Hermione was curled on the couch, a blue sugar quill tucked between her lips as she jotted down Potions notes. Draco sat across from her, working through his own notes on the cabinet.
Draco glanced up from his parchment, his quill tapping idly as he watched Hermione absentmindedly twirl the sugar quill between her fingers before bringing it back to her lips, hollowing her cheeks around the end of it.
It was... distracting.
The way she tilted her head. The way her tongue darted out to clean her lips whenever she pulled away.
Draco swallowed hard and forced his gaze back to his parchment. His quill went still, hovering above the page as his thoughts took a turn he hadn't invited. He tried to shake it off—tried to focus on the cabinet, on the problem at hand—but his mind kept drifting back to Hermione.
Her concentration was absolute. Eyes moving steadily across her notes, fingers going through their absentminded motions, as though it were perfectly innocent.
It felt like anything but.
He cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. "Granger."
She didn't look up. The sugar quill still in her mouth, she raised her eyes to meet his through her lashes, and he had to bite back a groan—disguising it, barely, by bringing his hand up to rest his chin against.
He couldn't help watching her for a moment longer, caught somewhere between irritation and something far more dangerous.
She noticed the shift in his expression. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "What?" she asked, voice a touch too casual. Too knowing.
Draco steadied his breathing with some effort, reminding himself he was not a lovesick fool. He was merely distracted. That was all.
By the sugar quill.
Which she was now licking.
This was fine. He was fine.
It was just a sugar quill. Just Hermione Granger. Just the insufferably brilliant, infuriatingly beautiful girl who was currently doing thoroughly unspeakable things to a piece of candy with absolutely no awareness—or, worse, far too much awareness—of what it was doing to him.
He cleared his throat again. "You've got blue all over your mouth."
She paused, visibly deliberating whether or not to care, and removed the quill from her lips with a soft pop.
He was going to expire. Right here, on this couch.
She didn't bother wiping it away. She flipped the page in her notes. "It's a blue sugar quill. I'm not entirely surprised, Draco."
He bit the inside of his cheek against the urge to lean across the table—to brush away that trace of blue from her lips himself. To taste the sugar on her mouth.
Just a quill. Just a sweet. Just something she's eating, he told himself.
That didn't stop the rush of heat when she brought it back to her lips, and he found himself wondering what it would feel like to be that quill.
"Well, it looks ridiculous," he muttered, shifting again.
"You look ridiculous," she said around the candy.
"What's next? I'm rubber, you're glue?" He smirked.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Sugar quills aid concentration and memory retention, for your information."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "And looking like you've been snogging a blueberry is just a bonus?"
Hermione sighed dramatically. "I'm eating," she said simply.
"You're doing something to it, but I wouldn't call it eating."
Hermione set her quill down with an exaggerated motion. "And what would you call it, exactly?"
Draco shook his head and leaned back. "I fear I'd be hexed if I answered that."
She hummed. "Good boy. You're learning."
Draco's jaw tightened. Good boy. The way she said it—sweet and taunting, as though she knew precisely how much she was needling him.
She reached for the sugar quill again, raised an eyebrow at him, and slowly wrapped her lips around it once more, expression entirely unbothered.
---
They were back to working on the cabinet, trying a series of movement charms to address the transit instability.
Hermione tapped her wand against the door and muttered the modified incantation. The cabinet shuddered violently.
Draco stepped back instinctively, wand raised in case the thing decided to explode.
"Subtle, Granger," he drawled.
Hermione blew a stray curl out of her face. "I adjusted the incantation."
She walked around the cabinet, sighed, and crouched down to examine the base. If she was being completely honest, she was beginning to wonder whether the spells weren't working because, deep down, she didn't want them to.
So much of magic was tied to a witch's intent. And here she was, silently hoping the cabinet would fail—and it kept obliging.
"Working about as well as Weasley's spellwork," Draco muttered.
Huffing, Hermione stood and turned to him. "Maybe if you found a way to help instead of sitting there looking pretty, we'd—"
"I've never been called pretty," Draco cut in. "Handsome, certainly. But pretty?"
Hermione crossed the room and thrust the reference book into his hands. "Do something. I'm exhausted."
"Sorry—did you overexert yourself sucking on that sugar quill earlier?" He affected deep concern.
She stared at him for a moment, then shook her head. "Fix the cabinet, pretty boy," she muttered.
Draco's lips twitched. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Granger."
She shrugged, dropping back onto the couch. "But it'll let me eat another sugar quill while I watch you suffer."
Draco exhaled through his nose and opened the book. "Sadist," he muttered.
"Why don't we just ask someone else for help?" Hermione sighed. "Pansy, or one of the professors—"
Draco shut the book with a sharp thud. "No."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"Are you hard of hearing? No." He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling. "We are not bringing anyone else into this."
"But—"
"There is no but," he interrupted, eyes flashing. "Pansy stays out of this. They all do."
"We haven't been able to solve it, Draco." Hermione leaned forward. "I'm sure someone else could offer something we haven't thought of. The Parkinson family might know some obscure restorative magic—"
"Why don't we invite Potter along as well while we're at it?" Draco scoffed. "It's not happening."
Hermione sank back against the couch. "You're being stubborn."
"And you're being naïve."
She narrowed her eyes. "Naïve? For wanting to actually solve this instead of spinning our wheels?"
"For wanting more people involved!" His voice rose slightly.
"I don't even know what this is!" Hermione threw her hands up, gesturing wildly between them.
Draco blinked. His breath caught.
Hermione hesitated. "The—the cabinet," she said, swallowing. "I'm talking about the cabinet."
He shook his head. "We don't need more people. We just need more time."
She looked at him for a long moment, then stood. "Then you'll have to do it alone." She tucked her hair back from her face. "Because until you're ready to tell me what we're actually doing, I'm done helping you."
Draco's chest went tight. "Done?" His voice came out rougher than he'd intended. "You're just—done?"
Hermione crossed her arms, jaw set. "Yes. You don't trust me enough to tell me what this is for. Fine. But you won't even hear me out when I suggest letting Pansy—your best friend—weigh in."
He opened his mouth, then closed it. His mind was racing. He didn't know how to explain why the cabinet mattered so much—that if he didn't fix it, they would kill his mother. Kill him.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. Rougher.
"I trust you." That was all he said. "You're... different."
Hermione's breath caught. She hadn't expected that—not the softness in his voice, not the way his eyes searched hers as though hoping she'd understand something he couldn't find words for. The rawness there, as though he'd worn himself down to the nerve.
She wanted to be angry.
She was angry.
But there was this—this moment where he looked at her like she was something precious. Something that mattered.
And she hated it.
Because it made her hesitate.
"I can't bring Pansy into this," he said quietly, stepping toward her.
"Why?" Hermione pressed, nails digging into her palms.
"I just can't." That same desperate edge in his voice.
"That's not an answer!" A short, helpless laugh slipped out of her as she pushed her hands into her hair.
"It's the only answer I can give you!" Draco snapped, unable to find his way through the tangle.
She was staring at him, waiting. And Merlin help him, he wanted to tell her.
"Draco," she said quietly.
His throat felt tight.
She studied him—frustration warring with something deeper, something she didn't want to name. This wasn't stubbornness for the sake of it. This wasn't pride.
He was scared.
"Please," she added, her voice smaller now.
Draco shut his eyes briefly, inhaling through his nose. He hated this—hated how easily she saw through him. Hated the way her voice, soft and careful, found the gaps in every wall he'd spent years perfecting.
He wanted to tell her. Merlin, he wanted to tell her everything.
But saying it out loud would make it real. And if it was real, then so was the noose tightening around his neck.
