The list was written in Snape's tight, spiky handwriting and tacked to the classroom wall beside the blackboard. Most of the students were still shrugging off their outer robes, rubbing the chill from their arms after coming in from the courtyard, but Hermione was already standing in front of it with her arms crossed.
She scanned the names twice, just to be certain.
Granger / Malfoy
Her stomach sank. A low, dread-laced sigh escaped her lips.
"Oh, come on," she muttered.
Harry peered around both of them. "That's deliberate. It has to be."
Hermione looked at him. "He wants me to kill Malfoy?" she scoffed.
"Wands out," Snape drawled from the front of the classroom, sweeping into view with his usual theatrical gloom. "Nonverbal duelling today. I expect full participation. If I see lips moving, points will be docked from both your grade and your house."
Daphne had come up behind her, looking over her shoulder. "Oh. Potter." She read who she'd been paired with. "Want to swap, Hermione?"
"No switching," Snape snapped, without even looking at them.
Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes as she turned to Daphne. "At least you two won't kill each other."
"I hear voices!" Snape called out.
Ron snorted. "The voices in his head," he whispered, pulling a ghostly face in mockery before disappearing to duel Hannah Abbott, a Hufflepuff.
Hermione turned around, eyes landing on Draco. He was already holding his wand, jaw tight, eyes trained on her — as if he had been waiting for exactly this.
That was fine. So had she.
No words. No nods. No signals.
She walked over to him, stopping a few feet away. She took off her coat, laid it on a nearby desk, pushed her sleeves up, pinned her hair back, and then picked up her wand.
The air between them crackled as she stepped into position, tightening her grip.
Draco rolled his shoulders once, cracking his neck on either side — smooth, predatory, like a Nundu stretching before it pounced. Under normal circumstances, he'd have scoffed and told her to take it back. But nothing between them was normal right now.
She struck first. No warning. No twitch of her lips or tension in her hand.
Expelliarmus.
Silent, fast, aimed straight at his wand hand.
Draco countered before the spell had even fully formed, his Shield Charm flickering to life with a faint shimmer. His lips didn't move, but his eyes narrowed with a sharp glint — is that all you've got?
His eyes didn't leave hers, not even when he returned fire, his own spell grazing the edge of her shield and scorching the air between them.
The classroom filled with bursts of colour — hexes and counters and shields bouncing off desks and walls — but Hermione didn't notice any of it. There was no one else. Just Draco.
Firelight caught the sheen of Hermione's curls as she turned, her wand arcing in a perfect curve.
'Merlin, that's beautiful,' Draco thought, before he slammed back with a powerful Disarming Charm that cracked the desk behind her clean in two.
Hermione sent a silent Expelliarmus at his feet, and he moved fast — quicker than she remembered him ever being.
He responded with a hex that spun toward her like a whip. She ducked, sending a retaliatory spell under it as she moved.
Hermione fired a spell at him — something they hadn't been taught, one she'd come across in that runes book they'd shared in the Room of Requirement — aimed to temporarily blind him.
It just barely landed. He blinked it off, watching her stalk toward him, hair escaping her bun, cheeks flushed with adrenaline. Her expression was furious, but her movements — controlled, elegant, intentional.
The next spell came fast and dirty — a nonverbal Confringo, just enough force to singe the sleeve of his jumper. Draco's eyes flashed, something wild and dark sparking behind them.
Their breathing grew heavier.
She circled left.
He mirrored her.
His eyes narrowed. 'Cheap shot.'
He cast a Trip Jinx, followed by a silent spell that made the ground shudder beneath her — just slightly, just enough to throw off her balance. A spell she wouldn't know, he was fairly certain of that.
She stumbled, barely catching herself as she hit the floor, then rolled clear of another curse and scrambled back to her feet.
She let out a short breath, blowing away a strand of hair that had escaped across her face, laughing almost silently — almost admiringly. Of course he had a spell she didn't know how to block.
Draco caught the edge of her laugh and felt something sharp twist inside him.
Hermione flicked her wand, sending a rope of invisible magic toward him that whipped at his ankles. He jumped cleanly over it, landing lightly on his feet — as if he'd known she'd try that.
Draco raised a brow at her. Amused. Smug. Infuriating. She hated how brilliant he looked like this — focused, alive, sweat at his temple, lips parted, wand like an extension of his arm.
Hermione struck again. So did Draco. Their spells collided mid-air, a thundercrack of magic exploding between them — silver and gold, smoke and light.
The class went still.
Even Snape glanced over.
But neither of them stopped.
Another volley of spells — faster now, too fast for anyone else to follow. Her Stupefy met his Protego mid-air and detonated with a bright flare, scorching the air between them. The room flickered red and gold, the sparks catching in Hermione's curls and dancing against Draco's pale skin.
He tilted his head slightly, as if daring her. Is that all you've got, Granger?
She stepped in closer, her wand slashing diagonally through the air, hexes tumbling off her fingers like muscle memory.
He blocked, dodged, struck back — their magic colliding again and again.
Hermione wanted to scream. How did he know what she was going to do before even she seemed to know?
They weren't duelling. They were arguing. Through fire and silence. Through tension that hadn't had a voice in weeks.
Draco backstepped, steadied, lunged forward — Stupefy, Expelliarmus, Ventus — all without a pause.
One caught her squarely in the ribs, and she gasped out the breath she had in her lungs, her jumper smoking slightly.
She sent a Jelly-Legs Jinx that forced him to stumble backwards, but he recovered, retaliating with a Cutting Charm aimed too close to her face. She didn't manage to dodge it completely — she felt the blood drip from a gash on her cheek.
They were inches apart now, both of them heaving, both flushed with magic and fury and something else — ten times more dangerous — that neither of them would name.
Draco hesitated. Just for a second. Looking at the wound he'd caused. Then his eyes dropped to her lips.
Hermione didn't flinch.
The blood on her cheek trickled down to her jaw, warm and sharp, but she barely noticed it. She saw his eyes dart to the cut — his wand arm still raised, his jaw tight. He had stopped just short of hurting her worse. Just short.
But then his eyes flickered to her lips, and she felt her tongue go numb, her mouth go dry.
Her wand moved first.
He caught her wrist. Fingers curled around her skin.
Not a spell. Not a hex. Not a curse.
Still, it knocked the wind out of her like a blow to the chest.
They didn't move. Frozen. Crackling with everything unsaid, undoing each other in the space of a single breath.
Draco tilted his head, looking at her — at her hand, at the wand in her grip.
'This wasn't happening. Not again.' Hermione thought, and unable to use her wand, she kneed him in the crotch.
Draco folded with a low, breathless grunt, doubling over, one hand catching the desk beside him as he gasped through clenched teeth.
Hermione didn't wait.
She sent a Locomotor Mortis straight to his legs — clean, brutal, precise.
Even winded, he managed to fire a hex at her, pushing her back, buying himself just enough time to compose himself. He straightened his posture.
Hermione didn't let up. A Trip Jinx. A Full Body-Bind. A hex to redden his nose and distort his voice — all fast, all silent.
He dodged the first, blocked the second, took the third, and sneezed.
The silent laugh in her eyes — gleaming, unguarded — nearly undid him.
Every flick of her wand said, 'Why won't you just talk to me?'
Every strike of his screamed, 'You kissed me and then walked away.'
He launched a Firework Hex — she batted it aside and it exploded near Zacharias Smith, who screamed and bolted.
None of it was clean or fair. They weren't pulling their punches. They knew exactly where to aim to hurt, and precisely how hard they'd have to hit to do it.
