Draco was practically giddy when he walked into the Room of Requirement two days later.
Hermione glanced over at him as she finished setting up the VHS she'd asked the room to provide.
"I didn't realise you'd be that excited to watch a Muggle film," she said, straightening up. "It's just The Outsiders."
Draco smirked and flopped onto the bed, stretching out as though he owned the place. "Oh, I couldn't care less about your little Muggle film, Granger." He waved a dismissive hand, then reached into his pocket and produced something with a flourish. "I have far more pressing matters."
Hermione narrowed her eyes at the smug look on his face. "What did you do?"
With a dramatic pause, Draco held up a letter. "Borgin responded at last." His grin widened. "Said we can go ahead and test the cabinet. If he doesn't see anything arrive by tomorrow, he'll assume it doesn't work and owl us back."
Hermione's stomach twisted. This was it. All their work—hours poring over notes, deciphering old magic, working in secret—was about to be put to the test.
She folded her arms. "So you're excited because...?"
Draco sat up, grin widening. "Because if it works, it means I'm done. No more guessing, no more waiting. I'll have done what I needed to do."
Hermione clenched her jaw, trying to ignore the unease creeping up her spine. "Right... so we should send something through."
He nodded. "What should we send? Ferret?" He reached for the stuffed dragon with a grin.
"No." Hermione snatched it from his hands. "We'll send something simple. A pillow. It has more mass, so it won't get lost, but it's not living." She tucked Ferret safely out of reach and grabbed a cushion from the couch.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Always so practical." But he didn't argue, standing and gesturing toward the cabinet.
Hermione opened the cabinet door and set the pillow inside carefully. Her fingers lingered on the fabric for a moment before she stepped back and shut it.
The cabinet shuddered—then spat both doors open again. The pillow was gone.
Draco grinned. "Borgin will confirm soon enough, but we might be done." He laughed.
Hermione swallowed thickly and turned back around. "Well," she said, forcing some brightness into her voice as she sat down beside him. "Since we have to wait anyway, we may as well watch the film."
Draco flopped back onto the bed with an exaggerated groan, adjusting the pillows behind him as Hermione queued up the VHS. The screen flickered to life with the opening credits of The Outsiders, and Draco immediately began providing commentary.
"Why are they all wearing leather jackets?" he asked, smirking.
Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "It's just what people wore at the time."
"At the time? Did your parents wander about in leather jackets?"
"Just shut up and watch the film," she said, waving him off.
He didn't even last a minute.
"So if I wear a leather jacket, am I a... what do they call it? A Greaser?"
Hermione shot him a sideways glance. "You wouldn't look nearly as good as them," she said, offhand, not catching her own mistake.
Draco's eyes narrowed and he turned toward her. "You think they look good?" A strange, prickly feeling settled in his stomach.
Hermione blinked at the screen, silent a beat too long.
"I... I didn't mean it like that," she stammered, shifting awkwardly on the bed. "They're characters. It's not—you brought it up!"
"And now you're on the defensive!" He leaned in with mock-gravity. "You do think they look good. Which one, then?"
Hermione groaned, shoving him away. "Sod off, Malfoy. Just watch the film. It's actually good."
"I don't know, Granger—I think you're just looking for an excuse to ogle the pretty boys. Is that what this is about? Ponyboy? Dallas?" He listed the names with relish.
When Sodapop climbed out of the shower with a towel loosely slung around his hips, Draco caught the way Hermione's attention snapped to the screen—the very tip of her tongue pressing against her lower lip like she was trying not to smile.
Draco's gaze moved between Hermione and the screen.
"You're staring," he murmured, voice caught somewhere between mockery and something sharper.
Hermione blinked and looked away, her cheeks notably pinker than before. "I wasn't staring," she said, though her voice had a wobble in it she hadn't intended.
Draco raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at his lips. "You sure? Because from where I'm sitting, it looked like you were ogling his—"
Hermione sat bolt upright, face scarlet. "I dare you to finish that, Malfoy."
