A/N: Why hello there! This fic will be around 150-200 chapters until complete, with chapters averaging around 8K words. If you guys like the fic, please comment, review, and send some Power Stones.
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Sitting in the Great Hall, the music played on.
Theo, for his part, appeared to have pulled his head out of his arse just long enough to feel properly jealous about the parade of secret admirers making their way to Daphne today.
He watched her — while pretending very convincingly not to — as yet another admirer approached. A sixth-year, he thought. One of the Ravenclaw Chasers. Far too smooth for his own good.
And Daphne? Gracious as ever, accepting the flowers with cool elegance before turning away just quickly enough to offer the boy a polite thank-you and nothing more.
Theo's gaze narrowed. This was starting to become irritating.
"Are you paying them?" he asked.
Draco looked up from his plate. This was not going to end well.
"What?" Daphne laughed, setting the flowers aside. "No!"
Before Theo could answer, Astoria settled beside her sister and looked across at Draco, her voice deceptively light. "Did you get me flowers?"
Theo's glare at the new arrival deepened.
Draco blinked. "What?"
"A bouquet. From the stalls in the west corridor, perhaps?" she asked, as though merely making conversation.
Draco stared at her for a moment, his tongue pressing between his molars as he considered his answer. "No."
Astoria hummed, nodding. "You didn't buy any flowers at all?"
Blaise snorted. "Astoria, not to interject, but I've known Draco for the better part of ten years. I have never once seen him so much as glance at flowers."
Astoria tilted her head, watching Draco.
Draco shook his head. "Sorry."
"It's only — Carrie — you know Carrie, don't you?"
"I don't believe I do," he said, sounding faintly bored.
"Her boyfriend's the one planning the romantic dinner tonight. I told you about them."
"Right. Yes. Carrie. That Carrie. Your friend Carrie."
Daphne let her head fall into her hands. This was becoming farcical.
Astoria offered him a rather manufactured smile, her nose wrinkling slightly. "Yes, well — Carrie is friends with Rosemary. Rosemary's a Hufflepuff. She was working at one of the flower stalls today."
She tapped a perfectly manicured nail against her goblet, still sing-songy but with a pointed edge now. "And Rosemary says she saw someone who looked remarkably like you buying a bouquet this morning. White wildflowers and red roses. Rather romantic, don't you think?"
Draco's jaw tightened.
Blaise slowly set down his fork.
Daphne peeked through her fingers, weighing up whether it was worth getting involved.
Theo blinked.
"She must be mistaken," Draco said.
"She has a photographic memory." Astoria's smile had fallen. "Besides, all the money collected at the stalls is magically registered under the buyer's name — it's going to charity after today. They announced it. You were there."
Daphne stared at Draco. "You bought Hermione flowers?" she mouthed.
Draco shot her a look to stop. "I must have been sleepwalking, then. I don't buy flowers. Malfoys don't buy flowers. We have them sent — usually as apologies — but we don't buy them like lovesick schoolboys trying to impress a girl."
"Oh good," Blaise murmured to himself. "We're back to denial. Haven't had nearly enough of that lately."
Astoria looked deeply unimpressed. "Right. So you didn't buy flowers," she repeated, voice flat. "Despite two witnesses, a money trail, and the fact that I saw you heading in that direction this morning."
Draco took a slow sip of water. "Coincidence."
Astoria didn't blink. "So you definitely didn't buy them?" She had leaned in slightly, her voice lower now, meant only for Draco.
Draco gave her a bored look. "For the fifth and hopefully final time, no," he said, reaching lazily for his pumpkin juice. "But do carry on with the Carrie and Rosemary saga. Riveting stuff."
Blaise muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "dead man walking," and Theo made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, shaking his head.
Daphne lifted her face slowly from her hands, eyes moving between Draco and Astoria.
He actually did it.
She'd told him to, and he had gone and bought a bouquet.
"Astoria, darling," Daphne tried to intervene. "You two are still just — entertaining each other. Nothing serious yet. Perhaps go and be entertained by someone else. I hear the Ravenclaw Chaser is single."
That earned her a glare from her sister. "I'm simply wondering why the boy I've been spending time with was seen buying roses — and not sending them to me."
"Perhaps because I wasn't buying them for you!" Draco snapped at last.
Theo's eyes went wide. "Hold on — you actually bought flowers?!"
Astoria blinked. Once, then twice, in a way that was almost eerily composed. Her nostrils flared ever so slightly.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice like cut crystal. "I must have misheard."
Draco met her gaze with a look caught somewhere between regret and defiance. "No. You didn't."
That was enough.
With the grace of someone born to dramatic exits, Astoria reached for her goblet — polished pewter, filled to the brim with pumpkin juice — and without any hesitation at all, she threw it.
It hit him squarely in the face.
A collective gasp went around the Slytherin table, accompanied by the clatter of a fork somewhere nearby.
Astoria stood, dabbing at her own spotless robes with a napkin as though she were the one who'd been assaulted. "Enjoy your flowers, Draco," she said, then turned on her heel and strode out of the Great Hall, her hair bouncing in magnificent indignation.
A pause.
Then Blaise let out a low whistle. "Well. That relationship is definitively over."
Theo doubled over laughing. "Mate. Mate. You bought flowers."
Draco grabbed a napkin and began wiping his face.
"Is this where we say we told you so?" Blaise wondered pleasantly.
Daphne was watching Draco. "Did she like them?" she asked quietly.