Hermione's mouth was still dry, her heart racing. His magic was sharp, precise, powerful, and so unfairly mesmerising.
He was beautiful. Pale, wrecked — eyes like storm clouds and lips red from biting back words. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, the muscles in his forearms flexing with every spell, his movements more elegant than they had any right to be. It was frankly irritating how attractive she found his concentration.
And he was watching her just as closely.
She was radiant. Wild-haired and flushed and furious.
They were showing off now, and they both knew it. They were the same — perfectly matched, reckless, brilliant, and breaking.
Waves of magical energy rippled through the room, their duel drawing the attention of nearby students. But Snape still wasn't intervening. No one tried to stop them.
She hit him again. Not hard. Just enough to let him know she could.
He smiled.
Hermione tilted her head, mocking the way Draco always did it — as if daring him to do something reckless.
Draco raised his wand again, and she mirrored him exactly.
Her hex shot straight at his chest, and he deflected it back with a twist of his wrist — lightning and thunder.
Their magic clashed again in a burst of silver and red that scorched the floor between them. The sound of it cracked across the room.
Hermione's breath caught in her throat — not from the concussive force of the spell, but from him.
His wandwork was precise, elegant, and merciless. He looked — God — he looked incredible like this. Pale hair tousled, cheeks flushed, shirt collar askew where he'd shrugged off his outer robe. Every movement calculated and deliberate. Like he was dancing. Like he was performing.
For her.
His eyes traced the length of her — wild curls flying, jumper torn at the shoulder, chest rising fast with every breath. He wanted to say something, anything, but there was no language left that could survive this.
So he cast again.
Hermione side-stepped it, her teeth bared in a grin she hadn't meant to make, and — Merlin — he felt it in his chest.
They circled once more, like creatures at a watering hole drawing inevitably together. Their bodies were close now again.
Draco grinned at her, almost as if daring her to try and knee him again.
They were nearly chest to chest, breathing the same air. Their arms brushing as they moved in tandem, eyes locked in a silent standoff that wasn't about winning anymore.
It was about proving a point.
It was about the ache in their chests that neither of them would name.
Hermione struck low — a Slicing Jinx aimed at his knees — and Draco deflected it with a flourish that looked more like a taunt than a block. His wand flicked, sharp and elegant, and she felt the spell tug at the hem of her jumper. 'Show-off,' she thought, even as she mentally acknowledged the precision.
She retaliated instantly, a hex that cracked against his shield with a burst of heat that warmed his face. He didn't move, didn't flinch — he just watched her, mouth parted, chest heaving.
'Beautiful,' he thought. She looked furious and radiant and alive. She was extraordinary, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her again.
Draco cast a curse she knew — knew the origin of, the counter to, the exact flick of his wrist when he meant it to hurt.
She blocked it with a spell of her own, and his knees nearly buckled — though he'd never admit whether it was from the spell's impact or the sheer force of his own feelings in that moment.
Draco didn't know if it was madness or weakness, but his wand dipped slightly.
And Hermione did something reckless.
She stepped in the rest of the way — barely a breath of space between them — and leaned up to his ear. "Draco —"
The way she sounded against his ear — hoarse, desperate —
"A hundred points from Gryffindor and Slytherin for excessive dramatics," Snape cut in.
Draco stepped back as if her voice had physically burned him, retreating a full pace, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumped. He didn't look at her — didn't dare. His wand dropped to his side, but his fingers stayed wrapped around it, white-knuckled.
Hermione didn't move at first. Her breath caught in her throat, her body still humming with heat — with adrenaline, with magic, with the overwhelming awareness of him. She could still feel the way his eyes had been on her. The way his name had fallen from her tongue like it had a right to be there.
Snape swept between them, robes billowing in his wake as if he were thrilled to ruin the moment. "You are not performers," he sneered. "This is not a duelling stage." His gaze raked over them both with disdain. "Though, Miss Granger, I appreciate the dramatics — I suggest you save them for the theatre club."
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, tensions still riding high, when Daphne — ever the unlikely saviour — grabbed her by the arm and steered her firmly toward a desk.
Daphne didn't speak at first. She didn't need to. Her fingers tightened briefly around Hermione's arm in warning, her expression calm and composed in that infuriatingly pureblood way she had. But her eyes — her eyes were blazing.
Hermione sank into the seat beside her, still clutching her wand, chest heaving. Her cheek stung where Draco's spell had nicked her, and she could feel the wet stickiness of blood there, but none of it compared to the heat crawling beneath her skin.
"What in Merlin's name was that?" Daphne hissed under her breath, finally breaking her silence once Snape's back was turned. "That wasn't a duel. That was foreplay."
Hermione said nothing. She couldn't. Her pulse was still hammering in her ears.
Foreplay. Daphne wasn't wrong. And that was exactly the problem.
"No, I'd say that was full-on snogging with extra steps," Pansy cut in, slipping into a free seat beside them.
Hermione's eyes snapped to Pansy, her mouth opening in shock — but no words came out. She wasn't sure which was worse: the embarrassment burning hot across her face, or the fact that she couldn't argue with it.
Pansy raised an eyebrow, clearly delighted with herself, and plucked a quill from Hermione's desk as if she belonged there. "You two nearly dry-humped in front of the whole class and then decided wand duelling was the appropriate escalation. Are you trying to kill him, or kiss him, Granger? Because at this point, I genuinely cannot tell."
Hermione made a strangled noise. "That is not —!"
"Don't insult our intelligence," Daphne cut her off. "It was the most romantic murder attempt I've ever witnessed. And I've seen a few."
Hermione groaned and dropped her head to the desk with a dull thunk. "Oh my god," she mumbled into the wood. "I hate both of you."
"You don't," Pansy said breezily, spinning the quill between her fingers. "You're just embarrassed that we noticed."
"Everyone noticed," Daphne muttered, brushing an invisible speck from her skirt. "Snape noticed. The Hufflepuffs noticed. Even the desk noticed."
Hermione groaned again, louder this time.
"You've got blood on your face," Pansy added, unhelpfully.
"I know," Hermione snapped, lifting her head just enough to glare. "Thank you. Very observant."
Pansy conjured a damp cloth, laughing softly as she began dabbing at the blood on Hermione's cheek.
"I can't believe you kneed him," she said as she worked.
"I panicked," Hermione muttered.
"Do you always panic when he looks as though he's about to kiss you?" Daphne laughed. "Because that might be why he's angry with you."
Hermione groaned, trying to pull her face away from Pansy's relentless grip. "Please let Snape give me a week's worth of detentions so I can die in peace."
"He's brooding," Pansy observed.
"He's wounded. You kneed him in the bollocks, Granger," Daphne corrected.
Meanwhile, across the classroom, Draco's fingers were flexing around his wand as he sat down. He could still feel her magic like fingerprints on his skin, still hear the way she'd breathed his name against his ear like a plea, still taste the charged air between them — thick with tension and magic and everything they were refusing to say.
He'd barely seen her since the holidays. Barely spoken to her. But when she'd stepped in front of him today — hair pinned, sleeves rolled, eyes blazing — his body had moved before his mind could think to stop it.
And when she'd kneed him?
Merlin.
He deserved it. Probably. Definitely.
But he still wanted to hex the next person who so much as glanced at her.
"You realise you're completely gone, don't you?" Theo was grinning from ear to ear as he leaned forward.
Draco's jaw clenched.
"Your dignity is in her pocket. She's practically got your co—"
"Nott, if you finish that sentence —"
He held his hands up.
"She kneed me in the bollocks."
Theo clicked his tongue. "What a tragic little masochist you are."
