions
instructor for the majority of his school years, their relationship was wrought with other
complexities. Horace Slughorn, on the other hand, had never been anything more to Draco
than someone to mold, guide, and teach him in a purely academic sense.

“I still stand by my comment that you could have gone with something easier for their very
first lesson.”

“Forgetfulness Potion isn’t easy?” Draco said with a wry grin. “Truth be told, Horace, it’s
failure by design. I don’t expect perfection. Instead, it’ll be an opportunity to show them just
how quickly things can go wrong, even with the best intentions.”

“Ah ha,” Horace said with a look of admiration on his face. “I can appreciate that.”

Draco gave him another nod and began walking around the room, providing minor
corrections and comments where he saw fit. He made it a point to stop by every table and
began a mental note for each of his students. His students. The sense of pride was blooming
in his chest, a welcome feeling, knowing that he was helping mold the next generation of
wizards and witches.

When the double-hour was coming to a close, Draco instructed his students to stopper their
brews, write their names on the vials, and deposit them at the front of the room.

“For homework, I’d like you to read chapter two of the text, and answer the questions at the
end of the chapter, regarding the properties of the most common potions ingredients. For
extra credit, fifteen inches of parchment on the similarities and differences between the usage
of salamander blood and dragon blood. Both will be due on Tuesday.”

The students filed out of the classroom and Draco gave a flourish of his wand around the
room to evaporate the lingering vapors. At least one student had managed something
passable, as Draco had the faintest sensation that there was something he ought to be doing,
but couldn’t quite remember.

He wondered idly if he could grade the effectiveness of the potions by having Theo sample
them.

“Well done, Draco,” Horace said once the room was empty, helping Draco put the potions in
a crate to be graded.

“Thank you, sir, it was quite enjoyable, if I’m being honest.”

“Severus would have been proud, you know.” Horace said, his voice laced with his own pride
for Draco.

“Thank you, sir.” Draco swallowed thickly. He didn’t think Snape ever knew Draco had any
desire to teach; it wasn’t something he’d offered to anyone aloud until recently, but the
thought of what it’d be like to work alongside him had occurred to Draco.

They’d probably be at each other’s throats constantly, if Draco was being honest.
“Well, enjoy your free period and lunch, I’ll see you after for the rest of the first years.”
Horace tucked his copy of The Daily Prophet under his arm and headed towards the back
door where his office lay. Technically, it was a shared office, but Draco hadn’t spent much
time there nor did he have an intention to work in the same space as Horace, grading work
and all that.

He much preferred working alone in school, especially since sixth year, and he didn’t see that
changing. Instead, he’d ensured his room in the staff quarters had a large desk and filing
cabinets where he could work if he wanted to.

With an hour before lunch, Draco opted for another walk through the corridors with his box
of Forgetfulness Potions tucked under his arm. Most of the students were still heading into
their classes, and he could use this time to check to ensure no one was skiving off or loitering
in the halls if they had a free period.

It felt much like doing Prefect rounds, only with a modicum more power. That, and Draco
didn’t really take his role as Prefect seriously, preferring to harass younger students and snog
Pansy when they were on rounds. Truthfully, he didn’t enjoy being a Prefect at all.

Except that one time , in the Prefect bathroom, after a particularly brutal Quidditch practice…

Draco had considered popping into the Charms classroom to see how Theo was faring with
his first day of teaching, but thought better of distracting his friend. Wholly unprofessional.

He rounded the corner to head to his room to deposit the potions when he overheard two
voices coming from a little alcove.

“Honestly, it’s barmy that McGonagall is forcing us to take the bloody course. It’s quite
useless, I’ve got nothing to do with the Muggle world and their pathetic customs or whatever
the daft bitch was going on about today.”

Draco paused.

“Seriously, mate. Are you really that surprised, though? Granger is McGonagall’s little pet. I
swear the lot of them, insufferable Muggle apologists. And now we’re stuck sitting through
that Mud—”

“Gentlemen,” Draco made his presence known and quickly cut off the slur coming from the
student’s mouth. “Might I ask what you are doing here in the halls at this hour?”

Both boys turned to look at Draco, mouths agape. They were Slytherins, fifth or sixth years
by the look of them, and the one who called Granger the ‘little pet’ wore a Prefects badge.

Draco realized at that moment that learning the names of the school Prefects and the Head
Boy and Girl was a necessity.

“Professor Malfoy,” the Prefect started, straightening his tie and attempting to sit a little
taller. “We have a free period, we’re not skiving off.”

Draco quite unamused. He tucked his free hand in his pocket and glared at the two students.
He clicked his tongue against his teeth and thought about his next words carefully. “Names?”

“Brody, sir,” the Prefect answered.

“Vasquez,” said the other.

“Well, Misters Brody and Vasquez, you see, I find myself in a interesting predicament. Do
you understand why?” Both boys shook their heads fervently. “Not only are you loitering
yourselves in the halls when your free period should be utilized much more appropriately in
the library or in your own Common Room, but I also overheard you slandering a Hogwarts
professor, to include some colorful language that I personally find rather distasteful. And a
Prefect, no less.”

Distasteful was an understatement. The word was abhorrent to Draco, and it turned his
stomach to think of all the times he’d casually used it in the past, especially towards Granger.
To know that the very same word had been carved into her skin by Draco’s own aunt…

“Professor, sir, we weren’t—” Brody backpedaled but Draco held up a hand to stop him.

“Please, spare me your platitudes, I know exactly what I heard. Now, I may have worn those
same house colors and my familial history is no secret in these halls, but let this be a warning
to you. That language will absolutely not be tolerated.” Draco clenched his fist in his pocket.
This, right here, was exactly what he had told Theo he was worried about. More so than the
whispers of Death Eater behind his back—Draco would be damned if he didn’t quell any
bullshit about blood-purity or disparaging remarks towards Muggleborns. He had more than a
lifetime of sins to repent for in that department.

“Yes sir,” they said in unison as they scrambled to head to their common room presumably.

“I think,” Draco added as their backs were retreating, “to really let the warning sink in, you
both may serve detention next week. And, five points from Slytherin apiece.”

“ Professor ,” Brody whined. “I’m a Prefect! Honestly mate, that seems excessive!” Vasquez
at least had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

“A month’s worth of detention and fifty points lost is excessive, Mr. Brody. And I’m not your
mate . You’re a Prefect, act like it. I expect we will not be having this conversation again.
Now, both of you, leave.”

Both students fled off in the other direction as Draco finished his trek to the staff quarters.
The interaction had left a rock-sized knot of unease in his stomach, his plans to deposit the
box of potions and get some fresh air before lunch completely dashed.

Salazar, he was half tempted to down the box of Forgetfulness Potions himself just to wipe
that memory from his mind. Healer Renault’s words played in his mind from their last
session.

Pretending the past doesn’t exist doesn’t make it so, Draco. What you’re feeling is remorse,
and it’s normal, healthy. It’s the only way you’ll ever learn to forgive yourself and move
forward.

Draco spent the rest of his off-hour brooding in his room, which was entirely unproductive
but surprisingly satisfying. That was another nugget of wisdom from Healer Renault. That it
was okay to feel the negative thoughts and respond in kind. It was productive, so long as it
wasn’t harmful to him or others. Draco was prone to letting things fester, which ultimately
resulted in lashing out.

For so long he’d been trapping his emotions deep inside his body, pretending to be unaffected
or aloof, so being given the explicit permission to just feel was, well, liberating.

As he hoped, it put him in the necessary state of mind to continue throughout his day without
incident. His Potions class with the first year Slytherins and Hufflepuffs was remarkably
uneventful until a dolt of a boy managed to light his own robes aflame and was sent off to the
Hospital Wing to have some minor burns treated. Horace relegated him to preparing Elixirs
for Inducing Euphoria for the next morning’s N.E.W.T. level students which took up the
remaining school day and almost bled into dinner time.

By the time he was well fed and sated and dragging himself back to the professor’s common
room, Draco was bone tired. Teaching was almost as mentally exhaustive as learning was,
although he did have the benefit of prior knowledge and only focusing on one subject.

He begged off to bed when he and Theo made their way back to their quarters, shucking his
tie, button-down, and trousers before sliding into his crisp, cool sheets.

The events of the day played in his mind, but for reasons he wasn’t willing to articulate, the
moment that he kept returning to were the faintest glimpses in passing of a certain curly-
haired witch, sporting the same bright-eyed eager look he’d spent years pretending he’d
never noticed.
 Forgetful

Her first week as a fully fledged professor had been nothing short of wonderful . Granted, the
term began on a Wednesday, so she’d only had three days of teaching, but Godric, it was
amazing.

The only thing Hermione could compare it to were the first time she set foot in a classroom at
Hogwarts, so many years ago.

Admittedly, the enthusiasm in her class was a tad lacking. For their part, the first and second
years seemed amendable. And Hermione had spent enough time with Ron and Harry to know
that not everyone had a penchant for academia like she did. But there were still those students
who arrived each day, ready to absorb information like sponges.

Hermione could already distinguish the Muggleborn witches and wizards from those who
came from magical backgrounds, but she had made it clear at the start of each class that
grading wasn’t determined on knowledge or lack-there-of, but rather, the effort they put into
their work.

And her N.E.W.T. students were just delightful. There were twelve seventh years and nine
sixth years, both of which she had on Thursday. She could already imagine the classes taking
on a Socratic seminar full of lively debates and deep discussions, rather than lectures on the
mechanics of Muggle city-states and electricity.

Hermione had been so busy this week, she’d barely left her office to eat or sleep. When she
wasn’t fine tuning her lecture notes, she was already planning lessons for months in the
future, attempting to cater each one to the learning styles of each of her classes thus far.

She had received one owl from Ron this week, and even its lacking content and the hole in
her heart for Ronald Weasley couldn’t detract from her fixation on her work.

Hermione,

Just wanted to write to tell you that I miss you. Things are going well enough here, I hope you
are enjoying the term so far. They’re all bloody lucky to have you as their professor.

X
Ron

The parchment sat on her nightstand in her room, going unanswered. She wasn’t sure how to
respond to him, as there was much left unsaid.
Hermione spent dinner Friday evening chatting with Professor Danielson—Eric, as it were—
and she discovered he too lived in the staff quarters. It appeared he was the only one besides
her, Malfoy, and Nott. Eric had a wife and young son who still lived in the United States and
he went home on weekends to be with them, but they were planning on moving to Liverpool
soon.

She learned that he had planned to become a history professor at the high school level, and
hemmed and hawed between Muggle (or, no-maj, as they called it in the States) or Magical
education for a while.

“I’m mixed, you see. My dad is a no-maj and my mother is a witch. My wife is a no-maj too.
So back home, we’re pretty integrated into both parts of society.” He explained. “I actually
came to the UK after I got my PhD from Princeton, to study at Oxford. One thing led to
another and I fell in with some ex-pat wizards. Long story short, I’m here now.”

“I’m rather curious about your upbringing, what it was like personally growing up with a
Muggle parent. I’ve studied various…prejudices in other countries but a first hand account
would be incredibly interesting.” Hermione said between bites of roasted vegetables. “Sorry
—not to assume you experienced any prejudice. I just know it exists in America as well.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” he waved her off. “It absolutely does. It’s why I’m so particular
about not using terms like ‘half-blood’. It implies that somehow, no-maj blood is less than.
It’s derogatory. For me, prejudice existed on my dad’s side of the family. Real old, southern,
evangelical Christian upbringing. So naturally, magic was the work of the devil. My dad
never bought into that line of thought, but it was hard on him and my mom when they first
got together.”

“What about you and your wife?” Hermione asked, hoping she wasn’t prying too much but
Eric seemed like an open book.

“Oh, Amber is a gem. I waited until we’d been together for about six months before I finally
told her. She thought I was batshit insane, until I showed her. She was shocked at first, but
then she started to piece things together and realized there was magic all around, just
carefully hidden. She was more proud of Max when he started showing signs of magic than I
was.”

“That’s wonderful,” Hermione said. Dinner was wrapping up and she knew he was anxious to
get home to his family. “Can we chat more about this later, if you don’t mind? I probably
have a list of questions a kilometer long, so please feel free to tell me to sod off.”

They both moved to stand as others began to file out of the Great Hall.

“Not a problem, Hermione. I know I don’t know your story, but I see the passion in your eyes
about creating cohesion between us wizards and no-majs. It’s important, hard work. Anything
I can do to help further your cause. Even if it is just telling some ‘pure-blooded’” he
emphasized with air quotes, “kid they’re not special solely because they can do magic.”

Hermione laughed and rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t go that far, but yes, other accounts of our
shared experiences being brought up in both worlds will likely be very useful in my classes.”
They walked back to the staff quarters together and Eric bid her good evening as he went to
his room, where the fireplace had been connected to the Floo network, just to the Three
Broomsticks where he be able to Apparate back home.

She changed out of her clothes in her own room, putting on a pair of worn flannel pajama
pants and an old jumper she picked up in New York City, ages ago when she’d gone with her
parents. It was faded with little holes forming around the cuffs and the collar, but the age
made it impossibly soft and cozy.

Her plan was to tuck into bed with a book, possibly write Ron back, and get a good night’s
sleep, but before that she headed into the kitchenette to fix a cup of tea.

“Alright, mate, just write down everything you did for the last forty-eight hours,” Malfoy’s
voice carried in from the common room as she headed down the hall.

She’d all but avoided him this week, which was still surprisingly easy. Aside from a few
quick glances here and there at meals, they really didn’t cross paths at all.

“I know, I know. Do you want me to timestamp it as well?” Nott replied, voice full of
sarcasm. When Hermione entered the common room, she saw both wizards sitting on
opposite couches, a notebook open in Malfoy’s lap, Nott bent over a piece of parchment with
a quill in his hands, and a box filled with a few vials of potions.

“Actually, yes, thank you.” Malfoy drawled.

Curiosity got the better of her. “What are you doing?” She asked and both of them paused to
look at her. Malfoy’s mouth opened as if he was going to speak, but Nott beat him to it.

“Draco here is using me as a guinea pig for some first years’ potions.” Nott’s grin was wide,
he clearly was not bothered by this idea.

“I’m sorry, what ? That’s dangerous. What potion is that?” She stepped closer and eyed the
box, running through her mind to match the color and consistency to what was appropriate
for a first year. “Forgetfulness Potion? Really?”

“Indeed, Golden Girl. We’re going to see how effective they are.” Nott returned to writing.

Malfoy still hadn’t said anything to her, his expression blank as he watched Hermione. She
worried her lip in her teeth and frowned before speaking directly to him.

“That’s…ridiculous. Malfoy, really? You don’t know the side-effects, honestly, testing a
potion on a professor? On your friend?”

Something flashed in his eyes and she fully expected him to comment with a snarky retort. “I
did my diligence, I’m not a bloody sadist. These have all been tested and while yes, the
stability is uncertain, I’m confident there won’t be any lasting effects. Besides, Theo agreed
to it, he thought it was hilarious.” Malfoy gave a lazy shrug, his cool gray eyes never leaving
hers.

It made her squirm under her skin.

“If you’re so worried, why don’t you hang out and watch?” Nott offered. “It’ll be fun. It’s
like getting drunk without the hangover.”

Again, her curiosity was weighing out. She huffed, fixed her tea, and sat down cross-legged
on the floor in front of the table separating the two of them.

“What exactly are you doing? What are your controls?”

“Ah ha,” Nott smirked. “I knew the little swot couldn’t resist an experiment. Go one, Draco,
tell her the dirty details she’s dying to hear.”

Hermione pretended she didn’t catch the emphasis Nott made on the word dirty .

Malfoy cleared his throat and tapped his quill against the notebook in his lap. “Well, Theo is
recounting all of his activities for the last two days. After he takes the potion, he’ll be asked
to recite from memory what exactly he did. From there, I’ll be able to draw a modicum of a
comparison to the effectiveness of the potion.”

“How many times do you plan on doing this? And, how is it relevant to the grading scale? I
mean, the very nature of the Forgetfulness Potion is that its effectiveness varies on how long
it lasts and how much someone actually forgets. It seems…”

“Relax, Granger,” Malfoy said, her name slipping off of his tongue in a way she was
unfamiliar with. It wasn’t laced with malice, with disgust. She couldn’t recall if he’d ever
said her name like that before. “I’ve already tested and graded all of the potions. These are
the ones that most closely match with the correctly brewed Forgetfulness Potion, and really,
it’s solely for our entertainment. I may give extra marks if one is particularly useful, but
really, Theo just likes the idea of putting foreign substances in his body.” Malfoy chuckled.
“As for the number of times we actually complete this, it all depends on how the first run
goes.”

Hermione gaped. Not only was that the longest Malfoy had ever spoken to her, but he
sounded so…casual, like they were friends. She shifted from her spot on the floor, choosing
to ignore whatever emotions were brewing in her, and instead focusing on the little science
experiment these two grown men were about to conduct.

“Alright, mate, here you go,” Nott slid the parchment over to Draco. “Before I drink this,” he
plucked a random bottle from the crate on the table, “I wanna get some shit off my chest.
Seeing as I’ll forget it all later.” He gave a grin and waggled his eyebrows.

“Merlin help me,” Malfoy muttered under his breath.

“First, one time I walked in on Dean Thomas and the Weasel’s sister shagging in a classroom.
And it was hot . Stripped my cock raw in the shower after that.”

Hermione’s eyes flew wide and she let out a little squeak. Maybe she’d need some of this
potion to forget he ever said that.
“Hopefully I don’t forget that moment, just that I told you. Let’s see, what other unholy
secrets can I tell you?”

“Please don’t,” Malfoy groaned, but Nott was determined to ignore him.

“The first time I had a wank was to a Muggle magazine, Penthouse, I think it was. The tits on
that centerfold were amazing, pages all stuck together after that… One time, in fifth year, I
had a filthy dream about McGonagall. I still think about it whenever she gets that intense
look in her eyes, the saucy little minx.”

“Oh my gods ,” Hermione couldn’t help herself.

“And finally…”

“No more,” Malfoy cut him off. His brow was pinched in frustration and Hermione was
rooted to the spot where she sat, equal parts horrified but also unable tear her eyes away, like
a bad auto wreck. “Just drink the fucking potion.”

Nott shrugged, completely unaffected by his confessions, and pulled the stopper on the vial.
“Down the hatch!” He swallowed it in one go, blinking a few times as a dazed look came
across his face.

He frowned and looked around the room, looking even more confused as his eyes landed on
Hermione, who was still flushed with second-hand embarrassment. Nott looked at Malfoy for
a beat before speaking.

“Um, what are we doing? Merlin, and why is my cock half hard?” He looked down at his lap
and his confused look only intensified when Hermione unwillingly let out a little squeak and
she buried her face in her hands.

Malfoy sighed and leveled Nott with a hard look. “You willingly agreed to test my first years’
Forgetfulness Potions. And before you took it, you regaled us with some of the depraved shit
you have going on in that head of yours. Granger here is mortified on your behalf.”

Nott thought about Malfoy’s words carefully, mulling them over before nodding.

“Right. Sounds like something I’d do. So what now?”

Malfoy’s lips tipped up in a small smirk. “Now, you’re going to recount the last forty-eight
hours to me. I had you write it all down, so we’ll gauge how much you forgot. But first, I
think you owe Granger an apology from some of the filth you spewed.”

“Man, seriously? Did I say anything that bad? Was it the one time on summer holiday in—”

“No,” Malfoy cut him off, looking mildly exasperated. “Let’s just not share anymore
dalliances for this evening.”

Hermione suddenly felt embarrassed for herself . It was like Malfoy was speaking about a
child, not a grown woman who has had plenty of experiences, thank you very much. She just
wasn’t used to such a brazen attitude towards things sexual in nature. If her pride wouldn’t
have been further wounded by leaving the room, she would.

“Granger, love, I’m truly sorry if I offended your sensitivities with my filth . Meant no harm,
I was raised better than that although I rarely act like it.” Theo gave her a lopsided grin and
truly, he had nothing to apologize for.

“It’s…not necessary, Nott. I’m not such a delicate flower that I haven’t heard things like that
before. Truthfully, it was nothing terribly offensive.” Hermione returned his smile and she
expected the topic to be over at that point.

“You sure about that, Granger?” Malfoy goaded. She prickled at his taunting. “I don’t think
I’ve seen a deeper shade of red save for your uniforms.”

Hermione whipped her head in Malfoy’s direction so fast, she was surprised her neck didn’t
snap. “Excuse me?” She huffed. The bastard had the audacity to look rather pleased with
himself, a smile pulling at his full lips. Maybe things hadn’t changed so much after all.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, I just don’t want you to hold it against Theo here. As he said,
he was raised better than to speak of such things in mixed company, but the bloody bastard
has little display for manners sometimes.” Malfoy gave a lazy shrug.

“I’m not a prude, Malfoy . You don’t need to worry yourself about my sensitivities or whether
or not I’m particularly offended by Nott talking about his,” she stuttered briefly, “his cock.”
Merlin, she hoped her face didn’t give way to how flustered she was again . She was a
Gryffindor, she’d better begin act like it.

“Not a prude, huh? Care to share your experiences with the class?” This time Nott spoke up.
“We can make it a game, spill your secrets and take some of Draco’s shit potion. You’ll forget
all about it. It’s quite cathartic.”

“How can you know it’s cathartic if you can’t remember?” Malfoy sounded indignant.

Nott shrugged. “I don’t. But it’ll be fun, what do you say, Granger?”

“I’m not going to just volunteer information about myself that you can use against me. I may
forget, but you certainly won’t. Hardly seems fair on my account.” Hermione argued. She
wasn’t necessarily backing down out of fear, no, simply self-preservation.

“I’ll drink it when you’re done. Bet Draco here would too. I imainge it’ll be like when you’ve
had too much to drink and no one can remember a thing.” Nott supplied, repeating his earlier
sentiment that he clearly had forgotten. At least in this scenario, alcohol wouldn’t be
loosening her tongue to the point where she said everything with abandon.

Not like the night she and Ginny had too much wine and she nearly told her friend about…

Nope, she wasn’t even going to entertain that thought in this company.

“Theo, you can’t drink more or you’re likely to lose a whole week of memories.” Malfoy
arched a brow at Nott and Hermione was thankful for the out.
Nott just waved his hand. “No, mate, I can. Like I said, it’s shit. I still remember what I had
for dinner, so clearly all I’ve lost is an hour at best. So, what do you say? What kind of
naughty little dalliances have you had?”

Hermione huffed again, and plucked a potion from the crate, rolling the vial around in her
palm.

Draco arched a brow at Granger, eyeing the potion in her hand like she was actually
considering participating in Theo’s ridiculous little game.

Surely the witch wasn’t going to start going on about her sexual endeavors, not after how
blatantly she reacted to Theo’s words.

Salazar, and the way her face flamed when she said the word cock . He wouldn’t admit it, but
that little memory would be tucked in his mind for a long time. Unbidden images of Granger
whispering in his ear, begging for his cock had Draco subtly attempting to adjust himself in
his trousers.

“I’m not discussing my dalliances . But I’ll bite. Malfoy can get the information he needs,
this is only in the pursuit of education.” Granger shot them both a stern look.

Draco bit back a smile and a cheeky retort because of course the Golden Girl would put
academics above all else.

Theo gave an exaggerated sigh. “You’re not gonna tell us how big Viktor Krum’s rod is? I’ve
heard the rumors, and quite frankly, I’m rather curious.”

There was that pink again. “ No , Merlin! That’s, well, he’s—” she cut herself off and shook
her head.

“Ah, so you haven’t shagged Krum,” Theo said, almost dejectedly. “Damn, I think I just lost
five Galleons to Blaise from back in fourth year.”

“I’m sorry, what ?” Granger sputtered. “You and Zabini bet on whether Viktor and I shagged
?”

“Well,” Theo started, almost thoughtfully. “Not necessarily you, well yes I guess you
considering he was your date to the Yule Ball, but it was more of a general ‘I wonder if any
of the Durmstrang or Beauxbatons students are shagging with ours’ which, yeah, turned into
bet that you’d taken his broom for a ride.”

“Huh.” Granger rolled that thought around in her head, like she was deciding if she wanted to
be further put off by it or not. “Well, be sure to owl Zabini and let him know he owes you
five Galleons,” she supplied casually, but not meeting Theo or Draco’s eyes immediately.
Theo’s eyebrows were in his hairline and Draco tried and failed to keep his expression stoic,
but Granger looked equal parts proud of herself and a little sheepish at her admission.

She might not be a virgin, but she still had some reservations when it came to sex, it seemed.

“And for the record, Nott, the rumors aren’t exaggerated,” Granger bit back a smile as she
carefully eyed Theo.

He burst out into a hearty laugh and Draco couldn’t help but chuckle along with him.

The moment passed and Granger groaned quietly, eyeing the vial now set in front of her on
the coffee table.

“Sometimes I wish we could pick and choose what to forget. Not just recent things, or
Obliviating whole portions of our lives, but an hour here, a day there. Pick and choose what
to discard, like drawing them out for a pensieve, only never to be seen again.”

The admission hit Draco squarely in his chest. He recognized the haunted look in Granger’s
eyes, it was one he saw on himself often. Draco didn’t need to ask what memories she’d like
to be rid of, he could wager a guess on at least a few.

“Pretending the past doesn’t exist doesn’t make it so,” Draco said solemnly, his eyes fixed on
Granger. Her mouth parted and her eyes were wet with unshed tears. He could already see the
retort forming in her mind, so he quickly clarified his statement.

“Something my Mind-Healer always says to me. When the memories get too much, that is.
There’s more sentiment to it when he says it, but it helps. Helps to remind oneself that the
past is unmovable. It’s how we move forward that matters.”

If Granger was surprised to hear Draco was still seeing a Mind-Healer, willingly at that, she
didn’t show it. Instead, her eyes softened and her lips pulled into a tight line. There was a
current of unspoken apologies flowing freely from his mind, as if he could will them into her
psyche.

She might not have heard them, but there was a small sense of mutual understanding, albeit
delicate. She wasn’t on the defensive, her guards tentatively dropped. She hadn’t run from the
room nor hexed Draco into oblivion as she was well within rights to do.

“What’s got your mind so tangled up, Granger?” Draco asked softly, knowing he was likely
shattering the fragile glass. He couldn’t help himself. He needed to hear it.

Theo, for once in his sodding life, was silent. He wasn’t an active participant in this moment.

Granger sighed and ran a hand through her curls before pulling them atop her head and
securing them with an elastic.

“Everything. Sometimes I feel like I never found my footing again, after—” she swallowed
thickly and kept her stare fixed on the coffee table, “after the war. It was like my whole
purpose was tied up in that fight. And when it was over, it was like my strings had been cut.
“I’m so pleased to be here, like I have a purpose and I rather enjoy it, but it also feels selfish
of me. To know what I’ve left behind. It makes it hard to feel truly happy yet, knowing what
others have lost and can’t come back from. Ron…” she carried off and a faraway look glazed
her face. “Never mind.”

Theo shifted in his seat but Draco shot him a warning glare.

“Granger,” he said, moving just a bit closer to her without leaving his seat on the couch.
“You, of all people, deserve happiness after everything . Please tell me you know that. There
is nothing selfish about what you’re doing. If anyone in this room has earned an ounce of
guilt for carrying on , it’s certainly not you, nor is it Theo.” He wanted to add that Weasley
could sod off as well, since he was certain there was some weight to whatever she’d been
about to say, but he thought better of it.

“You do too, you know?” Granger finally said, voice a bit choked with the tears now falling
freely down her delicate face. “Deserve happiness.”

Draco’s eyes shuttered. Gods, what a cruel twist of fate. Hermione Granger, who by all rights
should abhor his very existence, who was a war heroine and literally The Chosen One’s best
friend and helped bring down one of the most powerful Dark wizards known to man, was
telling him, former Death Eater and member of one of Voldemort’s most vocally supportive
families, that he deserved happiness?

Draco couldn’t decide if her unwavering compassion was a strength, or her own naïveté.

“I miss my parents, most of all,” she confessed quietly. “Of all the losses and heartbreak in
the war. Godric, so many people died . And my parents are still alive, yet that’s what I hang
on to the most.”

“What happened to your parents?” Theo asked quietly, all the usual lightness and joking from
his voice gone.

“I Obliviated them,” she said somberly. “It was too dangerous, being a Muggle in the UK.
Modified their memories so they’d have no idea they had a daughter. Gave them new names,
supplied the idea for them to move to Australia. They’re now Wendell and Monica Wilkins.”
Granger gave a humorless laugh. “It’s funny, this talk about forgetting things, and I can’t
bring myself to find my parents and restore their memories of me, to bring my family back.”