"I can't tell you." He shook his head.
Hermione bit her lip, stepping back. "Can't—or won't?"
"I don't want you to get hurt!" The words cracked out of him. "Can't you understand that?! Isn't that enough?!"
I don't want you to get hurt.
Hermione's heart twisted.
She needed to know what she was helping him with. What she was enabling.
But the way he was looking at her...
The things he was saying...
She shook her head and moved to the door.
"Granger—" He dragged a hand through his hair. "Fuck, I need you."
"And I need a break," Hermione whispered. She turned away and left the room.
---
Hermione sat at her desk, legs pulled up onto the chair, re-reading the letter that lay open on the oak surface. A fresh sheet of parchment and quill waited beside it.
She chewed on her bottom lip and opened her drawer, rifling through the stack of letters tucked carefully inside.
They were from Daphne. Each one folded and stored away, and each one now feeling like a quiet witness to something she hadn't quite grasped until now.
She pulled out the first letter and unfolded it, Daphne's handwriting greeting her like an old friend.
"I'm telling you, Hermione—if you really want to do something about your little crush, now's your chance. You're alone. No one's going to get in your way and make things awkward."
She'd listened to Daphne so readily that first day, turning up at the Slytherin common room to find him. The blunt honesty, the quiet encouragement—it had all echoed in her head ever since.
She remembered what she'd written back—something about being certain that Draco had been about to come looking for her. That he'd been watching her while they studied. That he'd pulled back from her, and that she was convinced he already knew she fancied him. She'd been careful not to mention the cabinet.
She set Daphne's first letter aside and reached for the second.
"Draco's a bigger idiot than Theo. I'm telling you, he doesn't know. Let me know if he does anything else."
Short as it was, Hermione had answered it thoroughly—telling her how they'd taken to having breakfast together, Draco teasing her about her blushes, how they'd started talking and laughing like proper friends. She'd told Daphne she didn't think she fancied him anymore. That she'd been wrong about her feelings. That he was just a friend. He'd asked her how Muggles celebrated Christmas and had actually seemed interested, the way a friend would be.
She hadn't told Daphne how strange it all felt. How her heart had lurched and her cheeks had burned.
Third letter.
"Hermione Granger, if you don't kiss that boy before I get back! Draco Malfoy does not just casually ask about Muggle things!!! Don't spook him, and for Merlin's sake, don't ask about his family."
That one had arrived the same afternoon she'd sent a second letter without waiting for the first reply—telling Daphne how she'd called Draco "Professor Malfoy" as a joke, and the way his eyes had darkened. She'd felt ridiculous writing it, like some lovesick schoolgirl, going on about how she was certain something had shifted in the way he looked at her.
Fourth letter, which had arrived before they'd ever gone down to the kitchens.
"Professor Malfoy? Oh, I am absolutely telling Pansy—she'll have a field day. Tease him a little, Granger. I know you've got it in you. Three words: flirt, flirt, flirt!"
And that was exactly what she'd done, wasn't it? In the kitchens, practically sucking the biscuit dough from his finger when he offered it. Running her hands through his hair. Letting him feed her.
She'd let herself get swept along in the teasing and the little touches, and each moment had only left her more confused about what was happening between them.
She hadn't told Daphne about the kitchens. It had felt too intimate—too much like something that belonged only to her. She had told her she'd taken the advice and was flirting.
She'd told her about all of it since then, really—the domesticity of their strange little arrangement. The Christmas shopping. The ice skating and the sledging. Draco's scream. The hot chocolate he'd brought her so she wouldn't have to crawl out of her blanket.
Daphne had taken ages to respond to that one.
Hermione unfolded the last letter.
"Hermione, you're not fooling anyone. Least of all yourself.
You keep spending more and more time with him, and I'm not just talking about the studying. If you don't kiss him soon, I'm going to come back there and do it for you. You're both absolutely hopeless. If you won't take the first step, you need to make sure he does. I've enclosed some sugar quills. Do with them what you will."
Hermione had actually laughed reading that one. And she'd understood the implication well enough. She'd eaten the quill today as slowly as she could manage, fully aware of Draco's gaze on her the entire time—pretending not to notice every time he cleared his throat.
Her quill hovered over a fresh sheet of parchment. She'd been ready to tell Daphne about the sugar quills, about the way she'd wanted to laugh every time he shifted in his seat and looked away.
She'd started a letter to Pansy instead.
"Pansy," she'd written—and then her quill had stopped, ink soaking into the comma. She hadn't owled Pansy all holiday. And now she was going to tell her exactly what Draco had been up to?
"He's working on a Vanishing Cabinet."
She set the quill down and buried her face in her hands.
It wasn't fair.
He trusted her. She couldn't do that to him.
But he wouldn't tell her what the cabinet was for, and he seemed so desperate for her to stop asking, and she was scared—genuinely scared.
She'd wanted to write Daphne with something cheerful—that she'd used the sugar quills, that Draco had gone pink in the face, that his eyes lingered on her lips when he thought she wasn't looking, that his hand brushed hers far too often to be accidental. That she had never been more confused in her life.
But instead, she'd written that.
She knew she ought to tell someone. Harry would be furious when he eventually found out she'd known. Pansy would be livid. She could go to McGonagall. She could tell any one of a dozen people. But she couldn't.
Because he trusted her.
And no matter how badly she wanted to tell someone—no matter how confused and frightened and angry she was—she wanted to trust him too.
The words sat there, ink drying on the parchment, her handwriting heavier than it should have been.
Daphne knew him better than she did. Pansy knew him best of all. If he needed help, Pansy could get it. If he was in danger, Pansy might be the only person who could do something about it.
That thought alone made up her mind. She folded the letter, grabbed her coat, and left her dormitory.
---
Hermione lay in her bed, staring up at the canopy. Pale moonlight filtered through the open window, pushing the curtains gently inward.
Her mind would not rest. No matter how many times she turned over, pulled her blanket tighter, tried to read, tried to focus on the rhythmic chirping from outside the castle—nothing worked.
Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in that corridor. She willed her mind to stop.
She'd known exactly where she was going, the folded letter gripped in her hand like a lifeline. But with every step toward the owlery, her chest had grown tighter.
She rolled onto her side and pulled at her own hair, huffing softly.
She'd been going to tell Pansy.
The logical thing. The right thing. She'd kept telling herself that all the way down the corridor.
She'd spent weeks—months—watching Draco unravel. She'd seen the way his hands shook. She'd seen the desperation in him to fix the cabinet, whatever it took.
But even as she'd promised herself she wasn't betraying his trust—that she was helping him—an inconvenient part of her brain had kept insisting she was wrong.
Because his hands weren't shaking anymore. Because he'd been scared, and he had chosen to trust her. Because even if she believed Pansy could knock some sense into him, she knew he wouldn't like it.
Hermione sat up, shuffling her feet into her fuzzy slippers and pressing her hands against the edge of the mattress.
Her thoughts wouldn't leave him.
She'd spent the whole day avoiding him—barely looked at him at breakfast, manufactured an excuse to leave the library early when he lingered nearby, retreated to her dormitory before dinner because she didn't trust herself to sit beside him knowing she would either say something reckless or say nothing at all and go mad.
But she wasn't angry with him.
She was scared.
Scared because she didn't know what to do. Scared because she wanted to trust him—because despite every rational instinct, she didn't want to turn away.
And maybe—just maybe—she was scared because she missed him. Because she had spent the last few days happier and more relaxed than she could remember being, and it may well have been her best Christmas in years.
Her stomach twisted.
Her best Christmas in years.
With him.
It was preposterous. She'd had perfectly lovely Christmases at the Weasleys. Nothing about this holiday had been particularly life-changing.
