Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

With only minutes until the start of Hogwarts Welcome Feast, Hermione Granger was still in the library, lost in the pages of a book. 

Deep within a reader’s fog, she barely registered the pesky sound of someone clearing their throat. With barely a thought, she cast a silencing charm—a reflexive habit learned from her years as one of the few Gryffindor readers.  

A Finite Incantatem was cast, followed by a snappish “Miss Granger!”  

Hermione glanced up, startled.  Before her stood the severe form of Madam Pince, frowning down at her with thin, wrinkled lips.

“Oh!  Erm, have you been there long?  Did you say something?” 

“Indeed. I have asked for your attention several times now,” the woman responded tightly, glancing at the watch on her wrist. “I’ve permitted your pre-term invasion of this library for quite long enough, I think. The feast will be starting shortly, and I must ask that you vacate this table immediately.”  

With a nod, Hermione turned her attention back to the fragile tome. “I’ll clean up in just a moment.”  

Madam Pince exhaled a long, loud sigh, the sort one might reserve for a bartender who hadn’t heard of Firewhiskey.

Raising a brow, Hermione flicked her gaze back to the librarian and met her glare.  Deep wrinkles and crow’s feet decorated the old woman's face, and her entire expression was pinched into a twisted scowl.   The resulting effect brought to mind an irritable, grey-haired turtle.   

At one time, defying an authority figure in this way, justified or not, would have been mortifying—completely unacceptable behaviour in her younger self's eyes.  

That was one more thing the war had changed. 

When it became clear that this particular student would not be intimidated, the librarian rolled her eyes.  “Don’t mind me, then.” She turned on her heel and disappeared into the stacks, muttering under her breath about respect and students and in her day.   

Tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear, Hermione watched Pince leave without a speck of regret. The teachers needed to remember that her attendance was voluntarily as both an adult and a veteran.  There would be no bossing her around… Not this year. 

Once Madam Pince was out of sight, Hermione rapidly collected her explosion of notes from the table.  After all, the old librarian was right: the feast would start any moment. 

Only the books were packed carefully into her satchel; the rest of the items flew into the bag haphazardly with a careless flick of her wand.   

Her years as a student had always begun the same way: a mad scramble off the Hogwarts Express, a magical journey to the castle by boat or carriage, and a disaster involving Harry Potter right before exams. Of course, the exception was seventh year, when she had been rather preoccupied with the Second Wizarding War.

While Hermione did not regret a single decision from her childhood in the slightest, she was still aware that her immediate goals, ambitions, and studies had usually revolved around Harry’s needs rather than her own.  It was a necessary choice at the time, and one she had made proudly. 

But. 

This year, with the boys moving on and Voldemort defeated, she had decided that Eighth Year would be all about her wants and needs.  Academic research, school work, extracurricular pursuits—all ripe for the taking. 

Symbolically, she felt that her arrival should be different as well.  

Therefore, while the rest of the students piled off the Hogwarts Express and arrived at the castle in the traditional way, Hermione had tucked herself into her favourite study table—the old one by the wobbling bookcase and the long scratch down the left side—in her favourite room of the castle.  She had spent the day blissfully reading and soaking in the atmosphere. 

She was reluctant to leave.

Each part of the Hogwarts library, from the ancient rug beneath her feet, to the non-combusting lamps that adorned the ceiling, to the dusty, ancestral volumes, made her heart clench with a sentimental fondness, pure and uncorrupted.  Nowhere else in the castle felt nearly as safe. 

There was something about the way the heavy air of the library pressed comfortingly against her skin, as if the weight of knowledge itself was woven into the fabric of the timeless shelves.

As if the room were imbued with the very cadence of the stories it possessed.  

She closed her eyes and took a final breath of the familiar, ancient air, hoping she could bring the smell of old parchment and leather into the Great Hall with her.  After all, the library was the last place Hermione truly felt at home.

Safe.  

∞∞∞

At the grand oak doors leading into the hall, students were still filing in to take their seats.  Hermione blended in seamlessly with the rest, keeping a sharp eye out for her housemates.  

She spotted a familiar head of Weasley-red hair at the end of the table. Ginny huddled beside Demelza Robins and a few other Quidditch players, facing away from the rest of the hall.  Dean Thomas sat across from her, frowning down at a binder on the table and clutching charcoal in his hand. Hermione hurried toward them, grateful there was still extra room. 

Dean flicked his chin up at her in greeting.  At once, Ginny whipped around in her seat, eyes roving until they lit upon her.  With a Molly-esque purse to her lips and a dangerous, steely glint in her eyes, she waved impatiently. 

Her stomach twisted. 

Of course. The youngest Weasley had struggled with not knowing people’s whereabouts recently, a remnant of being left in the dark by her mother throughout the war.  Hermione understood better than most, considering that they had confided in each other all summer. 

But she’d forgotten to tell her friends that she wouldn’t be on the train.  

“There you are!” Ginny fumed.  Her immaculately styled hair, twisted into a braid and an updo, was starting to unravel.  “We saved you a seat on the train, and then you didn’t show up… Could have told us… Where in Merlin’s baggy Y-fronts were you?” 

“I was in the library—” 

“Of course you were,” Ginny interrupted with a huff of derision.  “Merlin… I’ve been furious with you all afternoon.  Not a word from you!  I thought—”  She shook her head.  

As she settled into the open seat beside Dean, Hermione's insides writhed with guilt.  “I am sorry. I swear, I didn’t mean to make you worry.  It’s just—this is going to be my year, and I thought symbolically, a different arrival…” she trailed off at the incredulous once-over Ginny pointed her way.  “I was just aching to get to the library.” 

For a moment, they held each other’s gaze.  Ginny was usually expressive, but Hermione couldn’t get a read on what was running through her head. Heavens, this wasn’t how she’d wanted the year to start at all!

Suddenly, a genuine grin split across her friend's face. From the stiff way her cheeks moved, it was possibly the first time she’d smiled that day.  “I didn’t think I’d miss the sound of you saying that so much.”  Ginny poured a cup of pumpkin juice from the table’s pitcher, and the moment of tension evaporated.  

Hermione inwardly sighed in relief, though worry still prickled along her skin.  Yes, this was her year, but that didn’t mean she should be selfish and thoughtless!  Hadn’t the Weasleys worried enough? She made a mental note to make a copy of her school agenda for Ginny.     

With that taken care of, she turned her attention to the side.  

“Dean!  It’s great to see you, I wondered if there would be others back for an Eighth round,” she gushed, addressing the hunched form beside her.  Without Harry and Ron this year, Hermione wanted to connect with the other students of her age, rather than hunkering in complete solitude. It was all part of her master plan. 

When he didn’t respond, she tapped his shoulder, concerned.  “Erm…?” 

“Eh?”  Dean jerked his head up.   When Hermione repeated her question, his cheeks flushed a deep amber.  “Sorry, I’m just very… Well, you know.   Like you get with your books.  Very focused at the moment.”   

Well, she could appreciate that. Without thinking, she peered over his arm to see what Dean was sketching.  

Her stomach lurched; it was Lavender Brown.  

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hermione said, jerking her head back.  “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to pry.  Were you two…?” 

Dean smudged some charcoal and frowned, then tilted the sketch so Hermione could lean closer.  “It’s okay, I don’t mind if you look.”   

She took his invitation and craned her neck over the sheets.

“With Lavender, it wasn’t like that,” Dean continued, his brows drawn together.  “But I’m only back because Hogwarts is one of the best places in the world to learn the foundations of magical portraiture, and drawing them feels like the right place to start.”

“Them?” 

While Ginny pretended not to watch, Dean flipped open his sketchbook, and Hermione’s breath caught in her throat.  At his encouraging nod, she reached out with trembling fingers to look at page after page.  Colin. Ted Tonks.  The drawings were gorgeous, each capturing an indefinable quality somewhere between fondness and homesick.

When Hermione reached a melancholy illustration of Fred, Ginny flinched and jerked her chin back. 

“Is this why…?  Or, well.  Is this what inspired you to do portraits?” Hermione asked.  With a pang, she made a mental note to find her own way to memorialise the people in these drawings, like Dean had done.  They were gone, and she hadn’t done enough, not nearly… 

“I always wanted to study portraiture, actually, but I missed my chance last year,” Dean said as Hermione handed the binder back to him.  “And Lavender, Colin, Fred… being back here, it felt like the right place to start.”  

“You have all year for that, Dean,” Ginny cut in, voice raspy.   Her hands were clenched into fists, but when she noticed the two of them looking at her, she let out a forced laugh.  “Let’s talk about… Hey, have you got any Quidditch drawings in there?” 

Dean scratched his nose, leaving a bit of dusty charcoal behind.  “Well, I’ve done a few drawings of the West Ham players.” 

“Let’s see those then,” Ginny said at once, whipping out her wand.  “Accio!”  

With lightning-quick reflexes, he snatched the notebook mid-air, eyes wide.  “No!” he cried.  “They’re not… appropriate…” 

Ginny’s eyes widened in delight.  “Are they naughty?” she crowed.  “Ooh, you have to let me see!” 

Demelza Robbins, who had mostly ignored the group until now, spun away from the Quidditch team to face Ginny eagerly.  “What’s this about naughty drawings, then?”

“They aren’t naughty, they’re very tasteful,” Dean snapped, a very deep flush crawling across his copper skin.  “It’s simply a study in muscle tone and, erm, torso structure.  Nothing that isn’t already on a calendar.” 

Ginny’s head snapped toward Dean with impossible speed. “There’s a calendar?” 

“So you’re into boys now?” Demelza pressed.  “Are you looking for a boyfriend?  Can I set you up with Jack Sloper?” 

Dean chuckled, but he was firm in his response.  “I’m not looking at the moment, Demelza.  I was on the run for the year, and then the Battle…” He shook his head, a distant look in his eye.  “I just want to draw.  Focus on myself, and I’ll date next year.” 

“Well, if you change your mind, I know all the seventh years,” Ginny said, her eyes roving down the long Gryffindor tables.  “Not that many eighth years to choose from, though...  You into younger men?” 

Dean cast a cursory glance around the Hall and dodged the question.  “Yeah, not too many Eighth Years.  Probably because it’s mostly us Muggle-Borns who bothered to return.” 

“Well, Muggle-Borns, or…” Demelza turned round in her seat and cast a look across the Hall to the Slytherin table, and her mouth twisted.   “Or the ones with parole agreements.”  

Hermione followed Demelza’s gaze, and her eyes landed upon the tall form of Draco Malfoy.  

She wasn’t surprised to see him this year, of course. Having been at his trial, she knew he’d had to select between a year of school or a year of Azkaban, which was hardly a choice at all.

But she was surprised to see how little he belonged. 

Even now, as students were settling into the Great Hall, his mere presence was jarring.  He stood out in the warm gathering of feasting students, freshly sorted first-years, and cheery decorations like a bedraggled stain.  A human contradiction: pale face, shadowed eyes. White hair, black expression. There was a careful, empty gap in the benches around him, small enough to not draw attention, but noticeable to those who were looking nonetheless.  In a Great Hall that was almost offensive in its jolly, cosy normality, Malfoy still looked like war.  

She could appreciate that about him, she thought, as she scanned the different tables.  Here and there, she saw another student—usually another seventh or eighth year—looking lost, perhaps even aggrieved by the cheerful atmosphere, still haunted by phantoms of the year past.  

Around her, Dean, Ginny, and Demelza were still bickering. 

“Dean could date a Slytherin, Demelza—” 

“Not an option—”

“I told you two I am not looking!”

Hermione’s thoughts, and the chatter of the other Gryffindors, were interrupted as the rumble of the Great Hall slowly lowered to a soft whisper, then fizzled out entirely. Professor McGonagall had approached the podium with weary steps.

“Welcome, students,” McGonagall began.  “Today, as we gather…” 

As the old witch spoke, Hermione’s attention wandered, alighting on student after student from all four houses. Some looked determined, while others were barely hanging on. She could certainly relate to the lost, dispossessed look in some of their eyes.

No one embodied the displacement as beautifully as Malfoy, however.  He was chiaroscuro; a study in contrasts.  A brilliant light, a dark haze.  

No matter how she tried to pay attention to the Headmistress’s long speech about unity and rebuilding, or even to linger on the faces of other students, Hermione’s attention ultimately drifted back to him.

It was only as the Professor solemnly offered grave toasts to the dead and wrapped up the speech that she realised: for the first time in memory, she had barely paid attention to the ceremony.  Heavens, what was the matter with her?  She hadn’t heard a word of what McGonagall had said!

She didn’t pay attention to the Sorting Hat either, which sang the longest, most desperately boring song Hermione had ever experienced, sticking to themes of death and rebirth.   She didn’t clap and cheer for the First Years as they were sorted into their new Houses. 

It was her first day, and she was already failing.

Long after the feast had ended, as she settled into her dorms, Hermione was incredibly grateful that she was the only Eighth year girl to return from Gryffindor—it meant she had her own room.  

It meant she had space to breathe.  

She collapsed into bed like a marathon runner crossing a finish line, smiling a bit as a familiar ball of fur leapt lightly onto the pillow beside her.

"Night, Crooks," she murmured.  Within seconds, she had fallen asleep. 

∞∞∞

At five in the morning, Draco Malfoy was already awake. 

The only light in the dormitory came from the ambient glow of Theo’s enchanted model of a working pirate ship, complete with Slytherin-green colours and singing mermaid toys (permanently silenced by Blaise in fourth-year).  In the dark, the dorm room was mostly shaded in colours of grey. His sweaty, rumpled sheets, normally emerald green: grey.  The dark forms of Blaise, Theo, and Greg, half-hidden behind bed curtains, bodies rising and falling softly with the sounds of their snores: dark grey.  The ripple of water outside the dorm window: midnight black.  His own skin, barely visible in the ambient light: shockingly, deathly white.

Draco’s shoulders ached from the variety of positions he had tried while tossing and turning in his bed.  One moment, the sheets were stifling, nearly damp with heat against his skin. But then when he kicked the sheets away, his skin burned from the cold air instead.  Could he really say he was ‘already’ awake when he’d barely closed his eyes?

It was pointless.  

With a surreptitious look around to make sure Blaise, Greg, and Theo were still asleep, and carefully avoiding any glimpse of Vince's old bed, Draco slunk quietly through the room and changed into his uniform, then knelt at his bedside table.  He just needed to reread that one part of the letter, and he didn’t want them to see…

Draco pulled out a set of folded and well-used papers and flipped through the pages, looking for the paragraph he wanted.  His finger drifted down the scrawl of Granger’s handwriting, eyes catching on familiar passages here and there.

The nature of Voldemort’s regime was especially dangerous for minors.  In a system requiring absolute obsequious behaviour, physical punishments, psychological punishments, isolation, secretive behaviour, and limited or non-existent autonomy, children are the most vulnerable group… 

No, the section he wanted was farther down… there.

Furthermore, it creates a prime breeding ground for grooming.  For those on the Wizengamot who are unaware, 'grooming' is the set of actions that an adult takes to assert inappropriate control and power over a vulnerable person, usually a child.  First, an adult, henceforth called 'the abuser', will gain the trust and fill a need for the vulnerable party, henceforth referred to as 'the child': perhaps the abuser will exploit a poor home life, or they aim to fill the child’s need to feel loved or valued.   

Once they have exerted enough control and dominance, the abuser will employ a range of tactics to confuse or subdue their victim.  These tactics include threats of harm, shunning strategies, creating doubt around the authenticity of past situations, shaming techniques, and fostering a general environment of helplessness.  Surely some of these ideas sound familiar when considering the case of Draco Malfoy, who— 

Draco stopped there.  He often revisited the words Granger used to describe generalities, but he found it too painful to re-read her assessment of how it applied to him personally.  He hoped by the end of this year that she’d look on him more favourably than that. 

Still, he let his fingers trace over a phrase: an easy task in an unsafe environment ruled by Death Eaters.  Draco wondered if Granger understood just how easy, even as the author of this multi-page sermon.

Excerpts of this letter had been read at his trial, and the words had been pivotal… if not to the Wizengamot, then certainly to him.  Her descriptions of cults, coercion, indoctrination, and conditioning had felt like a cool waterfall of truth.  He had felt so misunderstood by all the adults in his life, from all sides of the war, and even his friends. 

He’d realised: she understood.

And if she understood, maybe she’d be willing to give him a chance.  Maybe if she could see in him what not even his own family saw, then what else might she have to say?  

Should he not put his faith in her?   

Draco was torn from his thoughts as Blaise stirred noisily in his bed.  

Quickly, Draco folded his copy of the letter and shut it in his bedside drawer.  He finished by setting a long and increasingly venomous series of wards and hexes on the drawer.  

“Morning, mate,” Blaise called out.  “Sleep well?” 

“Yep.”  

Theo moaned and rolled over.  “Pipe down, you wankers…” 

“Up early though, aren’t you Draco?” called out Blaise, even louder. 

Draco shrugged.  “I woke up hungry,” he lied.  

“Course you did,” grumbled Theo, pushing his hair out of his face as he sat up slowly.  “Barely ate anything last night, did you?  Or last year, in fact.” 

Draco sneered in Theo’s direction.  “You ate enough for the both of us, I expect.” 

Theo pulled his sheets up to his chin, offended.  “I’m an emotional eater!” 

“You’re an emotional everything,” said Blaise.  

Greg let out a loud snore, and Theo shot him a wistful look, still rubbing his eyes.  “He can sleep through anything, can’t he?  Wish I could.  Only one of us who—” suddenly he broke off, his face blanched.  As one, all the boys in the room glanced toward Vince's four poster.  The curtains were drawn closed, as if it was any better to look at than an empty bed.

Quicker than the swish of a wand, Draco suddenly felt smothered by the familiar banter.  He tugged at his collar uselessly. 

“I’m down to breakfast, then,” Draco said, with a quick turn on his heel.  If Theo or Blaise said anything else, he didn’t hear it.  He just kept walking, reminding himself: it’s just one year.  One final, suffocating year in this sodding school, and he would be done.  And anyway, it was better than Azkaban.  

∞∞∞

After a year of camping and starving and fighting, a day filled with lessons was a welcome change.  That said, Hermione could have done without History of Magic.

It was a course few students chose to continue after O.W.L.s.  Those who did brave the extra two years of Binns’ droning were usually students like herself—high achievers who wanted to collect the maximum number of N.E.W.T.s.  Though occasionally, there truly were a few young witches and wizards with specialised interests as well.

This year, the class was a mishmash of about twelve students total, even with the Seventh and Eighth years combined.  Predictably, the group was mostly composed of Ravenclaws and Slytherins.  She tended to be the lone Gryffindor in classes on the ‘overachiever’ path.  