"You should warn her that if she keeps it up, she won't have to worry about a next generation of Malfoys," Blaise added. "That looked like it hurt."
"Blaise," Draco hissed.
"I'm serious," Blaise said, a touch too amused. "I flinched, and I wasn't the one on the receiving end."
"She panicked," Draco muttered, so quietly it barely qualified as speech. She'd thought he was going to kiss her again, and it was the last thing she wanted. He'd seen it all over her face.
Theo blinked. "Wait — you're defending her? She assaulted you."
"She didn't assault me," Draco said through gritted teeth. "It was… a reflex."
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "A reflex? Mate, that wasn't defensive. That was a statement."
Theo snorted. "Yeah, and the statement was, 'Touch me and die' — followed by 'Die, but like, sexily.'"
Draco dragged a hand down his face.
"Everyone saw it. It'll be the talk of the castle by the end of the day," Blaise murmured.
"Not everyone saw it. Not everyone is as obsessed with my life as you lot."
"You're right," Theo nodded. "There was a Hufflepuff in the back corner who might've missed it. She was unconscious."
Draco groaned into his hands.
"I hate both of you."
"No, you don't," Blaise said, casually Transfiguring a stray quill into a miniature bouquet of daisies and tossing it onto Draco's desk. "You love us. We're your support system."
"My support system just reenacted my castration in vivid detail."
Theo grinned. "We support your ability to heal from it. Emotionally and physically."
"Along with witnessing the world's most aggressive courtship display," Blaise added.
"Duelling like you were trying to win her hand in marriage or die trying," Theo sighed, batting his eyelashes like a fairytale princess.
Draco's hand shot into the air. "May I go get some ice? I'm fairly certain I'm losing my ability to have children right now."
Snape didn't even glance up from his notes. "No."
Theo doubled over laughing.
Blaise whistled low, leaning back in his chair like he was settling in for a show. "You might want to draft a will, mate. If she hits you again, you'll be hexing blanks for the rest of your life."
"If she hits me again, I'll tell her to keep going until I'm dead. My bollocks are killing me!" Draco snapped.
Theo wheezed, nearly falling off his chair.
Draco dropped his head onto his desk. "I'm owling my solicitor and filing for a restraining order."
"Your father is in Azkaban. You may need a better solicitor," Blaise whispered — before taking the daisies back, waving his wand, and Transfiguring them into a bag of ice. Without warning, he tossed it straight into Draco's lap.
Draco let out a strangled yelp, jerking upright as though the ice had cast a Stunning Spell of its own.
"Merlin's frozen arse, Zabini!" he barked, clutching the ice bag with a wince that went straight to his core. "Warn a man before you chuck frostbite at his — you know!"
"See?" Blaise said smugly. "Support system."
"You're deranged," Draco growled, holding the ice gingerly in place.
Theo wheezed harder, completely gone at this point, slapping the table. "This is the best class I've ever had. Can I put this on my NEWT record? Can I cite it in a personal statement?"
"You should just kiss her," Blaise sighed.
"Currently icing my bollocks because of her, Zabini."
"Send her your healer's bill," Blaise offered helpfully. "Very romantic. Let her know her affections are tax-deductible."
"I'm going to kill both of you," Draco muttered.
"You say that," Theo said, wiping tears of genuine laughter from his eyes, "but when you inevitably make up and start sneaking into her bed at night, I want you to remember this moment. The agony. The ice. The fact that your bollocks currently sound like a cocktail shaker."
"Mr Malfoy," Snape drawled, his voice laced with venom. "Do try to remain upright. I prefer my students conscious while they fail."
Theo bit his fist to keep from laughing again. Blaise conjured a second ice bag just to be cruel.
And all the while, she was sitting across the room — perfect posture, red-cheeked, lips pressed together as if she might laugh, or cry, or hex him again if he so much as breathed too loudly.
He hated how much he liked that look on her. As though she could snap him in half and smile while doing it.
He deserved it.
But Merlin help him — he wanted her to do it again.
Maybe not the knee part.
Maybe.
He didn't know anymore.
"And do see me after class," Snape added.
Class couldn't have ended fast enough.
Hermione, for her part, had grabbed her bag and practically sprinted from the classroom, trying and failing to preserve any shred of dignity after making direct and aggressive contact with Draco's nether regions in front of the entirety of NEWT-level Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Blaise leaned forward, clapping Draco on the shoulder as he stood. "Try not to lose us any more points, yeah?" he whispered, grinning at Theo as they walked out.
Once the classroom had emptied, Snape locked the door, turning back to Draco, who was still seated at his desk.
Draco didn't flinch, but he felt the weight of it all the same — heavy and final, like a cell door swinging shut.
Snape turned, robes whispering as he moved behind his desk. "Sit properly, Mr Malfoy."
Draco muttered something under his breath but did as he was told, straightening up.
Snape watched him for a long moment, his expression as unreadable as ever, though his eyes were sharp and cold — like glass that had frozen over something far more dangerous underneath.
"I assume there is an explanation," he said at last, voice smooth as silk and twice as cutting.
Draco's jaw ticked. "She started it."
Snape's brow arched — glacially unimpressed. "How very mature."
"You paired us!" he argued, jabbing a finger toward the parchment on the wall. "If anything, it's your fault! I was just defending myself!"
"Yes, and I feel it's safe to assume your ego isn't the only thing that's bruised," Snape drawled.
Draco was scowling now. "Why am I the one getting a talking to?! She's the one who —"
"Because we had this conversation before the Christmas holidays!" Snape cut him off sharply. "You have a task to focus on — not wasting your time trying to impress Miss Granger. The Dark Lord —"
"The Dark Lord doesn't tolerate failure. Yes, I remember."
Snape's eyes flashed dangerously at the interruption, the air between them pulling tight as a noose.
"Do not be insolent with me, Mr Malfoy," Snape growled, voice low and lethal. "Your father's mistakes are still fresh, I'll remind you."
"She infuriates me! That's all it is!"
"Unfortunately, I no longer believe you. The Dark Lord has many ways of testing loyalty, Draco. Your aunt cannot teach you enough Occlumency to hide whatever it is you're doing with Miss Granger. If you won't listen for your own sake — or your mother's — then at least consider what he will do to her, should you fail."
Draco opened his mouth, but Snape silenced him with a look.
"You are dismissed. Madam Pomfrey will write you a note if you wish to be seen before your next class." A pause, deliberately sharp. "And I will be writing to your father. I'm sure he'll be pleased to hear you've developed an attachment to a Muggle-born."
Draco's heart hammered in his chest, but he kept his face carefully blank. "Go ahead. It isn't true. He'll know that." He muttered, rising from his seat with a wince. He did his best to walk out with some semblance of dignity, making his way to the hospital wing.
It was a few days later — the last Friday in January — when a snowstorm swept in.
It had arrived with little warning, blanketing the grounds in white and seeming to swallow everything in sight.
At breakfast, Dumbledore had declared that classes would not be held, as the conditions would significantly affect Astronomy, Herbology, and Care of Magical Creatures.
Unfortunately for the prefects, that meant supervising the younger years. The seventh years had the first round, from nine until noon. The sixth years — including Hermione, Draco, Padma, Ron, and Pansy — would be there from noon until four, when the fifth years would take over.
The usual hum of conversation had given way to excited chatter as everyone speculated about what to do with the extra free hours. But for Draco, there was no excitement. The thought of spending an entire afternoon under the collective gaze of younger students — many of whom were still whispering about the recent incident — didn't sit well with him.
It had been a week, and people were still talking about Hermione bloody Granger and her assault on his bollocks.