Her feet had carried her through the corridors to the Room of Requirement before she'd quite decided to go there. The door had begun to materialise, and she'd huffed at it and kept walking. She had nothing to say to him—nothing he'd want to hear, at any rate.
She'd found herself climbing staircase after staircase until she reached the Astronomy Tower.
The cold night air bit at her skin as she stepped out onto the stone balcony. The sky stretched above her—a vast, endless expanse of deep blue and silver, the stars blinking like tiny, kept secrets. She wrapped her arms around herself, gripping her own sleeves as she exhaled, her breath curling away into the dark like a ghost of her thoughts.
She wasn't sure why she'd come here.
Maybe to breathe in something other than the suffocating weight of indecision pressing down on her chest.
Except—she wasn't alone.
A figure stood at the far edge of the balcony, leaning against the stone railing, shoulders tense, platinum hair catching the moonlight.
Hermione's stomach dropped.
Of course he was there.
She stepped back to leave—and her foot found the only creaky floorboard in the entire tower.
Draco looked over at the sound, and their eyes met for a moment too long before he scoffed and shook his head. "Why am I not surprised? I'm starting to think you lot have me on a Tracking Charm or something," he muttered, mostly to himself.
She should leave. She should have been long gone already. She could pretend she had never come up here.
"You're not going to jump, are you?" she asked softly.
He huffed, the ghost of a smile finding its way onto his face. He lifted the bottle of Firewhisky he was holding as though toasting the stars before taking a sip. "It's New Year's, Granger."
Hermione blinked. Was it the thirty-first already? Where had the time gone? She checked her watch—just under two hours to midnight.
She let out a slow breath, then stepped out further onto the balcony. Her fingers found the cold stone railing beside him. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to feel.
"I didn't take you for the sentimental type," she said. The wind pushed her hair back from her face, cold and sharp against her cheeks.
"Figured I'd see the end of a rotten year out properly," he said, tone dry.
Hermione tilted her head, studying him.
There was something different about him tonight. Something looser—like he'd shed his usual mask. Maybe it was the Firewhisky, maybe it was the late hour, or maybe he was simply as exhausted as she was.
She glanced at the bottle, then back at him. "And 'properly' means getting quietly sloshed alone on a rooftop?"
Draco shrugged. "Usually I have company."
She rolled her eyes. "I don't need to hear about your romantic history, Malfoy."
"I meant my friends, Granger. The ones you apparently got acquainted with this year? Remember them?"
"Ah, yes—Teddy, was it? And Darla, Burke... what was the last one? Penny?" She reached over and plucked the bottle from his hand before he could take another sip.
"Granger—" He stopped as she tipped it to her lips and took a long sip.
Silence settled between them for a moment. The wind moved through the tower. Hermione felt oddly warm.
She pressed her hands to the cold stone. "I avoided you today," she said quietly.
He clicked his tongue. "Really? I hadn't noticed."
"I needed to think."
"You do that a lot," he pointed out.
She shrugged. "Someone has to. You've met my friends."
He turned his head toward her, voice soft. "And? What did all that thinking get you?"
Hermione's mind ran the full catalogue—her secret letters with Daphne, stolen moments in the kitchens she hadn't told anyone about, the warmth that came over her every time Draco's hand brushed hers just a little too deliberately.
"It got me here," she said simply.
Draco studied her for a long moment, something flickering in his grey eyes.
Then—he smirked. "So does that mean you're finally ready to admit you fancy me, Granger?" He nudged her shoulder lightly.
Hermione scoffed, rolling her eyes even as the heat climbed her neck. "In your dreams, Malfoy."
"That wasn't a no," he noted, voice a touch too pleased.
"I came up here for the fresh air. Not to inflate your ego."
Draco chuckled and took another sip. "Too late for that."
She hummed. "Then you'd better hand me another bottle before I steal yours entirely."
He considered the bottle for a moment, then set it down on the ledge and bent to retrieve a second one from somewhere below the railing. He handed it to her as he straightened up.
Hermione accepted it with a mock toast, flicked the cap off, and drank.
For a long while, they stood there in silence, each nursing their bottles, wrapped in the quiet hum of the night. Then Draco let out a soft, private sort of laugh, and Hermione glanced over.
"What?" she asked.
He shook his head, smiling against the mouth of his bottle. "Nothin'."
"Nothin'?" Hermione mocked. "I leave you alone for one day and your diction deteriorates?"
He looked sideways at her. "I was just thinking about how livid Weasley would be if he knew you were up here drinking with me."
Hermione huffed a small laugh. "He'd completely lose his mind."
Draco watched as she took another sip, her nose scrunching just slightly as it went down. "You make the best faces when you drink," he said.
"Forgive me for not having your iron constitution."
"I drink responsibly," Draco said, placing a hand over his chest. "Mostly."
"Of course you do," Hermione said.
Somewhere along the way they'd migrated to the floor. Hermione lay on her back, staring up at the enchanted ceiling with its projection of the night sky, while Draco sat a few feet away, leaning against the great celestial globe at the centre of the room, long legs stretched out before him.
His eyes were closed, head tilted back. "So," he drawled, pulling one knee up, "tell me—what does the brilliant Hermione Granger get up to when she's not busy saving the wizarding world?"
Hermione groaned. "You make it sound like I have some secret thrilling life."
"You spend an unhealthy amount of time with Potter and Weasley. That alone ought to constitute a near-death experience every other week." He opened one eye. "What do you actually do?"
"I read," she admitted.
"Shocking," he said drily.
"Piss off." She paused. "I go on walks. I knit. I like puzzles—crosswords, that sort of thing."
Draco cracked his other eye open and regarded her with lazy amusement. "So your hobbies are... more school."
Hermione groaned and buried her face in her arms. "It's not just school." Her voice came out muffled. "I like learning things. I like—" she lifted her head, "—understanding how things fit together."
Draco smirked. "You are such a complete nerd."
She grabbed the nearest object—her mostly empty bottle—and lobbed it weakly in his direction. It landed with a dull thunk near his leg.
He snickered, nudging it aside with his foot. "Feisty."
She laughed softly, ducking her head. "Knitting quiets my brain. It never really stops." She paused. "I've been a part of this world for fewer years than I was out of it, Draco. There's just—so much I still want to understand."
Draco was quiet for a moment. "Crosswords?"
"What about you, Malfoy?" she said, chin propped on her arms. "What do you do when you're not terrorising first-years?"
He looked briefly offended. "I like Quidditch."
Hermione cracked one eye open. "Yes, I know that."
"Flying clears my head."
She hummed. "Like knitting for me."
He gave her a pained look. "Do not compare Quidditch to knitting."
"Why not?"
"One's a sport. The other is something my grand-mère does."
Hermione stared at him for a beat. "Oh, you absolute snob." She laughed. "My grand-mère. Could you be any more posh?"
"What would you have me call her?"
"Your grandmother. Like a normal person."
"She's French. She'd have me hexed six ways from Sunday if I so much as dared."
Hermione nodded as though this were entirely reasonable. "Your mother's side or your father's?"
"Mother's."
Hermione grinned, chin still resting on her arms as she looked at him. "Figures. You've always had that refined, mysterious air about you."
Draco rolled his eyes, though the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him. "Refined, yes. Mysterious, not especially."
She raised an eyebrow. "I beg to differ. You're practically a walking enigma, Malfoy. Half the time I'm not sure whether I want to punch you or kiss you." She laughed as she took a sip.
Draco's eyes flickered to hers, something shifting in them for just a moment before the smirk came back. "That's a rather interesting way of putting it."
Hermione didn't respond immediately. The weight of her own words caught up with her.