"Gladly. You were ogling his—"
"He had a towel on!"
"You could practically see—"
"Why were you looking?" she shot back.
He raised an eyebrow.
"I was admiring," she snapped.
"Right. The character."
"Yes, the character!"
"Of course. Just appreciating the raw charm of a boy who can't even keep a towel on properly."
She glared at him and turned back to the television.
As Sodapop flashed another easy grin, Draco's voice broke through with fresh enthusiasm. "You know, I think I'd look considerably better in a towel. Just picture it, Granger. Me, freshly out of the shower—all dishevelled and mysterious."
Hermione dropped her head into her hands. "Malfoy, I am begging you, keep your clothes on."
She hadn't meant it the way it sounded. She was fairly sure. But as the scene shifted and her thoughts drifted again, she couldn't entirely deny that Draco—insufferably, inconveniently—did have a certain something about him. Not that she was going to say that out loud. Ever.
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, catching the way he'd gradually relaxed into the mattress, his usual tension dissolving as he began, against his evident will, to actually watch the film.
"You're still staring," Draco said.
"I'm not!"
---
The next morning, Draco was nowhere near as cheerful. He walked into the Great Hall and sank into his seat across from Hermione.
She looked up from her yoghurt. "Bad news?"
"Well—the pillow made it through." He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. "Not in one piece."
Hermione's eyebrow went up. "What do you mean, not in one piece?"
"Borgin said he was practically attacked by feathers when he opened his side of the cabinet." Draco muttered, dropping his head.
A small, guilty part of Hermione had wanted the cabinet not to work. She hadn't wanted what they were doing to end. But he looked so defeated.
"So it did work," she said carefully.
"A burst pillow is a success?" he scoffed.
"Depending on what you intend to send through... we can work around a burst pillow."
Draco looked up at her and shook his head. "You've got to think I'm an idiot if you thought that would get me to tell you what we're doing."
Hermione frowned, feeling the tension shift between them. She knew he had a point. But she'd been hoping—desperately—that he might finally explain things, just once.
"I don't think you're an idiot," she said, her voice steady despite the undercurrent of frustration. "But you've been playing this game for weeks now, Draco. We're friends. If I knew what you needed the cabinet for—"
"I'm not telling you—"
"If I knew what you needed it for, I could help you figure out what to test. Maybe something more similar to whatever you're actually sending. We know the connection is intact—it's just the transport that's unstable." She had already Transfigured a piece of toast into parchment and a glass into a quill, and was scribbling down notes.
Draco watched as she wrote furiously, the familiar crease deepening between her brows as she shifted into full problem-solving mode.
"You're ridiculous," he muttered.
---
A book, a quill, a glass of pumpkin juice, and a tie. One by one, they'd sent the objects through the cabinet, adjusting charms each time based on Borgin's replies.
The book had shot out and hit him in the face. The quill had never arrived. The glass had seemed fine until Borgin reached for it—it shattered in his hand. The tie had arrived in an impressive knot.
Draco sat on the edge of the table in the Room of Requirement, rubbing his temples as he reread Borgin's latest letter. "So, to summarise: the cabinet is still trying to kill people."
Hermione sat cross-legged on the bed, her notes spread around her. "It's not trying to kill anyone—it's just unstable. The connection is there; it just keeps... damaging everything we send through."
He stood and tossed the letter into the fire, beginning to pace. "It doesn't make sense. If the same fault were causing everything, we could fix it. The book shot out at him—we assumed it was a momentum problem and used a deceleration charm."
Hermione tapped her quill against her lip, scanning her notes. "But then the quill didn't arrive at all, which means slowing the transit somehow disrupted it entirely."
Draco stopped pacing, raking a hand through his hair. "Then the pumpkin juice made it through, but the glass shattered the moment he touched it."
"Too much magical force. The enchantment overwhelmed the glass." Hermione nodded, tapping her quill against her chin.
She looked around the room. Her eyes landed on Ferret, sitting on the couch, wings giving the occasional flutter. She looked back at Draco. "We've only been sending inanimate objects. Everything we've tried, a Muggle could have sent."
