It was a long-awaited Hogsmeade open day, and Draco Malfoy was sitting in a corner of the Three Broomsticks, reading the freshly arrived Daily Prophet.
His gaze paused on a piece headlined with the revelation of Ludo Bagman's past connections to Death Eaters, and he concluded that Rita Skeeter had probably dressed it up considerably to meet her word count.
He turned the paper over with mild impatience, glanced at a piece about the breeding of Ukrainian Ironbellies, and decided the remaining contents held nothing worth his time.
He was about to set it down and pick up the next one when he noticed that the girl sitting across from him had been quietly reading the back of his newspaper for some time.
A playful impulse took hold of him. He kept the paper raised and watched her from behind it.
She had her fist propped under her chin, while her other hand moved absently against the handle of her butterbeer mug. She was frowning at the article he had dismissed, lips faintly pursed, seemingly working through some private train of thought.
He liked her serious expression. She looked like a sharp, intent little cat, full of contained energy.
So he stayed as he was, simply holding the newspaper up for her — and watched her instead. Her eyes were bright and focused, carrying the particular spark of genuine curiosity that had always been the most reliable remedy for his low spirits.
Even now. Still his favourite look on her.
It was as though she could find something worth discovering in any subject, however tedious.
Draco smiled to himself.
Harry and Ron stood nearby, already thoroughly accustomed to these intermittent displays. They were occupied with a new sweet from Honeydukes, both of them emitting colourful curls of smoke from the ears with each piece they ate.
"It's like the original Pepper Imps, isn't it, but stronger?" Harry said with interest, watching the wisps rise from Ron's head.
"Who improved the recipe?" Ron asked.
"Professor Snape," Draco said, still watching Hermione's face. "I only mentioned the idea to him — I hadn't expected him to move so quickly."
Harry raised an eyebrow but said nothing further.
After a good while — long enough for Harry and Ron's hearing to return to normal — Hermione finally surfaced from her reading. She noticed Draco looking at her and couldn't help smiling.
"What is it?" she asked.
He didn't answer, only gave her a slow, lazy smile in return.
"Hermione," Harry said, clearly delighted to report, "he held that newspaper up for you for nearly fifteen minutes and spent the entire time just staring at your face. Couples."
"Someone also seems to labour under the impression that a newspaper is a significant physical burden," Ron said, grinning. "As if this is the same girl who used to carry seven or eight textbooks at a full sprint across the whole castle, and give Mrs. Norris the slip while she was at it."
Hermione gave him a look of formidable warning. "Speaking of which — your study plans. And the essay Professor McGonagall assigned. Have either of you finished them?"
"Truce! I'm saying nothing!" Ron immediately retreated and started examining Harry's new deck of self-shuffling Wizarding cards. "Harry, are the rules the same as Muggle cards..."
"You could have told me — I would have held it myself," Hermione said to Draco, faintly pink, though the small upturn at the corner of her mouth gave her away.
"I like doing it." He set the paper down at last and looked at her directly.
"Since when do you read Rita Skeeter's work so carefully? I thought you couldn't stand her," he said.
"I still can't. But reading her sometimes turns up details I'd otherwise have overlooked," Hermione said thoughtfully.
She reached for her butterbeer glass and found it empty.
"Let me get you another," Draco said quickly, already moving.
"No, I've had enough. I just want a sip to clear my throat." Hermione shook her head. "We'll be heading back soon anyway."
"Then — would you like some of mine?" Draco tapped his glass; it held a warm measure of Madam Rosmerta's mead. "I've had a sip from it, mind."
"I don't mind," Hermione said. "I thought you would—"
She had always assumed he'd be particular about sharing a cup. He was particular about nearly everything.
"Not with you," Draco said simply. He pushed the glass toward her, a hint of deliberate nonchalance in his manner. "You've done this sort of thing before, you know."
"Have I? When?"
"A year ago. You drank my iced Americano." He gave her a half-smile. "Didn't hesitate for a second, back then. Now all of a sudden you're bashful about it?"
The memory surfaced at once, and Hermione felt her face grow warm. At the time she'd barely thought twice about it; looking back now produced a very different kind of embarrassment.
She caught his expression — entirely too pleased with himself — and decided, on the grounds of proving a point, to pick up the glass and take a small, deliberate sip.
"It's quite nice," she said, turning it thoughtfully on her tongue. "Raspberry and blackcurrant, and something like cherry—"
"Schaerbeek cherry, Belgian," he said, with an approving look. "You can taste how the mead balances the fruit's acidity against the honey. Very smooth."