"Did you ever actually go to Madam Pomfrey?" Daphne asked, finishing her breakfast.
Draco looked at her, sighing. "When are we going to stop talking about my —"
"When it stops being funny," Pansy cut in immediately.
"What every man wants to hear," Theo grinned.
Blaise, lazily swirling the last of his coffee, smirked into his mug. "Pomfrey gave him a salve to make sure he doesn't lose the family jewels."
Theo leaned back in his chair, far too pleased with himself. "So you've just been, what, applying that every night? Alone? In bed?"
"He's real dedicated to the craft," Blaise added.
"Three times daily, I'd wager," Pansy said with a wicked grin. "Very thorough application."
Draco stabbed a piece of sausage like it had personally wronged him — and was very much trying not to register the irony. "Are you lot hitting a quota or something?"
"I'm just impressed you're still so… testy," Daphne murmured.
Blaise nodded sagely. "All that swelling and no one to kiss it better."
That earned a fresh round of laughter, Daphne nearly choking on her pumpkin juice.
"Are you done?" Draco asked.
"Oh, we're absolutely balls deep in jokes, Draco." Daphne grinned.
Theo gave her an approving look. "Excellent form, Greengrass."
Draco groaned, glaring at all of them. "You're all actual children."
"The Boy Who Lived and The Boy Who Lost His Balls," Pansy sighed theatrically. "What a legacy Hogwarts has for its students."
"They are very much still attached!" Draco snapped.
"Oh, so you're still fully functional then?" Theo asked, all innocence.
Blaise waggled his eyebrows. "Should we test it? Daphne, volunteer as tribute?"
Daphne rolled her eyes. "I don't go in for men who are such a pain in the —"
"I hate you all," Draco said flatly. "Do you want me to drop my trousers and prove it?"
"Aw, don't be so sensitive," Pansy cooed. "It's not as if we're busting your — oh, wait."
That got the whole table laughing again.
Draco rubbed his face. "I hope I die."
"We need you alive and functional, Draco," Theo argued. "Preferably not taking any more knees to the groin."
"Maybe Hermione did you a favour," Pansy said thoughtfully, twirling her spoon. "Knocked some sense into you. Or at least put a stop to you thinking with your —"
"If anyone says wand, I swear to Merlin —"
"Bludger, actually. That was the word I was going for."
He pressed a hand to his temple. "Glad you're all enjoying my suffering."
Daphne's eyes gleamed. "You'll survive, Draco. And who knows? Maybe Hermione will even apologise someday. Properly. In her own way."
Theo grinned. "With her hands. And her mouth. Proper healing touch, you know?"
"You're terrible people," Draco hissed.
"Aw, Draco, don't tug at our heartstrings," Theo said, feigning concern.
"He's tugging something, alright," Daphne muttered.
"You all need decency. Or shame. Or perhaps hobbies."
"This is our club," Blaise grinned. "We share the load."
"Share the — you're all completely deranged."
"I hear that salve has side effects," Theo said. "Heightened emotions. Restless hands."
"Restless wands," Daphne added.
"Don't," Draco growled.
"Too easy?" Pansy asked.
"No. Too predictable. Try harder."
"We wouldn't want you feeling bad about the fact that you can't." Daphne smiled sweetly. "Get hard, I mean."
Draco stood up. "I hope Granger hexes you all."
"Getting post-traumatic stress symptoms?" Theo frowned, entirely too earnest.
"Post-Testicular Stress Disorder," Pansy clarified.
Outside in the snow, the Gryffindors were engaged in a full-scale snowball war.
"Luna, just pick a side!" Ron groaned, Lavender clinging to his arm.
"I'm on the side of the moon," Luna replied serenely.
Ginny grinned. "She's with us." She pulled Luna over. It was Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Seamus, and Neville against Dean, Ron, Harry, Lavender, and Padma.
"Just keep your knees to yourself, Hermione," Dean called out as they all began arming themselves.
Hermione felt heat creeping up her face. "Just keep your hands on your own Quaffle, Thomas," she said, launching a snowball straight at him.
The war broke out in earnest — all of them screaming and laughing as they sprinted across the grounds, ducking behind bushes, climbing trees, doing their absolute best to pelt each other into submission.
Snow flew in every direction as shrieks and laughter echoed across the Hogwarts grounds, their makeshift battlefield filling quickly with footprints and half-formed snowballs. Neville was nearly crying with laughter as he tried to climb a tree for high ground, only for Seamus to hurl a snowball directly at his backside.
"Oi! That's against the rules!" Neville yelled, slipping halfway down the trunk.
"There are no rules!" Ginny shouted, flinging two snowballs at once with impressive aim.
Padma screamed as one caught her squarely in the back. She flailed dramatically and collapsed in the snow. "Tell my family I love them!" she cried.
Hermione was flushed, hair tangled with melting snow, her scarf unravelling at one end. She was enjoying herself for the first time in weeks, even if the back of her mind kept nudging her — reminding her that back in December, she'd been doing exactly this with Draco.
Harry bolted left and Ron bolted right until she was cornered.
"Stand down, Hermione," Ron said, a snowball at the ready.
Hermione tilted her head. "Ronald, I swear to Godric —"
"Now!" Harry yelled.
They both threw at the same time, and Hermione screamed as she turned and ran.
Her laughter rang out — bright and unbothered — and Draco felt it like a fist to the chest from where he stood on the steps near the entrance hall, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.
Hermione Granger looked radiant.
No book bag. No scowl. No sharp retort half-formed on her lips. Just her pure, unfiltered laugh — the same one she'd use when they were in their own little world, working on potions or the cabinet together.
Her hair was a tangle of curls, wet with snowflakes, her gloves dusted white.
His chest ached.
His fingers twitched at his side — and then a small, delicate hand slipped into his. Her touch was practised and light, like everything she did.
"They look ridiculous," Astoria said, almost sweetly. "Like children."
Draco pressed his lips into a tight line. Hermione had just thrown a snowball at Potter's face, sending his glasses askew.
Hermione threw her head back with a laugh, spinning to dodge a rogue snowball Harry had aimed at her. Her eyes caught Draco. Standing with Astoria. Holding hands.
She looked away almost immediately. As if it didn't matter. As if she hadn't seen.
But as she turned around, the breath left her body, the snowball in her hands falling and sinking back into the snow, every trace of her laughter dying at once.
It was a couple of hours later when the sixth-year prefects were stationed in the Great Hall watching over the first and second years.
The enchanted ceiling above was still swirling with white, snow drifting gently in the illusion of a never-ending storm. Blankets and cushions had been Conjured along the edges of the room, and some of the smaller students were curled up with mugs of cocoa, giggling over games of Exploding Snap or staging enchanted snowman-building contests in the far corner.
Hermione sat stiffly at one of the side tables, legs crossed, absentmindedly sucking on a sugar quill as she tried to quiet her thoughts. Her eyes kept drifting over to Draco.
Astoria — Daphne's younger sister — thankfully wasn't a prefect and wasn't in their year, so at least she wasn't here for Hermione to obsess over.
Ron dropped down beside her with two mugs of cocoa and a grin. "Snagged us the last of the marshmallows," he said, sliding one her way. "Some of those second-years are like wolves."
Hermione blinked, pulling herself back into the moment. "Thanks," she murmured around the sugar quill.
"My toes are frozen," Ron muttered, sipping his cocoa. "You think frostbite could get me out of prefect duties?"
She shook her head. "Already tried that excuse. We're stuck." She sighed.