From her year, Lisa Turpin—the only Muggle-Born Ravenclaw her age, she remembered—Draco Malfoy, and Blaise Zabini were in the room.   The rest of the room was filled with Seventh Years, including one student she knew particularly well. 

“Hello, Hermione,” Luna called out dreamily.  “I’ve saved you a seat.”   

After a desperate, pointless survey of the room for an alternate seating option, she headed toward Luna with a terse smile.  The spacey Ravenclaw had always been Harry’s friend, primarily.  Not that Hermione didn’t like her or harboured any ill will, of course.  

It was simply that she could never quite seem to interact with the blonde… correctly. 

“Thank you, Luna.”  She settled into her seat and unpacked her pristine notebook, ready to fill it with a year's worth of knowledge. 

“You could really use some parsnip cream, you realise. I always keep a few tins on me, if you would like some,” Luna offered randomly. 

“What does it protect against, the bollywags?” Hermione quipped in a dismissive tone.  She continued to arrange her muggle pens in order. 

“What’s a bollywag?” Luna asked curiously. 

Hermione sighed. 

“You’ll have to tell me all about them later,” Luna continued in her soft, lilting voice. “But the parsnip cream is for your hair.  It’s very helpful with frizzy things.  I think you would be really pleased with the results—” 

Someone chuckled, and Hermione whipped around sharply.  When she could not identify the culprit, she turned back to Luna, lips tight. 

“No thank you to the parsnip, Luna,” she gritted out. 

“A strange choice,” said Luna, her eyes wide and clear. “But I respect your right to refuse help.” 

Hermione bit her lip so hard she tasted iron.  “Thank you,” she managed.  

Just then, instead of the familiar, transparent shape of Binns drifting through the blackboard, the classroom door swung open. A young-ish, good looking man strode into the room.  He was tall and well-built, with a chiselled jawline and a confident air.  

“Good morning, class.”  The man pushed a lock of brown hair out of his eyes.  “My name is Professor Quibbling, and I am your new History of Magic Professor.”   

Had he been at the Feast?  Had Hermione really been that disengaged?   She exchanged glances with the other students in the room, but everyone else seemed equally startled at the new face.  A few people were muttering to their neighbours and openly staring. 

As Hermione scanned the faces of the other students, she accidentally locked eyes with Malfoy.   His wide, silver eyes were fixed on her with an unexpected, sort of intense focus. Quickly, she looked down, but she could still sense his gaze on the back of her head. 

Malfoy. Again. 

He’d been in so many of her classes today, which unnerved her.  She appreciated his presence like one might enjoy a melancholic painting: sadly, briefly, but with little desire to bring it from room to room.  He reminded her of things she didn’t care to think about.  Once a day in the Great Hall was more than enough of his haunting visage… Now, the sight of him was starting to wear on her. 

Professor Quibbling cleared his throat and raised a hand.  The class fell silent.   

Lowering his arm, the Professor looked around, a small smile toying around the corner of his mouth.  “I’m sure you’re all wondering about Professor Binns.  The Hogwarts Board felt that it was… past time for him to make space for a teacher with a new vision.  And that’s why you have me. I expect we’ll have a very productive and rewarding year together.  If there are no questions, we can dive in—” 

Hermione raised her hand. 

Professor Quibbling raised his brows. “Ah, I certainly recognise you, Miss Granger. Brightest Muggle-born witch of the age, eh? Do you have a question already?”

Hermione paused at his tone, but graciously decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Yes, several actually, but first—do you have a new curriculum you’ll be working off of?  And, will you take suggestions?” 

A few people in the back row snickered, but she ignored them. This was a really good chance to make a difference, and she was entitled to ask. 

Quibbling lifted his chin and peered at Hermione thoughtfully.  “While I’m sure you’re very clever, Miss Granger, the curriculum has already been designed.  And I think you’ll find this class will work quite a bit differently this year.”

He smiled blandly at the room. “Any other questions?” 

Hermione’s jaw clenched at the way he’d brushed her off.   She glanced around, fingers tapping in frustration along her notebook.  Would anyone else jump in with a question, or would she have to once again do everything herself?  

Luckily, a seventh year Ravenclaw had raised her hand. 

“Yes, Miss…”

“Horthrop, Sir.  How will the curriculum work, then?”

Mr Quibbling turned his wand over in his hand. “There are students in this class who may or may not have been able to participate in school last year due to the… troubles.”

“The war,” Blaise Zabini piped up from his seat in the back.

The majority of the class turned around to look at him.  But Hermione watched Professor Quibbling’s face, noticing how his face darkened.  

“Yes.  The war.  Thank you, Mr Zabini.  Therefore, the faculty and I felt that it was time to implement a structured set of individualised programmes.”

A snub-nosed Slytherin raised his hand. 

“Yes, Mister Engleton?”

“So… we’ll all be learning different things?” 

Mr Quibbling tilted his head and smiled.  “Some of you will experience alternative Paths to Learning.”  He sighed, as if quite beleaguered with the burden of explaining such things.  “We will discuss some sensitive topics in this class… The history of magical creatures. Magical humans and muggles.  The grim realities of war throughout the ages.”

The wizard paced as he spoke. “There are many sides of history, and it is possible to view such events through a different lens based on our own experiences.”

Normally Hermione would agree, but something about the way Professor Quibbling said it did not ease her distrust.  She narrowed her eyes.

He quit his pacing to look up and met Hermione’s stare.  “It is my goal to help you, especially the Muggle-Borns, catch up on the context that you might be missing from an outside perspective.  Let us magical folk all learn to be on the same page. We do not want to distance those of a different blood status. We want to bring Muggle-borns into the fold, so to speak.” 

Without breaking eye contact, Hermione raised her hand.  “That implies that you think the Muggle-borns are behind.  And from your tone, I would infer that you regard muggles as less than.” 

Quibbling’s lips thinned. “Not behind, Miss Granger.  Just lacking a certain context.  And as for your inference…. Yes, you presume correctly.  It is merely a fact of life that Muggles are less than. We have magic.  They do not.”

“But—” 

Quibbling raised a hand and moved so that he stood right before her.  “It is indisputable that Muggles are less than, Miss Granger.  However, it is my firm belief Muggle-borns are not less than.  They are simply in need of a guiding hand.”

Hermione scoffed and leaned back in her seat to look up at him, enraged.   Her benefit of the doubt was long gone.  His face no longer appeared chiselled to her, but stony.  It was superficial, but the more he’d spoken today, the uglier he grew in her mind.  In fact, standing this close, she imagined she could see all the tiny little pores on his nose.

“Are we understood, Miss Granger?”  

Hermione crossed her arms.  “Professor Quibbling… As you yourself said, history comes in many lenses.  Have you considered that the Wizarding World’s context is also lacking a muggle point of view?  And that furthermore, the ideas from the mundane that this world is missing are worth investigation, worth discussion and debate?” 

“I have all the context I need, Miss Granger,” Quibbling said condescendingly.  He walked back to the front of the room and swept his eyes across all the students.  “But don’t worry, class—I promise that soon, each and every one of you—yes, including you, Miss Granger—will have it too.”

It was blindingly obvious what Quibbling was trying to do.  She was so furious that she was practically vibrating in her chair.  

For the rest of class, Hermione didn’t listen to a word… She simply stewed and plotted her own version of what a Magical History class ought to be.  Why, why did she have to be the one to fix everything? 

She had a lot of work to do.

Chapter Text

The following Monday, Hermione prepared for a long night in the library.

Only a week of lessons had passed, and she already had the distinct impression that Quibbling was out to get her.  Probably because I’m not afraid to challenge his outdated notions, she thought snidely.

Hermione had taken to fact checking every last footnote her professorial nightmare chose to share.  She was still fuming about the man’s choice of textbook— Our Marvellous Magical History, really?  Not only did that archaic drivel contain blatant discriminatory rhetoric and false claims, but also, Quibbling hadn’t even bothered to assign the most recent edition!  She would have liked to at least be up to date on the latest inaccuracies.

Her lips pursed as she arranged her books and pens to her exact liking.  Where on earth did wizards like Quibbling get the nerve…?

Her ruminations were interrupted by a large body shuffling and clearing his throat. 

She twisted in her seat, and her eyes popped open in surprise; Malfoy loomed above her, tall and angular and standing right there. 

“Granger,” he said, just a bit too loud.  She could tell he was going for a lofty, unaffected look, but he mostly just looked queasy.  

“Malfoy,” she responded, frowning.  Hermione didn’t know what he was up to, but she was already dealing with enough at the moment. 

Just when she had turned back to her book, hoping to ignore his presence entirely, he finally spoke. “May I join you at your table?”  

She thought of saying no, but now that he had finally spoken, his lips were pressed together with grim determination, the set of his shoulders taut with intent. Hermione suspected she wouldn’t be rid of him until he said his piece, whatever it was.  

And frankly, she was rather curious.  

“Go on, then,” she sighed, pushing the chair opposite her out with her foot.

Ignoring this gesture, he slid into the seat next to her instead.   

Giving him a proper once-over, Hermione noted he looked much better than he had at his trial only a few months prior.  He had gained a few pounds, although he was still too-thin and rather pointy of face.  His dirty, mangled hair had been cut, his ratty beard had been shaved, and his eyes were only somewhat haunted instead of chillingly so.

Malfoy chewed his lip as he stared back at her, possibly on the verge of saying something.  Then, to her surprise, he simply pulled out his Arithmancy homework.  

So, Hermione turned back to her text on the intriguing history hunting for sport: particularly, which magical beings were affected and how it impacted their societal growth.  It was truly a fascinating topic, and she ought to challenge Professor Quibbling about why it wasn’t included in the curriculum…

She lost herself in her studies, and eventually, she forgot Malfoy was even there. 

Until—

“I saw you there,” he blurted out.  “At my trial.” 

She lifted her gaze and let her eyes flit across his face, looking for any clue as to his motives.  In response, he straightened under her scrutiny and threw her a challenging sneer.  Still, Hermione didn’t miss his knee bouncing under the table, nor the way he couldn’t keep his fingers still.   

He suddenly seemed very young.  

“About half of Wizarding Britain was there,” she reminded him at last. 

It had been one of the longest trials of the whole summer.  Dozens of witnesses had been summoned, memories had been compiled, and the Prophet had reported on it mercilessly.  Teachers, students, and incarcerated Death Eaters had all made an appearance at the circus.  Even Luna Lovegood had read a strange, solemn limerick about how Malfoy had smuggled her extra food and potions while she was trapped in the dungeons of the Manor.  It had been illuminating, heart-wrenching, yet still rather off-putting.  Classic Luna, Hermione had thought privately, though she kept that part to herself. 

He rolled his eyes.  “Granger… You weren’t just there.   You testified on my behalf.  I was sure you were there to damn me to Azkaban.  I…”  He pushed his hair out of his eyes, quiet for a moment.  Then he murmured, “I’m not sure I deserved it.”  If they hadn’t been in the soundless library, she might have missed the words entirely.

Was that why he was there—the Draco Malfoy sympathy tour?  Was he fishing for kind words and absolution?  Why, Malfoy, don’t say that!  You absolutely deserved a second chance. You were just a misunderstood bully with a heart of gold all along.  

Well, if he wanted free vindication, he was going to have to find it elsewhere.  

“In all honesty, the Aurors wanted me to testify against you, Malfoy.  However, no one tells me what to do, nor what to say.  I think for myself.  Personally, I thought you were simply a misguided teen, even if you were a rather nasty bully in school.  So that’s precisely what I said.” Hermione hoped her declaration signified the end of the conversation, and turned back to her notes.

He fidgeted.

She successfully ignored him for nearly a minute until he burst out: “It meant a lot to me, you know.  That letter you wrote…”  

Ah, so it was going to be like this.  Hermione sighed and marked her spot in her book.  

“It seemed very—erm, thoroughly researched,” Malfoy went on, appraising her with trepidation.  “I thought you must have written it.  Primarily.” 

“Yes, well. The Wizarding World has surprisingly little literature on the danger of cults and indoctrination, not to mention the impacts upon minors,” Hermione began, slipping into the comfortable role of lecturer with some relief. “We’re barely scratching the surface on the research that is needed in magical society.  Did you know—” 

“Yes yes, I have a copy of your extended edition, the one that wasn’t edited for time,” he said quickly.  “Very informative.  I only wanted to thank you for writing it.  I don’t think I’d have a parole without it,” he gushed, clearly getting to the meat of his visit.  “It was so eloquent, and I felt like you really understood me, and put into words how stuck I felt, and you so clearly explained why.  No one has ever…” he flushed an interesting shade of pink.  “It just meant a lot to me, and I know it came straight from your big brain.”

“Well, yes, I… Oh, thank you—?” Hermione smiled, rather confused and pleased.  “Although, Ron and Harry did contribute to the letter too, you ought to know.” 

“Of course.  The Chosen Witness — The Boy Who Testified — He’s a right Saint,” Malfoy sneered.  Before her eyes he transformed into the bully he’d been when he was younger. “So he read words on a paper.  Without you he would have been yammering on about the power of love or some rubbish.”

Even though Malfoy was technically right—Harry’s first draft had featured quite heavily on the healing power of love—she scowled fiercely.  “Without him, Malfoy, there would have been no letter.  I was rather focused on my own healing at the time, but he convinced me to help him take action. He begged me to write it.  Said he felt sickened by the lot you were stuck with, wanted the letter to be perfect.”

Well, not begged exactly—Hermione had been more than willing to help, really—but it had the desired effect; she could tell this had thrown Malfoy greatly off balance.  

He recovered admirably.

“Fine, then.  But you can’t deny you wrote the whole thing.  I can’t imagine what the Weasel did to help,” he drawled.  “He certainly didn’t read anything. Probably couldn’t pronounce any of the big words you used in your letter, much less read or write them.  What did he do, fetch you tea?” 

“He signed it,” Hermione said pointedly.  “Which, may I remind you, he did not need to do.” 

Malfoy looked like he wanted to continue his obnoxious War on All Things Potter and Weasley, but he only grimaced and conceded the point with a nod and a curl of his lip.

“Still, I think we both know who the genius behind the words was, Granger.”  

Despite herself, Hermione flushed.

Malfoy certainly had a lot of pretty words for her about that letter. She deserved them, of course; it wasn’t just a simple homework assignment, it had possibly contributed to saving a life. But Hermione had assumed that, like most of the students, Malfoy would want to put all of that behind him. 

Did he need a favour? Was this the start of some master redemption plan?  Perhaps, she supposed, he was working out the best way to ask her for something.  Maybe he had a monologue about why he deserved a second chance in the press, and he wanted her permission to print her words in the Daily Prophet.  Well, fat chance of that.  No one told her what to do, nor manipulated her for their gain… not anymore.

She realised Malfoy had fixed his silvery gaze on her, intense eyes cutting through her like a scythe.  She was inexplicably reminded of a wolf sizing up its meal.  

A white-blond lock of hair had fallen halfway into his eyes, and Hermione suddenly had a wild impulse to push it out of the way for him.  

“I see you’ve got a bit more to say?” she asked, eyeing him up and down.

“Granger… I’m sorry,” Malfoy said slowly.  He bit his lip, then continued.  “I was wrong about everything.  I was wrong about blood—I now understand that purebloods are truly no better than Muggleborns in any way.  I treated you terribly, and I wish I could take it all back.  You don’t have to accept my apology, but please know that I have nothing but remorse. And I owe you everything, for testifying at my trial.”

 His contrition seemed sincere, but perhaps he knew just what to say.

Still, something she hadn’t known was broken in her heart slowly stitched itself together, and to her horror, her eyes became a bit hot.  She really hoped he meant it.  

To distract herself, Hermione fixed her attention on his nose, which was actually very straight and exquisitely shaped. Not that she found that kind of information interesting. 

“Look, I used horrible words that I shouldn’t have said.  I pushed terrible agendas for things I shouldn’t have believed.  And blood purity aside, I behaved in a very uncivilised way when we were children, and I thoroughly regret it.”  As he spoke, his icy eyes never left hers.

She stared at him, utterly flummoxed.  This apology was very thorough and very un-Malfoy-like. 

“I see,” said Hermione.  She waved her wand at him.  Malfoy looked incredibly alarmed, but she only said, “ Finite Incantatem.”

Malfoy scowled and batted her wand away.  “Get that fucking thing out of my face.  I’m not cursed, Granger.  I’m apologising to you and I’m trying to be serious.” 

“I just had to check,” she said.  “Well, who's next on the list, then?”

“List?”  

“You know.  Harry, Ron…” 

Malfoy huffed a laugh.  “Your idiotic friends won’t be getting apologies,” Malfoy said with a sneer, looking down to fidget with his quill viciously.  “They don’t deserve the trouble.  They are arrogant, dimwitted, and incredibly annoying.” 

Ah, there was the Malfoy she knew and hated.

“But you,” he said, throwing her a quick glance.  “You were blameless, mostly.  I was jealous of you … I thought I was supposed to be your superior, and I couldn’t handle the truth, that you were superior to me.  And you still are.   Always will be, I expect.”

Her chest was curiously warm.

“I mean, you were a bit of a teacher’s pet, I suppose,” Malfoy continued snottily.  “Annoying and preachy, yes, but really you didn’t do anything wrong, did you?  Your only crime was that you were very intelligent.  For eleven years, you didn’t know magic existed, and then you showed up and trounced us all.  Even then, I could see you were going places… It was humiliating. ” 

He looked down and fiddled with his wand, then took a deep, reluctant breath.  “But my pride was the problem.  Not you… I see that now.  That’s all on me, and I should have been better.  I will be better,” he finished resolutely. 

“But only to me,” she said, curiously.  “Why?”

Malfoy tensed.  “I think about it a lot,” he finally admitted haltingly.  Clearly, this was something he’d hoped to avoid.  “I suppose…  Out of everyone I’ve wronged, you certainly deserved it the least.  I think if I hadn’t been conditioned to hate you, we would have been friends.  And… after your letter, I feel like you could understand me.  Maybe.”  

So it was the letter, then.  Though she hadn’t missed that slip-up about her ‘going places.’ Hermione peered at Malfoy very closely.   She was surprisingly flattered that it had meant so much to him.  And really, if he wanted to apologise, she didn’t see the harm in letting him begin the work of making amends.

Malfoy squirmed under her long stare, casting a dark, mistrustful glance her way before staring down at the table with great focus.  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he finally snapped.  “I feel like you’re studying me like some little insect you’re about to pulverise and throw into a potion.” 

Hermione let out a surprised huff of laughter.  “I’m deciding if I believe you, or if this is a performative act.  I suppose I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt,” she said.  “But I want you to apologise to Harry and Ron too.  I don’t think the picture you’ve painted of them just now reflects any kind of reality.” 

Malfoy looked outraged.  “I couldn’t possibly!”   