His jaw twitched.
She frowned. "You gave them to her, didn't you?"
Silence.
Theo looked around. "Her is Hermione, yes?" he whispered.
Daphne gave a curt nod.
"So, let's say hypothetically you did buy them — completely unhinged, by the way, never thought I'd see the day — why did you leave them on the floor?" Theo asked, genuinely trying to piece it together.
Draco set the napkin down with a sharp exhale, glaring at nothing in particular. Pumpkin juice still clung to his hair and collar. "Hypothetically — and this is all Daphne's fault, she badgered me into it — I was going to hand them to her outside the Ancient Runes classroom. I figured that'd be private. And then I left them on the floor."
Blaise frowned. "Did you forget where Gryffindor Tower is?"
"She was leaving class. I thought I'd meet her there. No audience."
Daphne nodded slowly. "All right. That makes sense. Hermione doesn't strike me as someone who'd want a big public moment." She was still frowning. "But what do you mean, you left them?"
"I mean I left them there! On the floor!"
"You didn't think to simply hand them to her, like a normal person?" Blaise asked. "I at least left Ginny's with her friend to pass along."
Draco shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said, voice rough and low. "She didn't want them." He bit down on whatever else was trying to surface.
Theo's easy amusement faded as he noticed something off in Draco's tone.
"You're genuinely upset about this," Theo said, quieter now. Almost careful.
Draco didn't answer immediately. His eyes stayed fixed on his half-empty goblet, jaw clenched as though he was forcing himself not to look up. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible, tinged with something none of them had expected.
"She didn't want them." The words came out flat — cold, even — but there was an undertone. Something raw. Something that made the whole table go still.
"Did you hand them to her and she turned you down?" Daphne asked carefully. She knew Hermione had feelings for Draco. There was no reason for her to reject them.
"I was going to. I was really going to." Draco's voice was low and hoarse. He finally looked up, but his eyes were distant, passing through all of them rather than seeing any of them. "I saw her talking with Weasley."
Theo and Blaise exchanged a glance.
"And?" Daphne pressed.
He scoffed. "She said she didn't like me."
"You were eavesdropping?" Blaise asked, sounding more impressed than scandalised.
Theo shook his head. "I had a feeling you were a creep, but still."
"I wasn't eavesdropping," Draco muttered. "Not intentionally, anyway. I stopped when I heard them arguing. I wasn't going to step forward and hand her flowers mid-row."
"So — a creep," Theo confirmed, nodding solemnly.
Draco's fingers twitched as he picked absently at the edge of his napkin. "Potter asked her to get close to us. Find out what we're up to."
Daphne sat up straighter. "What?"
Draco's eyes went dark, but his voice was steady now — unnervingly so. "That's what she said. She's been getting close to us to see what we're planning." He let out a hollow sort of laugh, nothing amused in it. "And I told her about the cabinet. I handed it to her. She's just been playing a part."
"That doesn't sound like her," Theo said.
"No, actually," Draco said, very quietly, standing up suddenly. "It's exactly who she is. And we all knew that, and we still let her in."
"Draco —" Daphne reached for him.
He pulled his arm away. "Please —" His voice wavered on the word, and he clearly hated it. "I'll see you in Potions." It was barely a sound as he left the Great Hall. He could have sworn he'd got all the pumpkin juice the first time.
All he could picture was the cool certainty in her voice as she'd told Weasley he meant nothing. That he was simply a means to an end.
Blaise frowned. "Do you think —"
"No," Daphne cut him off, shaking her head firmly. "I watched that girl make herself ill trying to understand her own feelings for Draco. She wasn't pretending."
――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――
Hermione skipped lunch.
She couldn't stop hearing her own words — how easily she had lied to Ron, claiming she was spying on the Slytherins, on her friends, and the way his face had lit up when she said it.
He'd smiled at her like she'd finally come to her senses.
Instead, she had grabbed something from the kitchens and taken herself to the library. She sat at the table she usually shared with Draco, legs tucked onto the chair, the book he'd given her open on her lap — the very same book. She brought a cracker to her mouth, chewing as she read.
The lie had come out far too easily. Too easily. In the moment it had seemed simpler. Safer. The only thing she could think of that wouldn't invite more questions — wouldn't force her to explain what she didn't yet fully understand herself.
Because how was she supposed to tell Ron that she fancied Draco Malfoy? That she missed seeing him across from her? That she missed talking to him?
She sighed and turned the page.
Her eyes skimmed the words, but they blurred together, meaningless. She blinked hard, trying to focus, but her thoughts kept circling — tightening.
She missed him.
She had told him she missed him, and he had left.
She turned another page without reading it.
Then another.
And another.
And ano —
Her hands froze.
She stared at the pages she had just turned, breath caught in her throat.
There, nestled between them, was something she had not placed there. Something she recognised instantly. Something that — had they been speaking — she would have screamed at Draco for putting there.
Her fingers hovered above it, trembling, as though touching it might make it vanish.
It glinted softly against the worn pages, the delicate chain catching the library's dim light, diamonds shimmering like scattered frost.
Hermione's breath stopped in her lungs.
She knew this necklace.
It was the one they'd seen in the jewellery shop in Hogsmeade, when Draco had been searching for his mother's Christmas gift. The same one he had all but insisted she try on when he found out she liked it.
Her fingers brushed the chain, hesitant. Reverent.