On the other side of the hall, Pansy made her way over to Draco and handed him a candy cane. "If I promise to stop making jokes at your expense, can I comment on the way Hermione's sucking on that sugar quill?"
Draco took the candy cane with a sigh. "You should've seen the one she had over the holidays. I honestly thought she was trying to do me in."
Pansy looked over at him, eyes widening. Progress.
"Oh?" she asked, doing her best impression of boredom.
"Yeah," he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching. "She had this blue one, just like that. Kept — uh —" He cut himself off, suddenly very aware of where the conversation was headed. His ears went slightly pink, but he pushed through. "Go and pester her, will you?"
Pansy sighed. "Fine, fine. You should know — Zoe Accington's here, and she's been asking about you and Hermione."
Draco blinked slowly. "Who?"
"Remember that first-year from the first day? The one who asked if Hermione was your girlfriend?"
Draco's brow furrowed as the memory of the small girl filtered back to him. She'd asked him — so innocently — if Hermione was his girlfriend.
"That annoying girl?" He groaned.
"She's very committed to proving she was right. I rather admire her, actually. Very ambitious."
"Of course you would. She's a younger version of you." Draco pushed off the wall. "I'm going to put a stop to this."
"Or just go talk to Hermione. Ask her about her sugar quill techniques."
He flipped her off.
Hermione was still absentmindedly twirling the sugar quill between her lips when a first-year Slytherin appeared before her.
"Hi. I'm Zoe."
Hermione looked down at her, slowly removing the sweet from her mouth. "Hi. I'm Hermione."
Zoe nodded, her thick braid bouncing against her shoulder. She looked oddly determined for someone barely over four feet tall and wearing mismatched socks.
"I know who you are," she said plainly. "I've been collecting evidence."
Hermione blinked. "Evidence of what, exactly?"
Zoe glanced over her shoulder dramatically, as if about to divulge state secrets, then stepped closer and beckoned for Hermione to lean down. She whispered in her ear: "That you and Draco Malfoy are in love."
Hermione jerked back so fast she nearly choked on the sugar quill.
"What?" she coughed, staring at the small girl who was now beaming with the satisfaction of someone who had just solved a deeply puzzling riddle.
"I have a chart," Zoe added, as if that explained everything. "With arrows and a timeline. It's very thorough."
Hermione stared at her, completely at a loss. "A… chart."
"Mhm." Zoe nodded. "I started it in the first week of term."
Hermione's jaw went slack. She looked around in sheer disbelief, as if someone nearby might confirm that this tiny Slytherin had not, in fact, just admitted to maintaining a conspiracy board about her love life.
"What exactly is on this chart?" she finally asked.
Zoe grinned as though she'd just won the Quidditch World Cup. "I'm so glad you asked!"
To Hermione's mounting horror, the eleven-year-old produced a rolled-up piece of parchment from her bag and unfurled it across the table in front of her.
Hermione's eyes bulged. It was at least three feet long, colour-coded, covered in photographs and glitter, with arrows pointing in every direction and red string connecting various people — the girl had evidently consumed one too many Muggle crime dramas — along with labels and graphs.
Hermione stared at the monstrosity Zoe had rolled out, mouth agape. There were moving photographs — actual wizarding photos — of her and Draco. One of them in the library, heads tilted close together over a Potions book. Another of them walking down a corridor, not even touching, but with a tiny glitter heart sticker placed between them.
It got worse when Zoe produced a second sheet of parchment and unfurled that as well. "I also did some cross-analysis. Lots of interviews."
Hermione couldn't decide if she was horrified or grudgingly impressed. "Interviews?"
Zoe nodded proudly. "With witnesses. A few Ravenclaws saw you arguing in the corridor on the second of October, and one of them said — and I quote — 'It was very Mr Darcy of him. Intensely romantic.'"
"How do you know who Mr Darcy is?"
"That's the important part? You can borrow my copy, if you like. There's kissing. Like you and —"
"There has been no kissing," Hermione said firmly, with a nervous laugh.
"I interviewed the Fat Lady," Zoe said simply.
Hermione was now staring at the timeline — a bloody timeline! — her heartbeat accelerating. It was all there, on parchment. The bits Zoe hadn't been able to confirm, gathered from portraits or house-elves, were marked in a different colour. There were even timestamps.
Ron, who had been occupied arguing with some first-years about Exploding Snap, wandered back over. "Oh, hi, Zoe."
Zoe looked at him. "Ronald."
"You know each other?!" Hermione asked, her voice pitching upward.
"Yeah. She asked me loads of questions once. I assumed it was for a class project." Ron said, none the wiser.
"He has an entire section," Zoe explained, helpfully unrolling the chart further.
And there it was, in bright red. A photograph of Ron, the label Complications surrounded by question marks, and phrases like 'Jealous?' and 'Unrequited feelings?' — with an entire subsection titled The Lavender Brown Factor.
Ron leaned forward, squinting. "Oi. Why am I surrounded by question marks? What does that mean?"
Zoe tilted her head at him with great seriousness. "Emotional ambiguity. You're the wildcard."
"I'm what?"
"At first, my working theory was a love triangle. But I had to revise your involvement when the data stopped supporting you as a viable love interest."
"The data?" Hermione whispered.
Zoe gave a sage nod. "It was never going to work. You and Hermione argue too much, and you've been snogging Lavender Brown in broom cupboards since late October. I adjusted the probabilities. Lavender reduced your relevance by seventy-two per cent. Eighty-four after the row in the entrance hall, when Hermione walked away muttering under her breath."
She looked back at Hermione. "What were you saying, by the way? I've tried reading your lips, but you talk too fast. That's actually listed as one of the key observations under the Draco section! Did you know he rather likes it when you talk quickly?"
Hermione pushed her mug toward Ron. "I'm out of cocoa. Get me more," she said, shooting him a look that very clearly meant go.
Once Ron had gone, muttering something about how he wanted to hear more, she turned back to Zoe.
"Zoe, I'm fairly certain this is illegal."
"My mum's a solicitor. She says if it's not published, it's probably fine." She said as she unrolled a section labelled Signs Draco Malfoy is Hopelessly in Love.
Hermione was genuinely beginning to wonder if this child was possessed by Rita Skeeter. Would a larger jar be needed?
Before Hermione could summon a response, Zoe added with deadly seriousness: "Also, the way you were looking at him just now — while sucking on the sugar quill? I'm going to have to add that to the chart under Evidence of Mutual Pining. Possibly public foreplay — I'm not entirely certain what that means, but I overheard Daphne Greengrass saying it to Pansy Parkinson."
Hermione nearly choked.
"Don't worry. I've only shown Pansy and Theo, and my dormmates, and a couple of Hufflepuffs. Oh, and Professor McGonagall — she asked me what I was working on."
The blood drained from Hermione's face. "You showed Professor McGonagall?"
Zoe nodded gravely. "She didn't say much. Just stared for a rather long time and then told me I had… potential."
Before Hermione could explain precisely why that was not a compliment, a shadow fell across the table, and she felt an overwhelming urge to disappear entirely.
"That is not a flattering photograph of me," Draco said, peering over her shoulder.
Hermione spun around so fast she cracked her knee against the table leg. She bit back a curse, wincing, and looked up into Draco's infuriatingly handsome, mildly amused face.
He was studying Zoe's chart as though it were a midterm project he'd been asked to review.
Draco, to Hermione's absolute mortification, crouched beside Zoe and began reading the section labelled Signs Draco Malfoy is Hopelessly in Love. His eyes moved slowly across the bullet points, murmuring quietly as he went. "Adjusts his tie when she walks in… checks to see if she's watching when he enters a room… moved one chair closer during Potions on the twenty-first of October…"
"That was because he was helping me with a potion," Hermione protested.