“Because it feels unfair. That you can easily get your parents back like that,” Draco snapped
his fingers. “And so many others don’t have that option.”

Granger nodded. After a heavy silence, she unstoppered the vial of potion and looked
pointedly at Draco. This suddenly felt like a terrible idea. Draco reached out an arm to stop
her but she moved too quickly for his would be protest.

“Don’t hold this against me, and please write down that I had a lovely conversation with Eric
Danielson about his upbringing I’d like to follow up on for my curriculum.” She swallowed
the potion without another word, and Draco watched as her eyes fogged over briefly, just like
Theo’s had, and she blinked, confusion registered all over her face.
“What’s going on?” Granger scrambled to her feet, chest heaving while she panted.

Fuck . She may have forgotten everything she just said, but the feelings hadn’t abated, just
like Theo’s hadn’t earlier. She looked scared, staring between him and Theo.

“Granger,” Draco said softly, like one might approaching a skittish animal.

She edged back a bit, shoulders tense. “What did you give me?” She seethed, eyeing the
potions and empty vials on the table.

“Hey, Golden Girl, you’re okay. Relax and I’ll explain,” Theo said calmly. She gave Theo a
hard look, breaths still coming in rough, but she didn’t shirk away from him.

“I need…I need to get out of here.” She needed to get away from him , Draco recognized.
Granger scampered out of the common room, down the hall to her bedroom.

“ Fuck .” Draco groaned and ran both his hands over his face and through his hair. They were
both silent for a moment, processing the quickness the moment had snapped and took a turn.

“Mate, go on talk to her, tell her what happened so she doesn’t think you bloody drugged
her,” Theo’s green eyes were marred with concern.

“I can’t,” Draco croaked, feeling his careful control over his emotions slipping, just so. “You
saw the look on her face. She was terrified of me. Not you, me.” Draco’s throat felt tight.
“But you’re right, we can’t let her go to bed thinking we did something to her.”

“I’ll go, technically I’m the one who talked her into this.” Theo pushed to his feet and headed
down the hall.

“Granger, love, it’s Theo. Can you let me in, please?” Silence. “Hermione? Please open up,
I’ll explain everything. I promise you, you’re safe.” More silence, only briefly.

Draco heard the door open and then click softly again after Theo’s feet shuffled through the
threshold.

He took a moment to compose himself, cataloging all of his rampant thoughts before
collecting his notes from the evening and the box of potions. Results be damned, he would do
without.

Once everything was stored neatly in its place in his room, Draco flipped to the last page of
his notes in his notebook and made a tiny notation:

H. Granger—
Follow-up with E. Danielson on upbringing and her curriculum.
Parents: Wendell and Monica Wilkins, Australia.

He wasn’t entirely sure what compelled him to write that bit of information down about her
parents, but he knew he didn’t want it to slip away as fleeting as their conversation earlier
did.
 Vulnerable
Chapter Notes

CW: brief mention of sexual assault/drugging (not depicted/not off-screen, just

conceptually)

“You called me Hermione,” she sniffed, eyeing Nott warily. She was still so mixed up, one
moment, she was enjoying dinner with Eric Danielson, and the next, she was sitting in the
common room with Nott and Malfoy, with no recollection of how she got there.

All she had to go on was the pain in her chest, like she had a particular distressing
conversation. It wasn’t unlike the residual anxiety and gut twisting feelings she had after a
particularly bad row with Ron.

Did Eric put something in her drink? Somehow that didn’t seem plausible but the alternative
was that Malfoy and Nott had somehow drugged or charmed her, and that was even more
unsettling. It was something she might have expected years prior, some cruel game of theirs.

The even more nefarious thought occurred to her that if she were indisposed thanks to them,
could it have been sexual in nature? Despite how cruel Malfoy had been to her in the past,
assault on a non-consenting witch didn’t seem like his particular brand of malice.

She quickly took stock of her person and nothing seemed amiss. Her flannel pajamas were in
place and there was no soreness or discomfort between her thighs. No ache on her body.
Besides, when she came to, she was seated cross legged on the floor and they weren’t even
close enough to touch her.

It was all just rather uncomfortable.

“That’s your name isn’t it?” Nott said calmly.

“What?” Hermione blinked owlishly at the man currently standing inside her bedroom,
leaning against the closed door.

“Hermione. You said I called you Hermione, is that not your name? Or do you truly prefer
Granger?” Nott looked quite comfortable, dipping his head slightly so his dark, shaggy curls
slightly covered his eyes.

“No—I just, you don’t call me Hermione.” She settled herself on the edge of her bed,
confused herself as to why she was fixated on his use of her first name, rather than what the
fuck had just happened. Her brain was still attempting to piece things together, like trying to
thread a needle without magic, the thread slipping just short of the eye.
“Should I not? We’re colleagues, we’re cordial, and I’d like to think we could even be friends
someday, I’d much prefer we be on a first-name basis.” Nott— Theo —gave a small shrug.

“Sure,” she said on a shaky breath. “Colleagues. First names. Sure.” Gods, what was wrong
with her? “What the hell happened back there?” She eyed him carefully, a prickle of fear
coursing through her veins as he slowly moved across the room.

“Nothing horrendous, I promise. May I sit?” He gestured to the chair tucked under her desk.
Hermione nodded and kept her eyes trained on him.

“You took a Forgetfulness Potion, well, a semblance of a Forgetfulness Potion.”

“I did what ?” She seethed. That didn’t sound reasonable at all. Why on earth…

Theo held up a hand to stop her, biting back a smile. “Funny, I wager you had similar
reaction when I told you I was doing it too. Silly little idea, Draco had his first years make
them and there was a small batch he deemed ‘acceptable’ but not quite up to snuff. So, the
theory was, it wouldn’t impact any large swathes of memory, and apparently I thought it
would be comical. Truth be told, I have no recollection between leaving dinner and
immediately after taking the potion myself, but it sounds like something I would agree to.”

“And I agreed to this too? How did I even end up there? I remember…I remember having
dinner, but I can’t recall getting back here.” Panic clawed at Hermione’s chest. She’d only
been belligerently drunk two times in her life, both leaving her with a blank slate where her
memories should have been. It always made her squirm to think about what she could have
said or done during those moments that could have been downright mortifying.

“Well, from what I can gather, you likely tried to stop me from doing it, again, no memory
per se, but knowing you, Golden Girl, it probably rubbed your sense of morality raw. How
you ended up there, I couldn’t be sure, but there you were, sitting on the common room floor,
looking rather indignant and of your own volition, when I came to.”

“But you remember me taking it? I—I wasn’t coerced?” She whispered the last bit. Hermione
had to be sure. Theo could lie, and tell her that yes, she volunteered, as he’d be wont to cover
his own arse if they were up to misdeeds, but there was a niggling feeling in her belly that she
could trust him. A sense of familiarity, like her vulnerability recognized his own.

“Yes,” he breathed, leaning forward to brace his arms on his knees. “Can I be frank with you,
Hermione? I don’t want to upset you, but it may help give you some context of where your
head was at when you opted to take the potion.”

“Okay,” she all but whispered.

“You mentioned…wanting to forget. Just certain memories, moments. You plucked the
potion from the box and had this faraway look.”

“What else did I say?” Hermione asked, her voice coming through just a little louder. That
thought, it was familiar. Not that she was gaining any memory of the last hour or so, but it’s a
thought she’d had plenty of times before.
Theo sighed, the pained look on his face giving away how uncomfortable this conversation
was for him. Whatever she said in the confines of that moment, it likely crossed the
boundaries between whatever semblance of a companionship she had with Theodore Nott.
They weren’t close, by any regard.

“Guilt, mostly. You said it was hard for you to feel truly happy, because so many others had
suffered such great losses during the war.” He at least had the sense to look serious as he
spoke. The usual teasing lilt of his voice and lighthearted charm was absent.

“ Gods ,” Hermione moaned. Tears immediately sprung to her eyes. Nothing he was saying
was off base, because she’d been living with the guilt for ages. Watching Ron drink himself
toward an early grave, the rest of the Weasley’s coping with their losses. Teddy growing up
without his parents, Harry and Ginny just trying to get by and carry on. The pain and
emptiness she saw ghosting across so many of her friends’ faces, despite their best efforts to
move forward.

It wasn’t as if Hermione hadn’t suffered great loss, too. She loved Fred and Remus and Tonks
dearly, and her heart wept for all of the casualties of war.

But she did feel guilty, for the moments where the future seemed less bleak, for moving
through and chasing a goal that was hers and hers alone. For leaving Ron in the aftermath,
unable to coddle him back to sobriety.

“Did I…” she choked out, afraid to ask. Afraid to know if she revealed her biggest fear, a
blaring mark of her cowardice. “Did I talk about my parents?”

Hermione could have restored their memories. She could have brought them back to her.

She just couldn’t bear the thought of a happy reunion, when so many others were still barely
holding their wounds together.

Theo winced. “Yes.”

Hermione didn’t need to hear anything else. Regardless of what she said about her parents,
she knew immediately that was what left her feeling so hollow and raw, aching. Vulnerable.
Exposed. In front of two people she’d hardly considered friends, no less.

“I’d like to be alone, please,” Hermione said, turning slightly so she wasn’t looking directly
at him.

“Okay, Hermione.” Theo rapped his knuckles on her desk, and the look he gave her was
surprisingly tender. Not pitying, which she would have expected given her meltdown, but it
was full of care and concern.

“One more thing,” Hermione said as she heard his feet cross the room to the door. He paused.
“Please tell Malfoy I’m sorry, and whether he feels the same way or not, I don’t hate him. For
whatever that’s worth.” She wasn’t sure exactly where that thought came from, but the look
of sheer panic on his face when she came to worried in her belly. They’d barely had
conversation, and she supposedly bared her soul to him just moments ago.
“Golden Girl, you have nothing to apologize for. Although he’ll be pleased to know you
don’t hate him, one thing you should know about Draco, if there’s any sort of burying the
hatchet so to speak between the two of you. He’s never a day in his life hated you, and no one
is a bigger enemy to Draco Malfoy than himself. Goodnight, Hermione.” He gave her a
careful nod before closing the door quietly behind him.

“Goodnight…Theo.”

The next morning, Hermione felt groggy and exhausted. She thanked Merlin it was Saturday
and she could have a bit of a lie-in, not ready to leave the warmth of her bed. She’d managed
to not fully cry herself to sleep, but enough tears were shed that her eyes were still puffy and
tender.

When Hermione finally extracted herself from her sheets, she stepped over to the full-length
mirror along the wall and appraised her appearance. Her hair was a tangled pile, half on top
of her head, the other half a wild mess from where it slipped out of the elastic. And, as
suspected, her lids were swollen and eyes still bloodshot.

“Look at you, Granger,” she muttered to herself. “Enough of this weepy nonsense. Put on
your big girl knickers and get it together.”

She’d been alternating between feeling fulfilled for the first time in a long time, to bouts of
sadness and moping, since she’d arrived at Hogwarts.

Thankfully, the latter was fewer and far between, but it was against the very core of her as a
person.

Hermione grabbed her wand from her bedside table and did a few quick glamor and healing
charms to pull her hair into a tight braid and return her eyes to a normal state. She was going
to go to breakfast, go for a long run, and begin grading the first batches of homework her
students had already turned in.

She had a stack of short essays delineating practical uses of common Muggle technology in
the world from her first years, and by the start of next week, she would have more to grade
regarding a specific country of her second and third years’ own choosing, discussing their
form of government and how the nation-states are designated.

Her N.E.W.T. students had a rather daunting task, one for which she was most excited about.
They were to read the short story “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson, an American author, and
write an analysis on it. It was a chilling tale, one Hermione discovered on one of her many
trips to the local Muggle library during her summers off, about a small, rural town that held
an annual lottery.
The set up of the story leads the reader to believe that this was exciting, a privilege, a revered
custom within the town. Until the very end, when the reader learns that the “winner” of said
lottery is actually stoned to death by their fellow townsfolk.

It was an important commentary, about how quickly one’s allegiances can align by simply
going along with the crowd, rather than breaking away and doing the right thing. The concept
isn’t unique in itself, but the presentation of the message struck Hermione so squarely in the
chest the first time she read it—that oftentimes one doesn’t realize until it’s too late that
they’ve been led astray. She intended to use that lesson to begin their discussion on how
things progressed in the Second Wizarding War.

Professor McGonagall initially had disapproved of the lesson, stating it read more like a
common literature instruction than anything, until Hermione had her read the short story
herself, and encouraged her to form her own opinion. Maybe she’d taken liberties by
requesting McGonagall surmise the relevance based on her reading, rather than simply
explain her thought process herself, but the Headmistress hadn’t seemed to mind one bit.

Hermione made her way down to the Great Hall, passing students as they milled about lazily
on their first Saturday of the term. While they were all dressed in quite casual wear, robes not
being required of them on the weekends, Hermione took care to be more presentable than her
last off-day.

She’d just change out of her simple gray dress and sweater before her run. It was worth the
extra trip to her quarters, if it meant saving herself another embarrassing gaff.

The Great Hall was buzzing with chatter, students sending enchanted parchment-airplanes
throughout the hall. She overheard snippets of conversation about Quidditch try-outs coming
up and a particularly nasty assignment Professor Danielson had assigned as she made her
way to the head table.

It wasn’t nearly as crowded there as it was during weekday meals, and Hermione had her
choice of seats. Her eyes however fell on both Malfoy and Nott, seated near the end talking
quietly.

As if he could sense her presence, Malfoy stopped his conversation and looked directly at her
approaching, his cool, gray eyes slowly taking in her entire form.

She took the moment to appraise him as well. Since he’d returned as a fixture in her life, she
hadn’t willed herself to actually look at him. His hair was still perfectly, annoyingly, styled,
although he wore it a tad shorter on the sides with some length on top. It made him look more
refined, if that were even possible.

Hermione also didn’t miss how he’d gotten taller and broader since their school days, his
upper body clinging to the fabric of his button down shirt as if it was tailored specifically for
his body. Malfoy’s cheekbones were as sharp as ever and the cut of his jaw was just… god-
like . As if he’d been chiseled from marble. Even with the faintest dusting of blond stubble
along his jaw, something she’d noticed was almost a permanent fixture. It did nothing to
detract from the masculine, regality of his appearance.
A long-forgotten feeling stirred low in her belly as she watched Malfoy during her walk to
the table. It wasn’t until she was standing directly in front of them that she realized what
she’d been doing. Maybe it was her memory lingering on Theo’s words last night, or some
part of her subconscious tugging on the conversation she had lost after taken the potion, but
Hermione felt like she needed to be the one to cross the threshold, so to speak, on amending
her shared existence with Malfoy.

He never took her eyes off of her, and when Theo finally realized she was standing there, he
eyed her curiously.

“Well, good morning Hermione,” Theo practically purred, all the seriousness his voice bore
last night completely gone, eyes bouncing between her and Malfoy. “Lovely to see you,
would you care to sit?” He pointed his fork at the empty seat next to…Malfoy. Not the
equally vacant seat next to himself.

“Yes, actually,” Hermione said, lacing confidence into her words. “Might I join you this
morning?”

Malfoy’s eyes widened a fraction before he took a quick glance down the rest of the table to
see the numerous empty seats, as if he was wondering what the hell she was doing.

Honestly, she wondered the same.

She wasn’t asking for Theo’s assent, seeing as he’d already invited her. She waited, carefully,
for Malfoy. To give her some indication that he, as Theo said last night, didn’t hate her nearly
as much as she might have believed.

“Please.” The quiet rumble of his voice sent a small shiver down her spine, although he
appeared on the surface to be unaffected, tilting his head in the direction of the empty chair.

The conversation was…stilted. Whatever Theo and Malfoy had been discussing prior to her
arrival seemed to come to a complete stop and Hermione felt quite silly having intruded.
What was she thinking? That this gesture would…she didn’t know, erase last night?

“How was your week, Hermione?” Theo broke the awkward silence as Hermione filled her
plate with fresh fruit and a warm croissant.

“Oh, well enough. I have a stack of essays to grade already, and assigned out a few more due
next week so I’ve got to get a jump on things before I’m drowning in parchment.” Hermione
winced in jest, she truly didn’t mind the idea of burying herself in grading essays whatsoever.
“What about you?”

She began slathering jam onto her croissant and looked over at Theo. It was a bit awkward,
leaning slightly and craning her head around Malfoy, but he also would barely look at her.

“Brilliant,” Theo beamed, taking a massive bite of sausage. “Haven’t assigned any physical
homework, just having them practice charms over the weekend, so I’ve saved myself the
work.” He chuckled lightly. “But in reality, it’s pretty fantastic. It may sound soft, but I like
teaching. Knowing I’m helping shape their little brains.”
“No,” Hermione said with a soft shake of her head. “Not soft at all, it’s why we’re here, isn’t
it? A mutual desire to helping young witches and wizards learn.”

“And how was your week, Malfoy?” Theo asked, eying his friend who had been acting as if
he didn’t exist since Hermione sat down.

“I’ve bloody well spent most of my free time with you since term started, and even longer
before that. You know how my week has been,” Malfoy grumbled and Hermione shifted
uncomfortably.

Theo didn’t seem to take his friend’s retort personally, just giving an exaggerated gesture.
“Yes, but the point of sharing a meal with a colleague is to enjoy conversation . I am sure
Professor Granger would love to hear about your week. Perhaps the excitement of teaching
twitchy little eleven-year-olds how to use a mortar and pestle? Or maybe the three cauldrons
that melted when your second years were attempting, what was it?”

“Strengthening Solution,” Malfoy said stoically while sipping his tea.

“Ah yes, that. Rather frustrating, don’t you think? I don’t know if I ever melted a cauldron
before. What’s that say about your teaching prowess, Draco?” Theo teased. He seemed to
have a penchant for winding people up.

Malfoy tensed beside Hermione and his fingers clenched tightly around his teacup, but that
was only indication Theo’s words bristled.

“It has—” Malfoy started, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “It has nothing to do with my
teaching ability, Theodore. Lest you forget that dolt Finnegan regularly made this explode
and Longbottom didn’t know his arse from a Valerian root for years. Are you also
discrediting Professor Snape’s teaching abilities?”

“Hey now,” Hermione interjected indignantly in defense of her fellow Gryffindors, her
friends. Although he did have a point—Neville Longbottom, despite his extensive knowledge
and aptitude for Herbology, was abysmal at Potions. Seamus Finnegan, she believed, simply
liked to blow things up, consequences be damned.

“No offense,” Malfoy shot in her direction. That gave Hermione pause. Ordinarily, he’d make
a foul remark and not be bothered by anyone’s interpretation of them or if they did cause
offense. “What good would I be doing if I did not push them a bit? It’s not supposed to be
easy. Those who fail in my course have two options: simply improve, or buckle under the
expectations. I have no intentions of mollycoddling them.”

The statement was…rather insightful. Hermione could appreciate the approach, although she
considered there was likely still some aloofness to his presentation. She imagined the
scenario where Professor Malfoy could easily break someone’s confidence, without any of
the care to encourage them to be better.

“Hmm,” Hermione said aloud, not realizing it until Malfoy turned to look at her fully. From
their close distance, she could see clearly the cool gray of his eyes. The faintest flecks of blue
rimming the edges of his irises. Like dark clouds on the horizon, promising the brutality of
the storm.

“Something to say, Professor Granger ?” Her name rolling off of his tongue like liquid
smoke.

“Nothing,” Hermione quickly blurted, shaking her head in an effort to rid herself of whatever
emotions Malfoy was stirring inside of her. “It makes sense, that’s all. I can appreciate your
approach, Malfoy.” She shoved a forkful of fruit in her mouth to prevent herself from saying
anything further.

Malfoy regarded her carefully for what felt like ages, but was in reality probably only a few
seconds. His eyes raked across her face, like he was looking for something she’d left unsaid,
but he gave no emotion away himself.

“Right, well, I’m off,” he said to no one in particular, pushing up from his seat. Hermione
fixed her eyes on her plate.

“See you, mate. Pitch later?” Theo asked, pulling a heaping portion of bacon on his plate.

“Fine,” Malfoy offered. “Oh, and Granger?” He added a bit softer.

Hermione’s head shot up and her eyes locked on Malfoy’s. He’d paused briefly right in front
of the table, hands tucked in his pockets. She willed herself to look at his face, rather than
glance downward to see how well he filled out his trousers…

“Yes?”

“Can we,” he looked away briefly and swallowed, the motion emphasizing his Adam's apple.
“Can we talk, later? In the common room, before dinner?” Hermione’s breath caught at the
sheer heartbreaking vulnerability etched in his features. A rarity for him, certainly.

“Sure, yes, that’s fine,” Hermione practically whispered.

Malfoy gave her a soft nod and turned on his heel, walking away without another word.

Theo scooted over to Malfoy’s vacant seat, dragging his still full plate over and let out a low
whistle. “Well, he’s got it bad.”

That snapped Hermione out of her temporary trance. “What? No he doesn’t.” She was
positive he just wanted to discuss last night’s events, something she felt she owed to him. She
did all but accuse him of drugging her, and after Theo had calmed her down a degree,
Hermione knew that wasn’t the case.

“Whatever you say, Golden Girl,” Theo said with a chuckle and dug in to the rest of his
breakfast.
 Mint Tea

Hermione,

Hope things are well for you, we’re all missing you terribly but can only imagine how much
you’re enjoying your time at Hogwarts so far.

I’m writing to see if you’d like to have dinner soon—I unfortunately will be traveling the
week of your birthday so consider it an early birthday celebration. We can meet at the Three
Broomsticks, if you’re free next Saturday at 8pm.

Owl back soon, sorry for the lack of update in, but I’d much rather see you in person.

Say hello to Hagrid for me!

Best,
HP

The owl from Harry came mid-afternoon, flying directly to the large window in the common
room and tapping on the glass. Hermione had been in the middle of grading essays when it
arrived, and it filled Hermione with a sense of warmth. Somehow, even though his letter was
only slightly longer than Ron’s, it felt much more meaningful.

She’d examine the reasoning as to why another day.

Pausing in her grading, she pulled out two fresh pieces of parchment from her bag to write
Harry back, as well as Ron since she’d all but been ignoring his letter since she’d received it.

Harry,

Dinner sounds lovely. I will see you then.

Chat soon,
HG

Her response to Ron took a little more time to compose. There was much to be said, but only
so many words she was comfortable putting into a letter. Part of her didn’t even want to
respond to him. It hadn’t even been a week, and she’d asked for space. But she couldn’t in
her heart just cut him off altogether. It would, at worst, ruin her future friendship with him, if
she desired to have one, and impact her friendship with both Harry and Ginny.
Despite Ginny’s insistence that she wanted nothing to do with her brother right now, she
knew her friend’s heart was hurting with him being absent from her life.

After what felt like an hour of staring at the blank parchment, she finally composed her
response to one Ronald Billius Weasley.

Dear Ron,

Thank you for writing, it was a pleasant surprise to hear from you. The term has been good
so far, although less than a full week isn’t a fair indicator of how it truly will go. I have some
wonderfully curious, bright students—it reminds me much of our days here at Hogwarts
together.

I truly do hope you’re well and healthy. There are so many people in your life who want to
see you thrive, Ron.

We both deserve to forge our paths in this world, whatever they may look like.

All my best,
Hermione

P.S., I do hope you’re watering the plants at the flat.

It was succinct, but there was much left for him to read between the lines. She hoped her
reference to their days in school reminded him of when things didn’t look so bleak for him.
When they were carefree—at least, more carefree, considering by the delicate age of eleven
they were already thrust into situations well above their heads.

There was no question left to be had about her hope that he was well and healthy. It didn’t
need to be explicitly stated. But she hoped that he took her final words to heart, that they both
deserved to forge their paths in the world. Even if it meant separately.

Because in the depths of her heart, Hermione knew that her romantic relationship with Ron
was well and truly over.

She didn’t think she could ever reconcile whatever feelings she had when they first got
together with the man that he’d become. Even if he were to make amends for all the hurt and
pain from the past years, there was no denying that in her bones, he wasn’t her forever.

Hermione tucked both letters into envelopes she’d kept handy in her bag and addressed them
to Harry and Ron. She’d just nip up to the Owlery really quickly and head back down. She
hadn’t forgotten Malfoy’s request to chat before dinner, but he hadn’t specified a time, nor
had he returned to the common room since she’d been in here, grading essays.

Stuffing the envelopes in the pocket of the same cardigan she’d been wearing this morning,
Hermione headed towards the portrait hole to head upstairs before colliding with a solid wall
of muscle .

“Umph,” Hermione grunted, losing her footing. A strong hand wrapped around her bicep to
steady her, fingers gripping the muscle. Tight, but not too hard.

Looking from the ground up, she saw a pair of boots with dried mud on the soles, slim
athletic pants, emerald green robes over a tight-fitting black tee shirt. The faint smell of damp
grass and soil filled her nostrils and Hermione sucked in a breath when she finally landed on
Malfoy’s face, staring directly at her.

“Sorry, wasn’t watching where I was going,” she said, her voice coming out breathier than
she intended. He released her arm almost as quickly as he’d grabbed it, the skin feeling
suddenly cooler without his touch. His hair was wet from the rain and probably sweat, pieces
of his blond locks stuck to his forehead. His cheeks and the tip of his nose were flushed pink,
standing out against his pale complexion. It was then she noticed his broomstick slung over
his shoulder with a leather strap.

“Heading out, Granger?” Malfoy asked, his tone light, but Hermione could decipher the
smallest hint of worry in his eyes, as if he thought she might be blowing him off.

“Just up to the Owlery,” she said, patting the envelopes in her pocket. “I’ll be right back.”

He nodded, no other words needing to be said.

Hermione rushed out of the common room and took the familiar path up to the Owlery. She
couldn’t tell you if she ran in to anyone else on the way to her destination, not focused on
anything but the direction her feet were taking her.

She tied both letters to one of the school’s owls, surprised to see a tremor in her fingers, but
she quickly shook it off and sent the brown bird on its way.

When she returned to the common room, Malfoy was sprawled on one of the couches, long
legs resting on the coffee table. He must have showered, as his hair was still wet, but combed
back, and he was wearing a gray button-down shirt tucked in to…

Jeans?

Hermione stifled a snort. Draco Lucius Malfoy was wearing jeans. Granted, they likely cost
an ostentatious amount of money, but it was a stark contrast to his usually very proper,
carefully tailored, wardrobe.

He hadn’t heard her come in, absorbed in reading one of the essays she had left to grade. His
brow was pinched, lips pulled down in what could be disgust, or concentration. It was almost
like an alternate universe, jeans-clad Draco Malfoy reading an essay on practical Muggle
technology applications.

As she drew closer, taking the seat across from him rather than next to, on the same sofa
she’d been seated on before, he looked up from his reading.

“Reading anything interesting?” She asked, keeping her tone light.

“I can’t be sure,” he said with a slight tilt to his head, looking back at the parchment.
“Honestly, this seems like utter shit. Cartwright’s first point is that the telephone is useful so
he can ring his nan.” He gave the parchment an incredulous look.

Hermione chuckled and leaned forward far enough to pluck the parchment from Malfoy’s
hands, skimming it over before setting it back down in the pile to be graded. “I’ll admit, it’s
rather uninspired. We discussed normal technology in the Muggle world, and the expectation
was for them to apply their learning to useful situations,” Hermione said, shuffling through
the stack of graded papers, looking for one in particular that she found rather insightful.
“Ringing your nan is wonderful and all, but it misses the mark a bit.”

She smoothed the essay on the table and tapped it with her finger. “This one is quite good, it
discusses emergency medical care responses, 999 and ambulances.”

Malfoy, to her surprise, slid the parchment over to himself and began reading through it.
“999?” He asked quizzically.

“The telephone number for emergency care. One could ring that number and request medical
attention to their location. Ambulances are large vehicles with stretchers in the back and
medical equipment to provide life-saving or triage care. They’re used to transport people to
the hospital.” It was a rather rudimentary explanation, but she doubted Malfoy had an interest
in the depths of Muggle medicine or its practices in the world.

He hummed thoughtfully under his breath as he continued reading. “I guess that makes sense,
without incantations and potions, Muggles would be in a sorry state without something like
this.”

The comment bristled Hermione, and she sat up a little straighter. “That’s…that’s the point,
Malfoy. Without the ability to do magic, Muggles have been able to accomplish great feats
without it, they continually evolve and expand their societies. The goal is to view technology
as an advantage, not a crutch.”

Malfoy’s lips were pursed as she continued on.

“For so long, the school of thought has been that the Muggle population was somehow
weaker for their lack of magical abilities, a detriment to their own survival. But by
celebrating their accomplishments, recognizing what they are capable of by developing and
harnessing such techs, we can also appreciate what they do well, nay, better than the magical
population.”