She stared at him levelly.  “It’s a condition of my forgiveness, if you truly want it.”  Malfoy stared sulkily down at his Arithmancy book for so long she thought he might have started reading again.  

Rolling her eyes, she pointedly turned back to her notes and picked up her quill.  Eventually, she heard the sweet sound of victory when Malfoy let out a loud, reluctant sigh.   

“Fine,” he muttered finally.  “I’ll apologise to the speccy git and his idiot sidekick.” 

“Nicely,” Hermione added primly.   

Malfoy gave a “hmph” that she took as his assent.

“Alright,” she said with a decisive nod.  “It’s still tempting to not accept your apology, as it was rather clumsy in parts and you didn’t need to include the non-apology regarding my friends in the middle.  The part about blood purity was nicely done, but I think the lead up could have used some work.  There was also an underlying implication that I am only worth the attention because I might be useful in the future. Really, I would have written it differently altogether.” 

“Are you about to give me a grade?” asked Malfoy, incredulous.  

 “But, I don’t want to risk blowing you off if you might be sincere,” she continued, ignoring him entirely.  “I rather think it would do you some good to have a second chance, because you are capable.  So I forgive you, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s shoulders slumped in relief.  Honestly, she hadn’t even realised how stiffly he’d been holding his body until then.  “Right,” he said.  “Well, good.”  He reached out, then pulled back, and then finally shook her hand awkwardly.  “Thank you.”  

“You’re quite welcome, Malfoy.” 

He fell back into silence, carefully scribbling out the beginnings of an arithmancy equation.  

Should she kick him out, now that he’d said his piece?

Well, now that he was no longer interrupting her reading, Malfoy’s presence did not really bother her at all.   And, this was her year, of course.  But it wasn’t her library.  If he needed a place to sit, she should certainly let him stay.

They worked in comfortable silence, and it was only when he grunted a brief goodnight that she remembered he was even there.

∞∞∞

In the cold light of morning, Draco mulled over last evening’s interactions with Granger with relief.  He’d imagined nightmare scenarios where his plans failed, where she taunted him or told him that he was an idiot for thinking he could ever earn the trust of the Golden Girl, to the point that he nearly talked himself out of approaching her in the library at least twelve times.

In his short life, Draco had already had too much experience with the worst case scenario coming true.

Yet, it had gone pretty well, all things considered. 

He’d chosen the perfect words, he thought; parroting the dogma of Blood Traitors—or no, he reminded himself, shaking his head.  That wasn’t what they were called anymore.  Yet another habit he’d need to kick.

His eyes drifted to the witch in question, sitting directly across the hall.  

As usual, Granger had a book propped up against her plate, pouring over the pages while she scarfed down her food.  The Weasley sister turned to her and touched her arm.  With a slight tilt of her chin, the redhead whispered something, giggling.  

She was perfect.

It wasn’t that his apology was a lie, or all part of a master plan.  Draco was sorry for pushing her away all these years, only to learn that Blood Purity as a doctrine had no inherent benefits.  He was open to change.  The incorrect system of power he’d subscribed to had been a ruse, and he had not been raised to be a fanatic.  

He had no love for the ideology that resulted in him missing a chance to get in with the most brilliant witch currently alive.  The one with the capacity to see him.

But transitioning his entire persona, learning the new principles of the Order creed, would take time and help.

He was a clean, blank slate, waiting for instructions.  He needed the foundation of his new axiom to be written into his psyche by her hand.

Granger threw back her head and laughed with abandon, wild and untamed.  She was wayward and unbridled; a stark contrast to his own indoctrinated mind.  She knew herself… She knew how to think.  

Granger didn’t let others dictate her understanding of the world: she found it out on her own.   

She was the source of truth.  

Pushing the remnants of his eggs around the plate, Draco wondered if Granger even had the slightest idea what she had come to mean to him while he was alone in his cell, awaiting trial.  How much she had meant to him as she sat in his courtroom, eyes blazing, mouthing along the words to the letter that Potter read aloud.

How fixated he was now.

She was his one true creed, and he was her disciple.  

Draco trailed his eyes along the Gryffindor table, though his eyes always returned to Granger, like the pull of gravity.  Now she was whispering and giggling with that other muggleborn—Dean Thomas, he thought with a sneer.  Wanker. 

Draco imagined it was him sitting across from her instead of Thomas.  

That she had flashed him that wide smile.

He let his gaze soften until the Gryffindor table was blurry and unfocused.  Until Dean Thomas faded into the background and until Granger was nothing but a shape with hair.

Until his view was a palette on which he could paint his heart’s desires.

He imagined himself striding over to the Gryffindor table, taking the seat right next to her.  

He could do it.

“Granger.”  He’d look her up and down, flash a cheeky grin her way.  She’d glance up through her lashes, bite back a smile.

“Draco,” she’d say, slightly breathy.  A chill rolled down his spine just to think of it.  

He’d inch closer to her under the premise of peeking at her book.  “What are you reading?” 

She’d smile flirtatiously at him.  “You mean, what are you reading?”  She’d snap the book shut and slide it toward him.  “I picked it out for you…” 

He’d pick up the book, flip through the pages while Granger watched.  “What is it about this one?” he’d ask in a deep, rumbling tone that would both soothe and excite her.

She’d point out a passage to him, explaining how it spoke to her, how it would speak to him too.  Slowly, carefully, he’d sneak his arm around her waist while she talked, scooting closer.  And then they’d be so close, each holding one side of the book, his nose by her cheek as he pretended to look at the passage, but really looked at her. 

She’d notice, and her breath would hitch.  But she wouldn’t say anything.  Maybe she’d inch closer too…  She’d keep talking, but distractedly, letting her hand float closer and closer to his.

Maybe he’d play with one of her wild, beautiful curls, twisting it round and round his index finger, light enough to give her goosebumps—

The shriek of bench legs dragging across the floor startled Draco out of his reverie. 

Pansy Parkinson lowered herself gracefully into the seat beside him.  “What are we staring at?” she asked, following the line of his gaze.  When she found the target of his stare, her green eyes narrowed to slits.  “Oh, yes.  The heroes.”

Draco rolled his eyes and picked up his fork.  It was for the best that Pansy had interrupted his daydreams, because that was all they were.  

Dreams.

His little ‘mental production’ would never come to fruition in real life, because if he dared to pull any of those moves on Granger, his tentative friendship would come screeching to a halt.  She’d slap him like she had in third year—if her arrogant little Gryffindor friends didn’t get to him first, anyway.  He’d never get to talk to her again.  

And he needed to be close.

Draco glanced to the side, where Pansy was now tidily sipping her tea.  With a dainty motion, she dabbed a napkin against her lips, bright red against her creamy skin.  Perfect manners, he thought.  It was all very routine.

When she caught his eyes on her, she ran her fingers through her short black tresses, putting an imaginary loose hair back in place.  “Noticed my hair, did you?  It’s a new bottle straight from father, works like a dream.   I’ve never been able to style it this way before. Go ahead, look all you want.” 

Though Draco had no idea what she was talking about, he pretended to appreciate whatever was apparently different.  “Stunning,” he commented. 

She reached into her pocket and drew out a small vanity mirror, which she flicked open.  “I know…” she murmured.  

Draco prodded his soggy toast with his fork, already bored.  He turned his attention back to Granger.  

Pansy’s eyes flicked back up to the Gryffindor table.  “What’s with the dead eyed stare, then?”

“I wrote them apology letters,” Draco said, testing the waters.

Pansy nodded.  “Clever,” she said with a raised brow.  “It’s a good move for you—the reformed, neutral angle.  Your family isn’t very popular with anyone right now."

Draco tilted his head in acknowledgment.  “Indeed.”

"Not even the Purebloods… Father says it's a disgrace that you sunk so low as to have the rabble speak at your trial.  That Lucius was a coward to have pleaded guilty at his trial... That won’t have done either of you any favours with the Old Guard,” she continued.

Draco’s shoulders tensed.

Pansy held up her hands, palms outward. “Father said that, not me." 

“Well, what did old Percival do then?” Draco shot back, annoyed.  “Your father certainly wasn’t innocent, but he’s barely had a slap on the wrist.” 

She didn’t respond; just stared at him, face carefully blank.

“Right,” Draco muttered.  

“You know he’s a very powerful man,” Pansy murmured at last, not meeting his eye.  “He’s on the Hogwarts Board, has his fingers in the Ministry… He has his ways.”

Draco nodded.  

Pansy gestured toward Granger and her friends with her teaspoon.  “But they’re the ones in power,” she continued, a bit louder.  She straightened in her seat.  “And they certainly aren’t going anywhere.  Best place to start, aren’t they?  You’ll be alright once you establish yourself with the right connections. Just don’t invest too much time around the Gryffindors, you don’t want to appear unseemly.”

Draco grunted an assent, though his eyes didn’t leave Granger.  She wasn’t incorrect, strictly speaking… It just wasn’t the whole reason. But Pansy didn’t need to know that.

“Yes, you’d have needed her forgiveness most of all, I suppose,” Pansy said idly.  Draco’s head turned sharply.  “Granger’s.  That’s who you’re working on, right?  And you’ve been studying with her too, don’t think I haven’t noticed… Do what you’ve got to, but just don’t overdo it.  You still need a desirable match.”  

Draco raised his brows.  “Maybe I don’t want a match.” 

Pansy clutched her heart.  “Draco!”  

He scoffed, looking her up and down for any signs of irony.  He found none.   

“You’re not serious?” Draco asked, taking a final bite of his apple.  “Marriage?  Courtship?  After everything that just happened?   You always said you’d rather eat your own foot than match with some of the men your father—” 

A hint of unease flitted across Pansy’s face.  “No,” she shook her head.  “No… Draco, I just didn’t understand.  But now I do, and I think you need to understand too.  There is absolutely nothing more important than arranging a strong, Pureblood match.  Clearly, you’re going the Ravenclaw route, or maybe a softer Slytherin… One of the Greengrasses, right?  So you present yourself as neutral, make a few friends in the new Order—”

What was she talking about?  They had spent long nights curled up in the armchairs by the Slytherin fire, scheming ways to get out of their contacts, buy themselves a bit more time.  Draco narrowed his eyes and scanned Pansy up and down, who met his derisive look with a proud chin.   

He shook his head.  “I’m not getting married yet, Pansy.  I only just got my life back.” 

She frowned at him thoughtfully.  “Definitely a Greengrass, they’re one of the few Slytherin-based twenty-eight that would have you right now, and only with the right connections.” 

“What— Pans —” 

Pansy continued as if she hadn’t heard him at all.  She almost seemed lost in a hyper-focused daze, counting options on her fingers. “Not the Selwyns… Now for me, I might have my pick. No offence Draco, you’ve fallen too low with the Old Guard and my father wouldn’t…”  

Draco sighed and let her ramble on, pushing the last of the eggs around with his fork.

“I think I’ll befriend them too,” Pansy said suddenly.  “Opens up options.  You’re right Draco, Granger is a good place to start.”  

Later, as he left breakfast and thought about Pansy’s reaction, he didn’t know why he bothered to feel disappointed at all.

∞∞∞

Malfoy sat with Hermione in the library the next day.  And the next. 

And the next day, too.  

It always happened the same way: he slid into the seat opposite her in complete silence, shoulders pulled in tight, head down.  Hermione suspected it was a tactical move.  Likely, Malfoy thought if he moved quietly and offered no opportunity for eye contact, she would simply allow him to remain.  

If that was his plan, then it was working, strangely enough. 

She had thought about challenging him or kicking him out, but there was rather no point.  He had apologised, and he wasn’t disturbing her at all.  He simply sat, chin tucked down on a curled fist as he flipped through a book, randomly straightening his shoulders every so often as if responding to the ghost of an old Governess, mouth firmly closed.

Indeed, Hermione hadn’t expected him to be so quiet. 

So while Malfoy scratched away at his homework and read his books and twirled his quill in his fingers, Hermione schemed about History Class and whisked through ancient texts.

However, by Friday, after a full week of Silence in the Library, she could no longer put her curiosity to the side; she was dying to solve the ‘Why Is Malfoy Here’ puzzle.  

She narrowed her eyes in thought as she swept him with a laser sharp gaze.

It seemed unlikely he wanted some kind of favour from her.  Surely he would have blurted it out by now.  Not to mention the fact that he hadn’t spoken a single word to her after that first day, when he apologised.

Perhaps he simply wanted her friendship?  It made sense in a calculated way, she supposed.  What better way to put a new face forward with the rising elite than ingratiating himself with someone like herself?   After all, she was two birds with one stone; the most famous Muggleborn in recent history and a war hero to boot.

Except — his presence didn’t quite feel calculated, even if he wanted it to be.  He had a kind of pervasive sadness around him, like he couldn’t hold up his own weight.  

And anyway, while Malfoy had self-preservation in spades, he’d never been the sneakiest or most politically adept Slytherin. He was far too emotional and frankly, dramatic. 

There was nothing to be done about it… Hermione needed to collect more data.

She ought to be tactful.  What was the best—

“Malfoy, are you sitting with me because you’re lonely?” she heard herself say.  Immediately, her hand flew to her mouth, eyes widening.  Bollocks.  

His frozen shock quickly melted from his body.  With a glare in her direction, Malfoy slammed his book shut.

“That’s — you —” he sputtered, face flushing and contorted with rage.  In a flash, he gathered up his belongings and stormed out of the library.  

Well, that answered that.  

Hermione scratched her nose and stared down at her notebook, willing herself not to feel guilty about her simple question — really, for someone who was so nasty in school, he was rather over-sensitive. 

But she couldn’t help the strange twinge of somewhat missing him the rest of the evening.

Which, she reminded herself, was utter tosh. Because she simply did not care if he joined her one way or the other. 

She simply did not. 

∞∞∞

On Saturday morning, Hermione was bent over her notes, nose nearly touching the pages, when Malfoy dropped into his normal seat with a huff.

When she glanced up at him, Hermione noticed he was side-eyeing her and fidgeting, as if trying to gauge a reaction.  

Should she apologise?

But it had been a valid question!   Perhaps lacking the kind of tact she had intended, but really, he’d been a fright for most of their childhood.  Hermione raised her brows and tilted her head back down to her notes, satisfied.  She had done nothing wrong, and if Malfoy didn’t like that, well.  He was well within his rights to leave.

Malfoy’s chair squeaked as he shifted and fidgeted. 

Was it just her imagination, or was he breathing incredibly loudly? 

Finally, Malfoy launched into an unprompted monologue.  “Greg can barely string two sentences together.  Keeps us up half the night, don’t know how he isn’t having nightma—Well, he’s a better bodyguard than friend, really.  That’s the point.  I find him irritating.”  

Hermione looked up, intrigued.

“Pansy won’t stop simpering about courtship, now that all the ‘fuss’ is over.  In fact, she’s never nattered on about it this much…”  Malfoy ran a hand over his face, as if rubbing away a headache at the simple thought of marriage.  “Theo says it’s a crime that I didn’t learn any ‘cool magic’ during my time as a Death Eater.   Blaise…”  His mouth twisted, then he glanced sideways.  “Look, half of Slytherin is filled with morons.  Talking about a dignified return to the old ways.  As if the old ways were ever dignified.  Idiotic, the lot of them.”  

“You feel like no one understands,” said Hermione.  

“I just happen to find your company least offensive,” said Malfoy haughtily.  

“Charming.”  

Malfoy resolutely pulled out his Ancient Runes homework and started to write, apparently riveted by his translation task.  Until—

“Maybe you’re the lonely one,” he said snidely.  It was as if he’d been given a babbling beverage and couldn’t help himself.   “Must’ve been rather a bore to be surrounded by dunces for so many years.  I’d have died of shame, myself.”  

Hermione bristled, even though she knew he just wanted a reaction.  “I happen to like my friends, Malfoy,” Hermione snapped.  “Don’t take it out on me just because you’ve realised your friends are dirt and now you aren’t happy about it.”  

“I’m incredibly happy!” Malfoy spat, glowering in her direction.  

Hermione roved her eyes over his huffing chest, the bit of hair sticking to his forehead, across his face, where tops of his cheeks had flushed bright pink.   “Noted,” she said dryly.  “I don’t know how I could have thought otherwise.” 

Malfoy scowled, and the flush creeped prettily across his entire face.  “I’m not lonely,” he muttered petulantly under his breath.

A warm tingle shivered down her arms to her toes.  It was confirmed; he wanted to be better, even if he hadn’t gotten there yet.  He was looking for someone safe, and he’d found her…

No new projects, she reminded herself.  This year is about me. 

But once they were both looking down at their books again, Malfoy’s pointy nose safely buried in a book, Hermione allowed herself the smallest smile.

Chapter Text

Draco had never met Professor Quibbling before the first History of Magic lesson of the school year.  But in a way, it didn’t matter; he essentially knew the man through and through. 

He observed the deceitfully disarming man fiddle with his robes, which were understated yet flawlessly cut to fit.  His clothes, his sleek haircut, even his shoes were tasteful and elegant in a way that only the most expensive materials could manage.   

Classic examples of wealth and privilege.

Draco had never met the Professor, but he had met dozens of other witches and wizards like him.  Hundreds, perhaps.  The man was self-assured and confident.  Raised to value himself, to be painfully aware of his own supposed worth in relation to others.  

When really, he was nothing at all.

“Settle down, settle down,” Professor Quibbling told the class.  A smug smirk played about the wizard’s lips as he surveyed the students before him.  Once the room was quiet, he continued.  “Let’s dive in, shall we?  Now, who can tell me the story of the Owl Post?” 

In the front row, Granger’s hand shot into the air.  

Draco stretched his neck from his seat to get a better view of the motion.  He generally preferred the back of the class whenever possible, but these days he always made sure he was close enough for his eyes to find her.

He took a moment to appraise the way she looked straining in her seat.  It made her cleavage jut out just enough that he could— 

“Anyone?” 

Draco snapped his eyes away quickly.  He did a quick check to make sure no one had caught him ogling, but luckily nobody had payed him any mind.  Most were leaned forward in their seats, eyes darting between Granger and the Professor like attendees at a Quidditch match.

Quibbling searched the room before his eyes finally rested on Granger’s waving hand.  He sighed.

“Very well, Miss Granger.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “Before the use of magical animals and beasts, wizards attempted to mainstream various forms of communication, each with drawbacks.  For instance, the Patronus charm is quick to cast, but rather difficult to learn. Protean Charm notebooks are simple, but not magically secure in the slightest.  Paired mirrors are incredibly advantageous, but are not viable for mass production due to the rare nature of the materials.  In the first millennium of the anno Domini, magical animals became the—”  

She was interrupted by a condescending tut-tut.  “You’re forgetting an important one,” Professor Quibbling drawled.  

Draco held his breath. The crackling tension in the room terrified him… but it lit a fire in him too.   