She remembered how cold it had felt against her skin that afternoon — and the warmth she'd felt when Draco's fingers grazed the back of her neck as he'd fastened it. How he'd gone quiet for a moment before asking if she liked it.
She lifted the necklace, setting the book aside, watching the diamonds catch the light.
Her eyes fell back to the pages, and she set the necklace on the table and began flipping carefully through the remaining pages, searching. Perhaps an explanation. Perhaps a receipt to return this absurdly expensive gift.
She stopped.
There it was. A folded piece of parchment. She didn't hesitate — she unfolded it.
I knew you wouldn't accept it if I gave it to you outright.
I do hope you've enjoyed the book. I hope you'll enjoy the necklace more.
— Draco
It struck her then — how well he knew her. How he had anticipated her reaction before she'd even had the chance to form it. He had understood. No, not just understood — he had felt her hesitation in advance.
Because she would have refused. She would have given it back. She had loved the necklace the moment she'd put it on, but she never would have kept it. Fifty-four carats of oval-cut diamonds — eighty separate stones — set in eighteen-carat white gold.
She ought to be furious. She ought to demand he take it back, ought to insist she didn't care about his wealth. But this wasn't about displaying wealth. It was about persistence. About knowing her well enough to outmanoeuvre her refusal before she could make it.
She picked up the necklace again, watching the diamonds turn slowly in the light.
What would he think if he saw her wearing it?
――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――
Hermione slid into her usual seat in Potions, the necklace tucked safely beneath her robes, her fingers brushing it every so often as though she needed to confirm it was real.
Across the room, Draco entered without looking at her. His expression was unreadable, his mask firmly back in place.
He didn't even pause when he sat beside Blaise.
She sighed, running her fingers over the hidden necklace. She had told herself she wouldn't wear it. Then she had. Now she couldn't quite explain why. Or what it meant.
"Did you see Malfoy?" Harry asked as he dropped into the seat beside her, wondering whether he'd managed to give her the flowers after all.
Hermione's fingers stilled against the chain. She turned to Harry slowly, breath caught. "Sorry?"
Harry's brows furrowed. "He was looking for you earlier. I just wondered if he ever tracked you down."
"Oh. No." She shook her head as Professor Slughorn bustled into the room, cheerful as ever.
Slughorn clapped his hands and moved to the front. "Right, settle down, settle down! Today we're brewing something rather delightful — instructive, but fitting for the occasion."
He waved his wand, and the lid of the central cauldron lifted. Soft, spiralling steam rose instantly, filling the room. "As you may recall, we discussed this potion on our very first day. Can anyone tell me what it's called?"
Silence held for a moment. Hermione's eyes widened slightly as she registered the colour of the steam.
"Miss Granger?" Slughorn called pleasantly. "You identified it on our first lesson. Do you recall?"
Hermione looked up. "Amortentia, sir," she said quietly.
"Right you are!" he bellowed, clearly delighted. "I thought it fitting for the holiday. We'll be brewing a considerably weaker version today so as to prevent any unfortunate side effects should anyone be tempted to taste it." He turned to write the recipe on the board.
Hermione swallowed. It was fine. She already knew what she smelled. She'd identified it in first lesson — spearmint toothpaste, freshly mown grass, and parchment.
She turned on the flame beneath her cauldron and began measuring out the standard potion water.
Spearmint. Grass. Parchment.
That's all it would be. That's all it had ever been.
She reached for the first ingredient — crushed rose petals — and added them to the water, watching them swirl in lazy spirals before dissolving completely. The classroom hummed with the low murmur of students doing the same, but the noise felt distant, muffled.
As everyone brewed, the room grew warmer. Hermione pinned her hair up with her wand, shrugged off her cloak and draped it over her chair, then reached for the peppermint flower heads and her mortar and began to crush them.
"Hermione — do we crush until it's dust or until it's a paste?" Harry asked, frowning at his mortar.
"Dust," she said.
He looked up. "Are you sure, because..." His words trailed off and stopped altogether, his eyes landing on something at her collarbone. "Those aren't flowers."
Hermione frowned, still working. "Yes, Harry — peppermint flowers are flowers."
"The diamonds around your neck aren't."
Hermione froze.
Her pestle paused mid-grind, peppermint half-crushed, her fingers tightening around the cool stone handle.
She looked up at Harry slowly, opening her mouth with no idea what was going to come out.
What possible excuse was there? I know Draco and I aren't speaking, but I found this diamond necklace tucked inside a book he gave me, and next thing I knew I was putting it on, Harry — perfectly normal.
"Diamonds?" Ron asked, flipping through his textbook without looking up. "I don't see any diamonds listed in the original brew, Harry — are you sure you're on the right page?"
He glanced across at the two of them.
His eyes went very wide, very quickly.
"Blimey, Hermione — that thing looks like it costs more than the Burrow!"
"I'm putting my cloak back on," she said simply, turning around. As she did, she turned directly towards the Slytherin table — where Pansy happened to be looking straight at her.
Hermione met her eyes with a silent, desperate plea. Pansy, I swear —
Pansy grinned and looked away.
She yanked her cloak on in one swift motion, the heavy fabric falling over the necklace like a curtain. Far, far too late.
Pansy was already leaning towards Theo and whispering behind her hand. Theo's eyebrows rose in surprise before he glanced — not subtly at all — towards Hermione's table. Blaise followed his gaze, eyes narrowing as he looked between Hermione and Draco.