His brow quirked upwards. “Better than?”

“Don’t be prejudiced, Malfoy. If you truly believe Muggles are beneath you, why are we even
entertaining a conversation?”

“I wasn’t,” he supplanted, his face sobering. “I know better, now. I’m genuinely interested,
what is it that you feel Muggles do better than wizards?”
Hermione huffed, still feeling defensive. This particular conversation was like walking on a
tightrope. She didn’t intend to begin a debate on Muggles versus wizards, which, to
Hermione’s credit, she didn’t think it was a matter of versus, rather than recognizing the
differences and appreciating them both.

“The telephone,” she said succinctly.

“To ring nans all over the world,” Malfoy said with a wave of his hand, lips turned up in
amusement.

“Well, yes. Consider it, being able to pick up a device and have a conversation with someone
in real time, rather than wait for the owl post to deliver a message?”

“Do Muggles not use a postal system?”

“No, of course they do. It still has many practicalities and there is a certain sentimentality to
receiving a handwritten letter, but the telephone is remarkably convenient. Why we’re still
largely reliant on birds to deliver messages is a bit beyond me.”

“Huh.” Malfoy supplied. “I guess it’s just the desire to do things the old way, how it always
was. It’s tradition.”

“Tradition is a posh synonym for gatekeeping. Tradition is not an excuse to hold on to

antiquated beliefs. Humans evolve.” Hermione said in finality. She wasn’t only talking about
telephones, and he knew it, the way his eyes bored into hers, the weight of everything that
was still unsaid between the two of them.

She didn’t even know where to begin unpacking their mutual baggage.

“You’re right,” the words spoken so softly after a minute. Malfoy scrubbed a hand down his
face, looking exhausted. “You’re absolutely correct. I’ll admit, when I asked you for a chat, I
wasn’t expected to engage in such a debate. But clearly, there are some lingering…notions
between us on the topic.”

Malfoy stood and walked over to the kitchenette, fixing a cup of tea.

“Before we get into…that, what I really wanted to discuss was last night.” He settled on the
couch next to her this time but leaving plenty of space between the two of them.

Hermione expected that. “There’s nothing to talk about.” She was being truthful. While
losing a portion of her memories was still unsettling, she truly believed it was all done on her
own accord, that she knew the risks, and no one coerced her into participating in such a silly
idea.

“There is,” Malfoy said, holding his mug in both hands, steam floating from the top. “I know
Theo talked to you, and he said you understood the situation but were still rather upset. And I
want to apologize, for putting you in that position.”

“We’re adults, Malfoy,” Hermione said firmly. “While I have no recollection, I don’t truly
believe either you or Theo forced my mouth open and poured the potion down my throat. It
was just rather jarring, to come out of that. It was confusing and upsetting, and I reacted on
instinct.”

“I wanted to stop you, right before,” he admitted softly. “But you were determined and had it
down before I could act. Theo had come out of it without memories, but still feeling the
physical, emotional reaction to moments prior, and I had a suspicion you would as well. And
Granger, I don’t ever want to put you in a position where you could get hurt again.” His
words were full of sincerity, and Hermione caught the quickest of glances to her forearm,
where her scar was hidden under the woolen sleeve of her sweater.

“Thank you,” she whispered, unsure of what else to say. She tugged on the sleeve of her
sweater, a nervous habit.

“No need to thank me, Granger. I have a lot to make up for. Apologizing for last night is
scarcely the tip of the iceberg.”

“Was Theo a wreck too, after?” Hermione sniffed, attempting to steer the conversation
somewhere lighter.

“No,” Malfoy huffed a small laugh. “No, he was in a different sort of way. I won’t recant
what he said before he took the potion, because truthfully, I’d rather forget it myself. But his
initial reaction was of, ah, confused excitement.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed, warmth flooding them. She tried to suppress a laugh that ended
up coming out in a small snort. She didn’t know Theo well, but given his open and brazen
personality, she could only imagine what he’d spilled.

“I’m very much the same person I was before, Granger,” Malfoy spoke, bringing the
heaviness of their conversation right back to the forefront. “But in many ways, I’m not. I’ve,
what was the word you used? Evolved. My opinions and mindset on many things have
changed, ideally for the better.”

“What do you mean?” She knew. She knew what he was implying, but she desperately
wanted to hear him verbalize it, lest they ever get along in any sense.

“Well, I’m still a posh, arrogant arsehole,” He said with a smirk that made Hermione’s
stomach swoop. “In all seriousness, I am a product of my environment. Call it lack of
exposure, or too much exposure, I still have what you might call elitist attitudes, only they
tend to now apply to my choices of clothing and alcohol most days.

“Your legwear says otherwise,” Hermione joked, nudging his knee with her fist.

Malfoy laughed, a deep, full laugh, something Hermione had never heard before. “I’ll spare
you the details on how much these jeans cost me, Granger. But what I truly meant to tell you
is that I’m sorry. For the years of pain and agony my beliefs, my family’s beliefs, my actions
, have caused you, simply because of blood status. I won’t say I was brainwashed or forced
into the idea, because I did truly believe it for a long while and those two reasonings are cop-
outs.
“It wasn’t until I was older that I realized the platform on which Voldemort stood was utterly
wrong . And for that, I can never apologize to you enough.”

“Oh,” Hermione said in shock. It was sincerity at its purest form. It didn’t erase anything
between the two of them, nothing ever would, but it did put a balm on the old wounds that
still marred her heart.

“If you’d rather spend our shared time at Hogwarts, however long it may be, merely
tolerating my existence and going about our days, I don’t fault you for it. But, I’d like it if we
could be friends.”

She was rife with budding friendships, it seemed. First Theo, and now Malfoy.

“Friends,” she rolled the word around her tongue like it was foreign. “I think we can be
friends. Friendly, at the least. There’s still a lot, right here,” she tapped her chest, right above
her heart, “and while I too have grown, learned to let certain things go, others I haven’t been
able to, not yet. We both have wounds to heal from.”

“Friendly, I can take. If that’s what you’re able to give me right now,” Malfoy said gently,
taking another sip of his tea.

Somehow, they’d shifted slightly closer together on the couch and she could smell the brew
in his mug. It was the combined aroma, their near proximity, and the honesty of their
conversation that sent Hermione spiraling headfirst into a memory that she’d willed to the
back archives of her mind, never willing to examine again.

Hermione shoved her copy of “Advanced Potion Making” in her bag in frustration. She
didn’t actively want her friends to fail, but the fact that Harry had outdone her in Potions was
a hard pill to swallow. Just last year, she was helping both him and Ron limp along, and
suddenly he’s a bloody prodigy.

The other students had already left, Hermione feigning needing to ask Professor Slughorn a
question to give herself a moment to collect her thoughts before heading to her next class.

The dungeon was empty, but still Hermione willed herself not to cry. Tears, even tears of
frustration, were a sign of weakness that she refused to let anyone see.

The sound of the closing door had her head spinning in the direction of the noise. Shoes
clicked across the stone, as Malfoy slithered into the room. He faltered briefly, upon seeing
Hermione, no doubt taking note of her frizzing hair and blotchy cheeks. She braced herself
for whatever cruel remark he had to offer today.

He moved closer, sliding almost directly behind her and grabbed a book off of the table.

“Forgot my text,” he murmured, close enough for her to hear his breathing. He took a deep
inhale and said quietly, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.

“Lavender and honey.”

“Wh—what?” Hermione stuttered, turning around to face him.

“Tell me, Granger, what was it that you smelled in the Amortentia?” He ignored her question
and supplied one of his own. Professor Slughorn had shown them the world’s most powerful
love potion today, Amortentia, which held a unique smell based on what the person desired
the most.

She pursed her lips, refusing to give him more fodder for his proverbial cannon. She’d heard
the snickers in class when she disclosed what she detected in the potion.

“New parchment, freshly mown grass, spearmint toothpaste…” he mused, recalling what she
had said. “Are you sure about that, Granger?” His voice was low and gravelly, taking on a
rougher tone that she’d ever heard him use before.

It sent a shock to her system and she had the sudden desire to clench her thighs together.

“Sort yourself out, you can’t let Potter take all the glory, now can you?” He tapped his book
on the table once and left the room without another word.

Hermione was left in the dungeon, alone, reeling from that interaction.

How had he known?

Because it wasn’t new parchment, freshly mown grass, or spearmint toothpaste, no, not at all.

It was faded, worn parchment found in old library books, the smell of damp grass like a rain-
soaked field, and the delicate scent of mint—not spearmint, peppermint—that revealed itself
to Hermione.

“I suppose we should get ready for dinner, Theo should be back soon,” Malfoy said,
completely unaware of where Hermione’s mind had just gone.

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “We should.”

Malfoy rose from his seat and Hermione caught herself tracking the movement of him using
his want to levitate his empty mug back to the kitchenette.

One that had been filled with peppermint flavored tea.

 Detention

Since his recent friendship…no, friendly truce with Granger, the bloody witch seemed to be
everywhere.

Not in an irritating sense, Salazar, no, but Draco was suddenly keenly aware of her presence
making itself known. She’d been all but holing away in her office or her bedroom since
arriving at Hogwarts, Draco only catching moments here and there, and it had really started
to chafe him.

He truly, actually, wanted to make amends. For a litany of reasons, but most of all, he was
having a hard time suppressing the hold Hermione Granger had on him. He couldn’t explain
it, nor did he care to, but having her skirt around him and all but avoid him made him
anxious. Tied knots in his stomach.

Like a fucking teenager.

Since Saturday, however, she’d eased in to a sort of comfort in their shared living space.
Taking tea in the common room with her nose in a book or grading papers quietly by the fire.
Giving him polite smiles and friendly conversation when their paths crossed. She was no
longer avoiding eye contact when Theo roped her into sharing a meal with them or when the
two went off on some tangent about a student.

Despite her more reserved nature, she and Theo were so very similar. Optimistic, hopeful.
Something Draco didn’t have much of in his life. They got on well, especially since the
Forgetfulness night.

Now, Draco was catching hints of lavender and ink and honey everywhere he turned.

It didn’t stop him from joining her in the common room to grade work on two occasions,
neither of them speaking much as they focused on their students’ assignments, despite the
privacy and space being much greater in his own bedroom. It also didn’t stop him from
timing when he went out on the Quidditch pitch when he knew she’d be out for a jog. He
learned rather quickly Granger went on long runs around the grounds a few times a week.

She didn’t often venture near the pitch, but he always managed to catch glimpses of her from
his broom, her brightly colored jogging wear a beacon against the greenery of the grounds.

It was a special kind of torture, one that Theo found utterly amusing. Draco offered no
explanation, but the more she invaded his space, the more he sought those miniscule
moments. Their words were still tentative, both of them speaking carefully and amicably, as
if they were afraid to shatter the delicate peace.

The only respite he got was the fact that he spent his days deep in the dungeons and her
classroom was up on the fifth floor, on the opposite side of the castle. Large hours of the day
passed without any interaction between the two, and Draco could focus on what he was
actually here to do: teach.
When he met with Healer Renault on Sunday, the day following his apology, Draco had told
him about his encounters with Granger. Renault was no stranger to the lingering guilt he still
felt, often encouraging Draco to make amends, but respect those who might not be willing to
accept his contrition.

After all, Draco knew well enough that some sins could not be forgiven.

Renault was pleased to hear that Draco made contact first, offered his apologies, and sounded
pleased for Draco’s sake that Granger was willing to accept his olive branch. It helped ease
the rest of the weight off his chest and Draco felt reminded of his purpose, why he chose to
come back to Hogwarts.

After dinner on Wednesday evening, Draco lingered behind as Theo cleared his plate and got
ready to head back to the common room, as it was Draco’s night to supervise detention.

“Gods, whatever they’re doing in the kitchens is remarkable. The food was never this good
when we were students. I think my trousers are starting to get snug.” Theo groaned with a
stretch, rubbing his stomach.

“The food’s the same, although your cheeks are looking a little pudgier these days. Maybe
stop going back for thirds like you’re in an eating competition with Hagrid, and spend more
time on the pitch.” Draco drawled as the remnants of his dinner and the serving platters
cleared from the tables.

“Yes, maybe I should be spending more out there on the bloody broom with you, Draco,”
Theo said with a quirk in his brow. “Salazar only knows what you’re doing if I’m not there to
toss the Quaffle back and forth with you. Or,” he trailed off in a teasing tone, “we could
simply just take up jogging .”

Draco rolled his eyes, the implication clear as day but not one he wasn’t going to
acknowledge. “Sod off, mate. I’ve got detention tonight with Cohen, go harass someone
else.”

Theo straightened as they walked towards the doors to the Great Hall. “Well enough, I have
grading to do myself.”

“You actually assigned homework , Professor Nott?” Draco joked, pretending for the third
time this week that he didn’t see a mess of honey-colored curls and a demure dress-and-
cardigan combination from the corner of his eye, chatting with another professor.

“Hey now,” Theo said in mild defense. “I jest, but I’m not completely shirking my duties. I
don’t think it’s pertinent to assign heavy loads of homework for such a hands-on course.
Charms work is about practice, not just theory. But yes, I did assign a rather large essay on
wand motion mechanics, which I now regret because it means a heap of grading.”

Theo bid him farewell and sauntered off through the doors, saying hellos to students he
passed with such a casual ease. Professor Theodore Nott was already quite popular, Draco
had learned, which was no surprise. Not only was he objectively handsome, he was
easygoing and friendly. He’d overheard a handful of inappropriate comments from some of
the older students—both male and female—but in addition to that, his course was rather
enjoyable from what Draco had heard.

Charms usually was, by nature.

“Professor Malfoy,” Atlas Cohen’s booming voice called through the hall as the Deputy
Headmaster approached. They would be supervising tonight’s group detention together, part
of the current Headmistress’s desire to prevent professors from abusing their positions by
subjecting children to cruel punishments.

Like turning students into ferrets. Or what Dolores Umbridge had subjected students to in her
detentions. Draco was never given detention by her personally, nor were any of the other
Slytherins as most of them joined her Inquisitorial Squad, but he never missed the scabbed,
raw wounds on the backs of others’ hands.

“Good evening, Professor Cohen,” Draco regarded him with the same formality. He hadn’t
quite formed an opinion on Cohen, not yet. Head of Gryffindor, Transfiguration professor,
and Deputy Headmaster, he was reminiscent of McGonagall years prior, only lacking in the
harsh sternness and tits.

A shudder ran through Draco at the fleeting thought of McGonagall’s tits . Damn Theo and
his wet dream confession.

“I wanted to chat, if I may, before the hour begins,” Cohen tipped his head backwards into
the hall where the tables were now cleared and handfuls of students were still seated to serve
their punishments.

“Of course,” Draco assented, knowing it wasn’t exactly a question. Below only the
Headmistress herself, Atlas Cohen was essentially Draco’s boss.

“As you know, Madam Hooch has taken a sabbatical, to help care for her granddaughter,”
Cohen said as they walked back to the head table. Draco nodded; Madam Hooch’s
granddaughter was born with a condition that eventually had rendered her paralyzed from the
waist down before she was even two years old. He didn’t know much of the details or what
lengths the family had gone to in order to correct the disability, but over the summer, Hooch
had wanted to spend more time with her family.

“Well, we’ve just received word that she’s chosen to retire instead, and focus on Lilah. The
details matter not, but we find ourselves without a flying instructor or Quidditch master.”
Cohen finished, giving Draco a knowing look.

“That’s rather unfortunate,” Draco said, unsure of what Cohen was asking. “Madam Hooch is
quite talented, and we’ll be remiss without her on the pitch.”

“My sentiments exactly. Although I never played in my day, I do enjoy a good Quidditch
match. It’s my understanding that you were Seeker for the Slytherin team when you were a
student?”
“That’s correct, from second year through fifth.” He was forced to give it up in his sixth year
when Hogwarts became less of a priority, when he’d taken the Dark Mark.

“Well, I’d like to formally ask you to step into the position, in Madam Hooch’s absence.”
Cohen said with a crinkle in the corners of his eyes. “Think about it, but don’t take too long. I
know you’ve got your plate full with Horace as well, and it’s a lot for a first year professor,
but you’re the most adept we have on staff, many of the other professors have attested to your
skills on a broom.”

“McGonagall agreed to this?” Draco asked as they took their seats at the head table. Cohen
flicked his wand and a piece of parchment appeared in front of them along with a quill and
pot of ink.

“She did, but ultimately, she trusts my judgment. I know I don’t know you well, Professor,
but I can’t say I’m displeased with what I’ve heard. Now, shall we begin our babysitting of
these little rule breakers?”

Cohen stood and addressed the room, requesting students come in and sign their names on
the parchment to confirm their attendance. Those caught skipping would be dealt with. While
he went over the short list of rules: no talking, work quietly, and no one would be excused
until an hour had passed, Draco mulled Cohen’s words over in his mind.

Trust is what he had said. Not that McGonagall trusted Draco, but that she trusted Cohen’s
judgment of him. But wasn’t considering him for the opportunity extending trust to Draco as
well? The fact that other professors who’d taught him previously, gave their support?

It gave Draco an unfamiliar feeling. Sure, he’d been entrusted to teach this year, under the
watchful eye of Horace Slughorn, but this would be different. Even if it was just for an
extracurricular activity.

He couldn’t recall the last time he was afforded such freedom. As a child, every step he took
was carefully monitored and curated by his mother and father. Professor Snape, ever the
watchful eye at Hogwarts. Even when he was in the throes of the war, it was always under
careful observation, taking point from his aunt Bellatrix or others of higher ranking. And
since his trial, he’d felt the heavy gaze of the Ministry on his back, even now, years after his
sentencing had ended.

Was he deserving of such trust? Draco wasn’t certain.

When the hour ended, Draco had spent most of the time giving careful consideration to
Cohen’s request. He was already spending enough of his spare time on the pitch, whether it
was one-on-one with Theo, battling to get the Quaffle through the hoops, or chasing a snitch
down on his own to keep his reflexes sharp.

Adding in flying lessons after classes or on weekends wouldn’t be too challenging, he didn’t
think. And there was no question about whether or not attending Quidditch matches and
refereeing was a hardship. He’d always loved Quidditch, and the feeling of being on a
broomstick, flying through the air. It was the one part of his childhood where he was afforded
frivolity as his father called it.
“Professor Cohen,” Draco called as the students shuffled from the Great Hall and off to their
common rooms. “I’ve considered your request, and I’d be honored. However, I do have a few
requests…”

After another twenty minute discussion with Cohen on the need to replace the school-issue
brooms and provide all members of the Quidditch team with higher quality brooms for
matches, which Draco offered as a donation from the Malfoy family coffers, and a promise to
get approval from the headmistress, Draco was finally heading back to the staff quarters,
feeling lighter, excited. He’d begun to adjust to the feeling, but it still sat a tad uncomfortably
with him. Like he was wearing clothing that just didn’t quite fit.

“You do too, you know? Deserve happiness?” Granger’s words replaying in his mind.

When he entered through the portrait hole, he could hear the faint crackle of the fire and
instantly found both Theo and Granger on opposite couches, both pouring over stacks of
parchment.

“You realize you have offices, desks, etcetera, to work on?” Draco drawled as he entered.

“My office is drafty,” Theo muttered, not bothering to look up from the essay he was grading,
holding a quill aloft as he concentrated on the work in front of him.

“It’s cozy here, even you can admit that. Or have you not spent an evening or two in here
grading with me?” Granger looked at him with one brow arched. “Besides, the common room
reminds me a bit like Gryffindor’s, and aside from the library, it was my favorite place to
study.” She shrugged and returned to her work, simultaneously flipping through pages of a
worn paperback on the couch next to her.

“I wouldn’t ever describe something as cozy , Granger. Not in my vocabulary. But yes, on
occasion , I can admit it’s more convenient to be here, rather than in the dungeons, if I intend
to be grading late.” A half truth.

Theo snorted and Granger rolled her eyes as Draco loosened the tie around his neck and sank
into a large armchair.

“Yes, Godric forbid Draco Malfoy ever refer to anything as cozy . Austere, cold, formal, all
words I’d associate you with.” Her tone was laced with derision, but the lazy smile pulling at
the corner of her lips and the fact that she wasn’t leveling him with a glare told Draco that she
wasn’t biting at him with malice, like his instant reaction told him.

It wasn’t unlike the tone she used with Theo, when the two of them were flinging harmless
jabs at each other. Friendly fire.
He didn’t realize until that moment that he’d been on eggshells with Granger. Not that he was
actively fighting back the urge to say something brash, but that was sort of who he was as a
person. He didn’t walk through life regularly throwing niceties at people for the sake of being
nice . The majority of his friendships, the few that remained, were solidified on the grounds
that he could still be an arsehole and Theo, Blaise, or Pansy would just accept it for what it
was, and give it to him right back.

He was being friendly , that fucking word grated him, towards Granger. And that interaction
reminded him of her brazen sass, her fire, that she’d never shied away from using with him

“How was detention?” Theo finally asked, setting down the essay after marking a glaring red
“C-“ on the top.

“Good,” Draco supplied, pulling his tie off altogether and began to roll the sleeves up on his
shirt. He watched Granger track the movement, and he froze before smoothing out his shirt to
the cuffs, lingering slightly on his left arm. “Cohen pulled me aside, wants me to take over
for Madam Hooch, for flying lessons and what have you.”

Draco paused.

“Malfoy, that’s wonderful!” Hermione squealed first, to his surprise. She had sat up
straighter, setting her parchment aside to look at him with earnest enthusiasm. “Truly, that’s
brilliant. Atlas had asked around, you know, and I mentioned you played Seeker. Granted,
I’m woefully ignorant when it comes to Quidditch, but I figured that would give you some
qualification.”

He couldn’t bite back the smile forcing its way onto his lips if he wanted to. His cheeks grew
warm, and he tipped his head slightly in Granger’s direction. “Thank you, Granger. Yes, he
mentioned he’d spoken to other professors, ones who’d been around long enough to attest to
my abilities. It seems as if I’m the only one around here with experience on a broomstick,
which was enough to give me the job.”

“Hey!” Theo said indignantly, “I can ride.” Draco tipped his head to the side and gave Theo a
look that said ‘ can you, though? ’ “Okay, Lord of the Quidditch pitch. I’m nowhere near as
good as you. But I could have bloody well played if I’d tried out. Just…chose to take my
talents elsewhere.”

“Sure you did, mate,” Draco huffed a laugh.

“But in all seriousness, that’s great. You’d do well, if you don’t knock some cocky first year
off their broom for trying to show off.”

“Oh come off it, give me some credit. I would never do such a thing.”

Granger and Theo shared a conspiratorial look and both fell into a fit of laughter. A pang of
unease shot through him like lightning watching the two of them share an intimate, unspoken
joke.
“Need I recount the ways that you have, in fact, demonstrated you would do such a thing?”
Theo said once his laughter subsided.

“I think Harry’s knee still isn’t fully healed from a cheap shot you took on him once,”
Granger mused, tapping her finger on her chin in thought.

“I distinctly recall an incident involving a Ravenclaw Keeper, and you ‘pretending’ you saw
the Snitch, making her miss a save,” Theo added, unhelpfully.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Draco snapped, holding his hands up towards the two who
were having all too much fun at his expense. “I’m a bloody professor, I would never
intentionally harm a student. What do you take me for?”

“Sorry, Professor Malfoy . My sincerest apologies,” Theo said with a waggle of his eyebrows.
Granger suppressed a laugh by covering it up with a cough.

Granger shuffled her papers into a neat stack and tucked everything into the bag sitting at her
feet. She rose and stretched her arms over her head, cheeks still pink from her laughter, a
smile pasted on her face.

On her way towards the hall that led to the bedrooms, she passed the chair Draco was sitting
in. “You’re right, you would never. My apologies as well, sir ,” her voice still carrying the
light teasing tone as she kept walking without pause, leaving the room.

Joking aside, that singular word sent a rush of blood straight to Draco’s cock. It was in that
instant he realized something. He was fucked over this woman. Utterly and truly fucked.
 An Auror, The Golden Girl, and an Elephant Walk Into a Pub
Chapter Notes

Content warning: mentions of alcohol addiction

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Hermione rushed into the Three Broomsticks pub in Hogsmeade in a flurry. She glanced at
her watch and saw that she was already ten minutes late meeting her friend, and she never
liked to be tardy. She shucked off her cloak and walked over to the table where Harry was
already sitting, the heels of her boots reverberating off the old wooden floors.

“Sorry I’m late,” she panted, still out of breath from her walk down to the village. “I got
caught up revising lesson plans, and when I realized the time, I panicked.”

Harry just gave her a warm look, eyes glinting behind his glasses and chuckled. “Quite out of
character for you, Hermione. But it’s fine, I don’t have anywhere else to be tonight.”

She settled into her seat and appraised Harry’s appearance. He had changed over the years.
Some things remained, like his shock of black hair that never seemed to lay flat and always
looked a touch too long, and as much as Ginny had hinted at updating his eyewear to
something more ‘fashionable’, those hadn’t changed much either.

But the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tense posture, and ever watchful eyes, those
were newer earned over the years. Evidence of the hard hours he’d put in as an Auror.

Madam Rosmerta came to their table and Harry ordered another Firewhiskey, neat, as she
collected his empty glass. Hermione was partial to wine, but Rosmerta mentioned a new gin
they’d just received, made by a cloister of Veelas in France—or, Veela-adjacent, she couldn’t
be sure, so she ordered a gin and tonic instead.

“How’re things?” Harry started, sipping his whiskey. She didn’t miss the way his eyes
tracked the door anytime someone entered the pub.

“Things are good, Harry. Truly. The students, ugh,” Hermione gushed, pressing her palms to
her cheeks. “There is one third year, in Hufflepuff, Sarah Wilkins, who is so insightful. I was
rather impressed, she’s already read most of the books I plan to cover. She’s just brilliant.
And I have this first year, Franky Harris, who was so nervous the first day because he’d never
experienced anything remotely Muggle related before, but he makes up for his enthusiasm.
Getting him to grasp the concept of airplanes was a challenge, but he got there.

“And my N.E.W.T. students are something else. All Muggleborn, with the exception of two
who are half, not that it matters. They’re determined to make an impact, mark my words,
you’ll find their names somewhere in the Ministry archives one day for their work on
Muggle-Magical Cooperation. Of course, there are still plenty who don’t love the course…”
Hermione trailed off when she caught a glimpse at Harry’s amused face, hiding a chuckle in
his glass of whiskey.

“I’m babbling.” She deadpanned.

Harry just laughed a bit harder and nodded. “You are. But, we’ve been friends for over a
decade, so I’ve listened to my fair share of Hermione Granger rants. Least it was on
something I am interested in, instead of the unabridged history of portraiture in the second
floor corridor by the loo that always floods.”

“That was one time ,” Hermione protested, feeling her face flame. True, neither Harry nor
Ron were strangers to her going off on tangents, the words just tumbling out of her mouth as
if her brain literally couldn’t contain the knowledge inside.

“You know I love it, ‘Mione. Put up with it for years, and if you weren’t such a brilliant,
talented witch and an even more remarkable friend, I wouldn’t have dealt with you frequently
being a know-it-all.” Harry looked at her softly through his lenses. She reached across the
table and squeezed his hand.

“I know, Harry. Enough about me,” she released his hand and waved her own in front of her
face. “Tell me what’s new with you. How’s work? How’s Ginny?” How’s Ron? The final
question lingered in her mind, but she thought better of asking it straight away, wanting to
keep the conversation light.

“Work is exhausting,” Harry groaned, draining the rest of his whisky and gesturing to
Rosmerta for another one. She hadn’t ever seen him drink more than two drinks at a time, and
it made her a bit tense, the thought of him turning to drink as a stress reliever. Harry must
have caught her concerned look and gave her an endearing one back.

“Sorry,” he said, getting Rosmerta’s attention just as quickly and indicating he didn’t want
the third drink after all. “Before you launch into any concerns, no, that isn’t a frequent habit.
Yes, I do probably indulge a bit more than necessary, but not often. Trust me, Gin would have
my balls if I even looked like I was developing a problem.”

Hermione gave him a wary look, but conceded to his explanation. She trusted him, and more
so trusted Ginny to keep him in line.

“Anyways,” Harry continued, “work is a lot. Long hours, which hasn’t changed. We’ve been
gathering intel for a case, and I’m going on an extended mission in Norwich next week.
There are rumblings of some Dark-adjacent wizards who are making noise. I don’t know how
long I’ll be gone, but Gin is beside herself with worry because of the ba—because I won’t be
able to get in touch with her.” He finished quickly, covering up what he had been about to
say.