Granger straightened in her seat.  “If you mean the use of house elves, yes, that was a common Pureblood method.  But I was only listing ethical forms of communication, and indeed methods meant for a larger subset of society,” she retorted frostily.  Her barbed words were confident, as if she had no fear at all... He was continually fascinated by the way she always fought back.  

“The ethicality of House Elf usage is a matter of opinion, Miss Granger.  And opinions have no place in factual recitation, as you are often so quick to point out,” said Professor Quibbling dryly.  

If Draco didn’t make a habit of scrutinising Granger so closely, he might have missed her clenched fist under the desk.  

“If you would allow me to continue,” she said at last.

He had the audacity to nod at her indulgently, as if her statement had not been completely rhetorical. 

That was the other way that Draco already knew Professor Quibbling, despite having never met him before. 

He knew the man's hypocrisy. 

Quibbling was a Pureblood who believed that he was not prejudiced.  Like his charitable little nod just then; he thought he was teaching Granger a lesson.  Helping his inferior. He wasn’t proudly bigoted like the Malfoy family, but quietly so.  

There had been a time in Draco’s life that had looked down upon those kinds of Purebloods for hiding in the shadows instead of owning their superiority.   Now, as he sneered at the patronising smirk on Quibbling’s face, he looked down on the man for a different reason—all he could see was a sanctimonious fraud.  

Especially compared to Granger. 

Each opinion she proffered was logical, fact-checked.  Worthy.

And, like a shepherd leading her flock, her integrity brought effortless leadership and a deeply trusted persona that was both revered and incredibly hard to ignore.  Like Potter, admiration followed wherever she went, making her social circles an ideal place to flourish, if one could only get into the group.   

Which was precisely why Draco needed to go beyond his focus on her teachings, as much as he preferred to be alone with her.  He needed to begin the process of branching out into her extended friend group, distasteful though the assignment might be.  

Those interactions would bring him one step closer to acceptance in the new world order, one where he could be in her orbit, as well as the new echelons of power. 

Otherwise, he’d never escape the monotony of Pureblood idiocy that Quibbling demonstrated so beautifully before him.  

Meanwhile, Granger continued to gifted the room with her sage, incontrovertible words.  

“At first, a heavy focus was placed on purely magical creatures, like dragons, auguries, and fwoopers.  However, magical creatures are too independent of mind.  Like the use of enslaved magical beings, it was deemed an unethical—” Granger scowled around the room, as if daring someone to contradict her, “—and ineffective practice, as such beings cannot be reliably trained to perform long-term, mundane tasks on such a massive scale.” 

Quibbling added a needless little hum. As if she needed his confirmation!  Draco narrowed his eyes at his presumption. 

Granger, however, ignored him entirely, speaking over him as she pressed on. “It was not until 1602 that Samuel Marrett began the study of the various mundane animals with magical strains.  He found that not only can they be bred to perform specific tasks, but they also enjoy seeking purpose.” 

Professor Quibbling narrowed his eyes.  “An admirable attempt so far, Miss Granger. Except you aren’t quite there yet with your names, I’m afraid.  It was not Samuel Marrett, but Jamison Gatterby, whose seminal work led to—”  

“Actually,” Granger said, leaning back in her chair, “I am ‘quite there’ with my names.  Samuel Marrett was a Squib whose work was co-opted by the Gatterby family.” Granger crossed her arms with a swotty arch of her brow.  “Marrett is the one who discovered that owls had a magical variant, and that there are ethical ways to train owls.  Which makes sense, considering that Purebloods have a history of dismissing the mundane aspects of—” 

Professor Quibbling was shaking his head sadly.  “Your answers are coloured by your personal views,” he said.  “This is a classroom, Miss Granger, not a platform in which you can push your political agenda.”

“No, you have an agenda,” Granger shot back, dropping all pretence of politeness.  She slammed her hands down onto the desk and leaned forward, practically lifting herself out of her seat in frustration.  “Now, if I could continue with my accurate account of the history of owl post.   In 1602 Samuel Marrett—” 

“Miss Granger,” Professor Quibbling strode up to the front of Granger’s desk and loomed over her, “there is no such record of any person existing with that name. Furthermore, it says quite clearly in All Roads Lead to Owls that Jamison Gatterby is the one to have made these discoveries.  I am not one to denounce Squibs when they manage to make their mark in our society, but you cannot simply invent facts to fit your own narrative!” 

Granger tilted her head up, uncowed.  “Professor Quibbling, All Roads uses citations that come from portraits.” 

She looked around the class eagerly, as if she’d dropped the ultimate bombshell, but most of the students simply blinked stupidly.  When she turned back around, Draco barely held back a peevish huff.  He’d been ready to flash Granger an encouraging nod, if only she had looked his way. 

Slowly and clearly, she told Quibbling: “There are absolutely no regulations on responsible portraiture in the Wizarding World.  The artist can fill the mind of the portrait with any information he or she so chooses… the so-called ‘enlightenment of the portrait body’ is not bound to any objective truth.”

“She sounds as if she swallowed the textbook whole,” Blaise hissed, leaning close in his seat, but Draco didn’t respond.  Granger didn’t sound like she’d swallowed a textbook.

She was the textbook.  The only one he’d ever wanted to read.

Granger was still speaking.  Draco tuned Blaise out, focusing on her spoken melody.

“Which means, if somebody in a Wizarding family decided to, say, disown a member of their family tree, the artist or head of house could simply teach any new or perhaps old portrait that the unfavoured family member does not exist.”  She tapped her thumb in mock thought.  “I wonder how that might apply to historical references to Squibs?” 

Quibbling scowled and flipped back a lock of his brown hair out of his eyes.  “That isn’t… I appreciate that you have a history of high intellectual giftedness, Miss Granger, but it is my understanding that I am the professor, and you are the student.  As a great student of history myself for many, many more years than you have even been alive, I fancy that I know this culture’s truth.” 

“Do you?” Granger shot back.  “Because to me, it sounds as if you don’t even know where your citations are coming from, much less whether they’re valid.”

Professor Quibbling placed his hands on his hips, which only served to make him look like a disappointed mother scolding a small child.  “I am from this world, and there are simply things that you cannot—” 

“I'm part of this world too!”  Granger yelled, slamming down her textbook.   “I fought for this world.  I would have died for it!  And where were you?  Cowering at home, I expect?”

Draco thought he could have heard a pin drop in the ensuing silence.  

Quibbling’s jaw tensed, the bright green of his eyes flashing with hostility, and Draco was reminded of an Avada Kedavra. 

Granger’s hair stood on end in her rage.  She pushed to her feet, skin practically glowing from the heat of her bitter wrath, eyes darkening to ash.  Draco thought he could taste the smoke.   “Want to know my theory?  I think I’m the one who knows this culture’s truth.  That there are things that you simply can never understand.”

Her voice dropped to just above a whisper, and the other students shifted closer in their seats, as if straining to hear. “I’m not even nineteen.  And still, I spilt my blood, my dirty, muddy blood, for this world.  For you."  She looked him up and down, not bothering to disguise her curled lip.  "Even though you make me sick.” 

Professor Quibbling was unmoving as stone for an uncomfortably long beat.  “Detention,” he said softly.  

Granger laughed.  With a wave of her wand, she sent all of her items into her backpack, then shot Quibbling a challenging stare.

“Your heritage and your childhood home do not supersede a basic comprehension of logic and fact.  It’s pitiful that I’m the one who would need to remind you, the supposed adult in the room, of that fact.”

She let out a long puff of air as she gazed at the other students, who were frozen in their seats.  When she locked eyes with Draco, he realised she was moments from tears. 

He’d forgotten for a moment that she might be anything other than strong. 

She slammed the door on her way out, and half the room flinched—remnants of a traumatised student body, he supposed—but he hadn’t missed the way she wiped her eyes as she left.  Only Blaise’s hard elbow shook Draco out of his resulting stupor as he longingly gazed after her. 

Merlin, he hated Quibbling… Draco couldn’t wait until she took him down. 

∞∞∞

In the library, he found Granger fuming in silence, clutching her muggle writing contraption in one hand and her wand in the other, a dangerous curl of purple smoke unwinding at the tip.   Before he approached, he took a deep breath, trying to collect himself, not wanting to seem too obviously enticed by the way her cheeks were flushed and her chest heaved in anger.

No, he needed to seem sympathetic and righteously indignant on her behalf. Which he was.  Obviously she was upset, and he needed to get a grip.

And if later, in the shower, he happened to have a different kind of grip at the image of—

No! 

Merlin, what was wrong with him!

Agitated, Draco scratched his fingers through his hair and took another deep breath.  He couldn’t afford to mess this up.  

Like a first year plunging into the Black Lake on a dare, he held his breath, cleared his mind, and slid into the seat across from Granger.  

At the sound of him sitting down, her eyes lifted.  A shudder crawled down his spine; her eyes, normally warm and brown, seemed nearly inky black.  

Fuck, had she finally had enough of him?  Had that twatty Professor ruined his chances with the relationship he’d so carefully tried to cultivate?  

“Sorry,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head, “if you want me to go…” 

To his surprise, her shoulders slumped.  He was heartened to notice that her wand had stopped smoking.  “Sorry, Malfoy, it isn’t you. I just…”  She lifted her hand and waved it aimlessly.  

Draco nodded encouragingly.

“And then he…” she let out a groan and put her head in her hands, her wild locks spilling over her shoulders.  “And everyone else just sits there!  And I'm left to... ergh!" she exclaimed, voice muffled by her palms. 

Ah, was she worried no one agreed with her? 

He eyed her slumped form.  Well, that wouldn't do.  He should bolster her confidence, and it might also show her how much he cared. Surely now was the time to bring up, in a sophisticated and suave manner, that he found her a well-spoken, intelligent, and a superior mind to their idiot Professor.  That he wanted to start talking more about how to think about the world in a Granger kind of way.

“Well, I believed you, not Professor Quibbling. In class,” he blurted out instead. Merlin, where was his subtlety?  Inwardly he kicked himself.  “He’s the dunce.” 

Granger looked up, and a warm, soft smile lit her face. “Really?”  She cocked her head to the side, as if assessing something.  “Have you also read about Samuel Marrett, then?” 

“No. I know it’s true because you said it was,” Draco explained.  She looked at him quizzically.  “Because you’re right about everything.  It’s how I know what to believe now,” he clarified.  

There. Not the most eloquent way of putting it, but his cards were on the table.  It was an offering.  An outstretched hand, for her to accept or reject. 

Rather than nod approvingly, Granger narrowed her eyes and twisted her mouth.  His pulse slammed in his wrists, the back of his scalp prickled cold.  He’d said something wrong, and now she would shun him, and—  

“Malfoy, you can’t just trust everything I say either.”  

What? 

Draco’s heart pounded.  Was he living in a false reality, again?   He scrambled to think of moments he missed, of anything that he was supposed to know, any reason she might have to toy with him.  The past suddenly felt hazy and unknowable. “What are you… are you lying, then?”

Granger rolled her eyes. “What are you on about?  Of course I’m not lying.   But don’t you…”  Her eyes narrowed.  “Why are you so pale?” 

Instinctively, he stiffened up. “I’m always pale, Granger," he said as he observed the intricately carpeted floor.

After a beat of silence, he peeked up through his fringe. She was studying him like she had that first evening, like if she could simply find just the right angle, she’d get a glimpse inside his very soul.  Draco swallowed hard, hoping she wasn’t, at this very moment, considering whether he was of any value. Whether he was worth the trouble.

He was worth it. He’d prove it, he’d do anything… but if she spurned him, he’d have to start all over, he’d have to find someone to trust and get them to trust him, and how could Draco do that when he had no proof that he should be allowed in? 

Granger bit her lip, then nodded to herself.   “You’ve been told what to think quite a lot, Malfoy. I don’t want to simply be the next person who tells you what to do… And you’re more intelligent than that.  Don’t you want to find out for yourself?” 

The delicate spiral he’d sunk into shattered.

For... himself? 

Did he?   

Could he trust himself to know the difference between right and wrong? The Wizengamot didn’t think so, or they wouldn’t have put him on parole.  He’d joyfully taken the damned mark on his arm, and all that had brought was death and torture and pain. 

He’d believe anything, apparently.

Wouldn’t it be better to just take Granger’s word for it all?

But Draco was intelligent, and he knew how to navigate politics, knew how to utilise people’s strengths and capitalise on their weaknesses—once he had a direction to follow, anyway.  It was why he was bothering with his grades at all, rather than rotting away with a bottle of Firewhiskey in the Slytherin Common room and sneaking broom flights with Blaise.  

Aligned with the Right People, Draco could make up for his sins and prove his use.  

And just his luck, the brightest witch in the country had seen that same potential, enough to write a letter on his behalf at least.  She was his gateway into all his plans for a worthy future, adjacent to power, loyal to the modern haute monde.  

Then, maybe… if she thought he needed to learn this skill, he ought to learn it. Right? 

Whatever was written on his face, it must have been enticing to Granger, because she leaned forward hungrily.  “I think this would be really good for you,” she told him.   He found his entire body drawing closer and closer to hers.  He was locked into her stare, unable to look away.  

Like a flower straining toward the sun.  

Granger put her finger on her lower lip thoughtfully.  “In fact, I have an idea, Malfoy.  I think this will really help you.  Expecto Patronum!”  

A translucent, glimmering otter burst from her wand.  

He’d seen all of them do it before, of course. The Gryffindors were constantly waving their wands about, sending their little Patronuses everywhere.  Potter had even sent his bloody horse monster charging at him on the Quidditch pitch.  But up close… 

He only had moments to admire it before the whole effect was ruined by the worst possible situation: another man’s name left Granger’s lips.  “Dean Thomas, could you come to the Library a bit earlier than we discussed?  We can work on your research afterward, but make sure to bring your art supplies.” 

Boiling jealousy filled Draco.  

Dean Thomas, again. That sick fuck who had made her laugh.  What did he have to say? What did she want with him? Was that sodding Gryffindor her boyfriend now?  

Granger stood to sweep her wide array of notes and books out of the way, but paused when she caught sight of his face.   “Seriously, Malfoy.  Are you alright? Have you become ill?”  

“Me?  Yes.  I mean, no, I'm alright, not yes I'm ill... I’m fine.  Perfect, even,” Draco blustered. “The quintessence of health.” 

Granger narrowed her eyes.  

“What’s up, Hermione?”  Thomas sauntered into the room.  Granger dropped the matter, and Draco’s shoulders dropped in relief.  But not without shooting Dean Thomas an unwelcome glare.  

“Malfoy and I are doing a little independent research project together, and we wanted to test something.  Could you demonstrate the art of portraiture?  We wanted…”

As Granger continued on with her request, Draco lost focus.  Malfoy and I had sounded so lovely on her lips… Draco and I would sound even better… 

He tuned in just in time to hear Granger asking, “So does that make sense?  Would it take a long time?”    

Thomas’s eyes were already lit up.  “No time at all!  This is perfect timing, Hermione.  I’ve got several portraits in progress, if that’s alright.  I could show you a few!”  

He pulled several rectangular canvases from his bag, most only the size of two open palms, while he explained the charms he would cast at each stage of painting.  As he spoke, he placed the canvases face up on the library table.  With a lurch of his stomach, Draco recognised the images of several fallen students.  

“And this is the portrait I was about to awaken…” 

While Thomas began a long incantation, aided by some brushes and tools that Draco honestly cared very little about, he ignored everything he was supposed to be learning. Before his eyes, Thomas was waking the portrait of Lavender Brown.  

Killed by Greyback, he remembered.

Would Thomas ever wake up Vincent this way?  The idea made his eyes curiously hot, and he blinked rapidly before anyone would see a hint of weakness.  

In any case, Draco shuddered to imagine having to ask any kind of favour from this artsy twit.  

Brown’s eyes fluttered open.  With stiff limbs, the body in the portrait stretched her neck and arms, twining her fingers together.  Her eyes were devoid of colour, and duller than Draco thought they had been before Thomas cast his charm. 

“I’m not very good at it yet… I’ll probably have to start over anyway,” Thomas rambled.  “But at this point, I’d talk to the portrait to tell her what she needs to know about herself.  There’s a pretty short window… The Headmasters have more time, but that’s because the magic is tied to the office.  For someone like me, there are so many more variables to how much time I can get, or if she’d have any conscience at all.  I’m wasting time, even now…” 

Thomas looked at the painting and smiled sadly.   “You loved Divination, and styling hair…”  

As he continued to chant, Lavender’s eyes sharpened and coloured, a stark contrast to the eerily dead quality they’d had prior.  Draco hadn’t even realised how blatant the difference was at first.  

With a final, intricate wand movement, Thomas studied his work.  “Tell me your name?” 

Portrait Lavender tilted her head.  “Glug?” 

Granger’s head dipped slightly, her lips thin, almost as if she were disappointed. With a jolt, Draco remembered that they would have been roommates. 

Thomas sighed.  “Yeah, I’ll have to redo this, I knew I would. She can’t talk.  But the point,” he said, turning to Granger and Draco, “Is that I could tell her anything, and she’d have to believe me.  And there are a lot of ways to get it wrong, as well.  Last time, all I could do was get the portrait to parrot back the exact words I said, over and over. Took me ages to figure out why.” 

Granger nodded.  “Exactly as we thought, Dean.  We can run another test later on, but watching her eyes… Fascinating.”   

Inching forward, Draco inspected the work.   “So were you and Brown… you know, together?” 

“Nah, mate, I’m into men.”   

Suddenly, Draco found he really liked Dean Thomas. When one thought about it, he was very much a friendly, helpful wizard.  Really knew a lot about art, could hold an interesting conversation… Perhaps he could hire Dean to update all the stuffy old portraits in the Manor once it was renovated, if he continued with portraiture.    

He wanted to shove a bag of Galleons in the wizard’s hand for not being Granger’s secret boyfriend.   

“Could I… if you do another presentation, could I come along as well?” Draco asked.

Thomas shot him a pleased smile. “Of course!”

Apparently, Granger and Thomas were collaborating on some kind of tribute—he hadn’t quite caught what—but Draco was happy to simply read in their presence, thinking about the way the witch across from him had been so confident, so ready to find out the answers for herself.  To go so far as a demonstration, for him.  

No one had ever done that for him before.

Which is why, as the evening ended and Thomas disappeared with a wave, Draco lingered beside Granger’s seat, shifting from foot to foot.

She interrupted the process of packing up to raise a brow at him.  “Something on your mind?” 

“It’s just—you know, there’s other aspects of what I was led to believe, growing up,” Draco started tentatively.  “Things I could use some help understanding.  And doing a practical test really helped, but I wouldn’t know where to start on my own… And I thought, maybe you could help me?” 

Granger bit her lip and glanced down at her agenda with a look in her eye that he couldn’t quite decipher.  But then she looked up and let out a long breath. 