Draco hadn't looked up.
He was still bent over his cauldron, slicing ginger root into precise, uniform pieces.
As he dropped the ginger root in, he caught his friends all looking at him. "Did you all forget how to chop, or —"
"Did you make a rather large purchase recently?" Theo asked, loudly enough to carry.
Daphne kicked him.
Draco raised an eyebrow. "If this is about the flowers again —"
"More like the diamonds around Hermione's neck," Pansy said.
Draco's hand paused mid-chop. The ginger slipped from between his fingers and landed with a soft thud in the cauldron. He looked up slowly, gaze moving between Theo, Pansy, and the others. The words landed before their full meaning did — but the look on their faces was enough to make something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
"What do you mean?" he asked carefully.
"I'd say roughly fifty carats, wouldn't you, Pans?" Daphne said, with an air of complete innocence. "The diamonds, I mean."
"She's wearing it?" The words came out before he could stop them, his hands stilling over his work.
Draco's voice was barely above a murmur, but there was an edge to it. His gaze moved briefly to Hermione's side of the room — not long enough, he hoped, for anyone to catch the intensity.
Blaise's eyes went wide. "You're admitting you bought it?!"
"Months ago," Draco hissed. "I hid it in the book. I didn't think she'd accept it outright."
Pansy laughed. "You hid it in a book? Merlin, the two of you are —"
"It doesn't matter," he cut her off. "Because now we know the truth. She's been spying for Potter. She probably found it and thought it would get my attention — that I'd come to her. But we know what this is. We're not speaking to her again."
Blaise blinked. "Appreciate the collective decision on our behalf, thank you."
Theo sighed. "Draco, seriously — I think you may have misheard."
"I know what I heard. Get back to your potions."
――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――
Back at the Gryffindor table, Hermione was already two steps ahead, stirring her potion while resolutely ignoring Ron's questioning looks. Harry, to her mild surprise, wasn't staring at her with an expression of forensic suspicion. He actually appeared to be fighting down laughter.
Slowly, the steam from the cauldrons was beginning to rise more prominently.
Hermione was counting her counterclockwise stirs — exactly six rotations, as the instructions required — when the scent reached her.
Her stirring slowed without her realising it.
Parchment was still there. But the spearmint had gone. The freshly mown grass had gone. In their place came something earthy — mahogany? Sandalwood? And then, underneath it, something sharper, crisper. Something cold and clean, like winter air just before the first snowfall.
She leaned forward slightly, brow furrowing as she tried to place it.
And then it hit her.
Not just the scent — but what it meant.
Her breath caught. Her hand clenched around the ladle.
She knew that smell.
It wasn't spearmint anymore. Not the freshly mown grass she had always assumed meant something simple and safe. It was cold now — like standing outside in December, like the wind off the Quidditch pitch. And threaded through it, so subtle she almost missed it, was something like cologne. Not heavy or overwhelming. Expensive. Subtle. Familiar.
She dropped the ladle as though it had scalded her and took a step back, warmth flooding her face.
It was supposed to stay the same. Spearmint. Freshly cut grass. Parchment. A tidy little list she had kept in a neat box in the back of her mind, labelled safe.
But this?
Mahogany and cold air and —
She didn't want to name the last one.
"Hermione?" Harry's voice was soft, cautious.
"I'm — I'm fine," she whispered, reaching for the ladle and resuming her stir. "Truly."
"Merlin's pants," Ron muttered from beside her, peering into his own cauldron. "It smells like treacle tart and — is that — is that Mum's roast?" He sniffed again and beamed like he'd just passed a moral examination. "Harry?"
Harry shrugged. "Broom polish. Treacle tart. And something else I can't quite place."
Hermione kept stirring.
Six rotations. Counterclockwise. Breathe. Don't think.
The scent didn't change.
――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――
Across the room, the situation was not entirely different.
"Draco, stir," Blaise muttered from the corner of his mouth. "You're going to burn it."
Draco didn't move.
He was staring down into his cauldron as though it had personally offended him. His shoulders were rigid, his jaw set like stone, and he was fairly sure he'd stopped breathing.
"Mate," Theo said, nudging him with an elbow. "Seriously. Just stir. You look like you're about to be sick."
He felt sick. It was the only explanation. The room felt too warm, the air too heavy, the rising steam too thick.
It was warm. Like a fireplace in winter. Sweet — vanilla and cinnamon.
And then the second layer arrived. Old parchment. The pages of a well-loved book.
The world narrowed to an unbearable point: the liquid swirling in his cauldron and the scent wrapping itself around his chest like a vice. Every breath pulled it closer.
That odd feeling was back — the same one from the corridor, the same one that made him feel like he was drowning on dry land.
Vanilla, cinnamon, and something that was unmistakably her.
"You look like you've seen a Wraith," Daphne said, a soft, concerned laugh behind her voice.
"I need air," he managed, stepping back.
He nearly knocked over Theo's cauldron as he stumbled away from the bench. He didn't apologise. He barely remembered to ask Slughorn's permission before he was out the door.
Hermione looked up just in time to see it swing shut behind him.
She hesitated for a beat — then her hand shot into the air. "The bathroom, sir?"
Slughorn waved her off. "Yes, yes, be quick."
Hermione ignored the way Harry and Ron watched her as she turned off her burner and left the classroom.
――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――――
The corridor was quiet.