Hermione’s eyes almost bulged out of her head. “No, Harry James Potter, not because she
won’t be able to get in contact with you. Because of what? Spit it out.”
Harry heaved a sigh and ran his hand down his face. When he looked at Hermione, his face
was beet red but his green eyes were sparkling with the smile he was trying to suppress.

“Because of the baby, Hermione.” He finally said, his lips pulling up slowly in a wide grin,
confirming what Hermione had thought he was going to say.

“Harry!” She squealed, pushing up from her chair so quickly it clattered to the floor. She
didn’t bother to pick it up nor did she acknowledge the other patrons who had turned towards
the commotion. Hermione rounded the table and wrapped her arms tight around Harry’s
neck. “Oh my, Harry, congratulations. Wow,” she breathed into the collar of his jumper.

Harry patted her arm lovingly. “Thanks, ‘Mione. But I can’t breathe, so let up,” he said with a
grunt.

“Shit, sorry,” she quickly released him and moved back over to her spot. “Ginny is pregnant !
Oh, how wonderful. When did you find out? I haven’t been gone that long, have I?”

“We’ve known for about a month, and yes, we did hide it from you. Gin wanted to wait to tell
Molly first, but she’s so anxious about it, we’re waiting to get the all clear from her doctor
that there’s, you know, not any risks we need to be concerned with. You’re the first person
I’ve told, by accident obviously, so just, you know, act surprised when she tells you.”

Hermione mimed zipping her lips and internally squealed again. “So much for waiting, right?
You’ve been hemming and hawing around proposing to her, and said you wanted to wait until
you’d been married for a few years before having children.”

Harry chuckled sheepishly, the red returning to his cheeks. Rosmerta returned to take their
dinner orders at that time, so he paused what he’d been about to say so they could order.

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t on purpose. One too many at the pub celebrating Luna’s new job, and
we, ahem , forgot protection.”

“And that’s as much detail as I want on the subject, thank you,” Hermione rolled her eyes,
but she couldn’t stop her smile. “So have you proposed, then? Another secret you’ve been
keeping from me?”

Harry shook his head. “No, not yet. Soon, though.” He grinned at her, clearly unable to keep
the smile of off his face too.

“So, naturally, Gin is a little anxious about my trip to Norwich. I don’t know how long I’ll be
gone, hence the early birthday dinner.” Harry shifted the conversation back.

“Is it particularly dangerous?” Hermione hedged, knowing he couldn’t tell her much given
the classified nature of being an Auror.

“Aren’t all of them inherently dangerous?” He gave her a wry grin to ease the statement, both
of them knowing the truth.

Hermione nodded. “Well, please let her know she can owl me if she needs anything. I know
she has Molly, and Fleur, and, well, her brothers, but I’m here for her too.”
“Speaking of her brother…” Harry trailed off as their food was brought out. Harry
immediately dug into his shepherd’s pie, Hermione twirling the fork in her hand staring at her
own.

“Real subtle, Potter,” Hermione grumbled.

Harry sighed after he swallowed his bite of food. “We aren’t going to ignore the elephant in
the room, ‘Mione. He’s been asking after you.”

“I can imagine,” she replied bitterly. “He wrote to me already, did he tell you that? Wasn’t
much substance, but that’s Ron for you. But I’ll bite, how is he doing?” Hermione asked
quickly, filling her mouth with food to keep her from spewing her frustrations over Ron, his
letter, and, well, Ron , at first mention of his name.

“He’s…he’s trying.”

“Define trying. Is he sober?”

“Well, no,” Harry winced and Hermione gripped her fork tighter, stabbing through a carrot in
her pie. “I’ve been popping in to the flat, staying a few nights when Gin worked late, and he
doesn’t drink when I’m there. Cleaning up, making sure he’s fed. But each time I take the
bottles out to the bins, more appear the next time.”

“So he’s just replaced one nursemaid for another, nothing’s changed.” Hermione huffed,
shoving the rest of her dinner away. She’d barely eaten a quarter of it, but her appetite had
vanished.

“No, ugh,” Harry sputtered, “It’s not like that. I mean, it is, a bit, but…” He trailed off, giving
Hermione a pleading look. “He’s got a lot to work through. It wasn’t going to happen
overnight. And he talks about you a lot. I’ve never seen him this heartbroken over you, not
since fourth year and you and Krum started up.”

“I’m not the cause nor the solution to his problems, Harry!” Hermione’s voice rose, garnering
more looks from other patrons. This time, she had the sense to be embarrassed and dropped
to a quieter tone. “He’s so eager to blame his self-destruction on my choices. I went to
America, I dedicated time to my mastery, I took a job at Hogwarts. Aside from admitting that
Fred’s death had an impact on him, he’s placed responsibility on his behavior squarely on me.
And I allowed it for years.”

She continued speaking with candor, the frustration bleeding out of her. “At first, I was right
there with him. We were all broken after the War. We may have won, but we still lost too
much. And back then, when there was a glimmer of something between us, it felt right to be
there for my boyfriend. But while the rest of us picked up and tried to move on, figure out
our place in the world, he stayed stuck. In the same fucking chair, holding on to the same
fucking anger.”

“It’s…he…not so simple…” Harry hemmed.

“No, it is that simple. You think Ron’s issues started just when Fred died?” Hermione gave a
derisive laugh. “Long before that, you and I both know it. I’m not saying it’s entirely Ron’s
fault, but he has to take responsibility for his actions. He felt overshadowed by his brothers,
by being The Chosen One’s best friend. Never first, always battling his own insecurities. But
even when he made Prefect, over you I might add, when he made the Quidditch team, when
he got the fucking girl , it wasn’t ever enough for him. And that obsessive streak to prove
something that didn’t need proving cost him his job, which only sent him spiraling further.”

Hermione felt a twinge of guilt for bad-mouthing Ron like this because she did know it
wasn’t all his fault. For all of Arthur and Molly Weasley’s lovely qualities, paying equal
attention to all their children wasn’t easy—there were just so many of them. But they loved
them all fiercely and equally.

“He needs fucking therapy, Harry. And a long stint in a rehabilitation center. I know it won’t
happen overnight, because he’s got a lot of demons to work through. I just don’t have it in me
anymore, to hold on to this notion that we’re right together, and I’m not going to continue out
of misplaced guilt. I’m too tired, too hurt. I deserve better, we both do.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear so much. I think I’ll write it in my diary, Hermione
Granger said fuck four times over one dinner,” Harry eased the tension with his joke and the
corner of her lips twitched in a smile.

“He needs to hear that from you, you know.” Harry said soberly. “That you’re truly done with
him. It’s going to hurt like hell, might send him in a bad state, but he still thinks he can win
you back. And…he can’t, can he?”

“No,” Hermione admitted softly, “no, he can’t. Even if he were to do all the right things.
Honestly, I don’t think we were ever right for each other. Adrenaline, proximity, years of
friendship, that’s what led to us getting together. But at the end of the day, he’s not the one.”

My other half . Something Hermione’s dad used to call her mum when Hermione was
growing up. The kind of love they shared, hearing how they completed each other with two
parts of the same whole, that was what Hermione had always wanted in her life. And as much
love as she’d held in her heart for Ron, he was never going to be the other half.

“Right. You need to tell him that, then. He still cares for you and I know you do in your own
way, so he’s owed at least that.” Harry said with a small cough and Hermione couldn’t see
him from where her eyes were glued to a knot in the wooden table, but she heard his chair
scrape across the floor, then felt a tug on her arm. “Let me walk you home.”

Harry deposited some money on the table to pay for their meal, Hermione’s largely
unfinished, and they headed out into the cool autumn night. With a flick of his wand, Harry
conjured a few orbs of light, like overgrown fireflies, that bounced in the air along the path in
front of them to guide their way.

She tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow and rested her cheek on his bicep, the wool of
his cloak scratching her face.
“So,” Harry finally broke the silence as the castle came into view. “I meant to ask earlier,
before things got so heavy, but how’s Malfoy?”

Hermione froze momentarily, and if Harry caught on, he didn’t say anything. “He’s good,”
she replied quickly. “Him and Theo have been nothing but kind to me.”

Harry snorted, “Sorry, are you on a first name basis with Nott now?”

Hermione sighed, nuzzling her cheek into Harry’s arm. “Yes. We’re friends. Friends use each
other’s first names, Harry .” She opted to leave out how her and Theo had come to that
agreement, considering Harry would likely have a poor reaction to that situation. “We’re not
schoolchildren anymore, we’re colleagues.”

Harry hummed under his breath. “But they’re, they’re good? On the up and up?”

Hermione craned her neck to give her friend a quizzical look. “What are you asking, Harry?
If they’re calling me nasty names, or is Auror Potter asking if they’re holding junior Death
Eater meetings in the dungeons? They’re fine .”

“Shit,” Harry breathed, “Sorry, that’s the Auror in me. And the friend in me. But if you say
things are good, then I’ll take your word for it.”

“And I’m sure the official word of whatever reports McGonagall has to submit on Malfoy to
the Ministry. I know how it works, I was there for his sentencing.” Malfoy had been given
five years of unsupervised probation on top of his year house-arrest.

Harry shifted his arm so it wrapped around Hermione’s shoulders. “That too,” he said with a
squeeze.

When they reached the castle gates, Harry gave Hermione a bone-crushing hug and pressed a
kiss to the top of her head. “Enjoy yourself, ‘Mione. It was good to see you, see more of the
real you than I’d seen in years. I’ll owl when I’m off assignment.”

“Bye, Harry,” she said with a final squeeze. “Be safe, for yourself, but also your family. Baby
Potter will need their dad.”

“Always,” he said with a wink and headed back out down the path, past the wards on the
castle so he could Apparate back home.

Hermione tapped the lock on the front gates with her wand to open it and took the
cobblestone path back up to the castle, only faintly lit at the late hour.

Her conversation with Harry replayed in her mind. Speaking so openly about Ron was
cathartic. She’d felt that way towards him for too long, and had always shoved most of her
thoughts aside, chalking up her unhappiness to present moments with him.

The dam had broken, though, and she felt lighter. Harry had a point, she did owe Ron a
conversation, in hopes he wouldn’t continue to pine for her when the feelings aren't
reciprocated. More’s the point, if he only sought help in hopes of winning back her
 affections, then that wasn’t growth. He needed to change, for himself. To heal from the hands
he was dealt, and to atone for his own mistakes.

She thought of Malfoy, and the way she could still see him battling with his own inner
demons. How he’d begun to take responsibility for his actions, even though Hermione knew,
like Ron, it was largely a product of his upbringing. But he’d handled it completely
differently.

Hermione thought about his admirable courage, his desire to move forward with his life, to
do something worthwhile. Despite the whispers that often followed the Malfoy name. She
couldn’t stop thinking about Malfoy, for that matter, and how much he had changed from the
haughty, arrogant boy she once knew.

He was more reserved, quieter. Still with an air of danger around him, like a snake coiled and
waiting, but Hermione wasn’t fearful of him. She could reconcile it now, in her mind. The
boy who spoke a little too loud, the bully, with the man who was maybe just trying to find his
own peace.

Despite his callous treatment of Hermione in the past, he’d been outright kind to her these
last weeks, if not giving her a wide berth like one might a frightened kitten.

He was being friendly, like Hermione had offered to him. A precursor to friendship, and the
more time they spent in each other’s orbit, the more she realized she truly did want more than
just friendly with Malfoy. She wanted to see the challenge in his eye and the smirk on his lips
that always appeared before he made a witty comment.

It was in part why she joined Theo in their light mocking about his reputation as a Quidditch
player. She was baiting him, she realized later that night.

But Hermione knew that for them to ever crossover past their tentative state, she would have
to bridge the gap first. Because the one thing that Malfoy had shown her since they’d
returned was respect. For her space, for her hesitancy. She admired that, and was more
surprised by it than anything.

Her final thought before bed, after passing the empty common room, wasn’t about the
foreboding, horrible conversation she needed to have with Ron. No, instead, she fell asleep
wondering just how she could show Draco Lucius Malfoy that she wanted to be his friend .

Chapter End Notes

A/N: Sorry-not-sorry about the chapter title. I was stuck and it came to me and made me
chuckle, and I love to laugh at my own bad jokes.
 Tea at the Manor

“Good weekend, Granger?” Draco politely asked when he saw her entering the common
room on Monday morning while he prepared a cup of tea. He’d hoped the peppermint would
ease the off-putting feeling in his stomach as it usually did—the whole reason he started
drinking peppermint tea was to help quell his constant anxiety in sixth year, without raising
questions as to why he suddenly required a cauldron of Calming Draught.

But it wasn’t the hot beverage he sipped on that suddenly righted the unease inside of him. It
was Granger, in her knee length midnight blue skirt and her cream colored blouse, doing
what appeared to be pinning one of her unruly curls back from out of her face.

“Huh?” She asked, fighting with the hair pin. Eventually she huffed and gave up, dropping
the pin in the bag slung on her shoulder and grabbing her wand instead. A quick, wordless
wave saw the top half of her hair pull up and tighten itself into a neat bun, curls already
fighting for escape and framing her face.

Draco had the sudden urge to cross the room and tug .

Fuck, he thought to himself and turned his back, busying his hands with a spoon to stir, well,
nothing, into his cup. Get it together.

“Asked if you had a good weekend, didn’t see you much around.” Draco said after a beat,
keeping his tone casual. He could barely reconcile with his body’s sudden and eager response
to all things Granger, ever since she’d called him sir that night; he wasn’t about to let his
control slip and give her any inclination that he’d been keenly aware of her absence this
weekend.

Because he absolutely had been.

“Oh,” Granger said absentmindedly, digging through her bag. “Yeah, it was alright. I had
dinner with Harry on Saturday, and spent most of yesterday in my office grading. Headed to
breakfast?”

Draco nodded.

That explained Saturday night. He’d spent longer than he cared to admit hunched over the
coffee table in the common room again, attempting to not wonder about where Granger might
be.

It was Theo’s fault, really. He’d developed a penchant for a Muggle sport called rugby and
went into Glasgow to watch a match, leaving Draco to his own devices. He’d spent most of
Sunday howling about his hangover, complaining about the Scotsmen and the cheap swill
they call alcohol. Draco, in response to his incessant moaning, had loudly regaled Theo of his
plans for a joint venture project with Professor Sprout to grow a variation of a Wiggentree to
utilize the roots for a healing potion.
Theo’s attempt at hexing him to get him to stop talking from his face-down position on the
floor missed the mark, and the door jamb bore the marks.

A door down the hallway opened, and Professor Danielson stepped through, dusting soot off
of his robes.

“Hermione, Draco, morning to ya both,” he said in his American accent. It grated on Draco,
the words sounding so unrefined, like someone speaking Scouse. Bloody Americans. Draco
only gave him a gruff ‘good morning’ in response.

“Good morning Eric,” Granger responded, still sounding a bit distracted. She must have
found what she’d been searching for in her bag as she huffed a sound of relief and closed it
up. “How was your weekend with the family?”

“Fan-tastic,” he chirped, drawing the first syllable out. Gods, Draco had thought Professor
Binns’s class was droll, but he couldn’t imagine learning History from a bloke like this.

“We’re just headed to breakfast, care to join us?” Granger asked and Draco crossed his
fingers in his mind, hoping he’d say no. Although Granger seemed to be a touch more
comfortable with Danielson; it might help relax her enough seeing as they still required some
sort of social lubricant to interact. But at what cost? He didn’t know if he could muster an
entire meal’s worth of his chatter.

“Can’t, sorry, got a meeting with the Headmistress to discuss my time off. Amber and Max
are moving overseas next week and I want to help them transition.” Danielson gave them
both a two fingered salute and quickly disappeared through the portrait hole.

Thank fuck.

Granger shot her hand out to keep the egress open and pushed through, giving Draco a tired-
eyed, but genuine, smile, not the half, tight-lipped ones that rarely met her eyes. “Ready?”

“After you,” he said, not even bothering to fight his own grin creeping over his lips.

“So how is ‘The Chosen One’?” Draco asked, slightly more sarcastically than he intended, as
they walked the path to the Great Hall. It wouldn’t do him any favors to insult Granger’s best
friend. Or, lover? He never really could tell between him and Weasley.

“Oh, he’s good,” she said, either ignoring or not noticing his tone. “He’s got a job starting
soon that’ll take him away so we had an early birthday dinner.” Her words still sounded off,
like whatever was running through her mind was pulling focus. Knowing her, she was likely
stuck on whatever lessons she had planned today.

Right. The 19th of September. Granger’s birthday was this Saturday. He’d remembered it
because Pansy had made a rude remark their fifth year, asking Granger why she hadn’t asked
her parents for a pair of silicone tits for her birthday. And, for whatever reason, he never had
forgotten the date.

“You’ve better do something to improve your looks, since your personality isn’t any better”
The memory of that interaction was unpleasant. Most memories involving Granger from their
school days were.

“Ah yes, Auror Potter,” Draco mused. Kingsley Shacklebolt once told Draco that had he not
had a criminal record, he might have made a fine Auror. This was immediately preceding
delving right into his reports from Healer Renault and his Magical Law Enforcement
probation officer to validate the completion of Draco’s house arrest, so the sentiment was
utterly lost.

Not that Draco ever had a compunction to do such a thing. Dark Wizard turned Dark Wizard
catcher? He’d much rather preferred distancing himself from any association if at all
possible.

“Don’t be rude, Malfoy,” Granger chided.

“Wasn’t, not intentionally,” he conceded. “I’m sure Potter is doing quite well wrangling up
the baddies and bogeymen. He always did have a penchant for sticking his nose into things,
now at least it’s sanctioned.” The words left his mouth before he could even think to stop
them.

He expected a huff, maybe a stomp in her practical low-heeled shoes, a bit of fluster in
defense of the man. Instead, Granger just laughed .

“Right, you’ve got that right. Us Gryffindors do have a bit of a hero-complex, don’t we?”

Draco’s steps faltered, but he recovered quickly. “Not an ounce of self-preservation in the lot
of you,” he murmured through another smile.

They reached the Great Hall and he watched Granger wave good morning to a few students,
chastise a couple snogging at the table, and promised one more to meet during lunch to
discuss an assignment. She fit into the professorial role so well, and honestly, it wasn’t one
bit of a surprise. The bookish witch who seemed to be adept at everything, top marks across
the board, and her general standing as Professor’s Pet for the vast majority of the teaching
staff at Hogwarts, would make a fine professor herself.

He also, unwillingly, idly mused that she might feature in a few of the students’ fantasies, the
way that skirt hugged her hips.

Stop it , Draco told himself, grappling for control.

“Where’s Theo this morning?” Granger asked as she busied herself with making coffee. A
dash of milk, two sugars. The same way she took her tea.

“Probably still recovering, the poor sod got pissed on Saturday in Glasgow and barely moved
yesterday,” Draco muttered, piling a full English on his plate from the platters in front of him.
He did love a full English, would eat it any time of day if the opportunity arose.

He noticed Granger tense slightly, only to relax milliseconds later. Was she worried about
Theo, or? It was an odd reaction he couldn’t quite pin.
“Speak of the devil,” Draco said, piling beans on his toast. Theodore Nott entered the Great
Hall, looking worse for the wear, but at least he was upright. No tie, just a collared shirt under
his emerald green jumper, and trousers. His hair was still damp and he looked just a touch
green, but he was otherwise smiling.

“Morning mates,” he said with a sigh as he sank down into the chair to Draco’s left.

“Morning Theo, I heard you had quite the weekend,” Granger said in a friendly tone, digging
a spoon into half a grapefruit.

“Don’t remind me. Whatever pisswater they call beer didn’t taste as good coming up as it did
going down. Damn venue should serve a proper lager at least. Or maybe it was the dodgy
kebab I had from a street vendor. Can’t be sure,” Theo grumbled, selecting a piece of dry
toast and chewing on it with a grimace.

Draco chuckled to himself at his friend’s abject misery just as the owls swooped in for the
morning post.

“I don’t remember the last time I got so knackered that I was horizontal for an entire day
after,” Theo pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Girls’ weekend in York, two years ago, for me,” Granger supplanted to Draco’s surprise.
She continued, “Polished of two bottles of fairy wine and a questionable malt liquor from a
Muggle convenience shop with Ginny and Luna. Didn’t leave my bed for days after.”

Draco’s eyebrows climbed his forehead, staring at her with utter shock. That was certainly
not what he would have expected from the swotty Hermione Granger.

Theo sputtered his toast, crumbs flying everywhere as he pounded his chest. “ Golden Girl ,
my gods. Warn a bloke before you start talking about a drunken girls’ weekend, even if it was
with Weasley and Lovegood. I have questions, obviously, but more on that later. Draco, isn’t
that Coraline?” He pointed up to the ceiling where a large horned owl was gliding towards
them with a scroll tied to her ankle.

His mother’s owl.

Coraline settled on the table, hooting softly as Draco untied the scroll and ran his knuckles
along her cheek. She nipped at his fingers, beak clicking against his silver rings
affectionately, before plucking bits of egg white off of his plate.

“Bloody cannibal,” Theo said to the bird with a glare, “You know eggs come from birds!”
Coraline ruffled her feathers in what Draco chose to assume was a gesture of indignation and
she hooted again before taking off.

Draco slipped the green ribbon off the scroll and broke the seal, stamped with an ornate ‘M’.

My Dear Draco,
I have important matters with you to discuss, if you would please join me for tea at the
Manor this coming Wednesday. Do not fret, but it is a conversation much better had in
person.

Please do bring Theodore along with you as well, both of your presences are sorely missing
amongst these halls already.

I miss you dearly, my darling.

Love,
Mother

Draco released a sigh and passed the scroll over to Theo, knowing he’d ask about the
contents anyways. Worry gathered in his chest about what his mother had wanted to speak
with him about. He feared whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good. ‘Don’t fret’, which was an
instant way to make Draco begin to fret.

“Ah,” Theo said once he’d read the letter, passing it back to Draco. “Mum wants to see me,
excellent.”

Granger perked up at this, Draco had noticed she’d been pointedly ignoring them while
Draco read his mail.

“She’s not your mum,” He growled, shoving the scroll into the pocket of his trousers. “But
yes, you’re now formally obligated to tea.”

“Brilliant.” He took a large swallow of orange juice and smacked his lips, his pallid skin
regaining some color. “Would Narcissa mind terribly if Blaise joined as well? He’s got
something for me and it saves a trip to his flat.”

Draco rolled his eyes. This wasn’t intended to be a social hour, but his etiquette lessons told
him his mother would be sore if Blaise found out Theo was coming for tea and the invitation
not extended to him. “You know she wouldn’t. Might as well include Parkinson for that
matter, lest we deal with both her and my mother’s wrath should she be excluded.” Mother
would be beside herself if all four of them showed up. Despite her urging to speak with
Draco for said important matter , she would always gush when Draco brought his friends
round.

It had been a long while since the four of them were all at the Manor.

“Settled then, tea at Malfoy Manor on Wednesday. I’ll owl Blaise and…Pansy, I suppose.”
Theo trailed off as an afterthought.

Draco quirked an eyebrow at Theo and he just mouthed ‘ later ’, which was Theo for
something had happened between him and Pansy and he wasn’t ready to discuss it yet.

He focused back on his breakfast, stabbing a blood sausage with his fork and running it
through the broken egg yolks when he noticed Granger again from the corner of his eye.
She had been uncharacteristically quieter that usual all morning. But when he saw her hand
gripping her left forearm, thumb kneading into the skin through her blouse almost
unconsciously, he knew in his gut she was reliving the memory of how she got the scar she
was rubbing.

The only time she’d been to Malfoy Manor.

He’d had enough bad memories to last a lifetime to know a simple phrase, a mention of
something seemingly innocuous, could send one down a dark thought process.

What Draco didn’t know was how to respond. If his voice, his acknowledgement, his mere
proximity, would make it worse. He didn’t know how Granger coped with her trauma, if she
did at all.

Against baser instincts to just ignore it, that it wasn’t his problem, he nudged her shoulder
slightly. She snapped her head in his direction, eyes wide in a familiar expression of being
brought back to reality.

“Sorry,” he lied, “didn’t mean to jostle you. Just getting up, need get to the dungeons.” Draco
pushed away from the table and stood. They held eye contact for a moment and he wanted to
commit every single faint freckle on her face, every fleck of gold in her eyes, to memory.

He didn’t even need to use Legilimency to see what was written all over her face.

“Right,” she said with a shake of her head. “Me too, well, my class, not the dungeons,
obviously, that would be daft,” Granger babbled.

He eyed her carefully and asked with caution, “Granger. Are you alright? You’ve seemed a
little…” he waved his hand around in lieu of putting it into words, “this morning.”

“Yes, quite alright, just a lot on my mind,,” she smiled another half smile at him and moved
to her feet, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Thank you, for your concern,” Granger added
before leaving the Great Hall without another word.

“Of course,” Draco murmured, mostly to himself, as he waited a beat to watch her retreating
form until he too, left the Great Hall, Theo calling unintelligibly through a mouthful of food
behind his back.

On Wednesday after classes had commenced for the day, Draco and Theo made the arduous
trek to Malfoy Manor. Arduous, at least, by wizarding standards.

The Manor had previously boasted extreme security measures with only a few Floo
connections outside of it, but a contingency of two of the three remaining Malfoys not being
in prison was for the Manor to be disconnected from the network altogether. The monitoring
process to see which wizards and witches were using specific hearths was much too complex
for the Ministry, and they preferred to not have to investigate anyone transporting to the
ancestral home of a reformed Death Eater.

That, and the fact that there were staunch anti-apparition wards surrounding the Manor—a
residual security measure from decades back, there were only a few key points of
convenience for them to get there.

A walk to the Three Broomsticks, Floo to a pub in Wiltshire, where they could then Apparate
just outside of the grounds.

“So, I wasn’t going to ask,” Theo said once their journey had begun.

“So don’t,” Draco replied succinctly. He was already uneasy wondering what the purpose of
this tea with his mother was about, and truthfully, it had been an exhausting week already.

“Is there something between you and Granger?” Theo pointedly ignored Draco’s request.

“Why, interested?” Draco deflected, forcing his voice to remain casual.

“Not particularly, I mean, she’s grown into quite the witch, hasn’t she? But no, she doesn’t fit
my preferred flavor palette.” Theo said with sincerity.

“You are the least picky man on the planet, I’ve seen the type you’ve stuck your cock in, men
and women alike, and you’re saying Granger isn’t your flavor ?” Why was Draco feeling
defensive all of the sudden? Combined with the sense of relief that Theo wasn’t sexually
attracted to Granger.

He would do best to avoid examining that line of thought.

Theo shrugged. “Nothing specific, I mean, she’s properly fit, but I rather like her personality
as well. We get on well, and that doesn’t bode well for casual encounters, which as you know,
is my preferred means of getting off. And she doesn’t strike me as the casual sex sort.”

Draco nodded and grunted under his breath in agreement.

“But those skirts and dresses she wears, Salazar’s gift,” he pressed the tips of his fingers to
his lips and kissed the air. “Nothing scandalous, but it makes you wonder what she’s got
underneath, yeah?”

A low growl emitted from Draco’s throat and the muscles in his jaw clenched hard enough,
he worried he may crack a molar.

“Ha!” Theo barked as they approached the Three Broomsticks, “So you do fancy Granger.
You’re a possessive bastard at your core, I figured it would only take a few pointed
comments to get you riled.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco neither agreed nor disagreed to Theo’s statement as they entered the
pub and transported through the fireplace to their next destination.
Theo continued once they made quick work of Apparating from Wiltshire to the edge of the
Manor’s grounds. “Are you going to admit it, or are we pretending that you haven’t been
moon-eyed over her since the start of term?”

Gods, he was annoying. “I have not been moon-eyed , Nott,” Draco snapped. With a heavy
sigh, he rolled his neck to look at his oldest friend knowing he couldn’t keep much from him,
not without intentionally Occluding and there was no reason to at this point. “But yes, okay?
I bloody like her. And it’s driving me mad because I haven’t the faintest idea of what to do.
She barely began tolerating my presence again for the sake of having to work together, and I
deserve every bit of her ire and none of the compassion she’s offered me. And now, I’m in
fits over the witch who damn well hates my existence. Are you pleased now?”

The gates to the Manor opened and a house-elf appeared to greet them with a faint crack.
“Master Malfoy, Mister Nott. Lady Black-Malfoy is waiting in the solarium for you. Mister
Zabini and Miss Parkinson are already inside. Ames will escort you, if you please.”

“That will be fine, Ames,” Draco grumbled as Ames took both his and Theo’s wrists to
Apparate them into the foyer of the Manor. “We’ll see ourselves to the solarium,” he
concluded and the two of them passed their cloaks to the elf who Disapparated elsewhere in
the Manor with another pop.