“Of course, Malfoy.  How could I possibly say no to that?” 

Draco’s entire body warmed at her words.

It was a good day.

∞∞∞

The following day started bright and early on the Quidditch pitch with a Mandatory Broom Refresher. Hermione dismounted her broom in disgust, cursing the refresher to high hell.  What was Madame Hooch thinking?  Mandatory?  She would be nineteen in just a few weeks! 

Though Malfoy certainly seemed to have a delightful time, she had gained nothing from the exercise except for a tangled, slovenly mess of hair.  

Not that she’d watched him, of course.  Because she certainly hadn’t.  

In fact, speaking of Draco Malfoy, this refresher was a complete waste of a Sunday when Hermione had so much to do. 

Due to their now-regular lessons, she had added a new title to her long list: Hermione Granger, reformer of the Pureblood elite.  Not to mention, she had completely taken on a nearly Professorial role against Quibbling, running a side distribution of fact-checked lessons with anyone interested.  

But sure, why not use the weekend for a broom refresher. 

She stormed all the way from the pitch to the locker room as Ginny trailed behind her, chuckling.  When she flung the door open with a violent flourish of her wand, her traitorous Weasley friend slipped in too just before Hermione slammed the door.

“It isn’t funny, Ginny!”  She marched straight to the row of small vanities along the wall.    

“It really is. Look at you!” 

Hermione glanced in the mirror and groaned.  An augury nest of curls sat atop her head, not a single strand of hair in place.  

Meanwhile, she also had a clear view of Ginny in the reflection: her fair skin, spattered with auburn freckles, was flushed from the wind, and her fiery, shoulder-length hair was pinned back into a loose bun.  

Why couldn’t Hermione’s hair stay tied back like that? 

“There are other qualities in a woman besides looks, dear,” the mirror cooed.  “But a bit of effort couldn’t hurt…” 

Ginny guffawed.  

A gust of wind through the door and the click-clack of heels announced the arrival of another classmate.  She glared past her reflection to find Pansy Parkinson, brows furrowed, inspecting Hermione as if she were a wild animal.  “Good Merlin, Granger.  I thought I was hallucinating a great, terrible beast on your broom. Was that really you?”

“Yes…. she just looks like that sometimes. Like the next coming of You-Know-Who, but with hair…” Ginny said gravely as she turned around, a mischievous grin written across her face.  Her smile slowly faded as she took in who stood before her.  “Oh.  You.” 

Hermione ignored both of them and leaned in to try to tame the mess.  

The mirror coughed politely.  “You might just need to cut it and start over, dear—”  Hermione silenced the mirror with a flick of her wand. 

“God, it just—won’t—” she said, frustrated, as another clump sprung back into a mess resembling a Devil’s Snare.  

“You know, Sleekeasy would really help with that,” Pansy remarked mildly.  “There’s a very good article about it all in Magical Monthlies —” 

“I’ve already put Sleekeasy in,” Hermione gritted, trying to smooth back another tuft.   The wad of matted frizz sprang right back up. 

“I use it every day, and I’m very sure you didn’t,” Pansy told her, hands on hips.   

Hermione slumped and dropped her hands. “Why are you here, Parkinson?”  

Pansy looked around the locker room with a wrinkled nose.  “Oh, I thought I’d take a leaf out of Draco’s book, actually.  He’s doing the whole apology thing… Not that it will do me much good, of course.  But can’t exactly count out Gryffindors these days, can you, so here I am… I’ve come to see a whole new world of possibilities,” she drawled.  “So. Are we good?”

Hermione glanced incredulously at Ginny, then back at Pansy again.  “That can’t have been your apology?” 

Ginny butted in. “Wait, what do you mean by all that about being useful, trying to get in good with the Gryffindors?”  She paused and glanced over her shoulder worriedly.  “Is that all Malfoy is doing with Hermione?”

“You Weasleys… No social finesse,” Pansy scoffed.  “I’m sure Draco genuinely wants to be Granger’s friend, Red.  I’m also sure that between useful friends and pointless friends, Draco would rather have useful ones.  It’s a compliment.” 

“That’s…” Ginny shook her head. 

“Hold on a second,” Hermione jumped in. “Why did you say an apology wouldn’t do you much good, as opposed to anyone else?” 

Pansy’s shoulders stiffened, but she lifted her chin proudly.  “My parents are arranging a match on my behalf.”  She lifted her shoulder in a feigned nonchalant shrug.  “I doubt I’ll have much say in the wizard’s whims.  Whoever he is.”

Ginny’s ginger brows shot up her forehead, eyes widening.  “Is this your way of looking for an out?  I wouldn’t have believed it from you of all people, but… Look, I’m sure Hermione—” 

Pansy whirled on Ginny, eyes dark and vicious.  “I will have a suitable match, I will do my duty to my family, and that’s the end of it. I will marry, and that is final! Don't presume to know my intentions, you scabby-kneed ginger.” 

Ginny widened her eyes and lifted her hands in surrender.  “Still a bitch. Got it.” 

“I simply don’t appreciate you sticking your Weasel-y nose where it doesn’t belong,” Pansy sniffed, patting her hair.  The sudden change in demeanour was incredibly jarring. Hermione resisted the urge to back away slowly. Perhaps the Slytherin girl was unstable?

“We’ll just leave you to your thoughts,” Hermione said, tilting her head meaningfully at Ginny.  

Pansy turned to Hermione and put out her hand.  “Wait… wait.” She surveyed her up and down thoughtfully, then nodded at her hair.  “You know, I carry a beauty case, if you’d like me to help. Maybe that can be my apology to you.  I know your hair would thank me.  Your friends, too… For all we know, that mop is the next entity out for world dominance, curl by curl.”   

“Of course you carry one of those,” sneered Ginny.  

“And if I say no?” Hermione asked doubtfully. 

Apparently, ‘no’ had never been in the cards.  Pansy pulled out the small leather case and placed it on the ground.  It folded out twice, then three times, until a full vanity stood by the sinks.  She opened up one of the drawers and pulled out a Sleekeasy bottle.  

With a flourish, she messed up her own straight hair.  Then in a flamboyant demonstration, she carefully placed a dab of Sleekeazy on her fingers and ran the gel down her locks, curling strands around her fingers with an effortless flair.  Slowly but surely, her hair tamed.  Well, congratulations for Pansy then. Was this supposed to be some weird, prolonged version of a bullying tactic, to prove Hermione’s comparative misfortune when it came to hair products?

“That looks great… So very happy for you.  Now, we’d better—” Hermione started.  

Pansy’s cold, firm grip startled Hermione.  Pansy quickly manoeuvred her into a chair in front of the vanity.  “That was only part one, swot.  I don’t have time to fix your entire mess, so I just wanted to show you the curling technique on my own, considerably more sophisticated hair.  I hope you paid attention… it’s very unlike you not to take notes.” 

Even though Hermione didn’t care about this unprompted hair tutorial, per se, it still irked her to be called out in such a way.  She very well could have taken notes, rather great ones, if she’d known that was what she was meant to do—!

While Hermione stewed, Pansy ran her hand through a lock of Hermione’s bushy mess, smoothing it down with practised ease.  Honestly, it wasn’t too different from what she attempted most mornings on her own.

Only this time, a warm shiver crawled up the strands of her hair, and seemed to vibrate down her very skull. A minuscule wave of a tidy, taming aura washed over her as magically, the lock of hair in Pansy’s fingers became a perfect curl.

Hermione’s jaw dropped.  “How on earth are you doing that?  That’s exactly what I do in the mornings, I swear!” 

Pansy glanced down at the bottle, brow furrowed.  “You can’t be serious…? Well, if you’re really sure that’s what you do… I did always suspect that Sleekeasy saves their stronger concoction than what is sold in retail for the… ah, the Pureblood families alone.”

Hermione boiled.  Of course.  Just one more way that Purebloods got all the privileges. 

“I’m a Pureblood!” Ginny interjected.  “I’ve never seen anything do that!”

“Real Purebloods, Red.  Hm… This wasn’t much of an apology then, if it wasn’t a demonstration you needed.  Who knew?”  Pansy tilted her head back and forth for a moment, then placed the entire Sleekeazy bottle in Hermione’s palm with a nod. “You know what?  Take the whole thing, I have plenty more.  An offering to formalise the apology?” 

With a long sigh, Hermione accepted the offer.  “I suppose,” she grumbled.  “Just to spot differences in the formula.”  Honestly, she was still upset about this latest stylistic blow to her list of Unfair Things in the Wizarding World. 

Ginny reached over to toy with the single perfect curl on Hermione’s head, cackling.  “You look ridiculous with just one of these, you know.  Oh, and it’s warm!”   She dropped the curl.  “Will you use the rest?”

“Of course she will.  And when she does, she’ll remember how kind I am these days,” Pansy said with a smirk.  “Well, I’m off to better company.  Have fun in the library, or whatever it is you and Draco do.”  With that, she sauntered out of the changing room.

“Whatever you and…Does she know something I don’t?” Hermione didn’t miss Ginny’s suspicious tone.  “You’d better not be hiding something juicy from me.” 

Hermione shook her head, smiling.  “It’s just studying.”  

“Hmm.”  Ginny shrugged. “Well, are you though?  Going to use it?”  

“I’ll save it for a special occasion. Maybe test it a bit too, for differences in ingredients,” Hermione said. 

The two walked out of the locker rooms together into the sunshine. As they strolled along the grassy path, she ran her hands through the curl again. Yes, she could feel it; it was certainly interesting to sense the difference.

Without a doubt, there was some kind of magical spark subduing her usually untamable curls into something easier to control.  It was smoother.  Sleeker. 

Docile.

Chapter Text

“Evening, Granger.” Malfoy slid into his now regular spot beside Hermione. 

“Evening.” Instinctively, she clutched her muggle pen with a tighter grip, a habit built over the past week.  Once she had explained the ease with which normal pens worked, her slippery Slytherin friend had begun stealing all of hers.  

Now, of course, there wasn’t any point; after she’d been forced to explain how to order muggle items to Hogwarts, he’d since purchased his own case of Montblancs. 

Malfoy eyed her clenched hand with a smirk.  “Don’t fret… I’ve no longer got any use for your peasant gel pens.”  Leisurely, he pulled out a sleek, shiny box and unlatched the top.  Inside, a row of expensive fountain pens sat upon a bed of silk. 

When he peeked up to see if she was watching, Hermione rolled her eyes and turned back to writing in her agenda. 

Daintily, he lifted a pen from its case—dark green, nearly black, with gold detailing at the point and around the cap—and idly toyed with it between his long, pale fingers.  She could feel his eyes on her, practically begging for attention.  

“So what are you working on then?” he prompted, after he could apparently stand the silence no longer.

Hermione glanced up, annoyed.  Couldn’t he see how busy she was?  How overwhelmed?  “I’m writing a letter to give to Kingsley Shacklebolt, since apparently Harry doesn’t understand how to tell the man a simple ‘no’ without my help.  Then I’ve got a bit of Ginny’s homework—just the once,” she added with a snap, pointing her gel pen at Malfoy threateningly.  He raised his eyebrows and lifted his palms out in appeasement.  

“Oh,” Hermione added.  “And I’m still helping Dean with his research, and then I’ve got to do my homework.  Maybe after that I can research magical genetics, finally.”  She sighed.  How was there so much to do?

Malfoy stretched in his seat. “Forget all of that,” he said boldly.   

She tilted her head, interested.

“And talk to me instead,” he continued.  “You said you were going to continue my lessons in bigotry today—”

Her shoulders slumped.  “Overcoming bigotry,” Hermione murmured, turning back to her pile of work.

“Yes, exactly.  I was rather looking forward to learning why squibs ought to be treated equally.  I thought it was straight to Azkaban for the lot of them—?” 

Hermione jerked her head up, infuriated.  

“Only joking.”  Malfoy flashed an unusually confident grin at her.  “So have we got a lesson plan, Professor?”

“Don’t be silly, Malfoy,” she sniffed, pushing a book toward him. “If you want to read on your own, here’s an updated text on historical misrepresentation of Centaurs.”

“What’s it say?” he said, drawing the book closer.  

Hermione rolled her eyes.  “Why don’t you crack it open and find out?” 

Shooting her a sly little grin, he flipped the pages open and settled forward, chin propped thoughtfully on his hand.

But only five minutes later, Malfoy sat back in his seat, a troubled frown on his face.  “How do we know any of this is true, anyway?”

Hermione stared at him flatly. “You haven’t even tried to look at the annotations yet, Malfoy.  You can do this on your own.” 

He shifted in his seat and scratched his nose, looking away.  He swirled a finger along the binding of the book, then lifted his gaze.  “Can you please just tell me,” he asked quietly.  “I know you know.” 

With his wide, silver eyes on her, she felt strangely powerful.  She knew that she ought to make him answer for himself more often, but it did feel good  This kind of sycophantic attention.  

Certainly, felt better than dwelling yet again on injustice, and grief, and society, and history lessons, which had somehow become her issue to solve as well.

And then there was the funny little flutter she sometimes got when Malfoy smiled.  It had only been a few weeks, but the boy beside her—man, really—already had a much healthier sheen to his cheeks.  The playful sparkle in his grey eyes did wonders to light up his face, and the result was uncomfortably flattering.  All the more so because she suspected that her friendship had at least a little to do with it. 

But that was not—practical to think of.

He was still watching her with impossible focus, motionlessly taking in every detail like Crookshanks when hunting a mouse.   

He needs this, she told herself.  

With a final, reluctant glance down at her to-do list, she put down her pen.  “Okay, let’s start at the beginning…”

He looked as if he’d been carrying a load of heaviness, and she had Wingardium Leviosa-ed it away.    

She wasn’t sure she felt the same.

∞∞∞

A week later, Hermione headed to the Three Broomsticks with Ginny, where Ron and Harry were already waiting for them, to celebrate her upcoming birthday. Ginny ran straight to Harry to peck him on the cheek, while she and Ron exchanged awkward glances.  Their break-up was still somewhat fresh, though mostly amicable. 

Once they had slid into their seats, the usual pleasantries were exchanged, from Quidditch tryouts to Hermione’s explanation of the terrible new History teacher. 

After Madame Rosmerta dropped off their butterbeers, Hermione leaned in.  “So how’s the joke shop, Ron?"

He huffed and swirled his drink.  “Could be better, honestly.  Problem is, George has always been more of the business side of things, but that’s me as well.  I’m the first to admit no one could quite brainstorm the way Fred…” he trailed off and glanced at Ginny, who looked as though her entire chest had caved in.

“Of course, there isn’t much overlap anyway,” Ron continued, a little bitterly.  “As George barely gets out of bed most days.  Curtains hung over all the mirrors, and if I’m not there the shop is closed.  All new products are at a halt, and I can’t make head or tails of any of their notes even if I could develop something.  It’s a lot of work, running the whole shop by myself.” 

Hermione reached out and grasped his hand.  “That really does sound difficult.  Is there anything I could do to help?” 

“Honestly, it’s tempting.  Could really use that brilliant mind to just knock out a few new items…” Ron shook his head.  “But we’re alright selling on inventory.  And anyway, Ginny’s got all the notes now.  She was supposed to join the shop with the twins after graduating.  Even got the invite before I did, didn’t you?  And yet you haven’t even stopped by the shop once...” 

Ginny looked away, eyes tight.  

“Can’t you just come over, have a chat with George?  You were closer with them both.  I know if you just put your mind to it—"

“Well that’s enough catching up with Ron!” Ginny interrupted, eyes bright.  “Let my boyfriend talk for once, Ronnikins. I know Harry’s still loving Auror training, but half the time I can’t decipher that chicken scratch of yours.” 

Harry cast an uncertain glance between the two siblings, but then smiled and playfully nudged his girlfriend’s shoulder with his own.  “My handwriting isn’t that bad. And yes, it really is going well.  Sometimes I think they might be coddling me though, like I’m fragile.  Don’t they know that training is the least of what I faced?” 

Hermione smiled at the familiar refrain, quite used to Harry’s aversion to being treated like a child.  “It’s probably got nothing to do with how they view your abilities, you know,” she told him with a shake of her head.  “Probably no one wants to be the one that maims or injures The Boy Who Lived. People have their own agendas too.  Don’t take it personally.”

Harry rolled his eyes.  “That’s what Kingsley said.  Oh, which reminds me: he really wants you to apply.  He says we need you in the DMLE.”  

“I still don’t want to be an Auror.”

“I know, but I promised I’d say something, and now I have.  And… Kingsley also asked me to pass along a letter.” Harry tossed a nervous glance her way, but reached into his pocket and handed her a folded envelope.  Hermione read the first few lines.  

“Another guilt trip,” she announced.  “Telling me I have a duty to lend my brain to the cause.  As if the Ministry has proprietary ownership over my mind and what I do with it.  As if I haven’t done enough.”  

She tore the letter into little tiny shreds.  

“I’ll… say you got the message,” Harry said.    

“Dare I ask you to join the joke shop, then?  Maybe we need your brain for the cause too,” Ron said with a wicked grin.  The table burst into laughter, and Hermione quickly forgot about the annoyance of people wanting things.

It didn’t take long before a certain pale Slytherin was brought up.

“I got this strange letter from Malfoy, of all people,” Ron told the group conspiratorially.  “One of the worst apologies I’ve ever read.  Going on about how he was sorry that he’d been cruel, but in the future I might take steps to not give people so many things to ridicule, and that he couldn’t help that he was funny.  And then said the only thing he’d really been wrong about was calling me a blood traitor, and he thought he was probably one too now.  Then finished it off with a crack at my freckles.  Bloody git.”  He scowled.   

“I got one too!” cried Harry.  “He said thanks for saving his life and testifying for him, even though he expected I’d only done it for the attention.  And then he forgave me for my hubris in school.  Said he looked forward to following my heroic life in the Prophet every week.”  

Ginny snorted into her butterbeer.  “He sent me one too, actually," she said.  Hermione turned to her, surprised.  She hadn’t told Malfoy to do that.  “He apologised for his father’s actions my first year, then said I was the only Weasley who wasn’t an embarrassment.  Really knows how to make a girl blush.”  

They all looked at Hermione expectantly. “I suppose those are my doing… Except yours, Ginny, I didn’t know he would send you one.”  And then she told them about Malfoy approaching her, the decidedly more flattering apology she had received from him, his words about the letter, how they were studying together in the library, and she even filled them in on his little snit about the Slytherins and being lonely.

The other three followed along, mouths agape, eyes growing wider and wider as she spoke. 

“You said it was just studying!” Ginny said indignantly.  “That’s a lot more than reading, Hermione!  We just discussed this, too, what about Parkinson—?” 

She shot Ginny a dark look.  

“It must be because of the letter,” said Harry thoughtfully.  “It sounds like you really touched a nerve with that one.  I dunno.” He looked at Ginny, who picked up where he left off.  