"So what do you suggest?" Draco asked. "An enchanted plant?"
"A plant comes in a pot that could break." Hermione walked over and picked up the stuffed dragon. "We send Ferret."
Draco shook his head. "No."
"No? You suggested it yourself just the other day!" Hermione scoffed. "It's the perfect test subject—magically animated but not alive."
"And I'd have to explain to Borgin why I've sent him a stuffed animal."
"You're attached."
"I'll find something else. There must be another enchanted object we can use. A Howler, for instance."
Hermione stared at him. "A Howler? Do you want Borgin to have his eardrums blasted out, or is that part of the plan?"
Draco crossed his arms. "We're sending a Howler."
---
Hermione wrapped her coat tightly around herself as she made her way across the grounds, the wind whipping her hair in every direction.
Draco had left her a note in the Room of Requirement—meet him at the Quidditch pitch. For reasons she couldn't fully explain, she was doing exactly that.
As she neared the pitch, she could make him out standing by one of the goalposts, hands shoved in his pockets.
He pushed off the post as she approached, the ghost of a smile on his face. "Took you long enough."
Hermione huffed. "You didn't owl me—you left me a note. Why are we here, Draco?"
"Borgin sent me a Howler about receiving our Howler." Draco shook his head as though still trying to clear his ears. "He wasn't pleased."
"I told you he wouldn't be," Hermione muttered. "So it worked. We should be using that to troubleshoot. Why are we outside?"
"I have a theory. We know the cabinet works with something magically reinforced, but everything we've sent has been static. What if the problem is that moving objects disrupt the transit?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "I'm not sending Crookshanks."
Draco blinked. "I wasn't going to suggest a living—you have a cat?"
"Yes, I have a cat. He's part Kneazle. His name is Crookshanks." Her chin lifted slightly, as if personally offended he didn't already possess this information.
He desperately wanted to roll his eyes.
"I was thinking a Snitch," he said, producing the small golden ball from his pocket and holding it aloft.
"Borrowed?"
"Borrowed. Liberated. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Granger."
Hermione pursed her lips. It wasn't the worst idea. "And you couldn't have simply told me this inside?"
Draco grinned. "And miss the chance to get you out in the cold? Never."
She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Hand over the Snitch."
He raised an eyebrow, lifting it just out of her reach. "You don't trust me to handle it?"
"I don't trust you not to be theatrical about it. Give it to me before I knee you somewhere regrettable, Malfoy."
Draco grinned. "Think about it often?"
"Kneeing you, or your—" Hermione stopped herself.
He barked a laugh. "Go on."
"I spend a great deal of time thinking about how much simpler my life would be without you in it," she said flatly.
Draco let the Snitch slip from his fingers.
The moment it dropped, its wings snapped open and it shot away in a blur of gold.
Hermione's eyes went wide. "Malfoy!"
"My mistake. Catch it." He held out his hand to summon his broom, casual as anything.
"You did that on purpose."
"Did I?" He assumed an expression of perfect innocence.
"You just want to see me on your broom."
His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he bit back a grin.
She groaned. "That's not what I meant and you know it."
Draco stepped closer, smirking. "I know exactly what you meant, Granger. But if you want to ride my broom, all you have to do is ask."
Hermione pressed her fingers to her temple. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"
"Practically sprinted."
She shook her head, glaring at him before squinting up at the Snitch still darting through the air overhead. "You're going to have to catch it before we can send it through the cabinet."
Draco tilted his head, his smirk widening. "I know."
"You wanted an excuse to get me on a broom."
"Maybe," he admitted, twirling his wand between his fingers. "Or maybe I just want to see if you can keep up."
Hermione's competitive streak flared. "Give me the broom."
Instead of handing it over, Draco swung one leg over, mounted effortlessly, and kicked off the ground—hovering just above her head. "Come on, Granger," he drawled, extending his hand down. "Swallow your pride and get on."
Hermione glared at the broom as if it had personally wronged her. "I hate flying."