"It's lovely." She set the glass back down with a vaguely reluctant expression. "I'd better stop — I'm still thinking about Ludo Bagman—"
"Oh?" He looked up. "Ludo Bagman. Is there anything about that man worth our continued interest beyond his sordid gambling debts?"
"He's been behaving very strangely," Hermione said. "Blink told me — when I go to the kitchens — that he's always said Bagman is a bad wizard."
"When did you start going to the kitchens?" Draco asked, with a suspicious look. "I didn't know about that."
"During our argument," she said pointedly.
"You were remarkably productive for someone in the middle of a row," he said, a touch helplessly. Harry and Ron both went slightly pale at this, evidently recalling Hermione's study enforcement regime from that period.
Hermione registered something, and her expression shifted from mild crossness to mild smugness. "Wendy told me you were sending me flowers through her. Secretly. I never imagined our Draco Malfoy reduced to appealing to a house-elf for assistance. Quite the contradiction from someone who supposedly doesn't care about elf welfare."
"It was for a particularly unfeeling girl who noticed nothing—" Draco muttered, face colouring.
"What was that?"
"Tell me about Bagman," he said, with great purpose.
"Right, yes. You know, at first I actually suspected he might be the one who put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire — didn't we, Harry?"
"He's always been oddly enthusiastic with me," Harry said. "Ever since the dragon task, he keeps trying to pull me aside. Tips, apparently. But I don't know him, and the whole thing makes me uncomfortable. So I've mostly been avoiding him."
"Ludo Bagman is a crook!" Ron's face darkened with sudden intensity. "Ask Fred and George — they came off worst. They won a bet with him during the Quidditch World Cup, fair and square. Then they found out he'd paid them with gold from the goblins — Leprechaun gold, which vanished—"
"That explains quite a lot." Draco frowned. "I've been wondering why they seem so energetic about selling one week and completely flat the next. I had no idea they'd got into this mess. What possessed them to bet with Bagman in the first place? Aren't the school wagers enough to sustain a betting operation? Isn't the joke shop keeping them busy enough? They promised to import Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder months ago and there's still no sign of it."
Hermione glanced at him with the focused attention of someone who has just noticed something. He seemed to know a remarkable amount about the inner workings of the Weasley twins' shop for someone who supposedly had nothing to do with it.
Draco, unaware of her gaze, had finished his small rant and was now thirsty. He picked up the mead glass, turned it exactly 180 degrees, and took a calm sip from the rim where her lips had rested.
"Very nice," he said, with quiet satisfaction. He appeared to be evaluating the mead.
Hermione's face went crimson.
That — he had done that deliberately. He absolutely knew what he was doing. The composure of him, the absolute nerve—
"They said it wasn't a large bet to start with — ten Galleons or so, just for the sport of it — but with the Leprechaun gold, the actual sum they should have received would have been substantial," Ron said, looking pained on his brothers' behalf. "They didn't make a fuss at first. They just wanted to corner Bagman and sort it out quietly—"
"I doubt it was a simple mistake," Draco said, setting his glass down with serene unconcern, apparently entirely oblivious to Hermione's pink face.
"No, eventually they figured out he was doing it on purpose. But he's been slippery ever since — nearly impossible to pin down." Ron clicked his tongue.
"He's probably deep in debt. I wouldn't have expected Skeeter to stumble onto a story that actually has some substance — but a Director of Sports at the Ministry of Magic with goblin creditors is genuinely significant news." Draco finished the thought and, with perfect composure, took another quiet sip.
Hermione was practically vibrating with restrained agitation.
That was — was that an indirect — did he even look at what he was doing? He had to know. He absolutely had to know.
She cleared her throat with great purpose. "That's my point, yes. His unusual fixation on Harry is suspicious."
"Perhaps he's laid another bet — this time on Harry winning — and he's hoping to recoup his losses by giving Harry an edge," Draco said, with a thoughtful look toward Harry. "I'd suggest keeping a safe distance. A champion with any kind of secret arrangement with a referee would be devastating if it came out — and Rita Skeeter would make it a front-page headline."
"Sirius said the same thing — though he's even more suspicious than you are," Harry said, playing a card for Ron. "He thinks Bagman's sudden generosity might be a set-up. If Harry accepts the help, Bagman could immediately use it against him — the odds would shift in Bagman's favour."