She felt the heat creeping up her neck but refused to acknowledge it. She turned her head away, feigning complete disinterest. "I didn't mean it like that. Tell me about your grand-mère."
"If she finds out I've been spending time with a Muggle-born, I'll never hear the end of it."
"Right, I've met Walburga's portrait. I have a sense of how the Blacks operate."
"Rosier," Draco corrected.
Hermione frowned. "Don't take me for a fool, Malfoy. Your mother is a Black."
"She is, yes. But her mother was a Rosier before she married into the Blacks."
Hermione blinked. "Rosier?" she repeated, curiosity catching.
He nodded. "One of the oldest families. Nearly died out entirely. Like the Blacks."
"They had no heir?"
Draco raised an eyebrow. "You know more about this than you let on."
"Don't dodge the question."
He sighed. "My mother had two cousins. Beyond Sirius and Regulus."
"Regulus?"
"Sirius' brother."
"Sirius has a brother?"
"Had."
Hermione went still. "You keep saying had."
Draco's gaze drifted to the ceiling, fingers tapping absently against his bottle. "The Rosiers were twins—a girl and a boy. The girl was disowned. Mother never told me anything more about her; I don't even know her name. The boy—Evan—was killed. Mad-Eye Moody got him during the first war."
---
By the time Hermione had found her feet, the Firewhisky was well into its work on her storytelling.
She had her arms spread wide, acting out a scene from her prefect rounds with considerable theatrical commitment.
Draco sat with his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with undisguised amusement as she gestured wildly, curls bouncing with each exaggerated motion.
"So, there I was," she continued, eyes wide with mock horror, "wandering down the third-floor corridor, minding my own business, when I hear—whispering. Not ordinary whispering, mind you, but the specific kind that immediately makes you think, oh no, I'm about to walk in on something I do not want to see."
Draco chuckled. "Please tell me you turned around."
"I wish! So I go over—long after curfew—and I find Goyle. Standing there. Stark naked."
Draco sat up. "No."
"I turned right around and sent Ron in."
"How have I never heard about this?!"
Hermione shrugged. "We assumed you put him up to it."
Draco pressed his hand over his face, trying to stifle his laughter. "Weasley must've been traumatised."
"Sixth-year boys have absolutely no self-preservation instinct." Hermione shook her head. "The things I've seen on rounds..."
"You girls are no better," Draco shot back. "The number of love potions I've confiscated this term alone."
"Blame Fred and George. Not potent enough to cause any real damage."
"Doesn't make it better."
"You're one to talk. I seem to recall a detention slip about your father and a Hufflepuff," Hermione said mildly.
Draco's eyes went wide, a groan escaping him. He'd blocked that memory out. It was back now, vivid and unwelcome.
"It is your life's mission to make me miserable, isn't it, Granger?"
"And not to mention your mother snogging—"
"Granger!"
Hermione was doubled over with laughter, stumbling slightly.
Draco moved without thinking, catching her by the waist before she tipped over.
Her laughter died in her throat. She looked up at him. For a moment, they were very close.
Draco stepped back. "Careful. No need to fall over the railing."
Hermione cleared her throat. "You brought up love potions. I was simply following the natural progression."
"There is nothing natural about my parents—"
"Alright, what's the worst thing you've ever walked in on?" she interrupted, dropping onto the floor and tilting her head expectantly. "Prefect rounds or not."
Draco shook his head. "You're unhinged."
"I mortified you. Fair's fair." She shrugged.
"Fine." He sat down across from her, grimacing as he searched for the memory. "Worst thing I've walked in on..." He exhaled. "Blaise. With himself. In our dormitory."
Hermione's eyes went wide. She burst out laughing—a proper, uncontrollable laugh she couldn't begin to stifle. "You're not serious."
"Fourth year. I swear, I was genuinely traumatised. I've never come back from dinner early again."
Hermione had buried her face in her hands, cackling.
Draco watched her with a grin. "You asked."
"I deeply regret it." She managed to breathe. "Your turn. Worst thing I've walked in on?"
"Oh, absolutely not," Hermione said immediately.
"That's hardly fair."
"Nope. Taking that one to my grave."
Draco leaned in, eyes gleaming. "Granger."
"No."
"Was it Weasley or Potter?"
"I will hex you where you sit."
Draco collapsed back with a laugh, the sound ringing off the high stone walls of the Astronomy Tower.
Hermione grinned. "You should do that more."
His laughter softened, and for a moment he just looked at her, something unreadable moving behind his grey eyes. The firelight played across her face, her grin still lingering.
"Do what?" he asked.
"Laugh," Hermione said simply.
---
"You know, I had my first kiss on New Year's," Draco said, tossing a few loose pebbles over the balcony railing.
Hermione glanced over. She'd been attempting to Transfigure a small globe into a pillow—unsuccessfully. "Oh?"
He nodded, watching the pebbles disappear into the dark. "Pansy and I snuck onto the roof at the Manor in third year."
Hermione set her wand down. "Pansy?"
"It's not like that. We figured that out fairly quickly." He said it a little too fast, as though afraid she might think otherwise.
She smiled faintly. "That actually makes a lot more sense."
"What about you?"
Hermione hesitated. "New Year's traditions?"
"First kiss. Was it Potter?"
"No, it wasn't Harry." She paused. "Fourth year, actually. The Yule Ball."
"Krum," Draco said, tongue pressing against his back teeth, gaze fixed on the middle distance.
"He was sweet."
"He barely spoke English."
"Then it's a good thing we weren't doing much talking." The words were out before she'd thought them through.
Draco turned to her, eyebrows raised, and Hermione felt her face flood with heat.
"Are you telling me you had a rather eventful Yule Ball?" he drawled, clearly enjoying the moment.
"I didn't mean it like that," she said quickly. "It was just a kiss. Hardly the scandal of the century."
"A kiss or a proper snog?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes. The Firewhisky had softened her sharp edges, leaving her more amused than annoyed. "Why do you even care?"
"So—a snog," he said. Not a question.
"You're insufferable."
He tapped his fingers against the stone. "Was he any good?"
"Malfoy!" She hit him lightly on the shoulder.
"What? I'm merely making conversation."
"You are being nosy."
"I prefer curious."
Hermione pressed her lips together. "He was... fine."
Draco let out a bark of laughter. "That bad, then?"
Hermione went to hit him again, but this time Draco caught her wrist.
Her eyes dropped to where his fingers curled gently around it, then flickered up to his face—and for one unguarded moment, to his lips.
"Happy now?" she asked, trying to steer things back to firmer ground.
"Moderately," Draco said. "Your storytelling could use a bit more detail."
She pulled her hand back. "Right. And I suppose you're about to tell me you're considerably better at kissing than Viktor."
Draco's smirk widened. "I'm certain my reputation precedes me."
She snorted. "Right. You're an expert."
"Better than Krum."
"And I'll just have to take your word for it?"
"Careful, Granger—it almost sounds like you want me to prove it."
She shook her head. "Merlin, why am I still entertaining this conversation?"
"Because you like arguing with me," he offered.
"You're insufferable."
"So you keep saying."
---
Four empty bottles lay on the floor, and Hermione was on her back beside them, staring up at the projected stars. "I never much liked New Year's," she admitted.
Draco looked over at her. She had her arms spread out, like she was trying to grip something that wasn't there. The Firewhisky had clearly settled in, but there was a sincerity to her voice now that had nothing to do with it.
He leaned against the railing, watching her, taking in the way her curls spread out like a halo around her. "Parties not your thing?"
"My parents used to leave me with a babysitter while they went out with their friends."
"Sounds lonely," he said, no edge to it at all.