Zoe ignored her. "Oh — my favourite part is the facial expression analysis. I spent hours on that. See this graph?" She pointed to a photograph of Draco with a vaguely smitten expression, captioned: Eyebrows: soft. Mouth: distracted. Eyes: ruined.
"What does ruined mean?" Hermione hissed.
"Is that really what I look like?" Draco muttered, tilting his head.
"Draco," she finally managed, voice tight with mortification. "You cannot be encouraging this."
He didn't look up. "It's rather comprehensive."
"Stop encouraging her!" Hermione snapped, reaching to roll up the parchment — but Zoe slapped her hand away with surprising speed for someone so small.
"I'm not encouraging her. It simply happens to be accurate." He glanced down at the chart again. "You've counted how many times I've adjusted my tie?"
"I also counted how many times Hermione pushed her hair behind her ears," Zoe explained. "She started doing it with both hands at some point — usually when you're talking. I believe that's when everything changed." She pointed at a cluster of photographs of Hermione tucking her hair back.
Hermione was approximately two seconds from sliding under the table and never emerging.
Draco, meanwhile, looked riveted — the insufferable menace was leaning in closer, squinting at the glitter-laden diagram as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
"This is mentally deranged," Hermione whispered.
"See? That's exactly why I included a twenty per cent chance she was in denial," Zoe said, pointing to a small chart.
Draco snorted. "Seems a little low."
Hermione turned to stare at him, jaw dropping.
"It's disturbingly well organised," Draco admitted. "She's you at eleven."
"I was never making charts about people's romantic probabilities!" Hermione argued.
"So you admit there is a romantic probability?" Zoe gleamed.
"Burn it," she hissed.
"Your body language says otherwise."
"Stop analysing me."
"You're blushing."
"I'm cold."
Zoe sighed dramatically, looking at Draco. "I was hoping she'd crack by Valentine's Day."
Draco's gaze flickered over to Hermione, expression unreadable. "Valentine's Day, hmm?" he asked Zoe.
She nodded.
"And what's your prediction for me?"
Zoe considered him carefully. "Already cracked. You're just pretending not to notice. Highly emotionally repressed. But in an endearing sort of way."
She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment. "Though perhaps not quite as repressed as I initially thought. Something's shifted. I can feel it."
Draco snorted, thinking of Hermione's knee to his bollocks just a few days prior. "Something's shifted, all right," he muttered.
Zoe hummed. "Yes, it's filed under The January Incident: Hermione makes contact. Possible regression or testing phase?"
"You're enjoying this?" Hermione asked.
"It's flattering," Draco shrugged.
"It's invasive! You should be offended!"
Draco was looking at her rather more than she was comfortable with. He reached out, plucked the sugar quill from Hermione's hand, stuck it in his own mouth, and said around the stem: "For the record, the blue one tasted better."
Hermione stared at him, her mind completely blank as he chewed on the sugar quill and held her gaze with that unreadable expression. Her heart was racing, and she was still trying to recover from Zoe's chart.
"You have a girlfriend!" she finally snapped.
Draco paused, pulling the sugar quill from his mouth. He had desperately hoped she hadn't seen Astoria take his hand earlier. "You really know how to make a bloke feel wretched, Granger," he muttered, handing back the sugar quill and standing up. "Go ahead and finish me off next time." He added, before walking away.
Hermione felt her stomach drop as his words settled. She wasn't sure whether to feel angry or embarrassed, but she had to bite back the wave of emotion rising in her chest.
Zoe was frowning at her chart. "I didn't account for a romantic false lead."
The snow had melted by the time February arrived, replaced by cold, dreary dampness. It was Saturday — the first Apparition lesson of the new term.
"She's cross with me about Astoria, and I haven't the faintest idea what to do," Draco was saying to Blaise.
"We warned you," Blaise said, not unkindly. He didn't even look up from pulling on his gloves. "You didn't want to listen."
"But she's got no right to be cross!"
Theo snorted. "That's not really how these things tend to work, mate."
Pansy nodded in agreement. "You made her jealous. Congratulations."
"That wasn't why I did it. I was trying to move on."
"How's that working for you?" Daphne asked, all innocence, examining her manicure. "Because my mum keeps owling, asking when you're going to formally declare yourself to Astoria."
Draco scowled. "Tell your mother to stop meddling."
"She enjoys meddling," Daphne said airily. "And she likes you. Which is unfortunate for all of us, because you don't actually like Astoria, and I can't explain why without admitting you've been snogging a Muggle-born!"
Blaise laughed — low and genuinely amused — finally looking up. "A Muggle-born snogger. Merlin, that's a new low."
Draco scowled. "She's not a Muggle. I haven't lost my mind entirely."
"Honestly, I think Lucius would rather you snog a Muggle than Hermione Granger," Theo admitted.
"Good morning," the Ministry Wizard said pleasantly as the students filed in. "My name is Wilkie Twycross, and I shall be your Ministry-appointed Apparition Instructor for the next twelve weeks. I hope to prepare you all for your Apparition test in that time —"
"Thank you, Theo, truly, because my life isn't complicated enough. Let's just bring my father's opinion into —"
"Mr Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!" Professor McGonagall barked.
Draco's mouth snapped shut. The others smirked but quickly turned back to face Twycross, who was now launching into a painfully thorough explanation of the importance of precision in Apparition. The words destination, determination, deliberation floated through the Entrance Hall, where the students had gathered for the lesson.
When they were finally allowed to spread out and attempt it, they broke into loose groups.
"Anyway — have you made any progress?" Blaise asked quietly, referring to the Vanishing Cabinet.
Draco lowered his voice. "Some. Not enough. The magic's too unstable — it's as if it's splintered from within. It's taking far too long."
"Have you tried —"
"I've tried everything. Trust me. Just keep watching my back. I'll work it out."
"Normally, I tell my friends what I'm up to, if I want their help," Harry said, just loud enough for Draco to hear.
Draco stiffened at the sound of Potter's voice. His jaw tightened as he slowly turned his head. "And normally, I tell people to mind their own bloody business," he said evenly.
"Quiet!" the four Heads of House called out in near-unison.
An hour later, no one had managed to Apparate.
"If she doesn't stop watching me," Draco was muttering. He could feel her eyes on him throughout the lesson, watching him fail again and again.
Pansy snorted. "At least she hasn't managed it either."
"Maybe she's hoping you Splinch yourself," Theo grinned. "A toe, a finger — your —"
Draco scowled at him. "Go to hell, Nott." His scowl faltered, though, when he spotted Hermione making her way over.
Hermione sighed, completely ignoring Draco as she stopped in front of Pansy. "Hogsmeade tonight. I need a drink," she whispered, squeezing her arm.
Pansy grinned. "Girls' night. I'm in. Daph?"
"Oh yes!" Daphne practically bounced with excitement. "We haven't been out in ages. I say Madam Puddifoot's spiked cocoa first, then the Three Broomsticks."
"No," Hermione shook her head. "I need music. Dancing."
Draco was standing just behind her, catching Pansy's eye and frantically mouthing No — don't take her dancing — turn it down.
Pansy beamed back at him, entirely untroubled. "Dancing sounds brilliant. I know a little speakeasy."
"A speakeasy! Yes, I've been dying to wear my new boots!" Daphne said, already planning her outfit in her head.
Draco held up his hands in silent, strangling mime.
But just then, Astoria appeared. "Hey — I heard you were done with your lesson. Fancy a walk?" she asked Draco.