"That's not impossible. It's wise to be cautious." Draco considered it. "The simplest approach is to stay alert and keep your distance. Don't give him anything to work with."
"Agreed," Hermione said. She was still troubled by the newspaper, and picked it up again to read more carefully.
"You two worry too much," Harry said, with the easy confidence of someone who had faced a dragon and found the experience bracing. "Sometimes I think you're like a pair of anxious parents—"
Hermione instantly hid her face behind the newspaper.
"He does have a son who can be quite a handful," Draco said, picking up the thread with great helpfulness, entirely unashamed.
Harry glared at him.
"I considered you a friend! And now you're trying to be my father!"
"You started it," Draco said, with a small shrug. He had never lost an exchange like this in his life, and he did not intend to start now.
Hermione pressed her face further into the newspaper and pretended to be elsewhere.
"All right, I'll be careful," Harry said. "Bagman stays at a distance."
---
Harry's preoccupation with Bagman didn't last long. As Easter approached, his attention dragged itself reluctantly back toward academics.
The professors had increased their workload considerably, and the students were beginning to feel the weight of it. Even Hermione's habit of reminding them of impending deadlines had become, if not exactly welcome, then at least less offensive now that she always knew the right answer.
Hermione Granger — as had always been her way — not only completed the mountainous pile of work assigned to her but set herself additional tasks.
"Draco, I'd like to borrow your Helpō notebook, if you don't mind," she said, after the last Transfiguration class before the Easter break. She had deliberately delayed packing up her things until Professor McGonagall and the rest of the students had left, and now she leaned close and said it quietly.
"Can you give me a reason?" He looked up, mildly surprised.
Since when had she developed an interest in Dark Arts texts? At this rate, Slytherin would have to open its doors to her. He looked at her with a faint, wondering smile.
"Didn't you tell me the Dark Lord's soul may have vanished completely? But there's still a problem we haven't resolved: how many Horcruxes did he actually create?" she said, quite seriously. "What if not all of them have been accounted for? We still haven't found the ring."
The smile on Draco's face slowly faded.
Hermione continued, "I want to translate the remaining sections in full. There are passages we haven't properly worked through yet. How can we be certain there's nothing about Horcruxes in those chapters?"
"You're absolutely right," Draco said, his voice quieter. "I've been meaning to look into it." He drew the small book from his bag and handed it over.
He knew, somewhere underneath all the comfort he had been carefully cultivating, that she was right.
Methodically confirming the number of Horcruxes was the only rational approach. He hadn't forgotten the hesitation on Sirius's face when discussing the black gemstone ring.
The possibility that the Dark Lord had not completely gone — that there might be more Horcruxes than they had yet found — had always been there, lurking at the edge of his thoughts. He had simply refused to look at it directly.
For the first time since his rebirth, he had started to become lazy about this. He had been procrastinating, in the small, deliberate way of someone who has finally found something worth protecting and does not want anything to threaten it.
This was the first time Draco could recall not wanting to think about the Dark Lord.
The possibility alone was almost unbearable. And if the answer turned out to be unsatisfactory — if the Dark Lord had more Horcruxes still hidden away—
He couldn't make himself complete the thought.
"Draco, I know what you're worried about." Hermione carefully tucked the book away, then placed her warm hand over his. "Harry's scar hasn't bothered him in a long time. Let's just check properly, all right? Then we'll know."
"All right." He held her hand and steadied his voice, trying to keep the anxiety from showing in his eyes.
But she was looking at him with that expression — the one that always made him feel completely transparent, as though there were no hiding the worry underneath.
Merlin. His defences were growing weaker around her by the day. She was becoming uncomfortably good at reading him.
"Like you told me," she said softly. "I'll be with you. You're not alone in this. I'll always be there."
He should have been reassured. Instead, he sat there frowning, and — somewhat absent-mindedly — put his quill into his textbook and rolled the parchment into the inkwell.
The desk in front of him was a small disaster. His face had settled into the expression of someone fighting a losing battle with themselves.
Hermione sighed.
She had expected him to be unsettled. She had not expected quite this.
The Transfiguration classroom was empty, the two of them alone.
"Don't look like that," she said. "It's only a precaution. It doesn't mean anything is wrong." And then, with a resolve that surprised even herself, she leaned in and kissed him.
His lips were cool and still, but she didn't mind.
She was no longer as tentative as she had once been. She'd learned, recently, that a more proactive approach tended to produce results — so she pressed closer, patient and warm, until she felt him begin, reluctantly, to thaw.