She looked both ways and found him a few feet off, leaning against the stone wall with his hands on his knees, hunched slightly, eyes closed — like a man recovering from a particularly gruelling Quidditch sprint.
She bit her lip, made a decision, and walked towards him. "Are you all right?" she asked quietly. "You look ill."
Draco shook his head. "Go away, Granger."
"No, Draco —"
"Malfoy," he corrected, opening his eyes.
Hermione paused. The sharpness of it hit her like cold water. For a moment she considered retreating, but something held her.
"You're clearly not all right," she said. "You look like you're about to pass out." Her voice was gentle but firm. "We're friends, remember?"
Draco stiffened as he straightened up. "Stop. Please, just stop." He hissed it.
Her heart squeezed at the desperation underneath the word. She hadn't seen him like this before. Not this exposed. Not this close to breaking.
"Draco —" she tried again, but his glare froze the words in her throat.
"I said stop," he repeated, voice shaking faintly in spite of the harshness. "Honestly, Granger — don't you know when to leave off being a pushy brat?"
Hermione scoffed. "I'm a brat, then?"
His face twisted with something that resembled pain before he buried it under another cold look. "You've always been a brat. You can't leave anything alone."
"I just want to make sure you're not about to collapse."
Draco let out a bitter laugh, raking a hand through his hair as he turned on her. "Why? Why do you care? I'm fine. Go — run off and tell Potter I'm fine! I'm going to the lavatory, not a Death Eater meeting!" He was shouting now, pointing back towards the classroom.
Hermione stared at him, mouth slightly open. She frowned, tilting her head. "Why would I tell Harry... anything?" she asked quietly.
Draco's face flushed, his gaze sliding away, fists clenching, knuckles white. "Because that's what you do. Isn't it? That's what you told Weasley — you've been getting close to us to feed information to Potter. Getting close to me." His voice dropped. Dark.
Hermione's breath caught. She took a step back. Draco stepped forward.
"Draco —" she began, but the words died. She had said it. She hadn't meant it — but she had said it. And she watched the transformation happen: the sickly, raw version of him folded away and something colder took its place, and he was towering over her now, his eyes as dark as she had ever seen them.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she whispered, swallowing.
"You don't know what you said to Weasley by a slip of the tongue?"
Her face drained of colour. Her mouth opened and closed.
"It wasn't like that," she said. "I didn't mean it like that." She screwed her eyes shut, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Gods, Draco — it is the truth. I know it doesn't seem like it, but it is."
"That's your defence?"
"It's the truth. I panicked — I wanted him to leave me alone."
"So Potter has his favourite little Auror spying on me, and she can't even construct a decent lie now?"
She flinched. "That's not —"
"Tell me something," Draco whispered, stepping closer, slow and deliberate, until her back met the wall and he was close enough that she could see the tension working in his jaw. "Did you tell him everything? Every little detail? Does he know?"
Her heart stuttered.
His eyes were storm-grey and sharp and dangerously near. "Does he know about all those nights you spent helping me with the cabinet? All the hours we talked? All those private jokes in Potions?" The venom had softened into something worse — something raw. "Did you tell him about the snowball fights? The sledging? The flour in your hair when we made those bloody biscuits?"
"Draco —"
"Does he know about the hot chocolate I made you so you wouldn't have to get up? How you drank it too quickly and burned your tongue? How you told me about your parents and I —" He cut himself off with a sharp breath, jaw flexing.
"Of course you told him. Every time you came back from talking to me, you probably delivered a little report, didn't you?"
"That's not —" Her voice broke.
"How you practically coaxed my fingers when I offered you that dough? How you called me Professor Malfoy just to wind me up? How you let me spend thousands of Galleons on that necklace you're wearing right now?"
Hermione's breath shuddered out of her as each memory landed — not cruel in the abstract, but because they were real. Because they had happened. Because he remembered them too.
Her fingers instinctively rose to the necklace at her throat.
"I didn't ask for it," she said, her voice barely there.
"How could I not have bought it for you?" he hissed, nearly flush against her now — and she wasn't pulling away.
"Did you write it all down?" His voice had become something desperate. "Did you tell him what I look like when I laugh? When I go quiet?"
Her lips parted. No sound came out.
He lowered his voice to something dark and lethal. "Did you tell him how easy it was to get you to kiss me?"
"You kissed me," she said — almost like a reflex.
"Because you're all I can bloody think about!" he hissed. "I ache for you, Granger, so badly I feel like I'm drowning in you whenever you won't look at me. Did you give him a full account?"
She tried to look away, but he braced both hands against the wall on either side of her head.
"How you let me press you against a wall just like this one?" His voice had turned low and filthy. "How you pulled me closer? How you let me pull your hair?"
One hand made its way into her curls, tilting her head back — just as he had on New Year's.
Her breath hitched. She shivered. The same way she had that night.
"How you spread your legs when I stepped between them? How you moaned and whimpered? How you let me grab your leg?"
She gripped the front of his shirt. "Draco, please —"
"I bet Potter thinks you're untouchable. So good. So innocent. So loyal." His sneer was back — but it was hollow. "I wonder what he'd think if you told him how you ground yourself against my knee."
She couldn't look away, every inch of her burning with rage and guilt and something else entirely.
"Tell me I'm wrong." His voice broke. His grip on her hair softened. "Tell me I imagined all of it. That I made it up. That it didn't mean a thing to you. Say the words. I'll believe you. Just lie to me."