Draco all but ignored Theo’s knowing look, who at least had the good sense to not say
anything further as they moved through the dark halls towards the back of the house.

When they approached the large glass-walled room, Theo gave him one final look. “She
doesn’t hate you, you know. She told me, the other night. Made a very specific point to make
it be known, actually, that Hermione Granger doesn’t hate you.”

With those final words settling something unfamiliar, something akin to hopefulness, in his
chest, Draco schooled his expression and affixed his mask of control to endure tea with his
mother.

“My, my,” his mother crooned as Draco and his three closest friends, his only friends really,
sat on the comfortable sage green and gold baroque patterned loungers and loveseats, picking
their way through the tiny sandwiches and petit-fours that accompanied their tea. “It’s so
wonderful to have all of you here again, giving life to this place.” Her eyes were wistful and
Draco wondered if she would cry.

“So you’ve said, Mother.” Draco set his china cup on a saucer and plucked another cucumber
and goat’s cheese sandwich from a polished silver platter. He was starving, and the sun was
already beginning to sink behind the trees on the edge of the back lawn, so this tea was more
like dinner.

His mother never had adjusted to taking meals at proper times; tea was typically at dinner-
time, and dinner usually began well after the sun had set and darkness had blanketed the sky.
A relic, leftover from attempting to plan some level of normalcy, like family meals, when her
husband was oft working long hours doing the Dark Lord’s bidding.
“Draco, don’t be rude,” Pansy snapped at him with her ever-present glare in his direction. “I
agree, Narcissa. Thank you for always being so welcoming to us, it’s been so long since
we’ve shared tea together.”

Draco fought the urge to vomit. Pansy’s sickly sweetness towards his mother had not abated
over the years. It was born of her attempt to appeal to Mother as a potential future-daughter-
in-law, back when him and Pansy had a relationship, but even years after they’d ending
things, she still played the role.

Narcissa Black-Malfoy didn’t seem to mind, and regularly fussed over Pansy as if she was
her own daughter.

The conversation was light, and Draco found himself enjoying his time. He was grateful that
Theo had been invited, and by extension, Blaise and Pansy, as he did miss this. The few and
far between moments where they could just relax, enjoy each other’s company. A luxury
rarely afforded.

“I’m so proud of the men and woman you’ve all grown into. Here we have two Professors, a
future solicitor, and a Healer!” Mother had not stopped her gushing for a moment since they
stepped through the doors and pressed firm kisses to both his and Theo’s cheeks in great
succession.

“Future Mediwizard,” Blaise corrected sheepishly. “I’m barely qualified to administer a

Sleeping Draught.”

Mother just waved her hand away at Blaise’s self-deprecation. “I just mean to say, I’m so
glad you all found your paths. There was a time…” she sniffed quietly, pressing a cloth
napkin to her nose, “A time where I was wrought with fear that you children wouldn’t get the
future you deserved. You never asked for the things that you were forced to witness and
participate in, and to be so young, to not have any custody over your own dreams and
desires…” a tear slipped from his mother’s eye and she quickly wiped it away.

Draco leaned forward, stretching a long arm across the table to grab his mother’s hand. “It’s
okay,” he said softly, rubbing delicately into the back of her hand with his thumb. “We’re
okay, Mum.” Words he’d repeated to his mother frequently, especially in the first few months
following his father’s arrest.

When the night terrors overtook her. Whenever the Ministry would send his probation officer
to the Manor. The first time Draco left the grounds after his house arrest ended.

She gave a slight shake to her head and patted Draco’s hand with her other one. “Yes, yes you
are, my dear Draco. You all are.” She fixed a smile on her face and looked at the others
sitting, watching quietly.

Years ago, Narcissa Black-Malfoy would have subdued her display of emotion and excused
herself to her quarters to purge the unwanted feelings. But now, Draco could see the
differences in how she carried herself. No longer tense and fearful of what a mis-step, a
perceived weakness or slight against her matrimonial name would do.
Years separated from one Lucius Malfoy would naturally foster such emotional growth.

“Draco, my love, would you please join me for a brief walk in the gardens? It’s growing late
and I do not want to keep you all any longer. Blaise, Pansy, Theo, it was wonderful to see
you. Please don’t use my summoning Draco here for tea as your only excuse to come visit.
You are welcome here, always.” His mother rose to standing with the aid of Draco holding
delicately to her elbow and she bid her farewells to his friends with embraces and kissed
cheeks.

Blaise grasped Draco in a firm hug, promising a pub night when their schedules allowed it.
Pansy wrapped her arms around Draco’s middle, tucking her head against his chest in
affection. While their romantic partnership didn’t work out, they’d always remained close
friends. He kissed the top of her head as said he’d owl more often.

“I’ll meet you in the foyer,” Theo nodded after sharing a silent communication with Blaise
and a tense, uncomfortable stare down with Pansy that left her stomping her feet lightly in a
huff and Theo’s cheeks red and jaw clenched.

Once they were out in the gardens, Draco wrapped his arm around his mother’s shoulder and
pulled her in close to his side. His coat was still inside and his mother’s robes were of a
thinner material, so he cast a quick warming charm to keep them comfortable in the evening
air.

“I truly am proud of you, Draco.” She said as they strolled through her rows and rows of
prized flowers. “You’ve healed so much over the years. And I’ve noticed you seem lighter,
happy almost. I can almost see the weights being lifted off of you.”

Emotion clogged in Draco’s throat. He still wasn’t used to such tenderness from his parents,
although his mother was always more affectionate towards him when he was a child, it was
usually in private and away from his father’s watchful eyes.

“I don’t think Father would agree with that sentiment,” he deflected. A Malfoy, designating
himself to a role of servitude, not power. There was nothing admirable about being a
Professor according to Lucius. “He’d rather I do something worthwhile to fill the family
vaults, or lord my authority over some group of simpering idiots desperate to gain my
approval.”

His mother sighed, slipping the arm closest to his around his waist and patting his chest with
the other. “Yes, well, your father’s ideals as to what’s befitting for the Malfoy name are rather
ambitious. We are Slytherin, after all. But does your mother’s pride count for nothing? I care
not what you do to earn a salary, Draco, so long as it’s meaningful for you, and that you find
happiness.”

“It does, and it is. Meaningful, that is.”

He felt lighter, the tension he’d been feeling about this meeting all but gone. He could tell
there was still something niggling at the back of his mother’s mind. It gave him pause, a
minor blip of concern for her mental state, whatever this news was.
Draco knew how difficult his mother’s own journey to find meaning and peace had been,
having been by her side for the vast majority of it. But he also knew her strength and her
tenacity to move forward. She’d since begun reintegrating herself back into society, hostsing
luncheons and serving on a few boards for charitable organizations.

She’d even joined a gardening society, participating in small clubs and competitions, sharing
her love of horticulture with other avid growers.

There was still some reservation in her circles, he knew, about her associations and
allegiances, but in public, she opted to use only Black as her surname, distancing herself from
the implications of being a Malfoy.

“That’s actually what I wanted to discuss. Your father.”

Draco flinched and his steps halted. A litany of things ran through his mind. They
occasionally discussed his father, but only in the abstract, not any discussions about him or
his current stay at Azkaban. As far as Draco knew, his mother hadn’t had any contact with
him or regarding him whatsoever.

He was serving a life sentence. Their marriage was essentially over.

“What of him?” Draco said coldly, emotion stuffed aside.

“The family solicitor, Jorgensen, came to visit. Your father, he, well, he has cancer.”

“ Cancer ,” Draco drawled, the unfamiliar word rolling over his tongue.. A largely Muggle
affliction, one he vaguely knew could be rather complicated and crop up in various parts of
the body. In summary, one’s own cells could begin attacking its own body. Difficult, if not
impossible, to cure, without magical intervention. Cancer for a wizard was rare, and non-
lethal, as curable as the flu. “How is this relevant?”

“Well,” his mother said cautiously. “Medical care in Azkaban is rather poor. Jorgensen
described it to me as akin to a Muggle triage tent on a battlefront, whatever that implies.
There is no access to Healers with the ability to cure such ailments as this, so, without proper
care, he will likely die.”

It would be the cruelest twist of irony if Lucius Malfoy was killed in such a Muggle fashion.

“They’ve applied for compassionate release.”

The world fucking spun on its axis.

“What? He’s four years in on a life sentence, surely the Wizengamot isn’t considering it?”
Panic began clawing at Draco’s throat. The idea of his father potentially being released made
the cucumber sandwiches from earlier roil in his stomach.

“No, Jorgensen relayed that it was rather unlikely,” his mother continued, urging forward to
continue their walk. Draco hadn’t even realized his feet stopped moving. “But, they’re
hoping to compromise, and seek permission to have him transferred to St. Mungo’s for
assessment and treatment. Which means, he’d be temporarily released into the custody of the
prison ward at St. Mungo’s, barring they can treat his affliction, and then, well, send him
back.”

The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. He wasn’t sure if he was
defending his father’s care, or fighting against the idea of him being let out of Azkaban even
temporarily.

“What, what if they say no? He’s intended to die in Azkaban at any rate, what’s a few years
on the clock sped up? What if they do allow it and he, he manages to escape? Would we be
able to see him? Would we have to see him?” Draco was shouting now, unable to shut off the
tap of thoughts rushing out of him.

His chest felt tight, too tight, and his breaths were coming in short gasps.

Panic attack . Healer Renault had identified these as such, the first time Draco had willingly
opened up to him. How did he say to stop the bloody thing? He couldn’t remember…

“Breath,” his mother’s voice pulled at him through his fogged brain. He was sitting now on
the gravel path. He wrenched open his eyes to see his mother crouched in front of him,
brushing his hair off of his brow. “Breath, Draco. In,” she demonstrated with a deep inhale.
“And out,” she slowly released.

Draco imitated the action, over and over, until the steel bands around his chest snapped and
his heart rate began to return to normal.

“Mum,” he croaked, voice thick with emotion. He pressed his hands into his face, feeling
embarrassed over such a reaction. It shouldn’t have been that difficult. He should have had
better control.

“Shhh,” she soothed, still running her hands in a calming gesture over his back, down his
arms. “My dear Draco, it’s okay to feel. It’s okay if it’s complicated. Now is not the time for
answers, we can deal with these things as they come up.”

“Have you been talking to Healer Renault behind my back, Mother?” Draco joked and his
mother’s face lightened with a small smile.

“No, dear, but you’re not the only one with a Mind-Healer.” She stood up and offered a hand
to Draco in a gesture to help, not that she had the strength to pull his large frame from the
ground.

“So, we deal with it as it comes,” Draco finally said as they headed back towards the Manor.

“We do, my sweet, wonderful boy. We always do.”

 Birthday Girl
Chapter Notes

CW: brief reference to sensitive topics including slavery/racism/the Holocaust.

Depiction of drug use. Some explicit content.

A/N: minor update to a student name from original posting, I mixed up two of the names
from earlier (how embarrassing…)

Another week down.

This past one had been particularly exhausting for Hermione, but she was grateful to bury
herself in her lessons rather than ruminate further on Ron Fucking Weasley and her
avoidance of contacting him.

She was self-aware enough now to admit when she was being a right coward.

Hermione had also had her first remarkably poor interaction with a student on Friday. She’d
begun her fifth years on a section regarding slavery, segregation, apartheid, and colonization
in the Muggle world. There were numerous examples, and Hermione had begun to explain
the connection between Muggle-on-Muggle warfare, discrimination, and horrific treatment of
fellow humans on the basis of skin color, religion, cultural beliefs, et cetera, and how it
mirrors the similar prejudices that exist between Muggles and Wizards.

“Why should we care, though?” A snarky Slytherin had spoken up. Peter Brody, was his
name, and he’d been a general pain in the arse since the jump, not that she’d willingly admit
to calling a student a pain in the arse, even in her own head. He was a Prefect to boot, and
was reminiscent of Malfoy, unfortunately, when he was the same age.

“Excellent question, Mr. Brody. The intended purpose is to share the stories of survivors and
victims alike, to further appeal to our humanity and recognize that prejudice against one
group or another, for reasons they themselves cannot control, is utterly…well…horrific.”

He scoffed, sneered, and continued on. “See, I’m not Jew-ish,” the unfamiliar term poured
from his mouth, “nor am I a Muggle, nor was I alive in that era. So I don’t see how this is
relevant. Lesson learned, all you’ve done is further prove that Muggles are barbaric, power
hungry, and otherwise uncivilized.”

The irony, that a direct comparison could be drawn between the Holocaust and the likes of
Voldemort’s obsession with blood-purity, was entirely lost on him. Hermione had grown
flustered, losing her train of thought and her carefully curated responses to such objections
were nowhere to be found.
She just so desperately wanted him, all of them, to understand that Muggles, Muggleborns,
and every other group that has been disadvantaged through history were human beings. It
was a lesson on compassion and empathy.

Hermione instead scribbled a note on a parchment and charmed it so a copy would be sent to
Slughorn’s desk as his head of house. “You’ve been excused from my classroom, Mr. Brody.
That language is not tolerated. Take this to Professor Slughorn.” She shoved the parchment
into his hand and took a few moments before continuing

Deep breaths.

The class continued without incident, but Hermione had let her frustration linger long enough
that she cried quietly into her tea that evening in her room.

By Saturday morning, Hermione had a lie-in again, and since she’d learned how to summon
meals to her room from the kitchen, she enjoyed a quiet breakfast in bed before taking a long
bath in her private bathroom. It was her birthday, afterall, she was entitled to the indulgence.

When she finally emerged into the common room, determined to not spend the rest of her
birthday resigned to her room simply because she’d had a rough week, she found a small pile
of gifts sitting on the coffee table.

Her smile grew as she examined them, seeing that they were in fact addressed to her, not
some coincidental occurrence that Eric or Theo or Malfoy would have bundles of mail
instead.

Harry and Ginny had sent her a box of bath potions and salts, a combination of some of her
favorite relaxing elixirs from a local apothecary and those from a local Muggle shop in
London that curated special, small batch lotions and soaps. Ginny had also included some
ridiculous Muggle stationary that Hermione found rather amusing: a notebook with brightly
colored cats on it along with a matching set of pens.

To my favorite Muggle Studies Professor and cat-enthusiast.

Love, Gin

Ron had sent her a bottle of perfume, which was a kind gesture but ultimately made the guilt
she’d been ignoring return. When she sniffed it, she felt less guilty. It was a ghastly scent,
overpoweringly fruity and floral, and not something Hermione had ever worn in her life.

Molly, as usual, delivered a hand knit scarf in a lovely shade of lilac that seemed to shimmer
in the light and homemade fudge with walnuts.

And Hagrid, a simple note, asking Hermione for lunch this afternoon, which she planned to
accept.
“What have you got there?” Theo’s voice came into the room. She had been opening the
various bath elixirs to smell and hadn’t heard him come in.

He was carrying a broomstick over his shoulder, sweat soaked, and nodding to the pile that
was still on the table.

“Erm,” Hermione said, gathering her gifts to bring back to her room. “Just some birthday
gifts.” She wasn’t sure why she felt embarrassed, as if it was some great crime to have a
birthday, but the sensation was there.

“Oh, it’s your birthday!” Theo stated, eyes going wide. “Happy birthday, Golden Girl. What
are your plans for the day? If you say grading papers or preparing lesson plans, I’ll hex your
hand so you can’t hold a quill.”

Hermione scoffed playfully. “Rude, Theodore. I had considered it, but I’m knackered after
this week. Hagrid’s invited me to lunch, and considering Harry is…out of town,” she hedged,
“and I didn’t have the forethought to make plans with Ginny, I don’t really know what else.
Read a good book, maybe.”

“That sounds incredibly dull,” he deadpanned.

“I don’t find it so,” Hermione quipped, her arms laden with gifts.

“Well, why don’t you take a night off from being the perfect swot that you are, and hang out
with Draco and me? If you don’t mind the common room, that is. Draco will be properly
wrecked after today, flying lessons this morning,” Theo shrugged his broomstick higher on
his shoulder, Hermione now making sense of his state this morning. “And he’s had a bit of a
long week himself so I’d already had something in mind to help him relax. You’re more than
welcome to join us…no, I demand you join us.”

She considered Theo’s demand as it were, and thought about her brief interactions with the
two of them this week. Aside from her own distractions, each time she saw Malfoy, after he’d
been invited to tea with his mother, he had a slightly pinched expression on his face.

Since they’d returned on Wednesday, she’d carefully avoided the two of them solely because
it always seemed like they were involved in rather deep discussions, Malfoy tugging on his
tie or running a hand through his hair, while Theo looked on with concern. Whatever he was
dealing with, it wasn’t her business, so she’d kept her distance.

She admittedly missed their minor interactions.

“Alright,” Hermione assented, heading back towards her bedroom. “Yes, that sounds good.
I’ll set my book on the shelf for the night. But I expect, whatever it is you have in mind had
better be more appealing than my reading, or I’ll hex you .” She teased and gave him one
final smile and went into her room.

Lunch with Hagrid was utterly delightful. He took her around his gardens, showing off the
massive pumpkins he was growing for Halloween the next month, without Engorgement
Charms, he proudly supplanted, and took her through his paddocks to see what creatures he’d
been keeping for class.

His hut was cool on the inside, the stone helping block out the rather warm September
afternoon, and instead of tea, they had iced pumpkin juice, cured meats and some cheeses,
which, appeared to have a bit of unintended mold so Hermione avoided those bits, and an
entirely edible lemon cake. She was pleased to see his cooking had improved.

They talked for hours about everything and nothing, him carefully avoiding Ron after her
initial tension the first time his name came up, and instead imagined what sort of fantastical,
far-fetched trouble Harry might be getting into on his assignment, rather than worry over any
real threats he was likely facing.

Hermione was feeling quite content when she entered the common room to find Theo and
Malfoy sprawled on the couches. Both of their heads popped up at her entrance and she gave
them a small wave.

Theo looked utterly relaxed, charming a small pile of gems into butterflies and then doing
simple work to change the size and color of their wings before reverting them, but Malfoy
looked like he’d been put through the wringer.

Exhaustion marred his features and he seemed to be holding himself a bit stiffly. It was also
at that moment when she realized he was wearing charcoal gray jogging bottoms and a
hooded Slytherin Quidditch jumper.

The sight of him looking so dressed-down almost made Hermione’s mouth go dry.

“Evening, Hermione. Hope Hagrid’s was swell. Still going to come play with us tonight?”
Theo said, not looking up from his charm work. She caught the scathing look Malfoy gave
Theo at the word ‘play’. She wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Despite Theo’s forward and sometimes flirtatious nature, she didn’t really detect any sexual
attraction between them, and Malfoy has provided no indication that he was interested in her
either. Not that she was interested in Malfoy, she didn’t think.

But the word did give her the faintest hint of butterflies in her stomach and a sense of
curiosity. Malfoy would call it her lack of self-preservation, seeing as whatever they had
intended, Theo had made it sound like it might be outside of Hermione’s comfort zone.

“Yeah,” she finally said, “let me just go change.”

She bolted to her room to remove her jumper and jeans, considering what to change in to. On
the rather likely event that they weren’t attempting to seduce her into some…group situation,
she settled on leggings and a slightly oversized long sleeved t-shirt. Nothing remotely sexy
about it.

Just in case.
When she returned to the common room, twisting her hair into a messy bun on her head,
Theo was holding a slim silver case in his hands and quirked an eyebrow at Hermione.

She settled in to the empty armchair and watched him with curiosity.

“She’s not going to go for it, mate. I highly doubt Granger thinks this is an idea of a good
time.” Draco said, eyeing Theo with an arched brow.

“We’ll see,” he replied as he flicked the case open, revealing a row of tightly rolled
cigarettes.

Hermione looked at the case and back and Theo quizzically. “No, he’s right, I don’t smoke.”
She shook her head, not having expected this at all.

“Told you,” Draco drawled and must have muttered an Accio because a wine bottle began
zooming into the room from down the hall. “You’re welcome to stay, but apologies if he tried
to convince you this would be a raucous evening. I’m bloody exhausted. It’s one thing to ride
a broom like second nature, it’s another to try and instruct students about the proper muscle
groups and take-off over and over again.” He rubbed the tops of his thighs with a grimace.

Theo just shrugged and lit the cigarette pressed to his lips with his wand. Instead of the acrid
scent of cigarette smoke, Hermione recognized it immediately. Something more pungent, a
touch sweeter, and blue-gray smoke swirled lazily from the lit ember.

“Oh,” Hermione said, wide eyed. “That’s…”

“Marijuana, love,” Theo replied with the cigarette—no, joint—between his teeth. He took a
deep inhale and slowly let the smoke out through his lips. “Still say no?” He passed the case
to Malfoy who lit one of his own and groaned into the sofa after his first drag.

Hermione considered it thoughtfully. She’d smoked marijuana before, two times actually. It
wasn’t her favorite thing to do, the idea of drug use being entirely off putting, but technically,
marijuana was an herb, right? And the floaty, calm feeling she had gotten when she tried it
was rather nice.

“Yeah,” she said, palm out towards Malfoy, curling her fingers towards her in a ‘give me’
gesture.

Malfoy shot her a look of surprise but didn’t comment, just passed the case over to her. Theo
raised his fists above his head in a silent celebration. She selected one of the joints and
pressed it to her lips before lighting it with her wand.

Almost immediately, the smoke got caught in her lungs and she coughed, waving her hand in
front of her face. “ Fuck ,” she said once her cough had subsided. She took another pull,
slowly dragging in the herbal, sweet smoke and feeling it burn her throat before pushing it all
out on an exhale.

“New at this, are you Granger?” Malfoy said with a lazy drawl. His head was tipped against
the back of the couch, eyes half-mast already as he slowly, methodically, smoked.
“No,” she replied with a small wiggle of her shoulders as she settled deeper into the armchair.
“This isn’t my first time. I just haven’t smoked it in a joint before.”

“Explain,” Theo pointed at her with his finger, joint pinched between his middle and thumb.
“Because my mind cannot reconcile with the idea of our Golden Girl partaking in such
activities.”

Hermione gave a shrug and took another drag. “I took a gap-year, in America,” she said
through a smoky exhale. The haze of their combined smoke was hanging low on the surfaces
in the room. She didn’t find herself to care about any lingering odors or if they were to get
caught, the calming effects of the marijuana were already beginning to take hold.

“I was staying at a hostel in San Francisco, and some of the gals there convinced me to try it.
And then again in Seattle. Only, they smoked theirs out of little glass pipes. Marijuana is
rather popular on the west coast of the States.”

Malfoy was eying her with growing curiosity, an incredibly lazy smirk on his full lips. Theo
just giggled like a schoolchild, of course the drug would make him more jovial than usual.

“Please tell me more about this gap-year. What other un-Granger-like things did you get in
to? Draco, be a love and open that wine for us. I told you this would be a fun evening.”

Hermione let her own giggle slip through her lips. That was another effect she’d
remembered, marijuana made everything funny. “Um, well,” she started, recanting memories
of her gap-year. She did a lot, but not much of it was drenched in mischief. “I almost got a
tattoo, but chickened out. Went starkers in the Gulf of Mexico in Florida. Oh, and I picked
some flowers from a National Park, Yellowstone, which is highly illegal. Pressed them into a
book to preserve them.”

Malfoy made a choking sound next to her and he almost spilled the wine he was pouring into
a tea mug. Theo gave him a knowing smile.

“Stolen flowers, you say? How utterly criminal of you,” Malfoy covered up his gaff.

“No, love, what I think he meant to say, is he’s wholly stuck on you going starkers in public.
I’m impressed, Granger.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and took another drag of her joint before sliding a mug of wine her
way. “It was at night, no one was there, except a few random girls I’d met on the beach
earlier during my stay there. Nothing scandalous.”

Malfoy made another noise, like he was clearing his throat.

“No, not at all,” Theo supported. “I have zero shame about being in the buff in public,” he
said proudly. Hermione could see from the glaze and subtle droop of his eyes, Theo was
feeling the effects as well. Her eyes, however, widened at his brazen admission.

“Theo here is into exhibitionism,” Malfoy said lazily. A glance in his direction showed his
smirk growing in earnest, and it was if the marijuana had loosened up his inhibitions enough
that he had let his carefully guarded composure down.

“And voyeurism,” Theo added. Hermione’s cheeks flushed red and she swallowed a mouthful
of wine to prevent herself from audibly gasping. “I like to watch and be watched.”

“Oh my,” Hermione whispered.

“You’re going to send the poor girl into a fit, Theo,” Malfoy teased. He’d sat up a bit and was
leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching Hermione with a careful curiosity,
and he seemed to be enjoying whatever effect their turn of conversation was having on her.

“You’re one to talk, you kinky twat,” Theo remarked offhandedly, finishing out his joint,
banishing it, and lighting another. “I can only imagine her reaction if she knew some of your,
ah, proclivities. ”

Hermione’s thighs clenched together. Fucking hell, now she was wondering just what
proclivities Malfoy had. Or what it might be like for him to act them out on her.

It had to be the marijuana. She wasn’t sure if lack of inhibitions or a heightened sense of
arousal were side effects of the drug, but there was no other explanation to how her knickers
were now suddenly damp with the thought of one Draco Malfoy.

“Theo,” Malfoy gave him a warning growl and Theo just gave him a challenging smile and a
wink.

“I’m not a prude,” Hermione huffed, slight annoyance bubbling up from all her drug-induced
levity. “You don’t have to change subjects like I’m a child. I can…” she trailed off. “Sex is
normal. People like different things, whatever.” She played it off with a shrug, as if the topic
of kinks wasn’t foreign to her.

Aside from one brief experiment with a necktie that was rather poorly executed, and a few
things she’d come across in reading that piqued her curiosity, Hermione had been, despite her
posturing, woefully vanilla in her sexual experiences thus far.

Theo gave her a wicked grin. “Did you and Krum get up to some naughtiness, then? I bet the
brooding lad likes primal play. His profession is literally to chase and catch.”

“How did you…that’s…” Hermione sputtered. “Oh gods , I told you about Viktor.” There
was no other way they would have known, other than she had to have admitted it, for some
unknown reason, the night she took the Forgetfulness Potion.

“About him chasing your arse through the woods? Nah,” Theo waved off, speaking much
more casually about sex that she was used to. “You did mention the rumors about his size
were true, though. I was rather impressed.” He passed her the joint he’d lit previously as hers
had gone out.

She took an inhale, feeling much more of the high now, coupled with a light buzz from the
wine. It helped relax her as she shed away more of her nerves and embarrassment. Fuck it ,
she thought to herself. She’d been looking for a way to get closer to Malfoy, and while this
topic was rather unconventional, no better opportunity to prove that she could have more than
a stilted, cordial conversation in his presence.

“If that’s his thing, I didn’t know it. He was always…gentle,” she said with a slight grimace,
passing the joint back to Theo. Gentle was nice, for her first time, but after a while, she’d
always wanted just a little bit more from him, to see him lose control and get rougher with
her. “Like he was afraid he was going to break me. Bit off putting, really.”

That last part she hadn’t really intended to say out loud, and when she did, she swore she
heard Malfoy groan quietly.

“What about Potter and Weasley?” Theo asked, earning him another lazy glare from Malfoy.
He’d been quiet since Hermione started speaking so openly, but she could tell he was taking
in her words in full.

“I’ve never shagged Harry,” Hermione defended, something she’d said countless times
before. People had always made assumptions. “And not to offer too many personal details,
but Ron is…”

She paused before admitting to these two fit, clearly experienced men, that her technically-
not-yet-an-ex-boyfriend had only given her two orgasms the entire time they were together.
Every other time when he got his, she was left to finish herself off after he immediately fell
asleep.

Instead, she just huffed in frustration.

“Right, well, I’m starved. Anyone else?” Theo said with a quick subject change and banished
the second joint, as if they were discussing the weather and now moving along to current
events. Hermione’s stomach growled and Malfoy a responding grunt that she took to mean
‘yes’.

“I’m gonna pop into the kitchens and convince the elves to give us some proper food, seeing
as we’re not fit for public viewing. Be right back.”

Theo disappeared through the portrait hole and Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“I, uh,” Malfoy started and then coughed slightly into his fist, looking a bit sheepish. “I have
something for you, for your birthday.”

She suppressed a laugh. That wasn’t meant to be funny. “You do?” Hermione asked quietly.

Malfoy nodded. “It’s nothing really, just happened on it in the bakery in Hogsmeade, picking
up something for my mother,” he added quickly, “and thought I’d grab one for you as well.”

“You didn’t have to,” Hermione started, but he was already shoving to his feet and moving
rather quickly down the hall.