“Right, maybe he feels like you’re the only one who understands him, and he’s got some kind of attachment to you now,” said Ginny.  “You’ve got your own baby Slytherin.  He’s like a pale little fawn, clinging to whoever is nice to him first.” 

Harry snorted at that.

However, Ron was staring down into his butterbeer, fingers wrapped tightly around the glass.  He was uncharacteristically silent.

“Well, considering what Parkinson said, I bet he does fancy you,” added Ginny.  “I’m still scoping out men for Dean, Slytherins included, maybe we ought to seriously consider—” 

This seemed to wake Ron up from his stunned silence, and he cut Ginny off: “Well, I don’t want him sniffing around you!”  Ron’s lips curved into an ugly sneer.  “He’s bad news.  I mean, he’s not evil, fine.  Doesn’t mean he’s a good bloke to have around.  And what are you doing talking to Pansy Parkinson anyway? What’s she got to say?”  

Hermione summoned the most stern, disappointed look she could muster. “Ginny, I’m not dating Malfoy.  Ron, Pansy just wanted to apologise.  Taking a leaf out of Malfoy’s book, which is a good thing.”  

Ron rolled his eyes.  

“And as for Malfoy, he’s lonely, and he isn’t doing anything.  For the most part, he just studies with me for hours on end.  Sometimes he asks questions.  As long as he doesn’t distract me too much, he’s welcome to sit there and read.”  Her stomach squirmed a bit.  While it wasn’t exactly a lie, he’d definitely become chattier recently.  But admitting that would make her argument less effective, and for some reason it felt private.

“He just sits there… reading books?” asked Ron dubiously.  “How can you be sure he hasn’t got an ulterior motive?  Normal people don’t just sit and…” Harry elbowed him hard, but the damage was done.  Hermione scowled.

“You might be surprised to learn that there are many people besides me who read books, Ronald,” said Hermione coldly.  “Books are interesting.  Just because you can’t be bothered crack one open every once in a while —”

“What does he read?” asked Harry quickly, probably hoping to change the topic.

“Mostly just our textbooks and psychology books,” Hermione responded, still eyeing Ron with disdain.  “General homework, of course.  And he must have been writing your letters, too.” 

For the first time that night, the four sat in complete silence as they pondered that statement.  

“Well, you all know I don’t mind him anymore.  Never will be friends with him, I s’pose, but I know he had a rough go the last few years.  I think it knocked him down a peg or two.”  Harry nodded decisively and seemed to consider the matter settled.  

Until he noticed the murderous glare Ron was sending him.  Harry pushed his glasses up his nose uncomfortably.  “And, at least Hermione can keep an eye on the prick to make sure he’s reforming instead of researching foul Dark Arts tips,” he added, elbowing Ron. “Right?” 

“I dunno,” Ron muttered.  “Doesn’t seem right.” 

“Hermione can study with whoever she likes. Even the ferret,” Ginny said.  

“Bought you pretty easily with his favourite Weasley line, didn’t he?” Ron sneered at Ginny.  The tips of his ears were glowing bright red, like little rolls of salami.  “Well, I won’t be bought, and someone’s got to say it, Hermione.  He’s probably manipulating you.” 

Something burned in Hermione’s sternum.  “Well, you don’t have much of a say, do you?” she asked snappishly.  “Nobody tells me what to do, Ronald!  This is my year, my decisions, and if I want a pet ferret, I’ll have one, thank you!”   

She imagined sending another flock of canaries at his ginger head to teach him a lesson.

“He was on the side that wanted to kill you, ‘Mione,” Ron said, leaning forward.  His eyes were glassy and hard.  “The side that killed Fred.”

A rather tense beat of silence followed that statement.

“Malfoy didn’t kill Fred, Ron…” Harry said, staring down the rim of his drink with too-bright eyes.  Ginny checked out of the conversation entirely, stirring her drink in a numb silence. 

“He’s a traitor,” Ron spat at Hermione.  “And he’s only going to hurt you.”  

“The only person who’s done that today is you,” Hermione shot back, lip curled.  She was burning with so much rage that she could barely look at him.

She hoped her words hit him like a stab in the gut.

Ron sat back in his seat and crossed his arms petulantly.  “If it saves your life, so be it,” he said, though his face was flushed beneath his smattering of freckles.

Eventually, the conversation tentatively turned back to safer topics, but Ron fumed and Hermione stewed for the remainder of the night. Ginny and Harry loudly talked to each other with too-chipper voices.  

When Ginny and Hermione walked back to the castle together, footsteps crunching on the gravel, Hermione stuck her hands into her pockets and told Ginny firmly, “No one tells me what to do.”  

“I know, Hermione.”  Ginny sighed.  “We all know.” 

∞∞∞

Early the next day, the morning of her birthday, Hermione sat with her friends at the Gryffindor table.  Other than the stray curl that insisted on tickling her nose no matter how many times she smoothed it back, the morning could not have been better.

Dean had drawn her a lovely sketch of Harry, Ron, and herself sitting in the Gryffindor Common Room, Ginny had given her a set of racy undergarments that she’d been forced to stuff quickly into her beaded bag, and Luna had dropped an oddly-shaped dirigible plum in her lap before skipping back to the Ravenclaw table.

The morning owl post had dropped off a load of packages as well.  Her parents had sent her a bag of Australian sugar-free sweets and a rather passive-aggressive note wishing she would visit more often (rude, but fair).  From Hagrid, a tray of rock cakes, and from Molly, a sour-cherry tart, which her daughter swore was not an intentional dig.

“Only Ron and Harry left!” Ginny chirped beside her, pushing two more packages her way.

Hermione sighed.  “Ron first, I suppose?”  She pulled the box toward her and pulled out a series of items one by one.  

“It’s all from the joke shop!  Poor bloke,” Dean said, laughing.  

To his credit, Ron had mostly picked the most useful items: extra extendable ears, bruise-healing paste, Peruvian Instant Darkness powder, and the self-inking Quills that she had always insisted were essentially Muggle pens.  

Scanning the note he’d scrawled along with the package, Hermione shook her head.  “Listen to this: Hermione, Happy birthday.  Keep an eye on Malfoy and stay safe.  I’ve included some useful items in case he attacks.  Also included the Quills you like, the ones you say are just Muggle peens.  Have a good one.” 

Hermione pursed her lips while Ginny and Dean howled with laughter.  “Peen,” Ginny wheezed.  

“Alright, hopefully Harry did better,” chortled Dean, pushing the second package over to Hermione.  

Indeed he had: after carefully peeling off the wrapping, Hermione pulled out two expensive-looking bookmarks that were charmed to summarise any previous chapters.  Perfect timing: her old one had just started to break down.  After all, the charmwork only lasted so long on such items.  

“Hermione,” Harry’s note read, “I know you like these, hope they don’t wear out too quickly.  Didn’t you say you needed a new one?  Apologies if not.  Have a happy birthday, and sorry about Ron.”  

Hermione smiled down at the note.  Overall, it had been a perfect morning.  She couldn’t ask for anything else.

“Erm, Hermione…” Ginny poked her in the side.

She looked up to find Malfoy approaching her in the Great Hall for the first time in their eight years of history.  Dean, who was sitting across from her, whipped his head around, properly shocked. 

“Weasley.  Thomas,” Malfoy said shortly.  Then he turned to Hermione, and his face softened slightly.  “Granger.  Happy birthday.”   

“Thank you, Malfoy,” Hermione said, a little surprised. She waited for him to say something, but he merely stared at her with incisive grey eyes, frozen. 

Ginny looked between them, brow furrowed. 

Was he nervous?

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Hermione tried. 

Malfoy spared a half-glance at the Hogwarts ceiling.  “Very adequate,” he said.  He shot a mistrustful glance at Ginny and Dean. 

“Oh, don’t worry, they won’t bite,” said Hermione.  “Here, sit.”  

Dean shot Hermione a startled glance, but Ginny just raised her eyebrows.  “Yes, Ferret.  Sit,” she said, challengingly.

Malfoy looked like he had been hit by a Petrificus Totalus. 

Suddenly, the memory of the first day with him in the library came rushing back.  How he’d frozen and sat in silence, barely finding his words. 

How even as he tried to radiate cunning and calm, it was obvious how terrified he was of failure. 

“Come on, Malfoy, it’s okay,” Hermione said warmly. “Sit right there.”  She pointed at the spot across from her next to Dean. 

Carefully, he slid into the seat, keeping a close eye on Ginny’s wand, which she’d had on the table before he arrived.  Hermione kicked her foot; With an eye roll, she stowed it away.  

“Hermione…” Dean looked completely baffled.  

Ignoring Dean, Malfoy meticulously arranged his napkin into his lap while Hermione watched, amused.  

Finally, he turned his attention back to Hermione. His hands wavered back and forth, before he finally whipped out a narrow package wrapped in scarlet wrappings and finished with a golden ribbon.  “For you,” he said unnecessarily.  

Hermione eyed the present apprehensively, but a smile tugged at her lips anyway.  “Well, thank you,” she said, reaching out.  “Gryffindor colours too, I see,” she noted appreciatively.  

“Alright, Malfoy,” Ginny cut in suddenly.  “What is all —” she waved her hand in Malfoy’s general direction, “—this?  What’s your goal?”  

Malfoy stiffened, shooting Ginny an icy glare.  “Well, it’s Granger’s birthday, you see,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a small child.  “It is often customary to bequeath gifts on such a day, although perhaps your family wouldn’t have—” 

“Malfoy!” Hermione barked.  He cut himself off from what had surely been a shot at her family’s lack of wealth and shot her a wary glance.  Hermione felt a sudden rush of power at the realisation. 

Malfoy took a moment to compose his features, daintily pushing his fringe out of his eyes, then forced his face into a constipated look he probably thought passed as pleasant.  “Perhaps your family wouldn’t have suspected me as a gift-giver,” he finished.  “But I thought Granger deserves something for putting up with me in the library this past fortnight,” he finished graciously. 

Hermione nodded approvingly.  “And you’re more than welcome here. Isn’t he?” she added dangerously as she looked at the others. 

Ginny rolled her eyes dramatically.  “I didn’t say he wasn’t welcome, I’m just asking some friendly questions.  Now, Parkinson says you just think Hermione is useful.  Is that what you’re up to?  Sitting in the library, bringing her gifts?” she pressed.  “I want to know your intentions, ferret.”  For a moment, she looked fearsome.  “No funny business!” she added, pointing her finger, which unfortunately ruined the menacing effect.

“Ginny, at least let him respond,” Hermione said.  “She’s harmless,” she added with a quick, comforting touch on Malfoy’s arm.  It was the same gesture she would have made for any of her friends, but when she touched Malfoy, he started as if he had been zapped.  

Two spots of pink appeared at the very tops of his cheeks.  

“Well?” Ginny pressed. 

He looked down at his plate and muttered, “I’m trying to start over, Weasley.  I can’t change my circumstances when I’m constantly surrounded by them.”  He finished the last few words with gritted teeth.  He worked his jaw back and forth, then glared at Dean, Ginny, and Hermione in turn.  “Happy?” he spit.  

Ginny looked at him for a long moment.  “Yes,” she decided.  She flashed him a quick smile.  “We can be friends now.” 

Malfoy’s mouth opened and closed.

“Wait, you’ve been studying together?” asked Dean, still trying to catch up.   

“In the library,” Hermione confirmed.  The four students sat quietly for a moment.  Hermione became aware that this odd mix of people was starting to attract attention, with people pointing and muttering.  A few people were standing on their chairs to get a better look.  

“Oh, are we doing house unity, then?”  Luna’s voice cut in dreamily as she wandered toward the table.  “Lovely.  Hello, Draco.” 

Malfoy’s head jerked toward Luna, and his face blanched.  “Lovegood.”

“You’re looking rather skinny these days, Draco, are you eating enough?” Luna asked calmly.  “You’re not quite as skinny as you were last year, when I was imprisoned in your home, but I still think you could stand to eat something.” 

Malfoy’s mouth gaped open.  “I—” 

“You should be careful about getting too bony, or it will attract the wrackspurts.”  She slid into the seat next to him.  “You’ve already attracted quite a few.  I could perform the banishing dance for you, if you’d like.”  

“I’ve actually somewhere to be,” said Malfoy, eyes widening with alarm.  And then, with a final nod to Hermione and a curt “Granger,” he was gone.

“He’ll realise his mistake later,” Luna said confidently.  Ginny looked like she was holding back tears of joy.

“You’ll just have to try again,” said Dean, beaming like Christmas had come early.  

“I always felt sorry for him, about the wrackspurts.  His mother too, maybe even his father.  But his aunt could rot for all I care,” Luna said, mouth twisting into something ugly. 

Everyone fell silent. A common occurrence whenever It—the War—was mentioned.  Hermione shook her head as her stomach churned. 

Luna wrestled with herself and eventually settled her face into a serene kind of peacefulness. “But now she’s dead,” she said, barely any waver in her usual airy tone. “And I think we’re all very interested to see what Draco Malfoy has purchased for you.” 

Everyone at the table latched onto this new distraction with high focus. 

“Exactly,” Ginny said hurriedly.

“Yeah, so what did Malfoy get you then?” Dean prompted.  

Despite herself, her cheeks warmed. The helpless way he looked at her sometimes made her feel cornered, like his whole existence was in her hands.  The way he’d shut down in fear as he stood before her friends gave her an odd sense of responsibility, like he was so vulnerable, and his redemption balanced on the knife’s edge of her moral blade.  But then he did something like this, and the part of him with the potential for more shined through. 

Made her stomach flutter. 

As if his attention was food, and she was starving. 

“You weren’t going to hold out on us, were you?” Ginny asked pointedly.  She poked the package. 

“Oh, alright.”  Holding back a smile, Hermione peeled off the wrappings and found, as she had expected from the shape, a book.  

“Legal Guidelines for the Manufacture of Magical Apparatus?” Ginny sneered.  “Well, done, Ferret, you really know how to —” 

“It’s perfect!" cried Hermione happily.  She was already pouring through the pages.  “This is such a rare book, how did he ever find it?  And it’s annotated!  Oh, how could I possibly be expected to go to class now…” she looked up to see Dean and Ginny watching with raised eyebrows.  Luna was beaming. 

“I suppose you two will be wanting some private time together, then?” asked Ginny.  “You and the book?” 

“Oh, shut it,” Hermione said.  Dean, Luna, and Ginny roared with laughter for ten minutes after that, but Hermione couldn’t stop smiling.

∞∞∞

The countryside settled sleepily into autumn as the week passed.  On the next Friday night, Hermione settled into the old oak table she favoured, she let the ancient library air settle her nerves, breathing in deeply.  It seemed impossible that the first day of October had already arrived, that a month had whirled past at such an alarming rate.  

Flipping open her beloved, leather-bound agenda, Hermione ran her finger down the pages of her to-do list, absorbing how little she’d accomplished. She hadn’t even touched her long list of personal projects and research notes.  

Why hadn’t she started reading up on the effects of growth potions as related to nutritional value in vegetable cultivation, when that was meant to be her first project, as a simple warm up?

In fact—

Hermione flipped frantically through the pages of the journal, noting what list items had been checked off and which remained woefully untouched.

With each bold strikethrough of a completed task, a pattern became painfully clear.

Dean wanted her help collecting resources in the library for the history of portraiture as a continuing study.

Ginny needed help with transfiguration homework.

Malfoy had asked for her notes on Divination As A Tool For Manipulation.

With Harry’s word no longer keeping Kingsley at bay, she was corresponding with multiple members of the DMLE herself.

Dean needed help finding an obscure scroll on portrait animation.

Several classmates (mostly Ravenclaws with an actual interest in History of Magic) had asked for the revised notes she was assembling for Malfoy on inaccuracies in Quibbling's class.

Malfoy wanted to review aspects of non-magical mind control.

And then there was her own homework, the favour for Professor McGonagall she’d jotted down, the letters to her parents she needed to write, the dispute with Gringotts she needed to settle…

None of these bullet points had anything to do with her private goals.  

Neither did it escape her attention that besides her dogged research in relation to Professor Quibbling’s vile lesson plans, the name ‘Draco Malfoy’ seemed to be unusually prevalent in her to-do list.  

A helpless, exhausted melancholy squeezed at her lungs.  This was supposed to be her year.  Homework was one thing, but the letters? The private lessons?  Were her own goals a pipe dream, doomed to always be relegated to the back seat?

With a firm press of her lips, Hermione straightened her slumped form and shook her head.

No.

Hermione’s lip curled as she stared down at the latest page of items.  Slowly, she curled her hand into a fist, letting the page crinkle and rip.  In a slow, satisfying stroke, she tore the rest of the sheet from the binding, until only a blank page was visible.

She reached for her muggle pen and tap tap tapped against the table, thinking. 

She started to re-write her list.

It was terrible luck on Malfoy’s part that he slid into the seat across from her just then.  He started to pull out his books, then paused as he caught a glimpse of Hermione’s destructive little project.  As she meticulously ripped her old to-do list to shreds, then transfigured each one into a paper beetle that she could squash with her palm, Malfoy watched with his brows furrowed. 

“What… are you doing?” he asked carefully.  “Did something happen?”

“I’m destroying my list of things to do,” she said through gritted teeth.  

Malfoy scratched his head.  Now he could ask her why, Hermione thought.  Ask if she was stressed, if everything was alright with her.  Maybe have a realisation of the (distractingly handsome) imposition he’d slowly become.

Instead, he only said, “Are we not having our lessons today, then?”

“No.”

A simmering rage boiled inside her.  It was everything—every single person who’d asked her for something to do, without a care in the world, like it was nothing.  None of them realising that every time she didn’t say yes, the dark shade of guilt clawed at her insides.  Every time she tried to refuse, there was a niggling doubt that she was selfish or wrong.

That if she didn’t help, everything could collapse.  

That everyone would die.  

“So, what are we doing instead?” Malfoy asked.

It was as though there was a clawed animal behind her sternum, stoking her rage with each serrated swipe of its claws.  “I am not a vending machine!  You can’t just punch a few buttons and expect me to output your lesson for the day!” Hermione spat.  

Malfoy’s jaw dropped.  “What’s a vending machine?” he asked, missing the point entirely.

“Figure it out yourself,” Hermione snapped, closing her journal.

“I don’t understand,” said Malfoy, blinking at her with confused eyes. “Did I do something?”

“No, exactly the opposite, Malfoy.  you’ve done nothing.  All the answers you’re looking for are in this very room, and yet you’re asking me to do your thinking for you!”  She glared at his blanched face.  “Honestly—what do you think?”

“I think you know the answers. So I ask you,” Draco shot back, eyes roving over her as if she’d gone mad.