He kissed her back, slowly at first, then with much more feeling — drawing her in, one hand at her waist, until his earlier misery had more or less dissolved in the face of more immediate concerns.
A sly smile curved her lips, mid-kiss. She felt very pleased with herself.
And — not that she would say so aloud — he was really very, very good at this, and it was rather difficult to maintain any kind of composure when he—
"Merlin's beard, what are the two of you doing?!"
Professor Minerva McGonagall stood frozen in the classroom doorway, her lesson plans falling from her hands with a clatter.
They broke apart, startled and breathless, and found themselves staring at their Head of House. The colour drained from their faces, replaced immediately by a deep, thorough blush, producing what Draco would later privately acknowledge was a very undignified tableau.
Minerva stared at the floor and bent to gather her scattered lesson plans — completely forgetting, in her shock, that she was a witch and could simply Summon them. When she straightened, her two most academically gifted Transfiguration students were standing side by side against the wall, as upright and well-behaved as a pair of frightened Bowtruckles.
"Miss Granger." Minerva did not look at Malfoy. She turned to her most trusted female student and attempted to soften her voice. "What I just witnessed — I'm not here to criticise anyone — but if someone has been putting any kind of pressure on you, you may tell me. I will see to it that it is dealt with. You have nothing to fear."
"Pressure? Professor McGonagall, absolutely not!" Hermione said, thoroughly flushed and thoroughly mortified. "He hasn't done anything against my will. In fact — if you truly want to know who started it — I have to tell you it was me."
"Oh—" Minerva opened her mouth, and then closed it again. The room seemed to be tilting slightly.
Granger. Pure, studious, sensible Granger — had she been corrupted by Malfoy? And they had had the audacity to do this in her classroom?
"I should have seen it coming. I should have noticed sooner..." she murmured to herself.
She should have understood that Draco Malfoy's leap into the Black Lake had been motivated by something rather more personal than Triwizard chivalry.
What moral character could this young Slytherin possibly possess? He had been shamelessly working his way into a good Gryffindor's affections!
Granger and Malfoy — she had always thought it categorically impossible!
She had heard the rumours, yes. But she had dismissed them as the usual hormonal embellishments of teenagers, the sort of thing that circulated every year without foundation. She had even defended them, rather forcefully, to Argus Filch in the staffroom: "Granger and Malfoy have been study partners in Transfiguration. They are both exceptional young witches and wizards — you cannot make malicious speculation out of academic collaboration. I won't have it."
Sirius Black had given her a very odd half-smile when she'd said that.
Severus Snape, rather than seizing the opportunity to say something caustic, had looked away and said nothing whatsoever.
In retrospect, they had both known perfectly well.
Minerva lowered herself slowly onto the edge of a nearby desk, not quite trusting her legs. She waved a hand at the two of them. "Go. Go on. I need a moment to myself."
"Professor McGonagall," Hermione said, wringing her hands, "we're terribly sorry. We'll be more careful in future—"
In future. There's a future. Minerva pressed two fingers against her temple and felt the vein there throbbing with some emphasis.
Did they understand what they were inviting? Setting aside the frankly toxic history between Gryffindor and Slytherin — such pairings at Hogwarts were not unheard of, but ones with happy endings were vanishingly rare — one need only consider the Malfoy family and their rather emphatic views on blood purity. Naive Miss Granger, studious and straightforward as she was, couldn't possibly have considered all the complications.
It had to be Malfoy's doing. He had clearly been working on her for some time.
But then why had Granger said that she had been the one to start it?
Did that mean it was Malfoy who had been the one being... managed?
Minerva stared unseeing at her lesson plans and found that no matter how she approached the problem, it made very little coherent sense.
"Quick — before she recovers and deducts points from us," Draco murmured.
While Professor McGonagall's attention was elsewhere, he quietly reached over and straightened one side of Hermione's collar, which had gone slightly askew. His fingers brushed against her neck and collarbone, light and entirely deliberate, which did not help matters at all for the already flustered girl.
Hermione, face blazing and ears steaming, gave him a very pointed look and a small, emphatic nudge that said take your hand away this instant, and passed him his bag.
He looked back at her with the expression of someone who had not the least intention of being contrite, and raised one eyebrow in a way that clearly suggested he was considering his options.
Then he laced his fingers through hers, slung both their bags over his shoulder, and pulled her away — Hermione covering her face with her free hand — out of Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration classroom at a pace that was, technically, not quite running.