Instead of answering, instead of hoping words would reach him, she did the only thing she could think of — she pulled him in by the front of his shirt and pressed her lips to his.
His lips met hers like a dam breaking.
There was no slow build-up, no gentle reassurance. Just pure, desperate, furious want. His hands left the wall — one still tangled in her curls, the other gripping her waist as though he hadn't yet decided whether to push her away or pull her closer. She kissed him like she needed him to be quiet, like words had made a complete mess of things and maybe this would make him understand.
He groaned against her mouth, the sound guttural, and she swallowed it, pulling him tighter by his shirt, the fabric twisting in her fists. Her back hit the stone again as his body pressed into hers, all heat and sharp edges, the kiss teetering between pain and need.
Her hands slid to his jaw, fingers brushing just beneath his ear, and he shuddered. She felt the fight begin to leave him — not entirely, but enough. His grip gentled. His forehead dropped to hers even as their lips lingered, breathing into each other.
"I'm not spying on you, you daft —" She shook her head, trailing off. "I panicked. I wanted him to leave me alone."
Draco swallowed, his chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes still closed, trying to let his brain catch up. "You shouldn't have done that."
"You didn't want me to?"
He pulled back just far enough to look at her — really look at her. His brows were pulled tight, as though he couldn't trust what he was seeing. "You can't do that," he said again, quieter now, more fractured than angry. "You can't say those things to Weasley and then — then kiss me like that. You said you wanted to forget."
Hermione's heart hammered. "I didn't mean that," she said quickly, barely above a whisper. "I didn't want to forget us. I wanted to forget how confused I was. How frightened — how frightening it is."
He dropped his hand from her face and stepped back, shaking his head.
Her eyes went wide, and for once she didn't let him. She grabbed his wrist. "No — you don't get to keep doing that. You don't get to leave me like this again!" she snapped, flush with her own desperation. "I panicked. I said something stupid. I wanted him off my back. I regretted it the moment it came out. But, Merlin, Draco — I thought you regretted it! I thought you'd come to your senses!"
"You kissed me back!" he yelled. "You kissed me like it meant something, and then you ran the next morning!"
"I was frightened! I am frightened! Not of you — of myself! I don't know what I'm doing, but I haven't told Harry anything. I haven't told anyone anything. I've barely told Daphne anything. I kept all of it for us. I didn't want anyone else to know because then it wouldn't only be ours — not because I was ashamed of it. You make me lose my mind."
That pulled a laugh from him despite everything, his hand dragging through his hair. "Good, because you made me lose mine a long time ago."
She stepped towards him. "Draco." She lowered her voice. "I haven't told anyone anything. You have to believe me."
His hand found hers instinctively, squeezing once — as though he wanted to believe her and didn't yet know how to. "I'm so bloody angry at you," he said, voice low and rough.
"I know."
A pause. His voice wavered, just slightly. "I don't trust you anymore."
She nodded, biting the inside of her lip. "What can I do to fix that?"
He looked at her for a long moment. "I don't know if you can."
The words cut straight through her.
"You weren't supposed to — Merlin, Hermione."
Her name fell from his lips like something wounded. His throat worked. He exhaled sharply through his nose and shook his head.
"I don't want to talk anymore," he said, very low.
Hermione blinked, stomach dropping. "What?"
"I don't want to talk anymore, Granger," he repeated — and this time there was something in it that sounded like a warning. A threadbare line between restraint and something else entirely.
She dropped her head. His hand came to her chin, tilting it back up.
"I want you to stop lying to me."
She nodded. "I can do that."
"I want to stop thinking about what your mouth looks like when you say my name."
Her lips parted.
"I want to kiss you so badly it makes me feel sick."
His hand was still on her chin, and for a moment they simply looked at each other, neither of them breathing. Then, slowly, his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth — like he was memorising it.
"I want to stop wondering if you dream about me the way I dream about you. To stop remembering how you tasted."
"I didn't mean to —"
"Merlin, just stop talking," he breathed. "If you say anything, I'll lose whatever's left of my self-control."
She wanted to touch him. She wanted to run. She wanted to cry and scream and kiss him again until her mind went blank.
"Kiss me, Draco," she whispered.
His eyes dropped to her lips.
And then he leaned in.
Soft, this time.
Like he was afraid she might disappear. Like going too fast or too hard might shatter something irreplaceable. His lips brushed hers once, then again — slower — delicate and reverent. Not rage. Not desperation.
Just him.
She melted into it, hands sliding up to his shoulders, gripping like he was the only steady thing in the world just then.
His hand stayed at her jaw, thumb tracing the curve of her cheek as though trying to learn the shape of her. His other hand settled at her waist — not demanding, not possessive. Simply there, warm and grounding.
He kissed her like he already knew her.
"You drive me insane," he whispered against her mouth, his thumb still tracing her jaw. He kissed her again, slower. "Every time I try to walk away, you pull me back."
She gasped softly, and he pulled back just far enough to brush his nose against hers before leaning in once more, like the separation was already too much.
"You make me feel like I'm burning alive, Granger." He kissed her again, each one soft and aching, as though she were something sacred and this were his last prayer. "Like I'll never be cold again. And I hate it."
She groaned softly, forehead touching his, reaching up to kiss him again.
"I think about you constantly," he breathed, lips ghosting down her jaw, just below her ear. "Even when I hate you. Especially when I hate you. I wake up thinking about you. I fall asleep thinking about you. In the shower."