Hermione threw her head back and let out a groan.  “This was supposed to be my year. I was going to come back and I was going to research and enjoy my classes and use the Hogwarts facilities… Instead, I spend all my time redoing lessons and doing favours and giving private one-on-one tutoring lessons to you.” 

“That’s not fair, though,” Draco whined plaintively. “You know I don’t know these things, and you’re the one who said you’d help!  I didn’t force you…” 

“I didn’t know anything when I got to Hogwarts either, as Professor Quibbling loves to point out,” Hermione said snappishly.  “I read books to learn more.  Perhaps you could try?  I don’t know where you’d find any though…”  She pretended to be surprised as she looked around.  “But look at that! We’re surrounded by books, aren’t we?  Maybe you could have a peek?” 

“You don’t have to be a bitch about it,” he growled.  

She narrowed her eyes at him. “And maybe it’s time you figured out your own shit.  How can you ever really be redeemed and learn to think for yourself when I am telling you every single thing to think?  Do you really need to be spoon fed every bit of information?”

Malfoy slammed his hands on the table and rose, chest heaving.  “Of course I do!” he shouted.  “Look at me!  A snivelling former Death Eater.  And look at you, a confident witch, hero of the country.  All your friends flocked to you for advice because you’re better than them.  I’m here because you’re better than me.  And you just want to leave us to fend for ourselves? Do you not see how much comes to you naturally?”

“Who said anything comes naturally to me!” Hermione cried.  She stood up too, pointing a reproving finger at him.  She couldn’t believe what he was saying, what he had the gall to pronounce as truth.  “I work hard to decide what to think, who to be, what to do.  There’s a difference between ability and simply doing the work.  I’m only special because I bother to do it.” 

“That’s not true!”  Angrily, he fumbled with his sleeves, rolling them up until the foul brand on his arm showed.  He shook his arm at her, mouth twisted.  “This proves that I’m tainted.  This proves you’re better than me!”  

“That was forced on you!” she shouted back.  “It’s like you’re still in Azkaban, Malfoy, and someone left the door cracked open for you.  But you won’t just get up, will you?  You won’t just pick yourself up and walk away!  You want me to come and carry you out!”  She sneered down at his arm.  “That brand is your excuse.  You think if somehow you’re terrible, then you don’t have to try anymore. You can just find the right person to follow.”  

“I HAVE!” Malfoy cried, aghast.  “Why can’t you see it’s you?” 

Realisation after realisation was crashing down on her like a wave.  Malfoy hated himself.  He was using her.  And she’d allowed him to do it.

“No,” Hermione said, temper roiling inside.  “You’re right.  I lashed out, and I’m sorry I jumped down your throat.  This conversation could have gone differently.”

Whatever her face looked like, it clearly did not convey any sort of contrite feelings, because Malfoy looked as if he wanted to sink into the ground.  His face was blanched, eyes watching her wildly.

“But this conversation was going to happen, one way or another,” she continued, seething under the surface.  “Because I can’t keep doing this for you, Malfoy.  Whatever it is you believe… You’re going to have to figure it out yourself.” 

Guilt tore at her with jagged claws as she stormed out of the library, as well as a dark, empty void in the pit of her stomach.  

With each item crossed off her list, she had felt more emboldened and more powerful.  And then Malfoy had ruined it, made her feel guilty.  And that was the whole thing, she shouldn’t feel guilty!  Perhaps she oughtn’t have yelled, but…

Hermione paused, frowning.  Her fingertips tingled, and the back of her neck prickled.  Her heart was thumping so hard against her chest that she was a little light-headed.  A cold, gnawing fear began to churn dangerously in her gut.  

It was happening.  Outside the safe zone of the library, without her books and her agenda, tearing up her to-do list wasn’t the powerful act it had been anymore. 

Why had she done that? 

What if she forgot something? Why wouldn’t she have simply crumpled it, or started a new page…? Because what if she missed something important, and something went wrong?

That could not be the case.

She needed to be busy, she needed to be working.  

Helping.

Saving.

Fixing.

It was her year, but she was supposed to be busy, and she wasn’t supposed to miss anything.

Not this, not empty with nothing to do but think think think… 

A shiver passed along her neck, and in a blink of an eye, she wasn’t at Hogwarts, she was in the woods.  Collecting food, counting their potions, always making sure that Harry and Ron were alive.  Was this the corridor, or the claustrophobic forest?

All around her, haunted stones, or perhaps haunted trees, or perhaps lurking Death Eaters.

The ghosts of the dead speaking across the veil:

“Take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback.”*

“Wait,” said Bellatrix sharply. “All except... except for the Mudblood.”*

Panic thudded through her veins, skittered along her skin and filled her soul.  What had she done?  Her hands were numb, her mouth dry.

The wind whistled.

Had something moved behind her?

Hermione broke into a run.

∞∞∞

When she burst into the Gryffindor Common room, panting, Ginny glanced up, alarmed. Her eyes darted from head to toe over Hermione’s body, as if checking for an injury.

“What happened?”

“The forest,” she whimpered.  

Ginny’s eyes widened.  “Come on,” she said, taking her hand.  Together they walked up the staircase to the girl’s dormitory, Ginny speaking in a soothing voice the entire time.  “This summer, whenever I had nightmares, Mum got me ready for bed.  It’s how I’ve learned all these new braids.  Let me help you, it always calmed me…” 

She continued chatting as Hermione dipped in and out of reality.  Vaguely, she realised they had entered her room.  

Something soft and warm brushed against her leg.  Hermione jumped, but it was only Crookshanks, meowing with concern. 

“Sit, Hermione.  Can I braid your hair…?”  She nodded, dazed, and lowered herself into a chair by the vanity.  Crooks hopped straight into her lap.  

“You’ll feel better, honestly.  Truly, when my mum did this, it really helped me calm down, I swear… Oh, your Sleekeazy!  I’ll use this.”  Ginny pumped a bit of product into her palm.  

With a screeching yelp, Crookshanks launched himself at Ginny, scratching her arm all the way down to the back of her hand.  Ginny cried out, grasping her arm in pain.  “Oh, stop that, you horrible cat!” she cried.  “Shoo!  Out!”  

Something about watching Ginny chase Crookshanks around the room and wrestling him into the hall was oddly helpful.  Her heart started to settle down as Ginny closed the door, shaking her head and muttering about crazy animals.

And then Ginny was behind her, gently running her fingers through her hair, murmuring kind words and empty nothings.  

It was relaxing.

So relaxing.

In fact, Hermione didn’t need to think about anything at all, did she? 

“Don’t worry,” Ginny said soothingly, dragging the cool Sleekeazy gel through Hermione’s trademark frizz.  “Everything is alright.” 

A trickle of cold knowledge seeped into her very skull.  

Yes, there was no reason to worry.

Everything was alright.

“Better?” Ginny finally asked.  Hermione nodded robotically.

“You should keep wearing this every day,” Ginny said, running her hands through Hermione’s hair, eyes wide.  “You look absolutely fantastic.” 

And dimly, through the unfamiliar fog, Hermione knew:

she had to obey. 

Chapter Text

The morning after their fight, Draco sat in his usual place at the Slytherin table, fiddling with his spoon while Blaise’s voice shrilled in his ear.

He’d waited and waited for Granger, hoping she would come back for her agenda. He wanted to whinge at her. He wanted to fight more. 

He wanted to apologise. 

And now she wasn’t even at breakfast. 

“And another thing about the Wasps this year—” Blaise continued.

Ignoring his friend’s insipid rambling, Draco struggled against his desperate need to stand up and search the castle.  He carefully used the back of his spoon to smoosh a single bean flat against his plate.  Then another, then another. 

Draco wasn’t her keeper.  He realised that he was not privy to her internal monologue, that he had no way to guess what was going on in her head. 

But still, his girl was a creature of habit, and she was always at breakfast by now. 

He’d spent the past two years learning to expect the worst; usually, having those fears realised beyond what even he could dream up.  As a result, Draco had a nasty habit of falling into the spiraling well of ominous dread at the slightest provocation.

At the rise and fall of Blaise’s grating soliloquy, harsh and breathy in his ear, he gripped the utensil tighter.  He used the spoon, uncomfortably warm in his hand, to sweep the smashed beans into a neat pile.  With careful attention to detail, he kept an orderly line between all the untouched food items and the ones he’d destroyed.  

He hadn’t thought through the ramifications of making a new friend this year, he mused furiously.  Now, he just had one more person to worry about.  One more reason to writhe under the oppressive claws of endless fear.  It was her fault that he was inventing all kinds of increasingly wild scenarios in his mind.

She was sobbing in her room after their fight, and would never forgive him.

Someone had pulled her away privately to talk, and she had finally realised that Draco was a waste of time.  Even now she was meeting with the Professors to have him kicked out of the school.

She would tell everyone how worthless he was, how pathetically needy he’d turned out to be.

Or—a wave of nausea rippled through his body. 

She was hurt, fallen from one of the moving stairs with no one to help.

Trapped in gruelling hours of detention with Quibbling, in danger of some horrible punishment like Umbridge’s filthy blood quills.  

Or worst of all, kidnapped by a rogue Death Eater. Even now, she was bound and helpless, once again screaming in pain while he sat idly by.  Or even… 

“Mate!” Blaise hissed, shoving Draco’s shoulder hard.  

Blinking furiously, he tried to get his bearings.  The Gryffindor table was still horribly empty without her there, the great entryway a vacuous hole.  

“What’s the matter with you Draco?  Did you hear me ask if you are going flying with me today?  The wind conditions, and with the sun in the—” 

His eyes never left the doors of the Great Hall.  “Obviously I won’t be doing that, Blaise, just like I told you last time.  All forms of Quidditch are against my parole, and I know you’d be fine, but I’m not risking Azkaban, thanks.” 

“Mate, you aren’t going to Azkaban for that.” 

Draco shook his head.  “You’re out of your mind—Merlin!”  Abruptly, he cut off as the object of his anxieties swept into the hall like she’d never had a care in her life.  

He stared at the form of Granger in pure shock.

She exuded an air of polished perfection, her singular curls smoothly rounded into coils that would rival any of the Pureblood ladies.  Her face looked different too; before, he’d never thought about the way she jutted her chin out while walking in some kind of stubborn caricature, how she swept the room with her eyes like each person had something to hide, how she trampled the floor with each step like it was a metaphor for all the bigotry she planned to eradicate.

He thought about these things now as he noticed their absence.  Her chin only held a slight lift.  Granger’s steps were small, her gaze lowered.

Other heads were turning as well. Was it Draco’s imagination that some of those fuckers’ eyes glinted a bit too greedily as they raked up and down her body?

Blaise’s brown fingers snapped in front of Draco’s face.  “Mate.  Pay attention.  Where is your mind, Draco?  Quidditch!”  

Draco blinked dazedly at his friend. “Hm?”  

With a frown, Blaise scanned the hall. Draco could tell the exact moment he figured out what the distraction had been. 

“Oh, she decided to clean up for once!  Weird.”  And then he was back to shovelling eggs into his mouth and talking about the newest broom he’d like to buy. 

Draco’s eyes drifted back to the Gryffindor table involuntarily, as inevitable as a planet orbiting the sun. 

She smiled demurely as her housemates spoke to her, some leaning across the table in their hurry, probably with compliments on her new look.  Granger’s back was straight and proud as Ginny beamed and whispered something into his girl’s ear. 

Even from here, he could tell that her clothes were slightly different, that she’d opted to glamour today, that her rose lips were pressed together in a dainty purse to rival his mother’s. 

She was traditionally beautiful.

He hated it.

Where was the wild riot of frizz? Where was her bright laugh, her exaggerated faces at her friend’s stories?  That bloke Dean Thomas was seemingly making all sorts of jokes this morning, and yet she only nodded along humbly.

It was jarring for Draco to see Granger looking so put together. These past few weeks, he had begun to see her as a kind of guiding light for how to reject Pureblood society.

She represented everything he wanted to escape from, all the things he hoped for in his own future.  

Freedom.  Independent thought.  

As he gazed across the hall now, eyeing her immaculate twists and modest posture, he felt somewhat disoriented, as if he’d been staring too long into the warped, mirage-like air around a flame.  What if as he shed his outmoded perceptions of the world with the help of Granger, he was unwittingly foisting them upon her? 

What if it was his fault she was starting to embody everything that he sought to reject?

Maybe he needed to talk her out of whatever this was… To get his old Granger back… 

“You really aren’t listening even a bit, are you?  Maybe you shouldn’t be flying after all,” Blaise grumbled beside him.  “Probably’d fall off the broom in your state.” 

“Right,” Draco murmured. 

Then again, he wasn’t in charge of how Granger looked. In fact, that was the whole point, wasn’t it?  That Draco should never be in charge.

Perhaps it made Granger happy to try out a new look.  If she wanted to have a big makeover, well, he didn’t have to like it, but…

“Doesn’t something seem weird about Granger, though?” he asked Blaise. “It isn’t just her hair… She’s sitting differently. It’s all different.” 

Blaise shrugged. “She looks good, for a Mudblood,” he said. “An improvement, but still nothing to write home about.”

“She looked better before,” Draco snapped.

They didn’t talk for the rest of breakfast.

∞∞∞

“Settle down, settle down,” Professor Quibbling drawled to the class as he strode inside.   “I hope you’re all having an acceptable Thursday afternoon…” 

Draco glanced over to Granger.  Her pretty hair was tied back with a ribbon, and he had a violent urge to rip it out.

“Today,” Quibbling said, “We will be learning about wizard technology, and how Muggles were able to learn all they know from us.” 

Several heads whipped toward Granger immediately, but she barely reacted to Quibbling’s announcement.  She simply tucked an invisible lock of hair behind her ear and continued to page listlessly through the textbook.

“I bet Granger is seething, ” Blaise whispered with glee.   

Draco rolled his eyes.  His friend didn’t even care whether Quibbling or Granger had the right answer: he just loved the drama. 

The Professor paced in front of the room and stopped right in front of Granger’s desk.  “A long time ago, wizards learned that many enchantments simply disappear after a witch or wizard has passed through the veil.  Sometimes, like with blood magic or rituals, the framework of spells may last a bit longer, but these are intimate traditions, some with serious drawbacks.”    

Granger was taking diligent notes, even though Draco was confident she knew the material already.  But that wasn’t unusual… She’d always been that way, right?  Not necessarily in this class, but…

“So what about public spaces?  What about complex entities for which family or blood magic does not make sense?” Quibbling continued, a smile playing around his mouth.  “Well, for these, wizards invented better ways to let long-lasting structures prevail, designs which then became emblematic of Muggle life.  For instance, plumbing.”  

Most of the class had openly stopped taking notes by now, simply watching Granger to see what she would do.  Even Quibbling had fixed his stare on her expectantly.    

The brightest witch of her age merely let out a long-suffering sigh.  Draco frowned.

“Something to say, Miss Granger?” Professor Quibbling asked, eyes glinting. 

Granger ducked her head.  “No,” she said softly, and this more than anything caused his stomach to twist, made his skin itch.

“You don’t want to spin a tale about how Muggles somehow managed to invent plumbing all on their own, and it was wizards who copied the technology?  Perhaps tell us a silly story about how evil historians have warped your outlandish truth?” 

Granger shifted in her chair, never meeting the Professor’s eyes.  “They aren’t silly stories, and I don’t spin tales,” she muttered.  

Quibbling tilted his head to the side.  “My dear, you simply cannot understand the intricacies of the way magical and mundane life have interwoven over the years.  It is, in fact, the Muggles that stole such technologies from us .  Although, of course, we must commend their ingenuity in co-opting the technologies in non-magical ways,” he added with faux earnestness.   

As one, the class’s attention snapped back to Granger, waiting for her reply. 

To Draco’s horror, Granger bent her head over her notes and scribbled something down.  “Whatever you say,” she said blandly.

Professor Quibbling puffed up his chest, seeming extremely pleased.  “Good girl.”

For just a moment, Granger’s lips thinned, almost white.  Go on, Draco urged silently.  Don’t let this fucker call you that —

But she simply sighed, shook her head, then craned her neck toward her parchment, still writing some mysterious summary of the interaction.

What the hell?

Draco looked around the classroom, nearly wanting to laugh with pure incredulity.  But apparently, he was the only one.

Loony Lovegood, Granger’s supposed friend, was staring dreamily down at her shoes, mouth moving as if counting.  Other than a slight frown of disappointment, Blaise was already back to tapping his Quill disinterestedly on the table.  The Ravenclaws were charming notes and copying down passages from the textbook. 

Why was nobody else looking at her anymore? Why was nobody else shocked?

Narrowing his eyes, Draco watched Quibbling strut back and forth, continuing his smug recounting of (likely false) history.  Had he done something to her?  

This morning, Draco had been somewhat concerned. Now, he was genuinely worried.

What sort of monster could have broken Hermione Jean Granger?  Did she feel inadequate in some way?  He couldn’t have done this, could he?  Surely not.

Or— Draco paused as a new, terrible thought struck him. Was it Wizarding melancholy?  The moody novels that Pansy read always painted those stricken with melancholy as slovenly, bedridden, and peaky; Granger seemed none of those.  

But last year, his mother had never stopped caring about how she looked.  She had simply stopped caring about anything else.  He wasn’t supposed to talk about it, and tried not to think about it.

Still, it reminded him of Granger today.

He had to suppress it.

He had to get it together.

He wanted to scream, but kept it inside.

With a firm shake of his head, Draco suddenly clenched hands over his knees tightly, enough for his fingernails to bite into his skin.  This was breakfast all over again, wasn’t it?

It had been one day.   Maybe Granger was just tired.   

Was she still cross with him?   

Draco wasn’t sure if he was allowed to talk to Granger about this sort of thing or if it would be considered too familiar.  Or if it only was now that he’d made her angry.

There was also another explanation that he didn’t want to consider, one that made his shoulders tense and head spin.  Perhaps she had dressed up today because she was going on an exciting date with another man.  Perhaps nothing could bother Granger today. 

Perhaps she had ignored Professor Quibbling’s drivel because her mind was on another person entirely.

The tip of his quill snapped. “Reparo,” he spat. 

Throughout all of class, Quibbling continued to drone on and on with claims even Draco knew to be untrue.  Even as a student, he would have seen how absurd this lecture was, though it would only have amused him before.  

Now, it was a kindling in his belly, each sentence another stick tending the flames of his sickened fury.  

Draco hated this new, docile version of Granger, who wasn’t fixing it, who wasn’t bothering to be there for her classmates, who was keeping the shimmering light of truth all for herself instead of cutting through the dark.  

And why wasn’t anyone else saying anything?  The supposedly clever Ravenclaws were silent, Blaise was useless, and he wasn’t sure what Loony was doing at all…

They were all just waiting for Granger to say something.