Hermione let out a small, wry laugh, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "It wasn't the worst. I had books. I always had books."
Draco listened, watching the crease reappear between her brows.
"I used to disappear from the parties," he said. "We'd all sneak off to the greenhouse or the roof. One year, Theo and Daphne nicked a bottle of elf-made wine—so much better than the other stuff—and we spent the whole night up there making resolutions none of us ever intended to keep."
Hermione smiled faintly. "Like what?"
Draco shrugged. "Theo swore he'd become a world-class duellist."
Hermione hummed, amused. "And how's that going for him?"
"Attention span of a Flobberworm."
She chuckled. "Blaise?"
"Swore he'd only get married once. Said he'd be different from his mother—she's on her seventh husband."
"Pansy?"
"Promised not to flirt with any more older men just for the free drinks."
"And how did that resolve itself?"
"There was a room full of older men directly below us, so—as well as you'd expect."
She laughed. "Very Pansy. Daphne?"
Draco smiled faintly, as though the memory surprised him with its warmth. "Daphne and I had the same one, I think—when you really consider it. To prove ourselves." His voice quieted on the last few words.
Hermione turned her head to look at him. She didn't press or push—just gave a small nod, as if she understood.
Maybe she did.
Because every day felt like she was proving herself to someone. Even if that someone was only herself.
"I think I like your traditions considerably more than my own," she said finally, closing her eyes.
Draco watched her for a moment, then pushed off from the railing and came to sit near where she lay. "What's your resolution, then?"
She opened her eyes as he settled beside her. "I don't know," she admitted, her gaze drifting back to the ceiling. "I think this year might be hard to beat."
"You've changed?" he mused.
"I'm lying on the floor of the Astronomy Tower, drinking, while Draco Malfoy tells me about his holiday traditions. If that isn't change, I don't know what is."
He shrugged. "Just a Tuesday for me."
She rolled her eyes. "I suppose I could second-guess myself less."
"You second-guess yourself?"
"Every single day." She said it almost softly, without the usual armour.
Draco turned that over in his mind. He thought about the way she always had an answer—in class, in conversation—the way she held herself like she had something perpetually to prove. The way she over-explained things even when she didn't need to, as if she were afraid of being thought wrong.
"For what it's worth," he said, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, "I don't think you need to."
Hermione tilted her head back and looked at him through her lashes. "Easy for you to say. When a Malfoy walks into a room full of wizards, they all assume you're right."
"Not always for the right reasons." He paused. Maybe he had drunk a little too much as well.
The words settled between them. For so long, she had seen him as Slytherin's golden boy—the one who had everything handed to him. But sitting here now, in the quiet, Firewhisky and late hours wearing away the usual pretence, something different was showing through.
"What's your resolution?" she asked.
He shrugged, but he knew the answer. He knew it when he looked at her hair spread out across the stone and thought about running his hands through it. He knew it when he looked at her mouth and thought about his on hers.
What was his resolution? To stop fighting what he already knew? To let himself want something—someone—he shouldn't?
To kiss her?
He exhaled sharply. His heart had started hammering. He didn't like that feeling, not one bit.
"To stop looking for approval," he said at last. From his father. From Snape. From Pansy. From himself.
Hermione sat up and reached for the nearest bottle. "We should toast it, then. Make it official." She raised it toward him. "To the new year. And better us."
Draco watched her drink, then took the bottle and lifted it to his lips. The Firewhisky was sharp and warm going down, but it wasn't responsible for the spinning in his head.
That was entirely her.
She hummed, tucking herself closer to him as she handed the bottle back, setting it down between them. Her head tilted sideways, just slightly, just enough to rest against his shoulder for the briefest moment.
Draco was fairly certain his heart stopped.
But she didn't move away. Even once she noticed what she'd done, she didn't rush to correct herself.
"Getting comfortable?" he asked.
Hermione hummed, eyes half-lidded. "It's cold."
"Cold."
"It's January in Scotland. What do you expect?"
Draco chuckled. "And I'm supposed to be what, exactly? A personal warming charm?"
She smiled. "You do have that enormous, dramatic coat. It might as well be a blanket."
"You are not stealing my coat," he said, laughing softly.
He was fairly certain she was rolling her eyes behind closed eyelids.
"Do you think we'll actually keep them?" he asked, choosing to ignore every instinct demanding he put some distance between them. "Our resolutions. Or do you think we'll forget them by morning, like Pansy and Theo always do?"
"Depends," she said with a quiet yawn. "Do you want to?"
Draco didn't answer. It was such a Hermione thing to say—he ought to have seen it coming. But maybe that answer was the only one he'd needed.
---
The enchanted ceiling of the Astronomy Tower stretched above them, a perfect illusion of the night sky, stars scattered across the dark in their ancient configurations.
They lay side by side on the stone floor, heads tilted back, gazing up into the pretend infinity of it.
Draco raised a lazy finger. "Orion—the great hunter of Greek mythology. Those three stars in a row are Orion's Belt. Also known as my great-uncle."
Hermione scoffed and rolled slightly toward him. "That's beginner-level Astronomy." She lifted her own hand, drawing a slow line through the air. "There—Andromeda. Named after the princess who was chained to a rock as a sacrifice to a sea monster, before Perseus saved her."
"Also known as my aunt," Draco said.
Hermione let out a breathy laugh and shook her head. "Of course she is."
"You're surrounded, Granger. Even the stars aren't safe."
She pointed up again. "Cassiopeia. The vain queen of Ethiopia."
"My great-grandfather's sister."
Hermione looked at him. "Are you going to do that with every constellation I name?"
Draco smirked. "Only if you'd like me to. It's hardly my fault my family tree extends into the cosmos."
"Well, in scientific terms, Cassiopeia is a supernova remnant. The leftover material from a star that exploded—one of the strongest sources of radio waves in the sky."
"You're making things up."
"I most certainly am not! Just because I happen to know more than—"
"Right, that's it." Draco held up a hand. "I'm invoking my birthright to win this contest."
She raised an eyebrow, amused. "And what birthright is that?"
He pointed upward. "Draco—the dragon. Not just a constellation. Associated with Ladon, the dragon who guarded the golden apples in the Garden of the Hesperides."
Hermione huffed a laugh and flopped back. "I think you people simply name yourselves after whatever sounds suitably important."
Draco pressed a hand to his chest. "Tradition is sacred to old wizarding families."
"It's your mother's family that follows the constellation tradition," she pointed out.
"What of it?"
"Most pure-blood families pass their traditions down through the father's line, don't they? It's unusual."
"Observant." He shifted. "My middle name is Lucius. After my father."
Hermione just looked at him.
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what you want me to say. My mother gets what she wants." He paused, then glanced sideways. "My father will have me hexed if he ever finds out I said this—but he married up. The Blacks were considerably more influential than the Malfoys at the time."
"The name suits you," Hermione said. "You're very dragon-like. Arrogant, territorial, prone to hoarding—"
"Oi!"
Draco watched as she reached for his bottle again instead of her own.
"You do have your own, you know."
"Yours tastes better." She set it back down.
He rolled his eyes. "And what makes it taste better, exactly? The fact that it irritates me?"
She flashed him a wicked grin. "That is absolutely a factor."
She shifted closer, searching for warmth, and Draco went still for half a second before relaxing. "You really are using me as a heat source."
"You could have picked somewhere warmer and you didn't." She let her hand fall into the space between them, close to his.
Draco's fingers twitched. He exhaled and moved—not away, but deliberately—reaching for the lapels of his coat.
He unbuttoned it with quiet efficiency, shrugged it off, and leaned toward her just slightly as he draped it over her shoulders.