"Draco —" she breathed, almost telling him to stop.
He kissed the corner of her mouth. Her cheek. Her jaw.
Her fingers slid up into his hair, curling there, and he groaned softly at the touch.
"I remember everything," he said against her skin. "Every stupid joke. Every time you rolled your eyes at me. Every time you looked like you were about to laugh, or cry, or hex me. Or all three at once."
Hermione's eyes fell shut. She couldn't think past the weight of his voice, the warmth of his mouth.
She felt herself trembling — not just from his touch, but from his words.
Draco Malfoy didn't say things like this. He didn't speak in confessions and quiet poetry. He didn't press his heart against someone else's ribs and say feel it. He didn't open himself up and hand over the soft, breakable parts.
And yet.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his thumb brushing beneath her eye. His voice cracked when he spoke.
"You've always got something to say," he murmured — the way he always did, with that familiar mock. But somewhere in the delivery, Hermione understood: he was begging her to say something so he wouldn't feel so exposed.
"You're not real," she whispered at last, eyes opening as though she were afraid she might wake up and find herself alone.
His expression didn't crumble, exactly. But something shifted behind his eyes.
She was starting to panic when she saw his lips twitch. The ghost of a smile.
"Typical. I bare my soul like a complete fool, and you tell me I'm imaginary."
A breathless, shaky laugh escaped her — caught in her throat. "Do it again. Say something else."
He stared at her for a second, as though she'd just asked him to hand over every secret he'd ever buried.
And then:
"I bought you flowers."
Her heart seized.
Every nerve in her lit up at once. She couldn't speak — so instead she kissed him again, deep and slow, matching the pace he had set.
He pulled back slowly, forehead resting against hers, eyes still closed. "I — Merlin, Granger — I wanted to give them to you. But then I heard you with Weasley, and I thought —"
"It wasn't true," she murmured.
"I thought you wanted to be rid of me." His voice cracked open on the words.
Hermione drew one hand from his hair — soft as she remembered, gods — and cupped his face. "I didn't mean to hurt you," she whispered, her thumb sweeping his cheekbone.
He went still at the touch.
"I stood there with my heart in my hands, and I just — dropped it. I didn't want to risk seeing you. Thought if I did, I'd —" He stopped, exhaled hard. "'Mione, I'd have fallen apart right there."
She didn't know what to say. She just watched him, running her fingers slowly through his hair, her chest clenching at the way his voice had broken. Like all of this — all of her — was too much. Like he wanted her so badly it hurt.
"Say that again," she whispered.
He huffed. "That I bought you flowers? I've never done that before. Grand expensive gifts — yes. But standing at a stall and choosing — I felt like an absolute fool."
"My name, Draco. Say my name." She corrected it softly. "Please."
He leaned in again, slower than ever, his breath mingling with hers, and whispered:
"Hermione."
Gods. Her name had never sounded like that. Like a promise. Like a prayer. Like he was kneeling at some altar and didn't care if it destroyed him.
She made a sound — halfway between a gasp and a whimper — and Draco kissed her like he would do anything, everything, to hear that sound again.
His hands found her waist, slipping beneath her jumper just enough for his fingers to press against the bare skin of her lower back. He didn't pull her closer. He didn't need to. She was already there, already with him, and something in the way he held her — so lightly, so carefully — made her feel as though he understood that.
"Hermione. 'Mione." Softer. Like the only word he ever wanted to remember.
She felt it in her bones. Her chest. Her lungs. She couldn't think around it. Around him.
"I hate the way you talked to me earlier," she said finally, her words catching up at last. "Filthy and cruel. Like you wanted to hurt me for how I hurt you."
He swallowed her words, an ache behind his expression.
She pulled back slightly, exhaling. "And Godric, Draco — I hated how much I liked it."
His eyes snapped open.
He stared at her, mouth twitching into something that wasn't quite a smirk. His gaze darkened at the confession, but he didn't reach for her this time. He just looked — like he was encountering a version of her he'd never quite seen before and didn't know what to do with.
"You need to stop," he groaned, the sound dragged straight from somewhere in his chest.
"You have no idea how often I thought about that night," she breathed. "Your hands. Your mouth. The way you looked at me like you were starved."
He groaned again, against her lips. "You can't just say things like that. Not with that voice. You're killing me."
"I've never felt like this before," she whispered. "Like I'm too warm in my own skin. Like my bones hum when I look at you."
A strangled noise escaped him as he buried his face in the curve of her neck, like the only refuge in the whole castle was the space between her shoulder and her jaw.
"I think about that night constantly. Every second. Every sound you made. The way you felt. Every time you gasped like — like you wanted me to ruin you."
His teeth grazed the soft skin of her neck, light and deliberate.
"I've never wanted anything this much. Not Quidditch, not house points, not my family's reputation. Nothing. Just — you." And his lips pressed against her pulse.
Hermione tilted her head back, a soft laugh slipping from her. "This isn't fair."
He pulled away from her neck just enough to ask, "What isn't?"
"You saying all this," she murmured, "when I'm already halfway in love with you."
He froze.
Didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't blink.
Halfway in love with you.
Hermione's heart seized in her chest.
Oh no.
Oh Godric, no.
Her eyes snapped open as the full weight of what she'd just said landed. Her stomach lurched violently, and a cold sweep of horror replaced the warmth in an instant.
"I —" she stammered, pulling back. "I didn't mean —" She shook her head, already retreating. "That came out wrong."