When he reappeared, he set a small wrapped parcel on the coffee table. Hermione moved
from her perch on the armchair and sat beside Malfoy on the couch, knees a respectable
distance apart. She unwrapped the parcel to find a small square from a tray bake.
It smelled deliciously of shortbread…and something else subtle. She picked off a corner and
stuck it in her mouth. Deliciously buttery shortbread, with a honey-lavender drizzle.

Hermione squealed quietly with delight, it was delicious. “Gods, that’s good. Thank you,
Draco.”

She froze.

He froze.

It was the first time in her memory that she’d ever used his first name without derision,
something so innocuous that also seemed momentous.

“Would you like to try some?” She said softly in the otherwise quiet room. She hoped it
would diffuse the sudden tension, but it only seemed to thicken it.

“Sure,” he all but whispered.

Hermione rotated and crossed her legs on the couch so she was facing him head on. He
twisted his massive upper half in her direction as she held a piece of the dessert aloft. She
expected him to take it from her hands, but instead, he licked his lower lip and parted them
ever so slightly, a clear indication for her to feed it to him.

Her breath hitched, she took in his slightly red-tinted eyes, the hooded lids, the way his lashes
fluttered onto his cheekbones. Hermione raised her hand and he opened wider for her as she
placed the shortbread on his slightly extended tongue.

When she didn’t immediately remove her hand from his mouth, he closed his lips, the motion
causing her thumb to catch just so on his full bottom one, dragging it down slightly.

She lowered her hand quickly back into her lap, but Malfoy didn’t break eye contact. He
chewed, swallowed, and moaned quietly in the back of his throat.

“Lavender and honey, fucking delicious .” The words came out rough, gravelly, and it had an
immediate effect on the state of Hermione’s knickers. From her cross-legged position, it
would be impossible to obtain her desperate desire for some friction between her thighs
without making it obvious.

“Tell me something, Granger,” he practically purred, reaching out slowly to run his knuckles
down the side of her face, so slowly as if he was waiting for her to swat his hand away. The
metal of his rings felt wonderful against her heated cheeks.

“What is it?” She all but leaned into his touch like a cat, her voice coming out breathier than
she ever knew possible.

“I have a suspicion, and this will very likely be too forward, but I can’t help myself.” His
fingers traced the curve of her jaw, down the column of her throat, skimming down her
shoulder and bicep. His eyes track the movement the entire time, and even though he was
touching her over her shirt, she could feel tingles erupting on her skin from his fingers.
Hermione swallowed, her breath catching in her throat.

“You said Krum was too delicate with you, and the Weasel,” he said with a derisive grunt as
his hand descended to rest atop her knee. When had he gotten so close to her? “There was
some rather obvious frustration there, some dissatisfaction… ”

His fingers began tracing a pattern on the inside of her knee, his touch feather-light.

“Yes,” she breathed, only half registering his words, she was so distracted by the feeling of
his touch. It was part agreement, part encouragement for him to keep touching her.

“What I desperately need to know, Granger,” Malfoy pitched forward, his face closing the
inches between the two of them and his broad chest crowding her space without actually
touching her. His mouth was near her ear, close enough that she could feel the warmth from
his breath as he said his next words.

“Do you need to be fucked ? For someone to be rough with you, to mark your pretty little
skin up? Do you want, so badly, for a man to make you come so hard you forget your fucking
name?”

Hermione was panting at his words, short, gasping breaths and his was equally as strained as
his hand gripped her thigh, right above her knee, and slowly grazed upwards, his thumb
firmly pressing into the spot where her hip met her thigh when he reached the top. From this
position, she could feel his hard length pressing against her shinbone.

She was silently, begging, screaming at him to just shift his hand, a cool one-eighty degrees
inward, so his long fingers would be right where she was practically aching now.

“Yes, Draco,” she said with a slight moan.

He tipped his head back, groaning long and low in his throat as he squeezed harder on her hip
and thigh. When he moved to look at her, his eyes were still bloodshot, but there was fire
swirling in his deep gray irises. A few inches between them, a miniscule distance.

Malfoy’s eyes stared longingly at Hermione’s mouth, and just when she thought he was going
to lean forward and kiss her, the portrait hole for the common room banged open and the two
of them shot apart like shrapnel.

“Fucking hell,” Draco muttered under his breath, eyes pinched shut tight, as he not-so-subtly
adjusted himself over his pants.

Theo barreled through the room, levitating two baskets along with him, completely oblivious
to what he’d just interrupted.

Hermione tugged on her shirt, smoothed non-existence wrinkles in her spandex leggings, and
adjusted her hair in its bun, suddenly grateful for Theo’s timing.
Had he been any longer, she was liable to have climbed right onto Malfoy’s lap and found
themselves in an even more compromising position.

He lowered the baskets onto the table before taking appraisal of both Hermione and Malfoy,
eyes bouncing back and forth between the two of them. It was fairly obvious that something
had happened, with both of them still trying to catch their breaths, Malfoy’s cheeks and the
tips of his ears flushed pink, and the conspicuous throw pillow on his lap.

Theo gave them both a knowing look, grin wide and eyebrows raised. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing!” Hermione squeaked at the same time Malfoy said “Fuck off,” and delivered a
rude hand gesture.

“Right, well, food,” he opted to feign ignorance and began pulling pastries, sandwiches, jugs
of juice, crisps, puddings in small dishes, and an assortment of candy bars and other sweets
from the baskets.

“I, um, I think I’ll actually head to bed,” Hermione said, shuffling to stand up. The sudden
embarrassment of being obviously caught in a…situation with Malfoy, the fact that she even
found herself in said situation, and the ache between her thighs meant she just wanted some
time to herself.

“G’night,” Theo mumbled through a thick bite of sandwich.

She moved around the coffee table, taking the long way so she didn’t cross directly in front of
Malfoy, but he still caught her gaze from across the room as she passed through.

With a slow, devastatingly sexual wink, he muttered, “Sweet dreams, Granger.”

She held her breath all the way to her room and cast a wordless silencing charm before
stripping off her leggings and t-shirt and collapsing on the bed.

When she worked her fingers down her knickers, over her hot, aching center, and found
herself wet, wetter than she could ever remember being before, it was with Malfoy—Draco’s
—name whispered on her lips when she came.

Gods, this was going to be an interesting development.

 Indifference

The next two weeks leading into October went without incident. To Hermione’s relief.

The morning after her birthday, she awoke with a headache and the rush of anxiety (
hangxiety as Luna called it—the sense of regret after waking up remembering what inhibited
things one did the night before) from her lapse of judgment on the sofa with Malfoy. Because
that was entirely what she was referring to it as, a lapse in her otherwise fairly strong
judgment.

When she crept into the common room, prepared to relive that last moment and potentially
drop dead of sheer embarrassment, she found only Theo, supine on the very same sofa,
looking positively disheveled and in the same clothing he had on the night before.

Her sigh of relief must have been audible because while he appeared to be sleeping, he
cracked an eye in Hermione’s direction.

“How are we this morning, love?” He gave her a knowing grin and her embarrassment
returned tenfold.

“Rather fine, thank you,” Hermione brushed it off with an air of indifference, as if last night
wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

“Right,” Theo had responded.

“Where did you even get marijuana?” Hermione found herself asking as she made her coffee.
It was definitely a coffee-over-tea kind of morning.

“Blaise,” Theo supplied.

“Oh,” was all she said in response.

“He’s not here, by the way.”

“Who, Blaise? I should think not.” Hermione stirred her milk and sugar into her coffee, still
feigning disinterest. They both knew well enough that he wasn’t talking about Blaise Zabini.

“Right,” Theo said again. “He won’t be back on the grounds until this evening.”

“Hmm,” Hermione said idly before she left the common room to enjoy breakfast alone.

—
On Tuesday, the two of them were scheduled for detention together. It would be the first time
being in close proximity since the night of her birthday. Since then, there had only been brief
glances and passing “hellos”, both of them clearly taking steps in their avoidance of one
another. Hermione had spent extra time in her office, and Malfoy was scarce himself.

She may have written the situation off as a lapse in judgment, an error fueled by her being
under the influence, but it didn’t lessen her annoyance with him. She was at least owed a
conversation, an apology, whatever.

The fact that her avoiding him therefore negating the opportunity for him to speak to her was
one she was willingly ignoring.

However, her annoyance came to a head when Professor Ambrose said she was staying for
detention and not Professor Malfoy.

“He’s asked me to cover, he mentioned he had an appointment he absolutely couldn’t

reschedule”

Appointment, my arse, Hermione thought to herself ruefully.

She was being petulant, but it hurt her feelings to think he might have regrets about that
evening too. She hadn’t been a lone participant in it, in fact, he was the one who had
prompted it.

His absence helped push him from her mind and focus her thoughts on how much of an
irritant he was, but she couldn’t help but notice him in those few moments when he was
around.

The way he looked when he was deep in concentration, how his hair looked slightly
disheveled and his stubble grew rougher in the evenings. The cool, observational rake of his
eyes whenever he entered a room. The slightest hints of pride when he spoke with students in
the Great Hall to answer questions or provide feedback. The way he smelled like earth and
soil and masculinity when he was coming off the Quidditch pitch. His bloody peppermint tea
that he never seemed to stop drinking.

Hermione also realized, to her utter frustration, that she was entirely in denial about how little
that moment, and Malfoy by extension, meant to her.

By the weekend, Hermione opted to spend her days off with Ginny at Grimmauld Place as
Harry was still in Norwich and Hermione needed time away from the castle grounds, away
from stifled and short pleasantries exchanged with Malfoy, away from her office and
students. She excitedly shared the news of her pregnancy, which Hermione pretended to be
shocked and surprise at the news, but not at all pretending in her excitement.
Ginny saw right through her, and said pointedly, “Harry’s already told you.”

They spent the weekend shopping, relaxing, eating an enormous amount of food since Ginny
hadn’t had any morning sickness yet and found herself hungrier than usual, and stayed up late
into the night chatting like they did when they were schoolgirls until they both fell asleep in
Hermione’s bed.

Ron was carefully avoided, as was the irritating blond professor Hermione shared a general
living space with, but as far as Hermione could tell, Malfoy being more than a presence in her
life was unbeknownst to Ginny.

When she returned to the castle late-afternoon on Sunday, Malfoy and Theo were head-bent
in a deep conversation. They both looked in her direction when she entered through the
portrait hole, and Hermione summoned the extent of her courage to look him head on.

He didn’t say anything at first, but the way his eyes took a slow perusal from head to toe
made her want to squirm. Their eyes locked, and the briefest smile flashed over his face.

“Shall I leave you two alone?” Theo, with his impeccable timing, teased.

Malfoy looked away from Hermione and rolled his eyes at Theo.

“Or not, as you know, I don’t mind watching.” He found his own comment rather funny as he
chuckled to himself and Malfoy continued his glaring.

Hermione was rooted on the spot, silently willing Malfoy to look back at her, to offer
anything in the incredibly awkward, tense atmosphere.

“I’ve actually got to run,” Malfoy said offhandedly, glancing at his watch. “Dungeons, have
to add Belladonna in the next ten minutes.”

He gathered whatever things he had on the table and moved to rush out of the room, but not
before pausing for a moment in front of Hermione, giving her a look that was rife with, well,
she couldn’t quite place it. Appreciation? Adoration?

“You look nice, Granger.”

Maybe he wasn’t as indifferent as she had initially thought.

On the first of October, two days before the first Quidditch match of the school year,
Hermione had received an owl from Harry.
Hermione,

I’ll be on the grounds this coming weekend to watch the Gryffindor versus Slytherin
Quidditch match. I’m bringing Ron along, seeing as you still have not spoken to him. You
can’t avoid him forever.

Ginny says hello.

Harry

The letter was irritatingly to-the-point and lacked the typical warmth Harry usually had in his
letters, but she imagined that was to be expected. She’d been so upside down lately, fretting
over Malfoy like a schoolgirl with a crush, and all but pretending her necessary but difficult
conversation with Ron didn’t exist.

She crumpled the parchment in her fist and shoved it in her bag as she finished her breakfast.

When she dismissed her last class for the day and dinner had commenced, Theo sidled up
next to her on their walk back to their quarters while Malfoy was pulled aside by Slughorn.

“How’re things, Hermione? Haven’t seen much of you lately, and I must say, if this is how
the rest of the term is going to go, my feelings are at risk for being hurt.” He pushed a hand to
his chest in mock offense.

Hermione couldn’t help but smile at him. “I’ve just been rather busy, a lot on my mind as
well. Taking some time to sort things out.” She hoped Theo didn’t pick up on the ‘lot on her
mind’ was largely in reference to their colleague and his best friend.

“Ah yes, that sounds familiar,” Theo said with a tap to his chin. “Draco’s been harping on
about something similar.”

He was annoyingly perceptive.

“Well, my sympathies to Professor Malfoy, then. I can only imagine the mental load between
his apprenticeship, taking on responsibilities for flying lessons and Quidditch, and whatever
personal matters he’s dealing with.” Hermione was getting quite good at feigning
indifference.

Theo snorted lightly. “Right, personal matters . He’s been insufferably morose lately. Any
clue as to why?”

Hermione pretended to look for a text in her shoulder bag, one she knew for certain was
actually sitting on the desk in her bedroom. “Haven’t an idea, we haven’t spoke much. You’re
his best friend, shouldn’t you know the answer to that?”
“Ah, well, I would be a poor friend indeed if I divulged that he’s been moping about over one
particularly swotty brunette professor, wouldn’t I?”

“You’re brunette, and have the propensity to be a swot, if the situation called for it.” Her face
didn’t give her away, but something small and warm began burrowing itself in her chest.
Although moping sounded utterly un-Malfoy-like.

“I am a large irritant in his life, I’ll give you that. But yes, the poor fellow feels like a right
arse about, well, he won’t tell me, sadly. One thing I do know about our beloved Draco is that
he doesn’t handle those feelings well. Any feelings, really. He’s quite aloof, or pretends to be.
But I figured I’d try and gleam information from you at any rate, to see if there was a
situation he should be feeling poorly about,” Theo said as they approached the portrait hole.

“I don’t know if the situation itself is what he should be feeling poorly about, rather, his
reaction to said situation. Hypothetically, that is.” Hermione and Theo paused in the common
room, her arms crossed over her chest.

Theo looked at her with amusement and continued, “Right, well, like I said, poor Draco is
abysmal at dealing with any sort of feeling that doesn’t involve brooding.”

“That sounds like his problem, then. Maybe he could be reminded that he’s an adult, and
avoidance is only going to let the situation fester and worsen, like an infected wound. Lest he
lose the limb altogether.”

Theo searched Hermione’s face with interest, his eyes narrowing as he took in the firm set of
her mouth and her tense posture.

“You’re right, love, he could serve well to be reminded of that. Although, my advice to
anyone, hypothetically, of course, on the other side of any situation with one Draco Malfoy is
to be patient, and give him a chance.”

It was a surprisingly serious, although still lighthearted enough, conversation with Theo and
showed a side of him that Hermione did not often see. His usual joking and crassness were
absent, replaced with genuine concern for his friend.

“Rather good advice, Professor Nott. I’m off now, have a good night.” Hermione gave him a
tight nod and retreated to her dormitory.

Hermione awoke the morning of the Quidditch match abuzz with nerves. Namely related to
her two oldest friends, ex-boyfriend included, arriving on the grounds and spending the day.
The anticipation had her stomach in knots and her hands were shaking as she dressed in one
of Ginny’s old Quidditch jumpers (she was grateful for this, as prior experience wearing one
of Harry’s or Ron’s usually left her swimming in fabric) and jeans.
The Great Hall was full of excitement with members of both the Gryffindor and Slytherin
Quidditch teams sending pointed glares back and forth while the rest of the students gabbed
about the upcoming match and placed good-natured bets on the outcome.

Apparently, the Seeker for Gryffindor was quite good, but the Beaters for Slytherin were
known to be ruthless. Hermione’s only concern was hope that there were no injuries.

She sat next to Theo who was flanked on his other side by Malfoy, naturally. Theo was
dressed similarly in Slytherin Quidditch garb while Malfoy looked official in his black-on-
black Qudditch kit robes. The Hogwarts crest shone brightly on the front with gold stitching
that read ‘Quidditch Master’ underneath and an equally bright ‘MALFOY’ on the back.

Hermione’s mouth went dry at the sight of him, but she did manage to give him an
appreciative glance and polite ‘good morning’ before sitting down.

“How’re you feeling about the match, Malfoy?” Hermione mustered the courage she seemed
to keep forgetting behind, speaking directly to him.

He shrugged a shoulder, focused on his porridge. It was a departure from his typical hearty
breakfast of a full English, not that she’d noticed. “Well enough, I’m not the one playing.
Although I could do without the sodding Gryffindors slandering me. Apparently they’re
concerned I’ll favor the Syltherins.” Malfoy offered an exaggerated eye roll and a wry smirk.

“Right, because as we’ve established, you’d never cheat.” Hermione quipped back, both of
them taking turns to look at each other from over Theo’s form who simply watched with
amusement.

“I’ve evolved, Granger, I thought we’ve been over this. Maybe if the Gryffindor team had
more talent, they wouldn’t be scrabbling for excuses prematurely in anticipation of their
loss,” Malfoy said with a smug chuckle, teeming with arrogance.

Hermione opened her mouth to fire another retort and realized she had none, clamping her
lips shut and huffing as she dug in to her omelette. Both Malfoy and Theo seemed to find this
comical, laughing and nudging each other’s shoulders.

“Mate, I think that’s the first time Golden Girl has been rendered speechless,” Theo wiped at
his eyes.

She glared between the two men, eyes narrowed. Theo just continued to chuckle to himself
but when her eyes met Malfoy’s, he just gave her a quick wink, as if nothing amiss had
transpired between them and they were lapsing into a sort of casual existence.

It didn’t stop from fire pooling in Hermione’s belly, though.

“Well, I need to get to the pitch, duty calls. Catch you after?” Malfoy directed at Theo who
nodded through a mouthful of food.

“Yeah. Good luck mate!” He called as Malfoy started to move towards the end of the table.

“May the best team win,” Hermione offered, giving him a slow smirk.
Hermione and Theo walked down to the pitch together after breakfast, looking as she
imagined an interesting sight. Emerald green and silver to her deep red and gold. Theo was
explaining to her some of the things he’d been going over in his classes with excitement,
sharing how much growth he’d seen in some of his students already.

“You really surprise me, Theodore Nott,” Hermione finally said when he’d finished talking.

“And why’s that, Hermione Granger?” He said casually, giving her a warm smile.

“You’re just nothing like I expected. So outgoing, open, and yet, I feel like I could trust you
with all the world’s secrets and you’d never betray them. You just seem so…passionate about
life in all aspects and you have such a comforting air about you. I guess, I’ll regrettably
admit, I expected you to be a bit more like…”

“Like Draco?” Theo said with a laugh, seeming to take no offense to her words. “Yeah, I can
see that. Like Draco’s dear old dad, my father was not a good man. And that was…difficult
for me growing up,” Theo paused, growing more serious.

“He was a cruel, violent, bitter man fueled by hatred and his own hubris. I obviously do not
need to tell you about the kind of people Theodore Nott Senior ran with, but for everything
he did in public, it was tenfold in private.”

“Theo…” she said, her heart crushing. “I’m so sorry.” Hermione had read, at length, the
charges and testimony brought against his father. She knew exactly what kind of evil man he
was.

“Don’t be,” Theo waved her off. “Where Draco tried to emulate and appease Lucius at every
turn, constantly seeking his father’s approval, I simply learned what not to do to avoid
invoking his wrath. I was seen and not heard, kept my nose down, and shoved aside every
bloody impulse I had to go against him.” They continued their walk, his voice even and clear,
but he pulled a flask out of his pocket and took a long swallow before passing it to Hermione.
She gave him an incredulous look.

“Don’t judge, I don’t think I’ve ever gone to a Quidditch match without a nip or two since I
was in second year, old habits,” He gave her a wink and Hermione took a tentative sip of
what she surmised was warmed cider and whiskey. “Anyways, when my father went to
prison, gods rot his soul, it was like a dam burst and I finally felt free. I fucked around a lot
more than I should have, but I wanted to soak up every experience that I could without fear of
what he’d do if he found out.”

Hermione took another swallow and passed the flask back. “Malfoy mentioned that you…
that you sometimes sleep with men. Is that…was that…part of it?” She gestured vaguely,
hoping she wasn’t prying.

“For the most part, yes,” Theo said easily, again, not rattled by her forwardness. “I realized
around fourteen that I fancied blokes as much as I did girls. It really never bothered me, but
growing up, homosexuals were just as abhorrent as Muggles and Muggleborns, so I knew I’d
never be able to live that part of my life in anything but the shadows. Fortunately for me, that
didn’t develop into internalized homophobia, instead, it just made me really careful about not
getting caught with my trousers down. Literally and figuratively.”

They were approaching the pitch, the cheers from the stadium coming in clearer. She could
vaguely see two large forms in red near the entrance, that must’ve been Harry and Ron.

“Anyways, a lot of that too is why I never really bought in to that blood-purity shit, it never
made sense to me. People are people, whether they have Muggle parents or are attracted to
the same sex. Maybe why things felt so easy with you, befriending you and pushing your
buttons. I never really considered you as anything other than Hermione Granger, the nuisance
who outranked me in every class, to which I respond with being a nuisance in your life. But if
I ever gave you the impression that I did hold some of those beliefs, like, well other
Slytherins we know, I do apologize.”

It was a sincere, honest admission, said with such openness and without fear of how anyone
would take his words, which was just so inherently Theo. She adored him even more for it,
and to show her appreciation for him, for him sharing such a big part of him with her, she
tucked her arm through his elbow and gave him a squeeze.

“Nothing to apologize for, Theo. We’re friends, truly. Thank you for sharing your story with
me.”

He reached his other arm up to playfully muss her hair. “Anytime, love.”

Hermione released his arm as they got closer, but a moment too late, as Harry and Ron were
both staring at her wide-eyed, Harry’s expression full of shock, and Ron’s utter rage. Theo
had the sense to tuck his hands in his pockets with his lips drawn in a tight line, but not say
anything.

“What the fuck are you doing with him?”

 The Fight
Chapter Notes

Content Warning: abusing language towards a partner/former partner, emotional

manipulation

“What the fuck are you doing with him?” Ron sneered, looking back and forth between
Hermione and Theo.

Theo tensed next to her, hand shoved deep in his pocket and she wondered if he was gripping
his wand.

Harry gripped Ron’s shoulder tightly and pulled him back a hair. “Ron, mate, relax. I told you
Nott and Malfoy were teaching here with Hermione.” He sounded like he was speaking to a
small child, not a grown man.

“But she’s…with him!” Ron sputtered, thrusting his hand out in Theo’s direction.

“Ronald, that’s enough!” Hermione whisper-shouted. There were enough students around
that they had an audience, and Harry Potter and Ron Weasley weren’t exactly unknown
individuals. “We are at Hogwarts with students and other professors present so I kindly ask
you to lower your voice, or you can leave.” She took a few steps towards him, stomping her
feet and giving him a hard look that brokered no argument.

Ron’s eye twitched as he stared back at Hermione, then a quick glance at Theo, before he
shoved Harry’s hand off of his shoulder. “Fine,” he muttered under his breath.

“Just be cool, mate,” Harry said in a calming voice. “Let’s go, we’re sitting in the professors’
stands. Ignore Nott if you must.” He sounded tired.

“Yes, Weasley, do behave yourself,” Theo drawled, taking on a slightly colder tone than she
was used to, but his eyes sparkled with mirth. “Cause a scene or otherwise upset Professor
Granger and I won’t hesitate to hex you into next Tuesday.” He gave Ron a look that said that
was a promise, not a threat, and a shiver ran down Hermione’s spine.

“Don’t be antagonistic,” she snapped at Theo just as sharply. “Godric, help me,” she muttered
with her head tipped towards the sky.

“Nott,” Harry nodded towards Theo as they made their way towards the stands to find their
seats.

“Potter,” Theo returned a nod in kind.

Once they were in their seats, there was no question about the seating arrangement. Ron sat
on the far end, Harry to his right, Hermione next to him, and Theo on the end. They were in
the front row of their section of the stands, a clear view of the pitch. While it was a cloudless
day, the wind was buffeting their faces from that high up.

“I’ll take care of this,” Theo said, pulling out his wand and casting a wind-repellant charm
over the stands, stilling the air and making it all the more comfortable. The other professors
seated there gave their thanks, and he looked thoughtfully at the other stands around the pitch
before casting the same charm in the seats where the students were in.

“Impressive,” Harry commented, looking out at the pitch where the teams were warming up.

“I am a man of the people, Potter,” Theo said, lapsing right back into his usual easy
demeanor. “Care for a tipple?” He offered the flask in Harry’s direction.

Harry eyed the flask and then looked to Hermione, eyes silently asking if it was safe. She
gave him a smile and a small series of nods. Harry shrugged and took a swallow before
passing it back to Hermione. She was grateful she didn’t offer the libation to Ron, at least,
who was glowering in his seat.

Hermione took the flask and took a deep pull before giving it to Theo, letting the warmth of
the cider and the whiskey seep into her bones. She was going to need some liquid strength to
get through this, but didn’t want to be sloshed for when she ultimately had to deal with Ron.

She’d been letting that particular wound fester. The irony wasn’t lost on her.

“We’re a right sight, I’d say. Three lions and a snake, I feel like this is the start of a joke…”
Theo tapped his finger against his chin. “I’ve got two Galleons on Slytherin.”

“I’ll take that,” Harry nodded. “And five sickles the Snitch is caught within thirty.” Hermione
tried to hide her surprised grin that Harry had eased into comfortability with Theo so quickly.
Never in her mind’s eye did she imagine this scenario, but she was thankful they weren’t
spitting barbs at each other.

“Done.” Theo leaned over Hermione and offered a handshake to Harry to solidify the bet.
“Looks like the match is starting, there goes the old boy with the Snitch,” He gestured to the
field and Hermione watched Malfoy fly across the pitch in a blur of all black before he
slowed to a stop in the center, holding a small wooden box.

Hermione heard Ron grumble under his breath, something about a slick git and a thunderbird,
but she couldn’t make it out.

“Ron, I fly a Thunderbird , it’s not pretentious, its appreciation for quality,” Harry chided and
Ron just rolled his eyes.

Malfoy’s amplified voice rang throughout the stadium and the cheers from the stands came to
a halt. “The match ends when the first Seeker captures the Snitch,” he raised the box in his
hands. “Clean game, kids, I won’t be light on penalties. Slytherin versus Gryffindor, may the
best team win.”
With an exaggerated motion, he opened the box and a glint of gold zoomed out, flying high
into the air and the fourteen green-or-red clad players spurred into motion.

Theo, Harry, and even Ron, cheered and groaned at various stages, but Hermione, admittedly,
was having trouble keeping up. Despite her proximity to Quidditch enthusiasts, she never
really got in to the sport.

“The Snitch is right there! Even I can see it! Why isn’t Patterson going for it?” She
gesticulated towards the Gryffindor Seeker who was hovering above the fray at the forty-five
minute mark, looking back and forth between the glint of gold and his teammates.

Harry shoved five Sickles into Nott’s hand, having lost that portion of their wager. “He’s
waiting for the Chasers to score again. Slytherin is already up one-sixty, so they’d still lose
even if Patterson ended the game right now.” He was watching the game closely.

“It’s strategy. Two more Quaffles through the hoops and they close the deficient enough to—
oh, fuck, that was brutal!” Theo jeered as a Bludger careened towards Patterson, causing him
to dodge it and ultimately lose sight of the Snitch. “Get on, Andrews!” Theo yelled towards
the Beater from Slytherin who had made the play.

“Fucking hell, these guys make my pick up matches look like kiddy Quidditch.” Harry
grumbled. She looked to her friend and while he did look rather exhausted having come off
his long job in Norwich just days prior, he seemed relaxed watching his favorite sport. The
dark stubble on his jaw and the lilac rings under his eyes were cut with a genuine grin and
crinkled eyes.

Ron was largely silent for the entirety of the match, which carried on for almost three and a
half hours. Hermione never remembered them lasting so long before. The match ended when
Patterson finally gave up his strategy, having come close to the Snitch multiple times but
each time, the score wasn’t in their favor. He grabbed it out of the air with ease, met with
bittersweet cheers from Gryffindor supporters.

“Pay up, Potter!” Theo cheered as they exited the stands. Harry swore at Theo under his
breath but passed him two more Galleons with an amused grin.

Hermione looked at Ron, awash with utter discomfort, and it tugged at her heartstrings. The
events so far had been utterly painful for him, it was obvious. She hasn’t wanted to hurt him,
but that’s what led them to this uncomfortable, horrific space to begin with. Pushing the grim
comparison about putting an old pet out of its misery with a shotgun to the back of its head
aside, she stood up straighter and looked at him.