The heavy fabric settled around her like a second skin.
His fingers brushed against her arms as he adjusted the collar, the touch brief but lingering in a way touch shouldn't.
"There," he murmured, his voice deeper than usual.
If he noticed the way she breathed in—the small, barely perceptible stillness that came over her—he didn't say anything. He turned back to adjusting the cuffs of his shirt, tugging at the collar as if the night air had suddenly grown too close.
Hermione pulled the coat around herself and settled back into her place beside him.
It was much too large for her, the sleeves swallowing her hands, but there was something undeniably comforting about the weight of it. Something she wasn't prepared to examine too closely.
Then she breathed in, and that was when it caught her—the scent of him.
Faint. She might not have noticed it if she weren't paying attention. But she was.
There was something so distinctly Draco about it—the expensive cologne, the trace of Firewhisky, something warmer underneath all of it.
It was dizzying. Intoxicating. The way it wrapped around her, filled her senses in a way that no amount of Firewhisky ever could.
For a moment, Hermione felt suspended. Until Draco settled back into his place and shifted, almost imperceptibly, closer.
"It's warm," she said.
"Good," he replied, not looking at her.
---
Thirty minutes to midnight.
Hermione was very nearly lying with her head against his chest as they talked.
"Favourite colour?" she asked.
"Green."
She groaned. "Of course it is."
Draco let out a quiet laugh, fingers tracing idle patterns against the stone. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's just so predictable," she said. "Slytherin, Malfoy, pure-blood heir—naturally, your favourite colour is green."
"What's yours, then? Blazing Gryffindor red?"
"Blue," Hermione said.
Draco paused. "Blue," he repeated.
"Shocked?"
"Very." He considered it. "Why blue?"
She shrugged. "I like it. Do I need a reason?"
"You always have a reason for everything, Granger," he said, voice quieter now. "You think things through. So—why blue?"
Hermione hesitated, then hummed and shifted against him. "It's calming."
Draco smiled. "Now that's a proper Granger answer." He paused. "My turn. Tell me a secret of yours."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Define secret."
"Something Potter and Weasley don't know."
She exhaled, thinking. "I haven't read Hogwarts: A History cover to cover."
Draco stared at her.
"I can feel your eyes on me," she groaned.
"You cite that book constantly. What do you mean you haven't read it?"
"I skimmed it! I read the important parts, and I know the index well enough to find anything I don't already know." She covered her face with her hands. "The key information is all there."
"I distinctly recall you once lecturing Madam Pince on the necessity of keeping multiple copies in circulation. For the benefit of all Hogwarts students."
Hermione couldn't help laughing. "I was making a point."
Draco shook his head slowly. "Merlin. You're absolutely giggly when you're tipsy."
"Not my fault—you're actually tolerable when you're tipsy," Hermione said.
"I'm always tolerable," Draco protested.
Hermione raised an eyebrow, her head still resting lightly against him. "Always, is it?"
"Face it, Granger. I'm simply more fun than you. Funnier, too."
"You think you're funny?"
"Given that you haven't stopped laughing all evening? Evidently."
"You're awfully full of yourself."
"And you're practically on top of me!"
She stilled for half a beat, then sat up slightly and narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't flatter yourself."
"Just admit I'm funnier, then," Draco said, poking her in the side.
"Fine," Hermione said. "Only if you admit I'm smarter than you."
"That is not even remotely fair. Or accurate."
"It most definitely is!"
Draco swallowed, the sudden absence of her warmth hitting him oddly quickly. "I could absolutely out-argue you any day."
She shook her head. "Absolutely not."
"Absolutely yes."
Hermione crossed her arms, tilting her chin up. "Let's test that theory. Back and forth—facts, insults, whatever you like."
Draco smirked, moving toward her. "You've just handed me a very easy victory, Granger."
"Have I?"
He nodded. "I'll have you so flustered you won't remember what we're even arguing about."
"Centaurs use Astronomy for Divination."
"The Malfoys have held significant wealth since the eleventh century."
"Dragons predated the invention of wands as a method of channelling a wizard's magic."
Draco's smirk didn't waver. "The Malfoy family owns more property in France than the Ministry of Magic does."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Can you talk about anything besides your family?"
"The Malfoy vaults sit so deep in Gringotts they require two goblins to escort you down. Even the Lestranges don't require that level of security."
"Polyjuice Potion was invented in the twelfth century," Hermione countered.
"The Malfoy estate includes a vineyard that produces wine sold exclusively to the wizarding elite." He was openly grinning now. "You should try our white—it's extraordinary. I'll have Mother send you a bottle."
Hermione blinked. "Are you trying to impress me?"
Draco stilled for just a fraction of a second before the smirk returned. "Is it working?"
"No," she said—though, if she was honest, she was rather curious about the wine. "If anything, it's only confirmed that your ego is so inflated I'm surprised you haven't floated away entirely."
"Are we doing insults now?" Draco asked. "I'll start. You lecture with such regularity that I'm genuinely surprised McGonagall hasn't simply handed you her position."
"At least I'm not the human equivalent of a designer robe—beautiful to look at, but ultimately impractical."
Draco tilted his head. "You just called me beautiful."
Hermione opened her mouth—then shut it immediately. Heat crawled up her neck.
"Don't backtrack," Draco said, visibly delighted.
"I said beautiful to look at. There's a distinction."
"Same thing."
"I also said impractical, in case that escaped your notice," she said, crossing her arms.
"Selective hearing," he said, tugging lightly at his ear. "Does wonders for the ego."
"So you admit the ego is a problem?"
She watched the grin spread across his face and felt the precise moment she'd made a catastrophic error.
"Well," Draco said, "it's not the only thing that's—"
"Draco!" She hit him on the shoulder.
He fell back, laughing. "You walked straight into that one, Granger!"
"I was making a point!"
"That I'm attractive."
"Conventionally," she said flatly, "which, frankly, is ten times worse—it means you haven't got personality or depth to back it up!"
"Oh? My lack of depth is clearly the reason you're still here, wearing my coat, laughing at my jokes—"
"I was not laughing!"
"Besides, this whole exchange began with me proving I'm intelligent."
"You'll never be as clever as me because you refuse to learn anything Muggle-related," Hermione said, bright with the certainty of someone who has just won.
Draco looked at the way her whole face lit up with it. He didn't want to argue back. He just wanted to see her smile like that again.
"Because you're the authority on all things Muggle," he drawled, knowing perfectly well she'd take the bait.
"I know considerably more than you do. Muggles are far more intelligent than any of you give them credit for."
"Give me one example."
"Muggles created electricity with absolutely no access to magic—and they use it to power the entire world. Lights, heating, refrigeration, communication, transportation. Have you ever heard of a telephone? It connects you to someone on the other side of the globe in seconds."
She sat up straighter, fully animated now, hands moving as she spoke.
"And then there's the moon landing. Muggles went to the moon, Malfoy. The actual moon. Without magic. They built rockets, calculated everything down to the smallest fraction, and sent people into space. In 1969. The level of precision, the sheer intelligence required—"
Draco wasn't listening.
Or rather—he was listening, but not to the words. Not really.
He was watching.
The way her face opened up when she talked about something she loved, completely unguarded. The way her hands moved, as if she were conjuring the images in the air between them. The way her curls bounced with every animated gesture. The way her eyes shone, wide and bright and full of something so thoroughly hers that it made his chest ache in a way he hadn't been expecting.
She was beautiful.
Not in the way he'd been taught to recognise beauty—cold, composed, deliberate—but in a way that was warm and alive. There was nothing measured about her right now. She wasn't arguing or performing or trying to best him. She was simply talking, sharing something she loved, and for once Draco wasn't thinking about what to say next.