Draco still hadn't moved.
His hands had gone slack at her waist. His mouth was slightly open, as though speech had deserted him. His eyes moved over her face — wide, searching, darting as though trying to make sense of her, of what she'd said.
Like truth. Like feeling. Like the moment just before you fall.
"I didn't mean to say that. I wasn't thinking. I don't — gods, I said halfway. I didn't say I was in love with you. That would be — it's already insane enough. But you can't just — you were saying things, and saying things, and you can't go back to not saying them, you can't go back to not kissing me like —" She couldn't finish. Her thoughts had scattered entirely. She hadn't meant to say it, or perhaps she had, but she hadn't meant to say it now, not yet, not like this.
And now he was staring at her as though she terrified him. As though he could no longer breathe. And she desperately needed him not to close himself off again.
His mouth opened once, twice.
Halfway in love with you.
It echoed like a Hogwarts announcement — like a bloody prophecy. The Boy Who Would Be Undone By Hermione Granger.
He'd kissed her. He'd confessed, Merlin help him — and it had been terrifying, but contained. Like standing on a cliff and choosing to look down. Not like this. Not like falling.
This was free fall.
Too much. Too soon. Too real.
And if he actually sat with it — really sat with it — he would unravel.
He'd been stupid, reckless, soft. He'd let everything out — every feeling he'd spent months trying to bury. He'd told her too much. Shown her too much. And now —
She was looking at him with panic and tenderness all at once. Like she knew exactly what she'd done and hated herself for it. Like the words were already out there, permanent, and the only thing worse than saying them was the silence after.
He wanted to run. Desperately.
But he didn't pull away.
He didn't kiss her again either.
He'd never been good at this — at feelings, at letting someone past the walls, at trusting that it wouldn't end in damage. His whole life had been about control, about distance, about not letting anyone close enough to matter. And now, Hermione Granger — of all the impossible people — had done what he'd thought was impossible. She'd slipped through every defence he had and left him standing here, exposed.
He should say something sensible. Tell her it was fine, that he didn't care. But he was frightened of what she'd said. Of what it might mean.
Instead, almost automatically, his hand rose and smoothed a strand of hair back from her face. His fingers lingered.
His lips twitched at the corner. Just barely.
"Your hair's a mess, Granger," he murmured. Quiet. Gentle. Utterly stupid. A distraction.
And Hermione grabbed at it like it was the only solid thing in the world. She laughed softly, pushing down the anxiety, the need to ask questions, to press and clarify and demand. "And whose fault is that?"
He huffed a quiet laugh, fingers curling in the strand like he didn't want to let go.
But the sound of classroom doors opening reached them, and footsteps and voices flooded the corridor. They both stepped back at the same moment — a silent, shared understanding.
They heard them before they saw them. Both sets of friends, emerging from Potions, searching for them.
Theo spotted them first. "Mate, honestly — you could've turned your cauldron off if you weren't coming back," he said, clapping Draco on the shoulder. "You all right?"
Draco stiffened, then exhaled. "Fine. Just needed air." He replied, his eyes only then leaving Hermione. "Little Miss Perfect here had to make sure."
"Probably because you looked like you were about to faint," Hermione said, with something approaching normalcy. It was odd — how quickly they settled back into their usual rhythm, as though the last month and a half had never happened. As though the last half hour hadn't happened either.
"Ah — are you two talking again, then?" Blaise asked, visibly hopeful that the madness had run its course.
A god-awful noise escaped Hermione's lips just as Daphne and Pansy arrived, and Draco glanced at her sideways.
Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, mortified by the strangled sound she'd made. It was neither a laugh nor a groan, and it had the unfortunate effect of drawing every pair of eyes directly to her.
Daphne's brow lifted. "What was that?"
"I choked," Hermione said quickly. "On air. I'm perfectly fine."
"Tragic," Draco drawled.
"Tragic," she echoed, rolling her eyes.
Pansy frowned. "So we're pretending the last six weeks didn't happen? We're back to being friends?"
Hermione hesitated, glancing at Draco. Friends. That didn't feel right anymore. But she also wasn't sure what to call whatever this was — they kissed sometimes, said soul-baring things to each other, then argued like the world was ending and spent weeks not speaking.
"We were never not talking," she settled on. "Look — I'm sure Harry and Ron are wondering where I've got to. I'll see you all later, yeah?"
Draco watched her go.
He didn't mean to. He hadn't even noticed he was doing it until Theo snorted.
"Did you smell her then?" Theo asked with a grin.
Draco turned slowly, his expression carrying a clear warning. "What?" he asked, voice dangerously calm.
Theo's grin only widened. "In the potion. In Merlin's name, Malfoy — I'm not accusing you of sniffing her hair."
Draco's jaw flexed. "What did you smell, Theo? Your own stupidity?"
Theo huffed, clearly undeterred. "I'm more curious about Pansy, actually. She went white." He jabbed an accusing finger at her.
Pansy shot him a glare, her cheeks colouring as she crossed her arms. "I did not go white, thank you very much," she snapped. The panic flickering in her eyes was another matter.
"You were rather pale," Daphne murmured.
"I was startled," Pansy said simply. She looked at Draco. "What exactly did Granger do to earn your forgiveness? Whatever you did?"
Draco shrugged. "We talked."
Well. He'd talked. They'd kissed. She'd talked back — somewhat more explicitly than he'd anticipated.