Chapter Text
Hermione’s head was pounding when she woke up. The pain sat like a hot stone right between her eyes, and her mouth felt dry and sour. She groaned softly, pressing her face into the pillow; only to find it stained with the smeared remains of her makeup from the night before.
Everything smelled faintly of perfume, snow, and whatever terrible cocktail Theo had handed her last.
She blinked blearily at the ceiling before slowly forcing herself upright. Her limbs felt heavy, like they’d been filled with sand. She stumbled toward the bathroom, intent on scrubbing the regret off her face.
She wasn’t expecting to see Draco Malfoy passed out on the floor.
He was curled up in front of the toilet, long legs folded awkwardly, one arm thrown over his stomach. His pale blond hair was falling into his face, his lashes casting faint shadows under his eyes. He didn’t stir at the sound of her footsteps.
Hermione blinked at him, confused.
She leaned against the doorway and looked around, realization creeping in. This was her dorm. Hers and Eloise’s.
She rubbed at her temple, trying to piece the night together. The pub. Luna’s reading. Karaoke. Her drink—was it two or three after that?
She had absolutely no memory of leaving the pub.
It had probably just been a fun night of karaoke after Luna’s… peculiar little reading. Nothing to stress over. Nothing to unpack. Just a typical last-week-before-break kind of night.
Thank Merlin there were no proper classes during the final days of the semester. There were only a series of open office hours where you were expected to drop off final assignments. Still, Hermione had two papers due today, and of course they belonged to the only two professors who had decided to leave early for the holidays. Flitwick and Snape, off to Romania together, for some obscure academic conference/vacation hybrid that no one quite believed was purely professional.
Hermione began to pace at the foot of her bed, rubbing her temples. The pounding in her skull hadn’t faded, and her stomach was starting to complain about the lack of food. She probably needed water…. And toast. But first—
She glanced up at the bed she’d just stumbled out of. Mahogany frame. Tall, carved posts. Fairy lights draped between them like a canopy, casting a soft gold hue across the mattress. It was a perfect reading nook. Cozy. Private.
She sighed and turned to her desk.
The surface was chaos—half-graded papers for the classes that she was a TA for, half-finished outlines on papers,and loose leaf notes scattered like fallen leaves. Slowly, she began stacking them, sorting by class. Chemistry first, then Computer Logic. The process helped clear her mind, bit by bit.
She slid each stack into its respective folder with the care of someone handling ancient artifacts. At least this part of her morning could feel normal. Predictable. Controlled.
Hermione was halfway through sorting her second folder—Computer Logic, mostly half-scribbled flowcharts and graphs—when the dorm door swung open with a gust of cold air and the click of well-worn running shoes on hardwood.
Eloise breezed in, cheeks flushed, freckles standing out against her wind-chilled skin, her reddish-blonde ponytail swinging behind her like a ribbon. Dressed in her mom’s sleek winter exercise line and still glowing from her morning run, she looked like a walking magazine ad.
“Morning,” she said, pulling off her gloves and heading toward the bathroom.
Hermione barely looked up from her desk. “Morning.”
Eloise stopped.
A beat passed.
Hermione turned just in time to see her roommate freeze in the bathroom doorway, one perfectly manicured hand gripping the frame.
Another beat.
“Oh,” Eloise said. Not loud. Not angry. Just… loaded.
Hermione blinked. “What?”
Eloise didn’t answer. She stepped delicately backward, closed the bathroom door with practiced gentleness, and folded her arms.
“You could have warned me,” she said calmly, “if you were going to have… overnight company.”
Hermione blinked harder. “What?”
“You’re not exactly a quiet sleeper, Hermione. So imagine my surprise when I didn’t hear a thing. Very impressive.”
It hit her then—what Eloise had seen. Who Eloise had seen.
“Oh my God,” Hermione groaned, standing up. “Eloise, it’s not like that. I was drunk. I blacked out. He must’ve just—passed out on the floor after walking me home.”
Eloise arched a single eyebrow. “In front of the toilet?”
“Yes!” Hermione said. “Which, frankly, you should be grateful for, considering what I walked into yesterday morning.”
That wiped the smugness from Eloise’s face instantly. “Excuse me?”
“You and Goyle,” Hermione said, leveling her voice. “In my bed.”
Eloise let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, come on. That was nothing.”
“You made me knock on my own door, Eloise.”
“I was busy!” Eloise snapped, though her voice was still annoyingly polished. “And you had your notes back within thirty seconds.”
Hermione stared at her. “There were noises.”
Eloise lifted her chin. “At least I don’t let mine sleep over.”
“Oh for—he’s literally on the floor, Eloise! What do you think happened? That we had some romantic moment and then he curled up next to the toilet like a gentleman?”
“Well, I don’t know, Hermione,” Eloise said with a shrug. “You don’t usually let him carry you home either.”
Hermione’s mouth opened. Then closed.
“…He carried me?”
Eloise’s expression said everything.
Hermione groaned and covered her face with her hands. “This is the worst day of my life.”
“You say that every time I win an argument,” Eloise replied breezily, already stepping back toward the bathroom. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your little boyfriend. Assuming he remembers any more of it than you do.”
She disappeared behind the bathroom door with her usual effortless grace, leaving Hermione staring at her desk, paper in hand, mind spinning faster than she liked.
Then—
“Right,” Draco said quietly.
Hermione turned.