He was just watching.
She paused for breath, tucked a curl behind her ear, and dove back in. "And don't even get me started on medicine. Muggles had to develop treatments for every injury and illness imaginable without a single drop of magic. They've got vaccines, surgical procedures, machines that can take images of the inside of the human body. They mapped out DNA—the entire genetic structure of a living person. And their technology keeps advancing—they keep discovering things, creating new things, improving what already exists."
He barely registered the warmth spreading through his chest, the way the edges of everything else went quiet.
"And radios! They transmit voice and music through the air with no visible mechanism. And computers—Muggles can store and retrieve information on machines that sit on a desk. Some small enough to carry. They can send letters instantly. Messages across the world in seconds—"
She finally looked over at him, ready to continue—and faltered.
He was staring.
She shut her mouth. Swallowed. Tucked both sides of her hair back with hands that weren't quite steady.
"You're staring," she said.
The warmth in his chest was washed away as though he'd had cold water thrown at him. He snapped back to himself.
He had been staring. Plainly. Without any attempt to disguise it.
He could shrug it off. Make a joke. Say something sharp about her going on about Muggle gadgets.
"Yeah," he said instead. Almost under his breath.
Hermione's lips parted slightly.
She wanted to ask why. She wanted to ask what he was thinking, why his voice had gone soft, why he was looking at her as though she were the only thing in the room. Her Gryffindor courage—the same courage that had seen her through werewolves and Death Eaters and battles at the Ministry of Magic—deserted her completely.
Because somehow, sitting here across from Draco Malfoy while he looked at her like that, she was absolutely petrified.
She made a mental note to apologise to Neville for Petrifying him in first year.
"Well, stop." Her voice came out unsteady around the nervous laugh. "It's... strange."
"You didn't seem to mind a moment ago."
"I didn't notice a moment ago," she whispered. Her pulse was rapid in her throat as she stood.
She felt his eyes follow her as she checked her watch. "It's getting late."
"It isn't midnight yet," Draco said, standing with her.
Hermione raised her head slightly, as if the extra inch might help her appear less unsettled now that he was standing. "I told you—New Year's was never really my thing."
Draco studied her face, taking in the way she wouldn't quite meet his eyes, the nervous energy radiating off her.
"Right." He nodded, pulling out his wand and Vanishing the mess they'd made, then stepping back into his shoes. "I'll walk you back to Gryffindor Tower."
Hermione tugged at the sleeves of his coat, still wrapped around her. "You really don't have to—"
"You've been drinking. I just want to make sure you get back and don't end up asleep in some forgotten passageway. I don't need McGonagall lecturing me about leading her star student astray." He said it matter-of-factly, heading toward the door.
"The last drink I had was at least forty minutes ago, and I didn't have much after a certain point anyway. I'm perfectly sober. Or close enough." She followed him.
"I'm still walking you." He held the door open. "Ladies first."
---
The castle was quiet, save for the rhythm of their footsteps on stone. Torches flickered in the wall brackets as they passed, casting long shadows down the empty corridors.
The air was cool, though nothing like the bite of the Astronomy Tower.
Hermione pulled Draco's coat tighter around her as they walked. Every so often she caught the way he glanced at her—brief, sideways, like he was thinking something he'd decided not to say.
"You're still wearing my coat," he noted after a while, voice light enough to be casual.
She tightened her grip on the lapels. "I'll give it back when we get to the portrait."
Draco glanced down at his feet. "Keep it."
Her steps slowed. She turned to look at him. "Seriously?"
He didn't stop walking, didn't look at her. "I have four of the same," he said, tone deliberately indifferent. "It swallows you whole, but—keep it."
He cleared his throat, as though realising something. "I mean—it suits you. More than it should, probably."
Hermione blinked, a strange flutter moving through her chest. She wasn't sure what to say to that, so she settled for, "Thank you."
From somewhere deep in the castle, the great clock began to toll midnight.
Hermione's heart jumped.
She glanced sideways at Draco. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed forward, and there was the faintest frown at the corner of his mouth, as though he were working through something.
She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but couldn't find the words. She didn't know what she wanted to say. Or rather, she knew, and couldn't.
"What's going on in that head of yours, Granger?" Draco asked quietly, without looking at her.
She let out a soft, rueful laugh. "Just thinking. Classes start back up in four days."
He huffed. "Of course you are."
"Apparition lessons begin when everyone gets back. I'm nervous."
"You? Nervous?" He glanced at her then, a flicker of something like warmth in his expression. "What happened to Gryffindor bravery?"
She laughed softly, her arm brushing his as they walked.
They fell quiet for the rest of the way, their footsteps slowing as they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady—who was notably absent. Off celebrating elsewhere, most likely.
Hermione turned to face him, shifting on her feet. "She won't be long, I'm sure."
"This is precisely why I prefer the Slytherin entrance," Draco said.
She laughed softly. "No painted woman demanding you sing to get inside."
"That, and I can go to bed whenever I please."
"That too." She pressed her lips together. "Well—I'll admit, this might be some of the best fun I've had in a very long time."
Draco's expression shifted, something crossing his face that was almost soft. "That might be the finest compliment you've ever paid me, Granger."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "I've been rather generous with them lately, haven't I?"
He tilted his head, grey eyes moving slowly across her face—settling on the way she worried her lower lip, the way her fingers curled into the lapels of his coat draped over her shoulders.
His coat.
The sight of her in it was doing something deeply inconvenient to his self-control. She was flushed from the cold and the Firewhisky, her curls loose and slightly wild, his coat swallowing her whole—and she looked, somehow, exactly as she should.
Hermione was very deliberately not looking directly at him. She found herself hyper-aware of the small distance between them, acutely wishing the Fat Lady would hurry up and start singing. She caught herself glancing at his mouth for just a second before looking sharply away, her tongue drying on her lower lip.
The silence between them stretched. Not uncomfortable—but charged. Full.
Draco stood with his hands in his pockets, gaze flickering between her and the empty frame. He was working very hard at appearing entirely unaffected. But she caught the way his jaw tightened, the way his throat moved as he swallowed something down.
And then—when she thought he was going to look away—his gaze dragged slowly, deliberately over her.
Hermione felt it settle over her like a Warming Charm—the kind of look that made her feel entirely seen. Exposed in a way she wasn't used to. It made her skin warm and her heart stumble over itself, and she'd never experienced that from anyone else.
"Oh, Miss Granger," came a voice from the nearest portrait—an elderly wizard in deep blue robes, with a long silver beard. "Locked out of your common room, are we?"
She nodded, hoping her voice came out steadier than she felt. "The Fat Lady seems to have disappeared for the evening."
The old wizard stroked his beard. "Off celebrating, I expect. I can go and find her, if you'd like."
"That would be wonderful—thank you."
The wizard stepped obligingly out of his frame, murmuring Won't be long as he went.
Silence settled over them once more.
Draco rocked slightly back on his heels, trying not to look at her as she wrapped her arms around herself against the lingering chill. The candlelight shifted across her face—the slope of her nose, the fullness of her lips—and she wasn't doing anything except existing, but it was absolutely doing him in.
Hermione was pretending just as hard. She was thinking very determinedly about something other than the way his hair had gone slightly dishevelled over the course of the evening, and whether it was as soft as it looked, and what it would feel like to—
She cleared her throat.
The excuse to leave was right in front of him. The portrait was being fetched. In moments, Hermione would step through and disappear into Gryffindor Tower. He should go.
Draco exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair.
"Well," he said finally, "you're in safe hands now. I don't imagine much trouble can befall you while you're waiting to be let in."