Draco froze, arms still mid-mime as Astoria's voice cut through the moment. His expression shifted quickly — irritation first, then practised neutrality.
"Oh. Yeah. Of course," he said stiffly, dropping his hands and stepping away from Pansy. He didn't meet Hermione's eyes, but he could feel her noticing. Felt her stop noticing.
Astoria beamed. "Wonderful. It's such a nice day, don't you think? The puddles look like mirrors." She looped her arm through his without hesitation.
Theo and Blaise exchanged a look as Draco walked off with Astoria.
"So," Blaise began, turning to the girls. "Can we crash girls' night?"
The music was low and warm at first — a sultry jazz number drifting over the candlelit tables — but as the evening wore on, something with more pulse took over, the walls faintly charmed to shimmer like champagne.
Daphne had been at the bar for some time, charming her way to complimentary drinks with a practised smile and laughing far too enthusiastically at everything the barman said, her fingers tracing idle shapes on his forearm.
Pansy was on the dance floor, moving fluidly to the beat of a Weird Sisters record, sipping from an absurdly neon drink.
Hermione had slid into their booth after her last dance, cheeks flushed and curls damp against her forehead. She'd been smiling — barely — but it faded the moment her eyes drifted toward the door.
Still not him.
She wasn't expecting him. Of course she wasn't. That would be pathetic. But Ginny caught the look anyway, lips twisting as she took another sip of her drink.
"Did you invite him?" Ginny wondered.
Hermione huffed. "No. But I wouldn't put it past him to show up regardless."
Daphne swept over, tongue caught playfully between her teeth, balancing five shots. "Did somebody say free?" She laughed, sliding into the booth beside Hermione and distributing glasses.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Did you rob the bar or seduce it?"
Daphne winked. "A bit of both."
Pansy twirled over, drink half-gone and eyes gleaming. "Did someone say shots?" She squeezed in beside Ginny.
Luna hummed thoughtfully. "Shots keep the Nargles away. We should definitely get more."
Hermione snorted into her glass. "That's not a real thing, Luna." She whispered — then tipped back the shot and shook her head.
She wasn't drunk. But she wasn't entirely sober either, and though she'd hoped a night of cocktails and dancing would clear Draco and Astoria from her mind, he was more present than ever. Every time a man approached to dance or offered to buy her a drink, she'd find herself wondering if Draco was a good dancer, or whether he'd have simply ordered instead of offering.
"There you are!" Theo's voice rang out, and Daphne rolled her eyes as she knocked back her shot.
"I thought we said you weren't invited!" Pansy said over the music as Blaise made his way over.
"We left Draco," Blaise explained, his gaze drifting briefly to Ginny.
Ginny caught his eye, grabbed her own shot, and stood. "Want to dance?" she asked, tossing the tequila back.
Blaise's mouth curved into a grin — smooth, a little surprised, but very much pleased. "Thought you'd never ask."
Ginny didn't wait. She pulled him by the wrist onto the dance floor, already moving to the beat like she had something to prove. Blaise followed without protest, glancing back once at the table — at Hermione — and then let it go.
Theo dropped into the spot Ginny had vacated, slinging his arm along the back of the booth behind Pansy. "So this is girls' night?" he asked, surveying the scene like he'd wandered into a secret society meeting. "I feel honoured."
Hermione rested her head against the booth wall and let the music fill her ears, the beat like a second pulse in her chest.
She didn't care that Draco wasn't there.
She didn't care that he was probably walking Astoria back to the common room right now.
She didn't care.
But her eyes wandered toward the door again anyway.
Still not him.
They were making their way through the secret passage from Honeydukes back to the castle.
Daphne was walking arm-in-arm with Pansy. "I still can't believe you two crashed girls' night."
"Please, you love us," Theo laughed.
"I love your wallet," she corrected.
Just ahead, Ginny and Blaise had stopped walking entirely. They were leaning against one of the rough-hewn stone walls, laughing about something that had happened in class — a potion gone wrong, or someone falling asleep in Flitwick's. It didn't matter. They were loud, careless, slightly tipsy. Blaise touched her wrist as he spoke, his grin tilted, her head thrown back.
Hermione noticed them in a vague, half-present way — the same way she was vaguely aware of everything tonight. Her thoughts kept circling back to drinks and dancing and the phantom weight of Draco's gaze that had never materialised. The ache in her chest hadn't eased; it had only thickened, settling like fog in her lungs.
Pansy slipped her arm from Daphne's when the blonde started teasing Theo, and made her way over to Hermione, resting her head briefly on her shoulder as they walked. "He'd have come, you know. If you'd invited him."
"I didn't want him there," Hermione answered.
Pansy hummed softly. "Ginny and Blaise seem close."
Hermione raised her eyebrows in quiet agreement. "I'm not sure what's happening there. But she certainly did like dancing with him."
Pansy laughed, the sound echoing pleasantly through the stone passage. Her tongue ran over her lower lip as she whispered, "Do you think Potter's still awake?"
Hermione groaned. "Seriously?"
Pansy grinned — that slow, dangerous Slytherin smile Hermione had come to recognise as either mischief or a secret. "What? I like a challenge. So does Blaise, apparently." Her eyes flicked to Ginny. "Isn't she still with Dean?"
They reached the wall at the end of the passage and watched it grind slowly open, admitting them back into the castle.
Ginny had drifted back toward Hermione, parting from Blaise as the group split in different directions. "This is where we divide, I assume?" she said, nodding toward the opposing staircases — the Slytherin dungeons in one direction, Gryffindor Tower in the other.
"I'll walk with you two, actually," Pansy said, winking at Hermione, who closed her eyes briefly at the clear implication.
Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Looking for some fun, Parkinson?"
"Just a walk," Pansy said simply, waving off the obvious insinuation.
Theo snorted. "Right. Of course. And if you happen to find the way to Potter's dorm on this walk of yours —"
"I'm actually going to head up as well," Hermione said, her eyes going slightly wide as she looked between Pansy and Ginny. She wasn't quite ready to go to sleep — she knew the moment the night ended, she'd be lying in bed with her thoughts, and she already had a fair idea of what — or who — would be keeping her up. "I might stop by the Astronomy Tower. Get some air."
Pansy gave her a long, unreadable look. Then nodded once. "Okay."
"I'd better not run into you on the way out, Pansy," Hermione warned as she turned and made for the tower.
Ginny waited until the sound of Hermione's footsteps had faded before looking sidelong at Pansy. "So," she said, a smile tucked into the corner of her mouth. "Who is he?"
Pansy raised an eyebrow. "I haven't had nearly enough to drink to answer that, Weaslette."
"Is he any good?" Ginny raised both eyebrows.
Pansy snorted. "What if it was your brother?"
"Ew. Not a chance." Ginny paused. "Besides, Harry told me."
Pansy stopped walking.
Ginny made it a few more steps up the winding staircase before she realised she was alone. She turned back, one brow arched.
Pansy's expression had shifted — barely — but enough. That signature smirk had flattened, like someone had pressed pause. Her arms crossed over her chest. "Told you what, exactly?"
Ginny leaned casually against the railing. "That he hooked up with you. More than once."
Pansy tilted her head, eyes narrowing in mock offence. "Only twice?"
Ginny laughed. "Well, he told me over the holidays, and I assume you didn't break into the Burrow. I haven't asked for an update."
"Good," Pansy said, beginning to walk again. "Because it's nothing. Just a bit of fun."
"I'm not judging," Ginny said easily. "We can all use a bit of fun."