He was standing in the bathroom doorway, hair mussed, eyes tired, and not looking at her. He reached for the glass of water sitting on the edge of the sink—probably left there from the night before—and took a slow sip.
For a moment, the only sound was the clink of the glass.
Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Draco didn’t look angry, exactly. Just… dull around the edges. Like something in him had gone a little quieter.
He set the glass down gently and ran a hand through his hair.
“Thanks for the floor,” he said. His voice was light, like it was supposed to be funny. It wasn’t.
Then he walked past her, out of the room, and closed the door behind him with a soft click.
Hermione glared at the closed bathroom door, jaw tightening.
She hadn’t meant to hurt him. Calling last night the worst day of her life… she’d just been flustered, embarrassed. But Draco had done nothing wrong. He’d carried her home. Stayed with her. And she’d made it sound like he was something to be ashamed of.
Without thinking, she shoved her papers aside and bolted for the door.
“Draco!” she called, yanking it open and slamming it shut behind her.
She took the stairs two at a time, her socks nearly slipping on the old wood. Her heart was pounding harder than it had during Eloise’s entire tirade.
Down the next flight—there. A flash of pale blond hair at the bottom of the staircase.
“Draco, wait!”
He didn’t wait.
He just kept walking: shoulders stiff, footsteps steady, not once looking back. The snow crunched under his shoes, soft and unbothered, like the world hadn’t shifted between them.
Hermione stood frozen for a second, caught between the warmth of her dorm and the cold unraveling in front of her. She could have let him go. Let the moment pass. Let the silence win.
But nine years of friendship meant more than dry socks and wounded pride.
She bolted after him barefoot, the snow biting at her toes, and caught up just enough to grab his hand.
“Draco,” she said, breathless. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
He stopped.
Slowly, he turned to face her.
Her fingers tightened around his, her eyes searching his face for something—understanding, forgiveness, anything.
And for a moment, just a heartbeat, Draco thought about it. Thought about closing the distance, cupping her face in his hands, and kissing her like she was the only thing anchoring him to this world.
But he didn’t.
Because she looked at him like a friend. Like a memory. Like someone who couldn’t imagine the weight he carried for her.
Just because she loved him—he knew she did—didn’t mean she did the way he loved her.
So he swallowed it. Again.
“I know,” he said quietly. “It just felt like you meant it.”
Hermione’s brow furrowed, her breath misting between them. She didn’t let go of his hand. Draco couldn’t meet her eyes for long. Every time he tried, he saw things he wanted too much- things he didn’t deserve. There was a war in his chest: the aching need to pull her closer, and the heavy instinct to protect her from himself. From what he could become. From how much she didn’t know.
She stood there, socks soaked through, heart wide open in the freezing dark. Of course she didn’t mean to hurt him. Of course she cared. But caring wasn’t the same.
“I meant what I said to Eloise,” she murmured, “but not about you. I just didn’t want her twisting things.”
Draco’s jaw clenched. He nodded once. It was all he could manage without unraveling.
“So you’d rather let her believe the worst than risk her knowing the truth?”
Her grip tightened.
“No,” she said. “I just didn’t know what the truth was until you walked away.”
Draco’s heart stuttered—just slightly.
But still, he didn’t kiss her.
Because if he did, and she didn’t kiss him back… he didn’t know if he could survive it.
Draco started to pull his hand away, but Hermione didn’t let go. Not yet.
Then she saw it.
Just beneath his jaw, where his scarf had shifted during the walk, there was a faint smudge of rose-colored lipstick.
Her lipstick.
The lipstick that he bought
Hermione’s heart dropped straight into her stomach.
Her mind tripped over itself, replaying flashes of the night before—the drinks, the warmth of his coat, the snow in her hair, the feeling of being held, of leaning too hard on someone who never let her fall. But this—this was evidence of something more. Something she couldn’t remember. Something he hadn’t said.
Her voice caught in her throat.
Did I—? Did we—?
She stepped back slightly, her fingers slipping from his.
Draco noticed the shift. Of course he did.
His eyes flicked to her lips, then to the ground, his shoulders going rigid. He already knew what she’d seen. He’d scrubbed at it in the mirror and still felt it like a brand.
He had told himself it didn’t matter. That maybe her head had lolled against his neck when he carried her. That maybe she’d smiled at him in the hallway like she remembered. That maybe—maybe—she’d kissed him. Even if she didn’t mean it.
But now her face had gone pale. Her mouth was parted. And he could feel the distance between them growing by the second.
Draco didn’t want to lose her.
Not over this. Not now. Not ever.
Before he could stop himself, he reached out and pulled her in—arms closing around her like muscle memory, like he’d been waiting years for her to let him do it again. He held her tightly, like she might vanish into the snow if he let go.
“Don’t go home,” he whispered, his voice rough. “You’ll be miserable. I’ll be miserable.”
The words came fast.
“Come to the manor for Christmas,” he murmured into her curly hair. “There’s more than enough space. You won’t even have to see my parents. Just… stay with me.”
Hermione didn’t pull back.
She hadn’t expected the hug—not from him, not now. It had been years since they’d touched like this, and yet the moment felt familiar. Like she’d always known he’d hold her like this if she let him.
So she didn’t speak.
She just tucked her face deeper into his chest, letting the weight of his coat and his heartbeat wrap around her. Her hands curled lightly into the folds of his sweater.
And then, after a long, quiet moment—barely more than a breath—
She nodded.
The smallest nod, almost imperceptible.
But he felt it.
And that was enough.