Hermione chuckled, the sound lighter than usual. "No, I suppose not." She was still wrapped in his coat, still not looking at him directly. "I'd hate for anything to happen to you while you're still wearing it. Potter and Weasley would love to blame me for something."
"They'd find a way regardless," she said.
Draco chuckled, low and warm. "I suppose I'll head back."
He made no move to leave.
"I suppose you should," Hermione agreed, eyes not leaving his.
"Happy New Year, Granger."
"Happy New Year, Draco."
The old wizard was making his way back through the corridor portraits. "She's on her way, Miss Granger," he announced, passing through.
Hermione gave him a grateful nod, then turned back.
The silence that followed was heavy and entirely unlike silence. Draco's eyes stayed on her. She felt the weight of them, and everything that wasn't being said hung between them like a thread pulled almost to breaking.
"Well," she started, with a small smile, "I should—"
She never did get to finish a sentence around Draco Malfoy.
He moved before he could think—before he could talk himself out of it—before the rational part of his brain could form a single coherent objection.
One moment, there was space between them. The next, his hands were in her hair, fingers tangling through the curls, and he kissed her—urgently, without any of his usual calculation, pressing her back gently but inexorably against the stone wall.
The force of it surprised her. A sharp, startled breath slipped from her lips—and he swallowed it, pressing closer as if the very thought of distance was unbearable.
Hermione's mind went completely, blessedly blank. For once in her life, there were no thoughts. Her body moved before she had finished deciding—her hands finding his shoulders, gripping the fabric, pulling him in.
He groaned softly against her lips at that, and the sound sent a shockwave straight through her.
He pressed her back against the wall, and she barely registered the cold stone at her back—she was far too preoccupied with the warmth of him, the heat of his body seeping into her, settling into every nerve she had.
A low sound rumbled in his throat—something between a sigh and a growl—as his fingers tightened in her hair, tilting her head back just enough to deepen the kiss, his other hand finding her waist.
The kiss was desperate and overwhelming and demanded everything. He tasted faintly of Firewhisky and kissed her like he'd been holding himself back for far too long.
But his hands—god, his hands in her hair and at her waist—were somehow hesitant, holding her as though he was afraid she'd push him away at any moment.
And Hermione was drowning. Not in fear or uncertainty or anything sensible. In the way his lips moved against hers, in the way his body fit so perfectly against her own, in the way his fingers curled possessively in her hair, in the way he held her waist like he was afraid of bruising her, his thumb brushing beneath the hem of her jumper and skimming the bare skin at her side.
She shivered—not from cold.
Her hands slid up his shoulders and threaded into his hair. It was soft—softer than she'd imagined—and she felt the sound that moved through him as her fingers curled there, his grip on her waist tightening. That was exactly what he'd needed from her.
Her leg lifted instinctively as his hold tightened and his hand found her thigh, gripping firmly, and she moaned softly against his lips. The heat of his palm burned through to her skin, and she had never been more grateful to be wearing pyjama shorts in the dead of winter.
Draco's breath hitched at that sound—low and wanting against his lips—and something dangerously close to madness rushed through him. His fingers flexed against her thigh, pressing closer, as if trying to close the last distance between them entirely.
She should stop. She should be sensible. But gods, how could she, when he kissed her like this? Like he'd needed it. Like she was the only thing tethering him to anything real.
She kissed him harder. Her nails scratched lightly against his scalp.
The reaction was immediate. Draco shuddered, breath hitching sharply, fingers dragging slowly down her thigh. Delicious and unhurried. His other hand shifted to cup her face, and his knee lifted just slightly between her thighs, putting the softest pressure there.
Her breath caught. She shifted against him—involuntarily, chasing the heat—and Draco made a sound low in his throat as he held her, barely, barely keeping himself in check.
Her nails grazed his scalp once more, and his body pressed harder into hers, his knee shifting just slightly—
—and she whimpered. Actually whimpered against his lips, pressing down against him, and—
A loud, theatrical clearing of a throat echoed through the corridor.
Draco went completely still. Hermione went completely still.
Then she pressed him back, one hand flat against his chest.
She was breathless, lips faintly swollen, eyes dark and hazy. Draco stared at her, his own chest heaving, his hands still holding her as though letting go hadn't quite become an option yet.
"Why, I never!" The Fat Lady gasped from her portrait, magnificent in her outrage.
The sound crashed over them like cold water.
They sprang apart, the space between them suddenly enormous where moments ago there had been none.
Hermione's heart hammered. She fixed her gaze on the Fat Lady's scandalised expression. The portrait's painted chest rose and fell dramatically as she fanned herself.
Draco, for his part, ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly. His pupils were still blown wide. He shoved his hands into his pockets, very aware of the tightness in his trousers, attempting to project the air of someone who had not, moments ago, been completely out of control.
He had been. He knew it.
"I expected better from you, young lady!" the Fat Lady declared. "What would Professor McGonagall say if she knew you were—were—" She flapped a hand dramatically, as though the words themselves were too scandalous to finish.
Hermione's face was growing warmer by the second, the mortification arriving in a swift wave as her mind finally caught up with her body.
She couldn't seem to find words. The space between her and Draco was thick with everything they hadn't said.
"If you could just open—" Hermione started.
"And let you bring Mr Malfoy inside? I think not!" The Fat Lady pressed on. "In fact, I have half a mind to fetch your Head of House—both of them! You young people today, absolutely no sense of propriety! Snogging Slytherins outside your own dormitory—"
"Baubles," Hermione said, the password cutting through the tirade.
The Fat Lady's painted eyes bulged at the interruption. For one terrible moment, Hermione thought she might simply refuse. But the portrait swung open.
Hermione turned back to Draco. The moment she saw his face—his lips, her own fault, and the state of his hair, very much also her fault—she hesitated.
What was there to say?
"I should—"
"You should." His voice came out lower and rougher than usual.
Hermione swallowed. Something tangled inside her—guilt, desire, confusion all running together. She opened her mouth, but there was nothing the right shape to say.
She turned and stepped through into the common room.
---
Draco stood frozen in the corridor for a long moment after she'd gone.
His head was spinning. He ran a hand through his hair again.
What had he been thinking? What had she been thinking?
He could feel the warmth of her still—her hair in his hands, the sound she'd made against his lips, the way she'd pulled him closer rather than away. He couldn't make sense of what to do with any of it. What to do with her.
His pride told him to forget it. To forget her.
His mind refused entirely.
"I take it your father won't be hearing about this?" the Fat Lady said primly.
Draco's gaze snapped up. His jaw set. He pulled out his wand, sent a mild Stinging Hex at the portrait's frame—not the canvas—and walked away.
---
Inside, the common room was empty.
Hermione sank back against the closed portrait, then slid down until she was sitting on the floor, back against the wall.
Her fingers drifted up and touched her lips.
What on earth had just happened?
She had kissed Draco Malfoy. No—he had kissed her. And then she had kissed him back, thoroughly, and had moaned into his mouth, and had pressed herself against his knee, and—
Oh, Merlin.
Her hand fell into her lap.
She could still feel his hands in her hair. His palm at her waist. The press of his fingers against her thigh. She was mortified. How would she ever face him again?
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop the memories from replaying quite so vividly.
What had she been thinking? She hadn't been thinking at all—that was the problem.
Her hand fell slowly between her legs.
She couldn't shake it. The want. The pull. However much she tried to be sensible about it, her body wasn't interested in being sensible.
She couldn't deny what she felt. But the problem wasn't that she'd kissed him.
The problem was that she'd owled Pansy about the cabinet, and he had no idea.
She stared up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.
She wanted to regret it.
She didn't.