“Ron,” she cleared her throat as his name came out more of a croak than anything. “Can we,
should we…we need to talk. Join me for lunch, in Hogsmeade?”

Ron’s eyes went from hopeful to sad in a manner of moments, but he gave her a nod. “Yeah,
yeah we probably should.” He pushed his red hair out of his face with a grimace, like he
knew what was coming.
Theo gave Hermione an encouraging look and wandered off to the side presumably to wait
for Malfoy, who she could see was trudging off the pitch with an equipment bag and his
broomstick.

“I’ll walk with you to the Broomsticks and catch the Floo back home,” Harry said and they
were off.

Once Harry had hugged and kissed Hermione goodbye, gave Ron an encouraging pat on the
back, he stepped through the Floo with an armful of roast duck and sauerkraut sandwiches, a
horrifying combination, but apparently Ginny’s latest craving.

They took their seats towards the back and Hermione tapped her nails on the ceramic mug
she was holding. The silence was suffocating as they placed their lunch orders, ham and bean
soup for Hermione and pork chops for Ron, neither one of them eager to dive into this
overdue meeting.

When Madam Rosmerta brought their food, Hermione gave her a tight smile and swirled her
spoon around in her soup.

“How’re things?” She opted for small talk, an obvious evasive measure.

“Fine,” he gritted out, jamming his knife into his chops with excessive force.

“That’s…that’s good.” This wasn’t going to be easy.

“Haven’t had a drink in three days, thought you’d like to know. It’s been bloody miserable,
by the way. That’s what you’re asking, right? If I’ve quit drinking? Bit hypocritical, if you
ask me, since you seemed to have no issues with what Nott was passing you in that flask.”

Anger coursed through Hermione’s veins, an intrinsic response to Ron at this stage in their
relationship. “Bit of a difference, there, Ron. I have no problems with alcohol or its
consumption. The problem is when one drinks themselves into a stupor every moment of
their consciousness.” She wanted to carry on, to scream at him that they’ve had this same
conversation countless times, that she wished he understood why it was so worrisome, but it
would accomplish nothing.

“Right, well, glad Nott seems to have more self control,” he said derisively.

“I’m not here to talk about Theo,” she huffed, catching his pointed glare at the familiar use of
his name. “I’m here to discuss this, us.” Hermione waved her hand between the two of them.

They sat in silence for another moment while Hermione tried to reign in her emotions. She
needed to approach this with pragmatism and logic, as anger and hurt feelings would only
escalate things.

“I need you to know that I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. This isn’t some rash
decision born of anything recent, other than the distance has allowed me to properly clear my
head. Ron, we’re not good together. We haven’t been for a long time. And I know I gave you
a half-answer about where things stood with us when I left, for which I am truly sorry, but
you deserve more than that, as painful as it is to hear.” The words fell out of her mouth as she
babbled, finally stopping herself to allow him time to ponder, to respond.

“I knew this would happen,” he said grimly. “I knew if you left, it would be the end of it.
Why did you think I tried so hard to convince you to stay?”

Hermione gasped in indignation. “Ronald, what would I have been staying for? Are you
hearing yourself? Do you truly think my staying in our flat, cleaning up after your messes,
forcing you to bed when you’ve passed out in that chair, barely making ends meet working at
the Leaky Cauldron, would have served either one of us? Gods, Ron, do you want me to be
your bloody prisoner? A dutiful housewife at your beck and call, watching you drink yourself
to death? What convincing have you done other than bully and berate me every time I tried to
do something for myself?”

Her voice had risen and Madam Rosmerta shot her a warning glare, indicating her to keep it
down.

“I’m bloody trying, Hermione!” He shouted. “I told you, three days, that’s longer than I’ve
gone in over a year without a drink. You think I don’t want one? Fuck, I would give my left
arm for a bottle right now. But here I am, trying to do better by you and you’re telling me you
want to break up. Real nice, Hermione. Fucking brilliant.”

“You need to leave now, sorry love,” Madam Rosmerta had appeared at their table, giving
Ron a hard stare before looking at Hermione with concern.

“I’m okay,” she mouthed at the concerned woman. “We’ll leave now.” She threw some
money on the table and left their untouched meals in their wake.

Hermione stormed outside, Ron dragging his feet behind her like a naughty child whose mum
just scolded him, and once they crossed the threshold, she rounded on him with ire. She
didn’t care if they had an audience, at least there were no students present in Hogsmeade this
weekend.

“Why did it take years of begging for you to finally decide to stop drinking? You claim you
love me, but not once before did you ever show an ounce of concern for how I felt in this
relationship! Congratulations on your three fucking days, Ron, but the sentiment is a bit too
late. Besides, you should want to be sober for you , not for me! Gods, do you even care what
happens to you anymore?”

Ron clenched his fists and roared back at her, face as red as his hair. “You don’t fucking
understand!”

“You keep saying that, Ron, but you’ve never once attempted to try and make me understand
without shouting at me !”

The two of them stared each other down, panting and huffing angry breaths into the wind.
Ron’s eyes were burning with fury and Hermione could feel the creep of redness on her
cheeks. She wanted to pummel him, scream, kick, cry. All of the pain from the last four years
was coming to a head.
—

When Draco walked down the path into Hogsmeade with Theo after he’d showered and taken
a few pain potions to ease the ache in his legs from sitting astride a broom for four fucking
hours, he’d been planning for a quick drink before Theo fucked off to meet Pansy.

Instead, he saw Granger, standing almost toe-to-toe with Weasel, looking like they were
about to murder each other. He could see the gold ‘Weasley’ emblazoned on the back of her
jumper still, and while the sight of it earlier had settled a mild rage within him, the look on
her face and the equally murderous look on her sparring partner’s face had him questioning if
violating his probation was worth it.

“I’m fucking sorry!” Weasel roared, pulling at the ends of his atrocious red hair. Draco
stopped in his tracks, as did Theo, watching with careful attention. “Gods, couldn’t you be
fucking patient with me? That’s what people do when they love someone, they work through
the bad until it gets good again!”

“When was it supposed to get good, Ronald?” Granger’s shrill voice carried through the
street. A few shopkeepers had stuck their heads out of their windows to watch them with
curiosity. Hopefully, Draco thought, to intervene if necessary if this got further out of hand.
“And honestly, even if you were sober, learned to deal with things like an adult, got therapy
like I begged you, this never would have worked.” Her voice softened and her head tipped
towards the ground. Draco wondered if she’d begun crying.

“Ron, we weren’t in love. Infatuation, maybe. Friends, closer than friends. But…I was never
in love with you.”

That was the death knell for any relationship and Weasley responded with more venom.
“How long did you wait, Hermione, before you crawled into bed with someone else? Here I
was worried about fucking Cohen all this time, but tell me, is Nott shagging you raw? Is that
where all this is coming from?”

Draco gave Theo a questioning look and he shook his head in fervent denial.

“Theo and I are friends . Your obsessive jealousy is appalling and exhausting.” Granger
seethed.

“Right, I saw with my own eyes how cozied up to him you were. Tell me more how you’re
not the Syltherin’s fucking who—”

“Watch how you speak to her, Weasel,” Draco had heard enough and rushed forward to
intervene. He wasn’t sure where things stood between him and Granger, but the fact remained
that he did care for her, and he wasn’t going to have her subjected to his vitriol.
“Fucking Malfoy,” he sneeered while Granger looked shocked and began interjecting, telling
Draco that it was fine, he needn’t get involved. Draco ignored her protesting and stood square
up to Weasley, looking down with the few inches of height he had over him.

“I suggest you take your hatefulness elsewhere, or we will have a problem. I don’t appreciate
your tone.” His voice was even and level, but with a coldness that promised suffering should
it come to it. Meanwhile, anger and adrenaline coursed through his veins.

Theo had come closer as well, standing near Granger’s back and reassuring her that Draco
wouldn’t do anything rash. He could hear her sniffles and quiet sobs, and it softened
something in him.

Weasley looked between Draco, Theo, and Hermione, disgust written all over his face, before
he spat on the ground and gave Hermione one final look.

“Fine, whatever. I’m tired of this shit. Best of luck with your new friends , Hermione.” He
stomped off, hands stuffed in his pockets, and Draco contemplated on the ethics of jinxing
him between the shoulder blades, until he heard Granger let out a choked sob.

He turned around to see her kneeling on the ground, head in her hands, as Theo crouched
next to her, shushing her quietly and rubbing her back. Theo’s eyes met Draco’s and gave him
a look, gesturing towards Granger with his chin.

“Granger,” Draco said softly as Theo pulled her to her feet. He extended a hand and touched
her arm, which caused her to spur forward and bury her face into Draco’s chest. The feeling
was…unfamiliar. A crying, sobbing mess in his arms, shuddering with each breath, seeking
comfort from him.

He gave Theo a bewildered look, utterly confused at what to do. He’d just barely pulled his
own head out of his arse and attempted conversation with the bloody witch, and now, he was
trying to soothe her with stilted movements of his hands up and down her back. Theo gave
him a look that said figure it out , and gave a two-finger salute as he walked into the pub to
go meet Pansy for their hate-fuck.

“Take me back to the castle, please,” she said weakly into his chest. He shifted her so they
were side by side, his arm tucked around her narrow shoulders, and they walked along the
path back to the castle, up through the grounds, and down the corridor to their quarters, the
only sound breaking up the silence being her tiny cries and sniffles.

“Would you like some tea?” He asked, rather awkwardly, when he settled her down on the
couch and lit a fire.

“Please,” she whispered, staring into the flames with her knees pushed up to her chest.

He fixed them both mugs of tea, chamomile for her to calm her, and peppermint for him
because his stomach was twisted in a Gordian knot. When he placed the mug in front of her,
he sat on the couch beside her. Close enough that he could sense her shivers, but not enough
to touch.
Draco swallowed thickly, trying to think of what words might give her comfort. He wasn’t
used to providing comfort and reassurance, not to anyone aside from his mother. The memory
of when he ended his relationship with Pansy played through his mind, and he offered that
instead.

“In sixth year, when I broke up with Pansy, it was horrendous. She threatened to cut my balls
off with one of the knives we use in Potions. Needless to say, she didn’t take it well.”

Granger gave a weak chuckle. “But you’re friends, still? You and Pansy? I’ve heard you and
Theo mention her a few times.”

Draco nodded. “It took a while, but yes, we’re friends. Once she got over the rejection, we
realized that we weren’t suited for each other, and she decided she’d rather have me in her
life as a companion, not a partner.”

Granger made a thoughtful sound. She grabbed her tea and took a slow sip. “That was always
what kept me…holding on, I guess. Ron is, was, my friend for ages. Him and Harry both. I
knew it was foolish to start something with him, knowing it could wreck our friendship, and
the thought of breaking up and breaking us all apart was terrifying. But I suppose holding on
for so long to a shit relationship did more damage in the end.” A single tear slipped from her
eye, rolling down her cheek.

“It’s still possible,” Draco mused. “While I detest the weasel-ish fuck for the things he said to
you, more so than I did before, I wouldn’t begrudge you if after some time, you found
common ground.”

“Yes, well, he was rather awful. Unfortunately, that’s not the first time he’s said things like
that to me. I suppose it will take an enormous amount of work to get back to anything
resembling friendship.”

“Granger,” Draco paused, wanting to ask the question but feared for the answer. “Has he…
did he ever…”

“Hurt me?” Granger finished for him. “No, not physically. Just, words, really. Which
sometimes hurt more than physical actions.” The words were followed by an unconscious tug
on her left sleeve and grip on her forearm.

“I’m sorry.”

Granger snapped her head towards him, her hazel eyes shimmering with tears. Her skin was
blotchy, red, eyes swollen, and fuck, she looked gorgeous. The carefully constructed
composure stripped, leaving her bare and broken. It fractured something in Draco’s heart,
wanting to never see her like this again, but still relishing every second.

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered, wiping an errant tear from her cheek.

“Not about Weasley, but for that, I am sorry I didn’t stop him sooner, sorry that you seem so
desensitized to it, but for that .” He gave a pointed nod to her left arm with his chin.
“Oh,” Granger breathed. Her thumb kneaded into the flesh through her jumper, the knuckle
turning white. “It’s not your fault,” she repeated.

Draco shifted closer, drawing a finger to touch the cuff of her sleeve. He didn’t dare move it
further up her arm, the action feeling too personal and too intimate, but he wanted to be
closer.

“I didn’t do anything to stop it. Being a bystander to an atrocity doesn’t make me less
complicit.” He whispered. “I should have stopped her.”

“Self-preservation,” was all that Granger said in response. “I understand it, truly. I don’t
know what I would have done, had I been in that position. I remember how scared I was, how
bleak the world seemed, how impossible the task at hand was. We were children, fighting in a
war that we had no business in. You did what you thought you needed to do.”

“I…I don’t deserve your compassion in the slightest.”

She grinned at him, and it was a breathtaking sight. Granger, who had just had a harrowing
fight with Ron fucking Weasley, beaten and battered, was comforting him for his sins.

“Well, tough, because I have it in spades. I learned over time after the war that holding on to
anger wasn’t going to do me any favors. Compassion costs nothing, and forgiveness is
healing for both the forgiven and the forgiver.”

“You’re too bloody good for this world, Granger,” Draco couldn’t fight his own grin,
although it was bittersweet. Her words would stick in his mind for a long time to come. Now
seemed like a poor time, but the opportunity was presenting itself, so he continued on.

“I owe you another apology. For the other night. I shouldn’t have been so forward. It was
inappropriate, and I let my baser desires win out against logic. I didn’t even realize you and
Weasley were—”

“Draco,” she cut him off and just like the night of her birthday, his name sounded like a
prayer on her lips. “Kiss me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Slowly, he moved his fingers to caress the side of her face,
before trailing down to skim her jaw. Her lips were parted, shallow breaths coming out in
anticipation. Her tongue flicked out to wet her bottom one, Draco’s eyes tracking the motion.

Draco tilted her chin up as he leaned in, closing the space between them, and his other hand
found purchase on the nape of her neck. He wanted to crush his mouth to hers, to suck and
nibble and bite, but instead he practiced restraint, pressing it softly against hers, hearing them
both sigh with the contact.

He pressed again, small teasing pecks against her full, pink lips, his tongue taking a tentative
swipe against her mouth, asking for entry. She opened for him, and her tongue met his with
eagerness. He licked into her mouth slowly, but with a firmness that had her making sounds
of want, need, low in her throat.
His body moved closer to hers and she shifted, giving him space. She leaned back on the arm
of the sofa, one leg extended along the back, the other falling to rest her foot on the floor.
Draco settled in the room she created for him. His muscles strained from the physical
exertion earlier, but he held on to not press his entire weight into her, to nestle fully between
her thighs.

Draco sucked on her bottom lip, reveling in the moan that escaped when she did that, and he
bit down, just enough to make her gasp. The hand not supporting his weight skittered up her
thigh, her belly, her ribs, just below her breasts, all over her clothes. His erection strained
against his trousers, almost painfully.

“Draco,” Granger panted when their mouths parted.

“Fuck,” was all he could muster, burying his head in the crook of her neck and planting light
kisses, teasing licks, along her pulse point. She shivered beneath him. With insurmountable
restraint, he sat up on his knees, looking down at this angelic woman, chest heaving and a
perfect pink flush on her neck and cheeks. Her lips were swollen, much like her eyes still
were from her crying earlier. He wanted to commit this to memory, to discover how far that
blush would creep on her flawless skin.

“We shouldn’t.” His cock protested at his words, threatening to drill a hole right through the
material, and Granger fucking whimpered, before looking slightly dejected.

“Hey,” he said, dragging his knuckles down her cheek. “Believe me, I want to, so fucking
badly. But, tonight isn’t the night. Curse me for it all you want, but Granger, if we take this
further, I want to be sure you’re sure. We’re both riding on a lot of emotions right now.”

Granger huffed a frustrated sigh and scrambled to a sitting position once Draco was no longer
crowding her.

“Why do you have to be a gentleman, on top of all of…that?” She said with a general wave
towards his person.

“I’ve evolved,” Draco said teasingly.

“You’re right, though. It would be foolish of me to, well, you know. I need to clear my head.
Not that I don’t, you know, want, you know, but, well, lot’s of things have happened, and, I
need to process.” She said in a fluster.

“You’re fucking cute when you babble, Granger.” Draco couldn’t stop grinning at her. Her
blush grew more prominent at his words.

“I should, um,” she jutted her thumb towards the hall leading to the dormitories. “Bye now.”
She shuffled to her feet, righting her jumper that had gotten a bit twisted, and left the
common room with considerable haste.

Draco sat for a moment until the situation in his trousers was more manageable, reliving the
last few moments and thinking about how fucking grateful he was for this couch, for her
compassion and forgiveness, for her gigantic heart and the way she looked at him with such
earnestness.

And he wondered, just how long it would be before he could get Granger to make those
noises for him again.
 Interruptions & Introspetions
Chapter Notes

A/N: we’ve earned the eventual smut tag here, enjoy.

It had been too long since Draco had a moment alone with Granger, and it had only been five
days. Part of Horace’s idea of having an apprentice meant Draco was relegated to dealing
with all the shit he didn’t want to himself. Namely, supervising seventh years at odd hours in
the dungeons as they work on brewing Polyjuice Potion, a notoriously finicky and lengthy
process.

Aside from that, he was still in the midst of flying lessons, although those would abate soon
enough and his requirements on the Quidditch pitch would reduce to refereeing matches and
aiding with extra training and guidance during team practices, when he could.

Jorgensen had also requested his presence at a meeting, but Draco declined. He’d spent
enough time at the Manor the last few weeks going over his father’s case, and frankly, he was
no longer interested. He wrote back to Jorgensen to alert Draco when the trial had
commenced and he’d deal with it then.

He found himself seeking out her subtle hint of lavender and honey, whether it was
clandestine moments with a casual touch here, a stolen look there. The faint scent lingering
behind after they parted. It was, for lack of a better word, pathetic.

Theo, to no surprise, found the recent advancement and Draco’s subsequent turmoil hilarious.

“You two are absolutely ridiculous,” he said through a fit of laughter after Granger had left in
the middle of lunch to meet with the headmistress in her office. She’d given him a shy smile,
pink tinting her cheeks, her dark lashes fanning over her cheekbones, when she said goodbye.

Draco, in response, pressed a fist to his mouth to try and hide the cheeky grin taking over his
face, cleared his throat loudly, and resumed eating as if nothing had occurred.

“You’re utterly besotted, mate!” Theo continued to laugh.

“I am not,” Draco said gruffly, stabbing a carrot with his fork as if it personally offended him.

“You’re fucked. You’re telling me you haven’t shagged yet? Because that is the look of a
man truly enraptured by a cu—”

“Watch it,” Draco said tersely. “And no, we haven’t shagged.”

“Just a little spirited snogging then, right. Like bloody teenagers,” Theo wiped his eyes that
were actually filled with tears at that point.

“Pleased you find this hilarious, Theodore,” Draco growled. “Shall we discuss whatever
game you’ve got going with Pansy, while we’re on the topic?”

“That witch—” He started, and then angrily bit into a chip. “No, I’d rather not. At least I’ve
got someone to shag, unlike someone, even if she drives me absolutely up the wall.”

“She’ll do that to you,” Draco said in response. He knew better than anyone how troublesome
Pansy Parkinson could be. He could only imagine whatever fresh hell she’s been giving to
Theo by his utter frustration with the witch.

“So when are you going to shag Granger? And can I watch?” Theo waggled his eyebrows in
jest, only Draco knew better that he wasn’t entirely joking.

“I don’t know, and no . Stop asking to watch me shag. We’ve hardly seen each other, and the
moment just hasn’t been there.” He admitted, knowing Theo would take the piss as if Draco
was waiting for the skies to open and angels to sing. He wasn’t, but he was being cautious. A
quick fuck wasn’t what he wanted with Granger, he wanted to savor the moment, whenever
that happened.

“Create the moment, then, mate. I mean gods, it can’t be that difficult. She clearly wants you
as much as you want her.”

It was that difficult though. But, Draco had an interesting thought about what Theo had said.
Creating a moment .

That afternoon, Draco knocked on the door to Granger’s Muggle Studies classroom, where a
certain new Chaser of a certain Ravenclaw Quidditch team was in class, which required a
certain conversation with the Quidditch Master. Fortunately, Draco had a free period that
afternoon and no extraneous tasks from Horace to accomplish.

“May I help you, Professor Malfoy?” Granger asked when he entered the room. She was the
picture of professionalism, hands clasped behind her back, looking serious and stern, despite
the dusting of chalkboard chalk on her nose.

“Yes, you may, Professor Granger,” he drawled, lips tugging in the corner in a smirk. “I need
a word with Miss Weber.”

Weber’s head turned towards Draco, as did the rest of the class’s, and her eyes were wide and
full of trepidation.

“Regarding?”

“Quidditch. Her position. Following up on some requests she had made of me prior.”

Granger scoffed. “Quidditch, really.” Weber’s shoulders noticeably relaxed, but Granger’s
tension only seemed to rise. “How thoughtful of you to interrupt my lecture to discuss
Quidditch . You may wait, until the hour is complete. Surely another twenty minutes won’t
hurt you.”

Without another word, Granger launched right back in to her lesson while Draco settled in to
a small ottoman she had tucked in the corner near a bookcase. He stretched out his long legs
and listened along.

“Now, as I was saying, we can draw comparisons between some of the most influential
Muggle scientists and chemists who changed the course of the world, and how those parallel
important advances in the magical world.

For instance, Marie Curie for her discovery of radiation which has significant uses in the
Muggle medical community, Louis Pasteur, a renowned scientist that not only developed
pasteurization, but critical vaccines for formerly incurable diseases, and Alexander Fleming,
who, for those of you who read the text closely, discovered that mold slowed the spread of a
bacteria, which lead to the advent of penicillin.”

Draco found himself hanging on to every word as Granger wrote the names ‘Curie’,
‘Pasteur’, and ‘Fleming’ on the board.

“What comparisons, then, can we conclude about these three and our own healers and potions
masters and how they’ve helped benefit our kind? Yes, Mister O’Connor?” She gestured to a
lanky Hufflepuff boy who had his hand raised.

“Well, all three of them made their discoveries based on things already existing in the natural
world. Unlike more modern scientists who have access to that chemical combining thing.
Sorry, I can’t remember what you called it,”

“Biochemistry,” Granger interjected. “Continue,”

“Right, biochemistry. Well, they all made their initial findings on things that already were .
Curie was a bit more fancy with it, but Pasteur and Fleming made their discoveries on mold,
fungus. And well, considering we use various fungus, roots, other flora in potion-making, one
could argue they’re rather similar.”

“Astute observation, O’Connor, five points.” The backside of O’Connor shifted slightly in his
seat, clearly pleased with himself. “Can anyone point out the differences, then, between the
two? What makes Fleming and his petri-dish full of mold and bacteria any different than our
interloper back there and his cauldron of roots and serums?” Granger gave Draco a wry smile
with the tilt of her head.

A few more hands shot up, and they launched into an explanation of conduits, how wands
and incantations were a conduit for magic, giving potions their required properties making
them ultimately more powerful than Muggle compounds, but Muggles had access to other
means, using electromagnetics and special machinery to render things into other things.

Draco was entirely impressed, and the intellectual in him wished he had taken Muggle
Studies more seriously when he was younger, as it was stimulating conversation. Then again,
he’d only want to take it from Professor Granger, and she has proven to be utterly distracting.
A naughty professor scenario began playing in his mind, making his cock stir, and Draco
willed it down forcefully while Granger assigned an essay on any of the three scientists
they’d been discussing. She shot him a glare, a look that he hoped meant we’ll be discussing
this later , and Draco pulled Weber aside to coordinate extra lessons on the pitch as she
requested.

When Draco went back to his quarters that evening, he found the door to Granger’s bedroom
ajar. He knocked on the door frame and pushed the door open further, taking stock of the
room before him.

It was the same size as his, fitted with a large four-poster bed, but her furnishings were light,
creams and soft blues and purples, candles and oil lamps bathing the room in a soft glow.
There were photographs on the wall and little trinkets on the shelves, along with, no
surprises, a massive bookcase filled to the brim with texts.

Granger was seated at her desk, a quill in her ink-smudged hand, pouring over a stack of
parchment. She turned to look at him when he knocked, her previously somewhat neater hair
now in a wild stack on her head.

“I’m cross with you,” she muttered and returned back to her papers.

Draco grinned and stepped further into the room. “Why’s that?”

“Interrupting my class like that!” She huffed. “Honestly, Malfoy, you couldn’t have waited
twenty minutes? Especially after hardly seeing you all week after, well…it was completely
unprofessional and shows a lack of regard for my subject matter and blatant disrespect.”

“I meant no disrespect, Professor,” he did his best attempt to sound contrite, when he really
wasn’t. He had been waiting for a moment, and here, was a fully manufactured by his own
hand, moment.

She glared harder at him, but the way the muscle in her cheek twitched, she could tell she
was holding off a smile.

“Shall you be docking house points, then?” He continued. “Or would you prefer a perfectly
executed essay on the advances of…radiation.” Draco finally said as he tried to remember the
term.

“Stop it,” she growled, but all the heat in her voice was gone. She bit hard on her lower lip,
still trying to fend off her amusement with the situation. She pushed up from her chair and
crossed the room to face Draco, neck craning to look up at him.

“It was rather rude of you,” Granger said sternly, arms crossed over her chest.

“I only wanted to get your attention,” Draco confessed, taking another small step forward.

“You could have done it without being a disruption,” she argued, another small step.

“My sincerest apologies. Maybe detention would be a better suited punishment?” He closed
the distance between them, close enough to brush the side of her arm with his fingers.
“I’d prefer the essay,” she whispered, a shudder running through her.

“How about an oral presentation?” Draco’s voice was low and rough.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Granger panted without an ounce of derision and leaned up to crush her
mouth to Draco’s. He eagerly met her tongue, stroke for stroke, as their hands grasped and
clutched at each other in an instant. His on the nape of her neck, fingers digging into the roots
of her hair. Hers, fisted in his shirt front as she yanked him closer to her.

Teeth, tongue, lips, all of them meeting in an explosion. This was the complete opposite of
their first kiss, tentative and tender, exploring. This was fiery, burning through them both and
coming out in pants and gasps and stifled moans.

“Door,” Granger choked out between kisses as she loosened his tie. Draco pulled his wand
out to shut and lock it, along with a silencing charm to keep any prying ears away.

“Nice touch,” she panted as Draco pulled his loosened tie over his head.

“I have no intentions of keeping you quiet, Granger, and I don’t fancy an audience,” he
growled, shoving the sleeves of her sweater down her arms. He walked her backwards until
the backs of her knees met the bed, and lowered her onto it.

He looked down at her where she lay, propped up on her elbows, chest heaving with want.
Her hair had already begun to fall loose of its confines, the curls framing her face and
sticking out wildly in different directions. Her sweater was still on but the tops of her delicate
shoulders were exposed under her sleeveless dress.

“Tell me you want this, Granger,” Draco purred, pulling his shirt out from where it was
tucked into his trousers.

She nodded eagerly, lips parted.

“Words, angel.”

“Yes, Draco, please,” she keened. Her eyes tracked his fingers as they slowly began to
unbutton his shirt, one by one. He began to move the material off his shoulders, but paused,
flexing his left arm.

Granger caught the movement and sat up, trailing her delicate fingers down from his exposed
shoulder to his wrist, pushing the fabric along with it.

“I don’t—” he said, twisting his arm out of her grip.

“Show me.” Granger tugged the shirt all the way off, so Draco’s left arm was free. Her eyes
were wide as she ran a single finger around the black ink on his skin, never touching it, just
surrounding it. The sensation sent a shiver through him, and he began to worry, thinking that
she might realize the weight of who was standing in her bedroom.

Instead, without a word, she pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist, right below where the
Mark ended, and stood to pull his other arm out of his shirt. She then held his eye contact,
those gorgeous hazel ones never breaking from his gray, and slowly removed her sweater the
rest of the way. Granger ran a palm down her own arm before presenting the skin to Draco.

He’d seen it, only once before, on the day that it happened. Then, it was all cracked skin, raw
and ragged, bleeding while she cried on the drawing room floor. It had since faded into a scar,
but it was still visible. The word a stark pale pink against her olive skin. He mirrored her
motion, tracing his finger around the word, never touching it.

“Tell me you want this,” he repeated, knowing the stakes had changed. He’d seen her scar,
she’d seen his Mark. Two opposite sides of the chasm, and the air in the room had grown
heavy.

“Yes, Draco.”