Meanwhile, Hermione was making her way through the empty corridors, humming softly to herself, ears still buzzing from the loud music, her shoes dangling from her hand.
Her bare feet made soft sounds against the cold stone floor. As she climbed toward the Astronomy Tower, she paused.
He wouldn't be there. There was no reason for him to be. But — god — some part of her hoped he would.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Her heart stuttered. Sitting in the same spot where they'd stood all those weeks ago on New Year's Eve was Draco, his back to her.
She went still for a moment, the cool air of the Astronomy Tower brushing over her skin like a whisper, like a memory.
Draco didn't turn around. Perhaps he hadn't heard her. Perhaps he had. But he was there — hunched slightly forward, his forearms resting on the metal railing, his silhouette all sharp edges and shadow in the moonlight. His tie was loosened. His sleeves were pushed up. There was something restless in the line of his shoulders, as though he'd been waiting. Or regretting.
Hermione swallowed and stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind her with a quiet click.
He still didn't move.
She crossed to him and sat down beside him, leaving about a foot of space between them, letting her legs dangle over the edge.
They sat in silence for a moment, neither looking at the other.
The night was cold, stretching into infinity, the wind picking up the way it did just before a storm.
His profile was unreadable — etched in silver by the moonlight. His mouth was set, his eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. Perhaps the Forbidden Forest. Perhaps the stars. Perhaps nowhere at all.
She bit her lip. Waited.
Then, softly, as if the words had been sitting on her tongue all night:
"How was your walk with Astoria?"
Draco didn't flinch, but something about him shifted.
His jaw, maybe. The tension in his forearms.
He didn't answer.
Hermione nodded once, as if that were fine. As if she hadn't really expected him to.
"She's pretty." Her voice was quiet as she leaned against the cool metal and closed her eyes. Astoria was pretty — long brown hair, perfectly wavy without a trace of frizz, a lovely smile, warm brown eyes, a fair complexion. So different from Daphne in manner, yet so similar in bearing.
Still nothing.
She swallowed. "She seems nice as well. Confident. Proper." The word pureblood went unspoken, but it was there. "I expect you had plenty to talk about."
She looked down at his hands, which twitched slightly.
"She probably doesn't talk as much as I do. Doesn't ask as many questions." She knew she was doing exactly that — talking too much.
Hermione wanted to scream. To shake him. To beg him to say something. Had she ruined everything so thoroughly?
"I bet you talked about all the proper things. How you'll have dinner with her family, how you'll introduce her to your mother over tea. Is she attending a finishing school?" She was aware how she sounded now — jealous, mocking their way of life — and hated it.
She huffed softly, reaching up to tuck her hair behind both ears with both hands. God, Zoe was right. She did do that.
"I… I miss talking to you." She turned to face him fully. "I miss working with you. I miss going out in the snow with you and introducing you to Muggle films that you make fun of me for. I miss — God, Draco, I miss what we had."
A searing pain lanced through his chest, twisting into something sharp and sickening.
Friendship.
It echoed through his skull like a hex — a bloody prophecy.
She said it so earnestly. So heartbreakingly. As if that was all she had ever thought him to be. As if that was all she ever wanted it to be.
He stood up, not looking at her, and walked out of the room without a single word having passed his lips.
"Harry! Harry, get up! You're going to make us late!" Ron's voice cracked through the quiet like a Bludger against a window.
Harry jolted upright, heart hammering. The room spun for half a second — too much warmth, too much sleep — and then he froze.
Someone was beside him.
Pansy.
His eyes went wide, and he grabbed his glasses from the pillow, turning to look at the still-sleeping girl beside him.
If it weren't for Ron shouting from the other side of the curtains, he might have taken a moment — might have noted how different she looked when she slept. Softer. Without the sharp edges.
"Harry!" Ron yelled again, a thump against his bedpost.
Pansy shifted with a soft groan.
Harry's blood ran cold. He gave her shoulder a gentle shove, whispering urgently, "Parkinson. Parkinson, wake up. Wake up."
She groaned again and pressed her hand against his face, pushing him back. "What —"
"Shhh!" He hissed, immediately lowering his voice. "You fell asleep. You're still here. Ron's awake. He cannot see you in my bed."
At that, Pansy sat bolt upright, wild-eyed and completely disoriented. "Oh my god."
Harry nodded. "Yeah. Roughly the right reaction."
"I fell asleep? I — I fell asleep? Here?" She looked absolutely dumbfounded.
"Yes, stop narrating it. Ron is approximately two seconds from yanking these curtains open. I'm going to get him out of here as fast as I can. Just — stay here with the curtains shut. I'll get you out after Quidditch practice."
"After Quidditch —!"
Harry covered her mouth with his hand. "Lower your voice."
She yanked it away and whispered furiously, "You expect me to hide here like some secret — you know — while you fly around for hours? I've seen Slytherin go for three hours straight!"
"Will you please stop moving?" Harry whisper-yelled, barely controlling the pitch of his voice. "I'll sort it out. You're not — it wasn't —" He struggled. "I'll think of something."
"Mate, are you talking to someone?" Ron's voice was very close now. Too close. The floorboards creaked.
"Looking for my glasses!" Harry called out, eyes wide as he looked at Pansy.
Pansy scowled. "You owe me, Potter."
"Yes, yes —" he hissed, sliding out of bed and pulling the curtains carefully shut behind him.
Ron was standing just outside, staring at him. "We're late."
"I'm Captain. We can't be late," Harry said, moving immediately to his trunk and pulling out his Quidditch uniform. He dressed as quickly as he could, grabbed his broom — then, on second thought, snatched one of his shirts and tossed it toward his bed.
Ron watched him. "What was that?"
"It was dirty," Harry said simply. "If I see it on the bed when I'm back, I'll remember to clean it."
He clapped Ron firmly on the back. "Come on, yeah?" He was already steering him toward the door, casting one last glance back at his bed curtains.
The door to the boys' dormitory gave a soft creak as it swung open — helped along by a well-aimed Alohomora.
Hermione squeaked and ducked aside. "It's me! It's me!" she called, then quickly shut the door behind her and moved around the room, checking the other beds for any of Harry's dormmates.
"Coast's clear," she said.
Pansy yanked back the curtains. "Took you long enough."
Hermione stared at her for a moment, taking in the full scene with the delight of someone who had stumbled upon something they knew they'd be thinking about for years: Pansy bloody Parkinson, in Harry Potter's bed, wearing his oversized shirt, surrounded by rumpled sheets and what appeared to be a pair of his pyjama trousers.
"I wish I had a camera," Hermione finally said.
Pansy shot her a look that could have melted stone. "Very funny, Granger." She moved off the bed, accepting the change of clothes Hermione had brought. "Truly hilarious. I cannot wait to find you in this exact situation when you and Draco finally pull their heads out of their respective arses."
Hermione froze mid-step, eyes narrowing instantly. She couldn't quite decide whether to feel flustered, offended, or just amused. "Get dressed, Pansy."
Pansy shrugged, stepping into the jeans before pulling Harry's shirt off and swapping it for Hermione's. "I'm never sleeping with him again."
"Does Harry know I'm breaking you out? Or is he going to come back and panic?"
Pansy gave her a withering look. "He's the one who left me here to go play Quidditch," she muttered. "And no, Potter has absolutely no idea you're here. I didn't leave him a note."
In their defence, Pansy had been getting ready to leave even as they spoke. It wasn't as though they'd planned on the other boys returning before they could slip out.
Hermione closed her eyes as she heard the door open behind her, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Please tell me that's Harry."
"No," chorused Neville, Seamus, and Dean — standing in the doorway, staring at both of them.