"I know. That's what makes this fun."
"You're enjoying this far too much."
"You have no idea." He kept his hand out. "I'll fly. You just hold on. Unless you're scared."
Hermione huffed, stepped forward, and grabbed his hand—and the moment her fingers closed around his, she felt a jolt go through her. Before she could think about it, Draco pulled her up and forward and suddenly she was on the broom behind him.
She let out an undignified squeak and her arms flew around his waist.
Draco went very still.
"Oh, shut up," Hermione muttered, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder as they lifted off, the wind rising around them.
"Haven't said anything," he chuckled.
"You were thinking it."
He tilted his head slightly. "It's not every day you hide your face in my neck. Potter would have an aneurysm."
"It's a very good thing Harry will never find out." She still hadn't moved. Her eyes peeked sideways over his shoulder. "If you drop me, Malfoy, I swear—"
"You'll what? Hex me mid-air? Terrible survival instincts, Granger."
Before she could argue, he shot them skyward—a streak of silver against the pale morning.
"Draco!" she shrieked, tightening her grip.
He laughed—loud and unrestrained—his hold on the broom effortless as they swept through the air. "Didn't take you for the clingy type."
"I hate you," she grumbled as he faked left and banked right.
"Funny—doesn't feel that way from here."
She huffed.
"Granger," Draco said, voice going softer, and she felt the wind ease around them. "Look up. You need to look for the Snitch."
She shook her head. "I don't want to."
"Trust me."
And for some entirely inexplicable reason, she did.
She raised her head slowly, forcing her eyes open.
The ground was far below, and despite every instinct screaming at her to panic—she had to admit, it was extraordinary. The sky was crisp and endless, Hogwarts sprawling out beneath them in breathtaking detail, all towers and courtyards and the glitter of the frozen lake.
Draco must have felt her relax, because his grip on the broom shifted slightly, steadying them both. "Not so terrible, is it?" he murmured.
Hermione exhaled slowly, loosening her death grip by a fraction. "I suppose it's tolerable," she decided.
The strangest part wasn't that they were eight feet in the air, or that she had her arms wrapped around him like he was her only lifeline. No—the strangest part was that she found herself wanting to rest her head back on his shoulder, and that she was unsettled by the particular comfort she found in the way his cologne mingled with the cold wind.
"I'll get us close," he said. "You just keep your eyes on the Snitch and grab it."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "We all know you're no Seeker."
"Let's just hope I can catch you when you fall."
She barely had a second to brace herself before he dove.
She shrieked, fingers digging into his coat. Draco laughed—properly, freely—as they carved through the air, the Snitch zigzagging ahead of them in a blur of gold. Hermione's heart slammed against her ribs, but she made herself focus, eyes locked on the tiny ball as it dipped and twisted.
She could feel that Draco was showing off. The way he tilted them just enough to keep the Snitch in sight without throwing her off was maddeningly smooth.
"Stop showing off, Malfoy." She couldn't help but laugh. "It's right there—get me closer!"
"Ask nicely."
He adjusted their speed and steadied them, and for a split second she forgot the height, the broom, and the infuriating boy in front of her entirely.
She reached.
Her fingertips brushed the Snitch's smooth, cool surface—
And then it shot left.
Hermione let out a frustrated noise, but Draco was already moving, twisting the broom in a tight arc that turned her stomach to water.
"Malfoy!" she shrieked.
"Try again."
They levelled out beside the Snitch once more, and she lunged—stretching as far as she dared.
Her fingers closed around it.
The wings fluttered frantically against her palm before finally surrendering.
"I got it!" She laughed—and that was when she noticed it. Draco's hand on her knee. She hadn't felt it happen, but he'd grabbed her when she'd lurched forward, holding her steady—keeping her on the broom.
He removed his hand before she could say anything, and they began their descent.
"Maybe you should've been a Seeker," he said as they touched down. "You're better than Potter."
Hermione scoffed, the Snitch still beating faintly in her fist. "Let's just go test the cabinet."