Her back met the duvet as he pressed forward and captured her mouth in another kiss. Less
fervent than the last one, but not lacking in passion, in desire. Long, slow strokes of his
tongue in her mouth as they shifted until her head was resting atop her pillows. He settled his
body on top of her, no longer feeling the need to hold back.

Her legs parted, inviting him in, and he felt the fabric of her dress shift up with the motion.
He ground his length into her center, both his trousers and her knickers still between them,
but she gasped all the same once he pressed.

He repeated the motion as his mouth found the soft patch of skin under her ear, sucking and
biting. His hand was in her hair, tugging lightly at the root right at the base of her skull, and
Granger responded with an arch in her back, chanting, “more, please, more.”

Draco worked his way down her neck, over her throat, and to the other side while her hands
rushed to his hair and his found the hem of her dress, tugging, seeking permission. She sat up
just enough so he could pull the fabric over her head and he stared at her, clad in nothing but
a simple black bra and matching cotton knickers.

Her flush crept down her chest, over the tops of her breasts. Draco surged forward, pulling
down her bra straps as his tongue traced the soft skin along the cups. She reached behind her
and unclasped her bra, throwing it off to the side and exposing her tits to him.

His tongue traced a circle around one tight, hard nipple as his fingers began to tease the other
one. “Fuck!” Granger cried when his teeth sank into the bud, soothing the ache immediately
after with his tongue. Her hips bucked, seeking friction, and her hands flew to his belt buckle.

“Off,” she demanded, fumbling with the metal and leather.

“Impatient,” Draco chuckled against her breast. He moved to the otherside as her hands
found his zipper and she hastily tried to shove his trousers down. The material caught on his
borderline painful erection, and he sat back to finish the job for her.

Draco’s cock sprung free, hard and heavy and weeping already and her eyes widened at the
sight of it.
“You’re not wearing any…” she trailed off, eying his length with trepidation.

“Never cared for it,” he said with a wink as he pulled his trousers the rest of the way off. She
watched him hungrily as he gave himself a few long, languid strokes. “Lie back,” he
whispered.

“It’s so big,” she said, voice wavering slightly as they resumed position with him nestled
between her thighs. His cock rested on the soft flesh of her belly and he couldn’t help but grin
at her admission. “It won’t fit.”

“Trust me, angel, you can take me. I know you can,” he rasped as his fingers tightened in her
hair again. The urge to rut into her was so strong, and he was worried he was going to blow
his load the instant he was inside her, but he drew his focus on her pleasure.

Draco peppered kisses along her jaw while his hand trailed down her chest, between her
perfect, glorious tits, down her stomach, until he met the elastic of her knickers. He slid his
fingers over the material, finding them damp, as he rubbed a slow, small circle over her clit.

Granger whined, moaned, writhed against his touch, pushing her hips up to increase the
pressure. When he had her panting and needy enough, he shoved them down and slowly
pulled them off of her.

Her bare cunt was glistening with her arousal and the smell of it filled the room. Fuck, he
couldn’t wait to taste her. Spreading her thighs, he moved down to kiss along her pubic bone,
hip to hip, while his fingers continued their slow rotation against her clit.

“Please,” she begged. He loved hearing her beg for him.

He gave her slit a long, languid lick while he slid one finger into her to the knuckle. She was
soaking, but it was still tight fit.

Working his finger in and out at a steady pace, he focused on her nub, licking, sucking, and
then switching courses. His tongue fucked into her, devouring the taste of her, honey and
musk and salt, while his fingers rubbed furvoritively on her clit. Granger’s legs began to
tremble and he could feel her cunt clenching as he continued to tongue her.

Moving again, he sat up and slid two fingers this time into her, fucking her harder, more
deliberately, thumb rubbing on her clit. He wanted to see her when she fell apart, commit it to
memory. Draco licked his lips, tasting her there, while he watched her panting and gasping on
the bed, curls wild, fingers pinching her nipples. His fingers worked faster.

“Come for me angel, be a good girl and come,” he growled, feeling more pre-cum leak from
his tip. He stroked himself at the same pace that he fucked her until her cunt clamped around
his fingers in a vice grip and she screamed her release.

“So fucking perfect,” he whispered, lowering himself on to her. Granger was sweating,
panting, and looked to the point of exhaustion, but she clutched at his shoulders and pulled
him down to her lips, sloppy, messy kisses tasting of her own arousal.
Draco positioned himself at her entrance and nudged, locking eyes with her. She gave him a
nod, and he slowly pushed inside. Fuck, she was even tighter around his cock. She winced,
and he stilled, hand still gripping his base.

“Too much?” He asked with concern.

She shook her head. “No, just go slow. I’ll tell you, if it’s too much,” she said between
panting breaths. He kissed her hard and didn’t relent until he eased all the way in, feeling her
warm, wet heat surround him until he was sheathed to his base.

“Fuck, feels so full,” she groaned, shifting her hips slightly. Draco hid his smug smile in the
crook of her neck where he kissed the heated skin.

“I need to move, angel, I can’t…fuck,” he choked out as each tiny rock of her hips had him
closer to coming.

“Okay,” she whispered. Draco slid out just a bit before pushing back in, her wetness coating
his cock, making each glide easier and easier. Her gasps and whimpers turned into moans and
cries of pleasure. With her encouraging hands on his arse, pulling him in to her, he quickened
his pace, thrusting his hips to meet hers as he pounded into her tight cunt.

“Fuck me,” she whined, and he obliged. One hand braced on headboard, the other gripping
her hip for leverage, he fucked into her, harder and harder at each gasped request until her
cunt tightened, squeezing the daylights out of his cock, she was close. Soon, he felt his balls
draw up tight and he was moments away from his own release.

“Fuck, you’re taking me so good. I’m gonna come.” The words were a choked warning. He
reached down to rub at her clit, wanting her to follow him off of that cliff. He pinched her clit
between his thumb and forefinger, which sent her shattering. His own release followed
immediately after, cock twitching as it pulsed into her, filling her.

He collapsed on top of her, trying to catch his breath, kissing her shoulders that were covered
with a thin sheen of sweat. She chuckled and ran her fingers through the hair at the nape of
his neck, and Draco almost purred like a kitten at the sensation.

Draco rolled off of Granger, his spent cock slipping out, and stretched out on the bed next to
her. They were still for a moment until their breathing returned to a more normal rate and he
tugged her arm to pull her into him.

Granger settled onto him, her curls sticking to his damp chest, and brushed light kisses along
his pecs.

“I still would like that essay,” she finally mused, sending them both into a delirious state of
giggles.

He tucked her in close, worrying about the cleanup of both of their orgasms later, and pressed
a kiss to the top of her head.

“Anything, mon ange .”

 Confessions
Chapter Notes

CW: very, very brief mention of suicide ideation (past)

There be plot in here, so, that “some plot” tag has officially been earned. There are a few
more plot points to continue, but they’re also relatively minor (hence the “some”).

The two of them spent the rest of the evening tangled up in each other. After a quick
Scourigfy and Evanesco to clean up the remains of their activities, Malfoy slipped across the
hall with his clothes bundled up covering his nudity and returned in moments wearing flannel
pajama bottoms and a tight fitting black t-shirt.

Hermione took the brief reprieve to attempt to detangle and hastily braid her hair and slip into
comfortable clothes of her own.

They settled against the pillows in her bed, ordered food from the kitchen, and shared flirty
glances and quick kisses in the privacy of her room.

“I’ve thought about this, you know, for some time,” Malfoy said plaintively, twirling his fork
around his spaghetti bolognese, casual as ever.

“What, shagging me senseless? Now that you’ve got your fill, I suppose we’re done here?”
She joked, but a part of her worried with trepidation. She moved her chicken tikka around her
plate with her fork.

“Salazar, no, Granger. Not done with you yet.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek and nipped
playfully at her ear.

“Good, because I believe you alluded to something along the lines of, ‘making me come so
hard I forgot my name’?” Hermione said lightly as her chest filled with warmth at his easy
admission that she wasn’t a one-night shag.

“Did I not deliver?” Malfoy looked affronted, pressing his palm to his chest.

“Hermione Jean Granger, pleased to make your acquaintance,” she cheeked, rather enjoying
the look of offense on Malfoy’s face.

“There’s time to rectify that, angel.” He said seductively and her core clenched. The dark
promise, along with the affectionate name he’d called her, made her want him all over again.
Given the ache between her thighs, the one not from her sudden arousal, she would likely
have to wait a bit before going for another round. Draco was huge . It would take some
getting used to.
“But I meant what I said. Today, or, rather, this year wasn’t the first time I imagined what
being between Hermione Granger’s thighs would be like.”

“Do tell,” Hermione encouraged. Had he really thought of this, of them before?

“Remember sixth year, in the Prefect’s bathroom?” He questioned, and her mind whirled
through the memory, as clear as seeing it through a Pensieve.

Hermione was relaxing in the Prefect’s bathroom. Well, hiding, more like. She had been
feeling utterly overwhelmed and had lost all her centers of confidence. Harry was busy
chasing Malfoy around diligently, determined to catch him in his ‘up to something’ , Ron was
constantly trying to give Lavender a dental examination with his own tongue, and Ginny was
dealing with her own issues with Dean.

She knew N.E.W.T. levels would be exhausting, but the pressure along with the impending
doom that was Voldemort weighed on her. So to the bathrooms she took for some solace and
a good cry.

The door to the bathroom opened and she froze. She hoped it wasn’t Ron, sneaking Lavender
in for, well, whatever it is they got up to, and silently cursed herself for forgetting to lock the
door.

To both her relief and horror, it wasn’t Ron, it was Draco Malfoy.

“Granger,” he said, looking just as surprised when he saw her huddled in the corner of the
large bath, gathering bubbles towards her to cover up any hint of her nakedness.

“Malfoy,” she breathed out. “Sorry, I forgot to lock the door. I can go, I’ve been in long
enough.”

“No,” he cut her off, “I’ll just come back later.”

Hermione looked carefully at him. He looked tired, deep purple circles under his eyes, skin
paler than normal, a decided slump to his shoulders. Malfoy looked so human, so vulnerable.
Like a shell, wrung out of all that made him him .

“You don’t have to go,” she said, barely recognizing her voice as it echoed throughout the
bathroom. “It’s big enough, I’ll keep to my corner. If you don’t mind sharing.” She eyed him
cautiously, expecting him to say he’d rather chew glass than share a tub with a Mudblood.

Instead, he sighed a deep sigh, wrought with sheer exhaustion. “If you don’t mind.” Malfoy
pulled off his robes, leaving him in his shirt and trousers, before he eyed Hermione.

“Shit, sorry, I’ll turn around.” She spun in the water and heard the faint sound of him
undressing, the rustle of fabric, the pull of a zipper. Hermione wouldn’t admit it then, but
there was a faint curiosity for what was transpiring behind her.
When she heard the water splash and a moment later a final “I’m decent,” call through the
room, she turned around in the bath, readjusting her own bubble-barrier.

They sat in silence for a long while before Malfoy spoke up.

“Do you ever wonder if it’s all worth it?” His voice lacked its usual coldness, instead it bled
with raw vulnerability, like a frightened child.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked tentatively.

“All of it. I don’t know. It just, everything seems so fucking heavy sometimes. Like we’ve been
asked to carry the world, when we’re not meant to.”

“Sometimes. But sometimes the weight is worth it.” Hermione’s usually insightful
commentary was coming up short.

“I don’t think this one is, Granger.”

“I remember,” Hermione whispered in the quiet of her room.

“I had just taken the Mark a few months prior. Over the summer. And I was so fucking
scared. I hated every minute of being away from my mother, wondering what was happening.
I couldn’t confide in Theo or Blaise or Pansy, to not put them at risk. And there you were, in
the sodding bathroom when I had planned to wallow in my self-pity.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, running a slow finger along his kneecap in comfort.

“Don’t be,” he scoffed. “Don’t fucking be sorry. You know what was going through my head,
when I walked into the bathroom that night?”

Hermione shook her head.

“I was thinking of every avenue out. I knew I would be killed if I failed my mission. I knew
my mother would be punished if I refused, my father as well. For all his faults, I wanted to
protect him as he’d protected me my entire life. But I was so bloody tired. There wasn’t a
way out. I’d never considered it before, but that night, something broke me and I wondered…
I wondered how much simpler it would be if I just ended it.” Malfoy’s voice was choked and
raw, emotion lodged in his throat.

“Draco,” she said softly, pushing her dinner aside to tuck herself under his arm.

“It was your words, you know. The weight worth carrying. It wasn’t for Voldemort, or his
plans and ideas. It was for my mother. She was my weight, that I would willingly carry for
the rest of my life. I knew what I had to do, to keep her safe.” He squeezed his arm around
her in a bruising grip, like he was afraid she might just vanish into thin air.

“And I wondered, in that simple moment, before I had to straighten up and be the Malfoy
heir I was raised to be, what it would be like to just live with abandon. To be with someone,
simply because I wanted to. In that instance, it was a swotty, irritatingly fit witch who was
naked in a tub a mere length away from me. Bloodlines be damned.”

“You’re foul,” she chided.

She felt him shrug beside her. “I was sixteen, and you were naked,” he said unapologetically.

His free arm snaked across his body and tugged Hermione’s thigh across his lap. He drew a
lazy pattern over her pajama pants before she grabbed his wrist and turned the arm over. She
stared closely at the remnants of the Dark Mark on his forearm, an uncomfortable feeling
washing over her.

“I don’t want you to have to look at it,” Malfoy said with his voice laden with sadness. He
pulled the arm away and tucked it behind his head.

“I understand the feeling,” Hermione muttered, rubbing her own scar in habit.

“When I took the Mark, that was the day I stopped buying into all that blood-purity shit,” he
confessed. “It was excruciating, the worst thing I have ever experienced, and I’ve been
subject to more than one Crucio . My mother sobbed, wept for days, having watched the
whole thing. And the only thing I could think of was, ‘how was this worth it?’”

Hermione hummed thoughtfully, willing him to continue.

“It won’t ever fade, or go away. Theo suggested I tattoo over it, but there’s a fucked sort of
self flagilation in forcing me to see it every day. But I don’t…I don’t let anyone but Theo see
it, really. And now you, and, fuck Granger, it hurts me to know you’ve seen it.”

“You don’t have to punish yourself forever. Give yourself some grace. You’re allowed to put
your past behind you,” Hermione said thoughtfully, fingertips skating along his abdomen
gently. “But I know how difficult it is, to see something daily, something that reminds you of
such darkness, such evil. It’s a morbid kind of attachment.”

Malfoy grabbed her arm and brushed his nose along the scarred word before pressing the
lightest of kissing along the skin. “I don’t see ugliness here, Granger,” he said softly between
kisses. “I hate it, so much. It’s horrific. But it’s not the scar itself, it’s the memory of that
moment, and knowing how disgusting the slur is, how much two fucking syllables can do so
much damage. But all I see is your strength, your bravery. The odds were stacked against
you, and yet, you didn’t quit, even at the hands of my horrible fucking family.”

A tear slipped from Hermione’s eye and her heart cracked open at the raw, beautiful moment.

“You’re absolutely incredible, awe-inspiring, far braver than I ever could be.”

“It’s my unwavering lack of self-preservation,” she joked lightly.

Malfoy gave her a grin, full of tenderness and adoration. “Right. That spirit of running head-
long into danger. I’m also fully convinced Potter would have been offed within a week had it
not been for you. You were always too good for him.”
Malfoy’s mouth moved along her arm until he found the space where her neck met her
shoulder that had her melting in his arms. Without a further look, he waved his wand at their
dishes to send them back to the kitchens as he worked eager, wet kissing along her throat.

It didn’t take much to have her clawing at his clothes, their hands grabbing and exploring the
planes of their bodies, and she found herself wanting him again.

This time he took her slower, lying on their sides while he entered into her from behind, the
steady, firm rock of his hips pushing into her over and over until she fell apart gasping his
name. He whispered words of praise and adoration to her while his hands mapped out her
body, bringing her to the edge once again, only this time he fell with her, groaning his release
softly in her ear.

Satisfied and utterly exhausted, they fell asleep like that, naked, and curled around each other.
Hermione had never felt more exposed nor more safe in her life than being wrapped up in the
arms of Draco Malfoy.

The shift in their relationship after that night had Hermione flitting around the castle in a
cloud. She managed to not be too entirely distracted, making it through her classes and
lessons with ease, and keeping on top of her grading, despite Malofy’s better efforts.

He was equally as busy, but they still found moments for each other. Often times, it was a
quick, fervent snog in an empty classroom or him sliding into her room at night where he
fucked her hard and fast, like he was bursting with as much want and desire as she was.

She’d asked when they woke the next morning after their first night together that they keep
things quiet, for now. There was nothing in their professors’ handbook that prohibited
fraternization, but they would need to disclose their relationship with Headmistress
McGonagall if they went public.

Malfoy pouted when she brought it up, but understood her concerns. Hermione wasn’t
ashamed or wanting to hide the nature of their relationship, but it felt rushed to flaunt it for
the world to see.

Despite that fact, they were having a difficult time keeping apart. He’d touch her knee under
the table at meals, teasing his fingers higher up her thigh, or simply give her a look that was
all smoldering and heat and delicious promises, sending liquid fire through her blood.

She would brush his fingers against his when she fixed him a cup of tea when they were
working in the common room, oftentimes joined by Theo or Eric, or both, and pretend not to
notice his clenched jaw and subtle shifts when she bit down on her lip.
“If you’ll stop eye-fucking each other, I’m trying to concentrate,” Theo grumbled from his
position on the floor of the common room, frowning at the book on the table and the
parchment he was scribbling notes on, a week or so after her and Malfoy had started sleeping
together.

“You’re not even looking, sod off,” Malfoy tossed a crumpled piece of parchment at his
friend's head and returned to the textbook questions he was grading.

“I can feel the sexual energy from here. I don’t need to look to know you’re mentally
undressing each other. Grade some papers, be a professional.” Theo’s voice was clipped.

“We aren’t eye-fucking ,” Hermione said with a hissed whisper, looking down toward the
hallway to see if Eric had emerged from his room. At least they didn’t have to hide from
Theo, but she was certain Eric hadn’t caught on yet. Fortunately for them, he was spending
more time with his wife and son, but still had duties on castle grounds to attend to during the
week. “And keep your voice down, Eric is here you know.”

“Speak for yourself, Granger, I am one-hundred percent, unashamedly, eye-fucking you,”

Malfoy drawled, gripping the top of his open text book with a large fist.

“Shhh!” Hermione gave him her most stern glare, but Malfoy just laughed it off.

“Danielson knows, I’d wager, you’re not as subtle as you think,” Theo commented, still
fixated on his work.

“What?” Hermione gasped, smudging red ink on the essay she was grading. “No he doesn’t.”

“Draco’s shit at concealment charms, the love bite you left on him was entirely visible when
he came out of his bedroom a few days ago.”

Malfoy at least had the good sense to look slightly ashamed and Hermione pressed her
fingers to her lips to cover up the squeak that worked its way out of her throat.

“Gods, that’s mortifying,” Hermione groaned. She met Malfoy’s eyes in apology, but he just
grinned at her and gave her a small shrug.

“Golden Girl, love, can you help me with this?” Theo asked, changing subjects fluidly. “I’m
working on a revision for a protection spell, a more durable Protego , and I can’t make sense
of this last bit. It’s driving me mad.” He released a pent up sigh and Hermione slid off her
armchair and settled on the floor next to Theo.

When she got a good look at him, he did look tired and frustrated. He must have been
working on this for a long while, as she’d never seen Theo concentrate so hard, even when
grading schoolwork. She reviewed his notes, compared it to the section of text he was
reading, and searched for the flaw in his work.

“You need to apply the Horton-Keitch theory of magical physics to this bit here,” she pointed
to a line on his parchment. “Otherwise, the spell will break at the top of the incantation. Just a
minor adjustment in wand movement, but, oh, I have a copy of the book in my room…” She
hurried to her room to grab her text on magical properties of physics and physical law and
presented it to Theo.

“Right…here!” She flipped to the chapter containing the theory she’d thought of. “This bit of
applied wand work combined with the incantation should give you the results you’re looking
for.”

Theo studied the text and mocked the wand movement with his quill. “Fuck, Hermione,
you’re brilliant. I never would have thought to apply this theory. But I guess it makes sense,
now that it’s right in front of me. Gods, I’m a poor excuse for a Charms Professor, aren’t I?”

“Not at all, sometimes you just need to step away from the problem. I didn’t know you had
an interest in spell creation.”

Theo nodded eagerly, flipping through the pages of the book. “Yeah, sort of a side-hobby. I
haven’t really created anything incredible, just silly little charms here and there,” he said
modestly, but Hermione was impressed nonetheless. “Can I borrow this?” Theo asked,
pointing at the book.

“Keep it, I have another copy.”

Malfoy chuckled to himself from where he was sitting, just watching Hermione and Theo’s
excited chatter about physics and wand movements with a glint of admiration in his eyes. “Of
course you do,” he sat up and gathered his things before leaning over to give Hermione a
chaste kiss on the lips. “Swotty little witch.”

He smirked at her shocked expression and left the room, leaving Hermione red-faced and her
fingers pressed to her lips as if she could still feel him there.

She wondered to herself in bed that night if the butterflies and excitement from being with
him would fade soon, and what would be left in the wake.

“What’s on for the weekend, then?” Theo asked on Friday evening as they left the Great Hall
after dinner.

“Are you not seeing Pansy?” Malfoy asked in a teasing tone, making Theo scowl.

“No, and that’s enough of that.”

“I’ve got to be at the Manor, meetings and such, so I’ll be gone for most of the weekend,”
Malfoy said and Hermione saw Theo give him a knowing look and a firm nod. Hermione
couldn’t help but deflate a bit at the thought of him being gone the entire weekend, but then
she willed herself to not be the type of woman to get hurt feelings over not seeing her
boyfriend for a few days.
Wait, was he her boyfriend? They hadn’t really talked about it.

“I’m headed to Harry’s tomorrow afternoon, they’ve invited me round for dinner,” Hermione
supplied. Harry had sent an owl this morning asking her if she was available to come over.

“You’re both leaving me all weekend, horrendous.” Theo pretended to be egregiously hurt.

“I’ll be back tomorrow evening, you can show me that spell you’ve been working on.”

“You’re going to Potter’s?” Malfoy asked, voice full of concern. He tugged on the sleeve of
her sweater, a minuscule motion, but as if he couldn’t help himself but touch her even a little
bit.

“Mhm,” she hummed, searching his face. His lips were pressed in a thin line and his brow
was pinched. “It’s just Harry and Ginny, don’t worry. Ron won’t be there.”

“You’re positive?” He asked as they continued their walk to their quarters.

“Harry wouldn’t dare. He’s been rather aware of how things were for a long time, and Ginny
hasn’t been on speaking terms with her brother in almost a year,” Hermione said reassuringly.

“That somehow doesn’t make me feel better,” Malfoy’s voice dropped to a low growl. “Potter
knew what a shit Weasel was to you, and yet, did nothing to stop it?”

They pushed through the portrait hole and Theo headed into his bedroom. “He didn’t know…
how bad it was. Only that I was unhappy, and that Ron’s a drunk.” She checked to make sure
they were properly alone and twined her fingers with his.

“I suppose. I don’t like it, or him for that matter, but he’s your friend, and I’ll respect that.”
Malfoy continued to glare, but his thumb stroked a soft circle on the back of her hand.

“Theo and him got on just fine. If this, whatever this is, is going to be a thing, you’ll have to
eventually get on with Harry, too,” she said seriously. That was one of her many trepidations.
How each of their friend groups, Theo aside, would react to their relationship.

“Don’t expect me to invite him out for a pint anytime soon, but I won’t hex or otherwise
maim him, I suppose. Unless he hurts you, and if that happens, there are no promises,” he
said rather darkly.

For some reason, his brief and vague threat warmed something in Hermione’s chest, rather
than put her off him altogether. “You’re devilishly handsome when you’re being protective,”
she admitted.

“I protect what’s mine, mon ange . Always.” With one final glance around the room, Malfoy
pulled Hermione closer to him and used his free hand to tip her chin up. Their lips met in a
quick, but no less searing kiss.

The next afternoon when she stepped through the Floo at Grimmauld Place, she found a
stressed-looking Harry seated at the dining room table with his forehead on the wood.
“Harry?” She called, looking around for Ginny. “Everything alright?”

His head snapped up and he looked at Hermione, eyes wild and his hair messier than usual.
“No. Ginny got angry with me, told me to fuck myself, and left for the Burrow. And I don’t
know what I did wrong.”

Hermione sighed and sat across from him, grabbing his hands with her own. “What
happened?”

“She was complaining that her clothes weren’t fitting because she had put on weight and I
offered to take her to the shops to buy new clothes that fit her. Apparently, that was the wrong
answer!” He cried, looking crazed.

“A little bit, probably. I’d imagine she’s feeling rather emotional about her changing body,
and rule number one is never acknowledge a woman’s weight gain,” Hermione explained
carefully.

“But she has gained weight! Not in a bad way, but she’s growing my child! Our child! I feel
like weight gain is part of the program.” He didn’t understand, and Hermione couldn’t fault
him for that. The whole idea of pregnancy terrified her, and she could only imagine what her
two friends were experiencing, especially with it being unplanned.

“That’s not the point. Pregnancy sends your hormones into overdrive, so she might be a little
more sensitive. I remember when my neighbor got pregnant, when I was a girl, she
complained to my mum that her body would never be the same after, and I’m sure that’s a
common sentiment. Just…have a little bit more tact and reassure Ginny that she’s perfect and
wonderful and for the love of Godric, when she complains about gaining weight, lie and say
you accidentally did the wash in Shrinking Solution.”

This wasn’t the first time she’s had to level Harry with advice on his relationship. His litmus
for dealing with the opposite sex was largely limited to Hermione herself, the little tryst he’d
had with Cho Chang, and Ginny, who by all accounts, wasn’t usually overtly feminine. He
didn’t have a lot of experience dealing with delicate feelings or hormones.

She calmed him down and assured Harry that Ginny would be home when she was ready, that
she probably just needed the comfort of her mum who had grown, birthed, and raised seven
children of her own and had loads of wisdom to bestow upon her, and ordered take-away for
them.

They lapsed into easy conversation until Harry gasped, pointing accusedly at Hermione’s
neck, once she’d taken off her jumper.

“Is that what I think it is?! Hermione Jean Granger, if you’ve been in contact with a vampire,
I have a duty as an Auror to know about it, because there is no conceivable way that is a
hickey on your neck.”

Hermione hastily adjusted the neck of her shirt to cover the bruised mark she thought she’d
covered with a concealment charm that morning and made a mental note to ask Theo if he
was any better at them. Clearly, her and Malfoy both lacked that skill set.
“It’s not from a vampire,” she said firmly, dumping vinegar on her fish & chips. Harry was
bound to find out about her and Malfoy eventually, so she might as well tell him now.

“Please tell me it’s not from Nott,” he groaned, a chip in his hand halfway to his mouth. “I
knew you two looked awfully friendly at the Quidditch match, but I didn’t think there was
anything there.”

“It isn’t from Theo,” she lowered her voice. “It’s from…” Hermione trailed off, swirling a
chip around in ketchup.

“Hermione…” Harry chided.

“It’s from Malfoy, okay?” She blurted. Just like that, the words were out there, hanging heavy
in the air. Hermione watched as his face morphed from shock, denial, confusion, then
concern.

“Hermione, no…” Harry finally said.

“Don’t start, Harry. You don’t need to explain to me who he is or what he was, trust me, I
know, I was there. But people change, and he has changed, for the better. I didn’t walk into
this blindly, and I wouldn’t have even started something with him had we not cleared the air
between us first. I trust him,” Hermione defended. She really did trust him, deep down, and
believed every word of what she said, but Hermione wasn’t so sure Harry would see it that
way.

“Fuck,” Harry hissed under his breath. “How…how long has this been going on? Was it a
one time thing, or are you serious about him?”

Hermione fidgeted with her napkin. It wasn’t a one time thing, that much she was sure of, but
she didn’t know if she considered it serious . Or if Malfoy did.

His words from before rang through her head. “I protect what’s mine, mon ange.” He’d called
her his. But what did that mean necessarily?

“We kissed for the first time the day of the Quidditch match. After…after my fight with Ron.
And things progressed from there, I suppose. I’ll spare you the details, but it’s more than a
one time thing.”

“Godric, that was an image I didn’t want,” Harry gave an exaggerated sneer. “Wait, after
Quidditch? He didn’t take advantage of you did he? Because if you were hurt and vulnerable
and he…I’ll fucking kill him.”

Hermione slapped her palms on the