Why didn’t they just do it?  Speak up, say something?  They didn’t even have to know all the answers like Granger, just a bit of solidarity would do. It was all she probably needed, all he needed for himself… 

Then, with a huge jolt, a pit dropped in Draco’s stomach.  It was as if he were in the Ministry’s lift, and the magic had stopped working, and he was hurtling down and down.

Draco was willing to blame everyone else in the room while he silently fumed.

What about him?  Why didn’t he speak up? 

‘I’m only special because I bother to do it,’ Granger had told him yesterday, scowling furiously.   She’d said he was locked in a prison cell of his own making.  ‘You won’t just pick yourself up and walk away!  You want me to come and carry you out!’ she’d said, eyes wild.

She was right.  As always, she was right.  

“Does anyone have any questions?” Quibbling sneered from the front of the class, his eyes glancing only momentarily toward Granger.

Raise your hand, Draco instructed himself.   He needed to tell that foul Professor that he stood by Granger’s opinions, that the man was clearly off his rocker, that even if he didn’t know all the right answers, he could tell when something was abjectly wrong.

But he couldn’t, he couldn’t.  

Chairs screeched, and a low murmur filled the classroom as Quibbling ended the lesson.  Draco didn’t move.  He’d been forced to face his own cowardice, and he’d failed.  Like he’d always told Granger, useless.  

“You’re being different, Hermione,” he heard the lilting voice of Luna say quietly as she passed.  “My daddy makes a tonic—” 

Granger coldly shouldered past and never spared him a glance at all. For the best, probably.

How could he possibly look her in the eye?

He’d thought he would race past the other students and catch her in the hall, pull her into an alcove perhaps.  Ask her if she was alright.  Clearly she was exhausted from shouldering the burden he hadn’t even had the strength to lift this once.  Maybe her new look was his fault, even.

He could only hold his shame. 

∞∞∞

Rage, worry, fear, responsibility: these were the emotions normally churning in Hermione’s brain at any given moment.

But this week, her body was a cavernous, empty space.  It did not contain happiness, but neither did it hold all of the tempers that seemed to make up her daily existence. 

It was delightful.

The world was shit, so Hermione was on holiday.  Who cared about the troubles of the past, or one scummy professor, or a broken to-do list?  Who cared about anything?  

Her mind was blank.  She was the empty page in the back of a book, with little need to be filled, because the story was already done.

The hole in her wasn’t aching, or hollow.  It was clean. 

Life was so much easier this way.  

How has she not seen before now how amazing it would be to have a break? 

To not have to argue every time Professor Quibbling uttered his nonsense, to simply sit back and rest while his vile lips spewed nonsense.  

During the lesson, she’d barely had to glance to the side before noticing Malfoy staring at her intently, expectantly.   She shook her head at the memory.  Not living up to his image of the great Hermione Granger, was she?   

Maybe she deserved a bit of time off from caring.

Why should it be her job to correct them? 

It wasn’t.

The week passed in a blur: Breakfast. Lessons.  Dinner.   That was all she needed to do.

∞∞∞

The crackling flames of the Gryffindor Common room danced and popped.  Hermione stared at them with unfocused eyes while Ginny rambled on beside her.

“And they’re all gone!  I told him I’d even sit for a portrait myself, just to drag him out of that nightmare, even if he’s clawing and screaming while I do it.  But no, Dean just brings up me writing to George again as a reference.  A reference!   As if any of us wants…” 

Dean had certainly been living in the past a lot recently; rarely speaking to others, submerging himself in the world beyond the veil.  If Hermione could have summoned the effort to do something about it, she might have talked to him.

Crookshanks butted his head against her palm insistently.  He’d been much clingier than usual, whining and following her around instead of playing in the castle halls and hunting birds.  She stroked his fur absently.

“Just won’t shut up about it, sick to death… It’s over, why rehash it all…” her friend was muttering furiously, meticulously destroying her quill feather by feather. 

Then again, Ginny still froze up whenever the Battle was mentioned at all, and it wasn’t as if having a portrait of Fred would necessarily be upsetting to the rest of her family.  Distantly, she recognised it wasn’t healthy for Ginny to think this way, but her brain was mush, and her limbs were lead.  Someone ought to help her.

It worried Hermione that she couldn’t summon up very much concern.

Maybe it didn’t feel good anymore, to not care.

“As if I want to look!” Ginny cried, her voice rising in agitation with each word.  “It isn’t as if I’m unaware, and what right does he have anyway?  It’s my brother who died!”   She dragged in a harsh, juddering breath on this last word, as if she hadn’t meant to say it at all.  Her face blanched underneath its constellation of freckles. 

I ought to put my hand on hers, Hermione thought dispassionately.  She didn’t.  Crookshanks meowed and butted her hand again.

Ginny put her head in her arms to collect herself, shook her head over and over, her intricate braids swinging down her back.  “Sorry, you’re clearly not… I wasn’t going to talk about this anyway, I hate it.  Have you got a cold?” 

Hermione didn’t know what was wrong with her.  “Probably.” 

“I just don’t want to see —” Ginny abruptly fell silent and twisted in her seat as the common room portrait swung open.  Tilting her head slightly to the side, Hermione could see that Dean had walked in and was headed straight toward them.

“Hey, you two,” Dean said, settling himself into the squishy armchair across from the two girls.  

“Ah, decided to join the living for once?” Ginny said snidely. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione noticed Dean do a double take as he noticed her still staring into the fire.  Normally, she would have said something.

“Is Hermione alright?” Dean asked, ignoring the comment.  

“A cold,” Ginny said frostily.  

Hermione nodded blandly and continued to stare into the fire.  After all, what did it matter?

“Want me to go to Madam Pomfrey for you?” Dean asked, eyes darting suspiciously away from the red-headed fuse beside him.  “I could leave in ten minutes. I’ve just got to scratch off a note, and I’m off to the Owlery…” 

Ginny rounded on Dean, the back of her neck turning a deep burgundy.  “I told you—” 

“George is interested!” Dean shot back vehemently.  

“I’ll go,” Hermione said, rising from her spot by the fire.  Crookshanks jumped out of her lap with a plaintive whine.  Normally, she would have been only too ready to pick a side and jump into the conversation, already racking her brain for facts and figures, but right now the bickering was nails on a chalkboard.  The unease of her tepid reaction was bubbling just under the surface, too far to reach.  That was the most unsettling part of all. 

She clambered out of the Common room into the dark halls, dispassionate in her journey.  After all, there was no actual cold to treat as far as she knew.

It was a relief to arrive all the way at the Hospital Wing and find that Madam Pomfrey wasn’t even there.  She was never gone long, but Hermione saw no point in waiting.

“I thought you might be Madam Pomfrey,” said a low voice behind her.

Hermione jumped and whipped around.  It was one of the seventh years from History of Magic.  One of the Slytherin boys: Avery Bullstrode.  Millicent’s younger brother, if she remembered correctly.  Like her, he was built wide and heavy, with a thick neck like a tree trunk and sharp, beady eyes.  Unlike her, his sandy-blond hair was cropped short.

*

“But this is even better,” he continued, his deep brown irises swallowed by the darkened hall.  He sidled closer, tilted his head thoughtfully.  “Because I’ve noticed you’ve been looking good, Granger.  Really good.” 

He gave her quite the disturbing once over with an awful leer. 

Hermione tried to blandly ignore him, her rage too far to access.  Turning on her heel, she made to turn right back where she came from, but he grabbed her wrist.  “Do you like to be told what to do?” he wheezed with a lecherous grin.  Hermione opened her mouth to fire back a response… and froze.  Why wasn’t she standing up for herself? 

Instead, she was fossilised in nothingness, like a mosquito in amber.

“What prompted this little makeover?” he said softly.  With a light touch, he ran a finger down one long piece of her polished hair.  Suddenly he made a fist around the curl he was holding, and Hermione sucked in a breath.  

“You are wearing it then, aren’t you?” he breathed, eyes gleaming.  “Aren’t I a lucky man?” 

Her heart was pounding but distantly.  Then Madam Pomfrey’s familiar brisk footsteps tapped around the corner, and Bullstrode released her hair from his hammy fist.  The echoes of relief thumped against whatever ramparts were blocking her heart.

*

“Did you two need anything?” 

“Not me, just Bullstrode,” Hermione said quickly.  Cheeks burning, she sped down the hall, his laugh ringing past her.  She didn’t slow her pace for even a moment until she was inside Gryffindor Tower and up the stairs.

She headed straight to her bed and sunk underneath the sheets.  Crooks jumped onto the pillow beside her and curled into a ball, his tail settling across her neck.

Normally, when someone hit Hermione, she hit back harder.  Even as an insecure teenager, she had been dangerously vicious.  

Now, the panic was so close to the surface that it could almost break through.  She could nearly taste it.

What was the matter with her?  

∞∞∞

The next day, Bullstrode followed her after History of Magic.

“Hey, Golden Girl,” he whispered in her ear.  “Gotcha."

**

On pure instinct, she reached for her wand, but he had entwined his clammy fingers in her hair before she could get to it.  A surge of painful heat smothered her skin.  “I don’t think so,” he said softly.  “Don’t touch that.” 

Hermione opened her mouth to tell him to fuck off, but for some reason, the words weren’t coming.  And why exactly wasn’t she reaching for her wand anymore? 

She felt so helpless, and she didn’t know why.

“Effective,” he murmured.  “I bet you have to use more than the average thin-haired Pureblood.”  

It was unlike her to say nothing, or at least it used to be.  She had no idea what to even make of such an odd statement anyway. 

He grabbed her hair even tighter, and her scalp stung.  “Keep your head down and follow me,” Bullstrode hissed in her ear.

“I don’t want to,” Hermione mumbled.  She felt as if she’d drunk seven firewhiskeys. Not exactly sick to her stomach, but off-balance. 

“No arguing.  Don’t make a fuss.  You’re not getting out of it this time, Golden Girl.” 

She stumbled after him, the halls mostly empty by now.  She ignored his slimy, pawing hands, mind somewhere far away.  She didn’t even realise they’d made it to the Slytherin common room until a voice she’d been missing cut through the fog: “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” 

Malfoy’s face was twisted into a horrible, livid glower.  His mouth was contorted like a predator’s, teeth bared, eyes bright.   

“Oh, Draco—just having a bit of fun with the Golden Girl—” 

“Get your hands off of her,” Malfoy said, his voice shaking with quiet rage.  He lifted his wand slowly, dangerously. 

“She wants to be here.”  He grabbed her by the back of the head and lifted her head up.  “Tell him you want to be here with me,” Bullstrode sneered, eyes twinkling. 

She struggled, but the words bubbled up from her lips.  “What he said,” she gritted out. 

For just the briefest moment, there was a flicker of confusion and hurt in Malfoy’s eyes.  But then they narrowed, and he pointed his wand at the hollow of Bullstrode’s throat.  “I doubt it,” he said coldly.  “Seeing as she’s with me.” 

Bullstrode’s eyes widened.  “What?  But she’s just a mudblood, just let me—” 

“She’s mine.” 

The meaty hand in her hair was suddenly gone, and Hermione found herself gasping for breath while Malfoy muttered something low and frightening.  She didn’t know what he said, but the seventh year had already fled the room by the time Malfoy crouched down beside her.  When had she sat on the floor? 

**

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

 He lifted his hand to her shoulder but hovered above, fingers trembling, then dropped them.  “Just doing the one thing I’m good at,” Malfoy finally said with a bitter tone.  “Out evil-ing the other creeps.”  

She shook her head. 

“Are you… Did you take something?” 

“I don’t know.  But I didn’t want to,” Hermione said in a small voice that she despised. 

Malfoy cursed.  Long fingers grasped either side of her jaw and tilted it side to side as he inspected her.  “Fucking knew… should never have… All my fault, I knew it wasn’t right, I saw…”  

Still muttering, he pulled her up and guided her down one of the labyrinthian Slytherin halls, chillier than she was used to.  He opened a door and bustled her inside of a standard sleeping area, complete with five four-poster beds and emerald green hangings.  

When Malfoy closed the door, his shoulders dropped slightly, and Hermione realised they must be in his room.  While he waved his wand over her head, she looked around.

Spinning instruments, spare robes, and signs of life adorned most of the furniture, spilled messily out of heavy, engraved trunks, and were tossed carelessly across thickly quilted beds.  Only one bed had the curtains drawn tight, like a bundled child in the frosty air.

“Did anybody put anything on you, or do you have any gaps in your memory?” he asked while he worked, eyes tracing the colours and graphs each of his spells produced.

“I don’t know,” she said to her toes.

When she looked up, he tilted his head and looked at her thoughtfully. “Do you feel like you have to do whatever I say?”

“I don’t know.” 

He stroked his chin. “What exactly did that prick say?”

Hermione curled in on herself, rubbing her forearms as if she were cold. “He told me to come with him. I didn’t want to. And then he grabbed my hair and said it again, and I didn’t have a choice…”

Malfoy frowned.  “Grabbed your hair—”  He looked around and then sighed.  “Well, you already hate me, and I don’t know how else, anyway.” 

He reached out and lightly touched a curl.  She shivered. 

“It's warm…" He paused for a moment, lips slightly parted, then shook himself. "Tell me, do you feel like you have to do what I say now?”

“Yes.” 

He let go right away.  “I think,” he said carefully, “It would be a good idea if you took a shower and washed your hair really well. I can also transfigure some of my clothes in case something you’re wearing is jinxed. Would you be alright with doing that?” 

“I’m not supposed to take the Sleekeazy out,” she said. 

Malfoy hesitated, as if he was really grappling with something.  “I don’t know if this is the morally correct decision or not.  But you did tell me to think for myself.  So.” He reached out and grabbed her hair, still gently.

“Take a shower and wash this out,” he commanded.  “I’ll be out here.” 

She felt she had no choice but to comply.  She headed straight for the shower and started to disrobe, barely noticing when the door clicked shut behind her.  She’d forgotten to close it herself.  

As she truly cleaned her hair for the first time in days, the hair potion washed from her scalp.  Watching the substance swirl around the gold-plated drain and off her body, she woke up. And woke up. 

What the ever loving fuck…

A tidal wave of emotions crashed down upon her.  Rage, fear, panic, absolute, devastating wrath…

WHAT THE FUCK HAD BEEN IN HER HAIR? 

∞∞∞

When Granger burst into his room, hair wet, eyes wild, Draco was positioned nervously behind the armchair.  She was still draped in his too-large sleeping clothes he’d put aside for her. 

As she strode toward him, he screwed his eyes shut. 

“Malfoy,” she said, voice shaking with emotion.

This was how he died.  

Damp skin pressed into his body, and his nose collided with wet curls covered in his own shampoo.  Her arms snaked around his torso, and for a moment, he thought perhaps she’d decided to use some kind of Muggle technique to squeeze him to death.  But then his breath caught in his throat.

She was hugging him.

He only stiffened for a moment before lurching back into the hug. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured onto the top of her head.  “I thought you hated me after our fight, but I knew something was wrong.  I should have said something, I should have… I never know what to do, I fucked it up again …” 

“Malfoy, shut up,” she said into his chest.  Her words were muffled.  “And thank you.” 

“You shouldn’t be thanking me, you should be furious—”

Her head moved from his chest, and he hated that.  But she was staring up at him with poisonous fire in her eyes, and that he loved.

“Oh, I’m furious.  I’m going to obliterate anyone who was responsible for how I’ve been the past several days,” she said, her lips somewhere between a growl and an unhinged grin.  “Do you want to help?” 

His stomach fluttered and swooped.  “I’ll do everything in my power. I swear it.”

Chapter Text

Granger was a bombarda, and the world was in her way.

She would shatter them all. 

After extending her fiery invitation to help burn the world down, Granger glowed with such rage that Draco wondered if she might be hot to the touch.  Not a second after he’d agreed to help, she stormed out of his dormitory, with only a fierce glance over her shoulder telegraphing that he was to follow. 

With billowing robes and clenched fists, she had swept up to McGonagall’s office and unleashed a monologue so devastating that Draco almost felt sorry for his old Transfiguration professor.  Her body leaned backward with the force of Granger’s words, as if battling the urge to cower behind the colossal Headmaster’s desk.

And through the whole speech, he couldn’t help but notice that she was still wrapped in his clothes.

It was this final detail that his mind drifted to again and again, even the following day.  Sometimes with little private additions.

Hermione Granger wearing his robes while they stirred a Calming Draught in Potions.

Hermione Jean Granger in his Quidditch jersey and nothing else, propped against the pillows on his bed.

Mrs Hermione Malfoy draped in jewels and finery he’d purchased for her, perched on a settee in the Manor. Hair blissfully wild, tumbling down her back in uncontrollable waves, with her nose pressed in a book…

This final daydream smacked him in the face harder than Hermione had in third year. 

Granger.

Than Granger had in third year.

Shaking his head like a dog come out from the rain, Draco tried to banish these thoughts as he entered the Great Hall for lunch.  He couldn’t be thinking such things in her presence; and true, she was locked away in one of the independent potions labs, taking apart the Sleekeazy in a frantic fury, but he’d promised to bring back some food.   And he certainly knew better than to tarry.

A frighteningly strong hand seized his elbow from behind. 

“Come with me,” growled Ginny Weasley.

“My table is that way…” Draco said, proud to have mostly hid the waver in his voice.  When he tried to drift away, her grip only tightened, and she ushered him to the Gryffindor table with absolutely no effort.

“I—but—” Draco sputtered, helpless against her weirdly powerful grip.  What, did even her fingers have little biceps on them?  Why was she so freakishly strong?

Weasley pushed him into a seat and sat beside him.  Was she going to accuse him? Kill him, most likely. The professors wouldn’t even care, not when it was Potter’s girl—

With resolute might, the Weasley daughter lifted her brawny arms wide. 

Draco released a soft sound, almost a scream.  He closed his eyes.  

Weasley wrapped him into a powerful bodily death hold, squeezing him with enough vigour to suffocate.  It was happening.  This was it.  This was the end.

“Thank you,” Weasley whispered. 

His eyes popped opened.

This… wasn’t an attempt to eliminate him.  She was hugging him?   He could hardly compute his reality, too gobsmacked by this unexpected scenario.  Gingerly, he lifted an arm and patted her on the back, not sure what to do.

She whispered in his ear again.  “Thank you for seeing what no one else saw.  Thank you for saving her from that horrible gel.  It’s all my fault, I put it in her hair.  I didn’t mean… and once again, I’m so worried about keeping my friends safe, but maybe I’m the danger!”  

“I—” 

“And then you were there, and you stopped that thuggish oaf Bullstrode, thank Merlin—” 

“Don’t— don’t blame yourself, Weasley,” Draco said quietly.  “You didn’t know.” 

She leaned back, hands still gripping his shoulders forcefully, eyes bright.  She gave him a long, indecipherable look.  

“You mean that?”

He dipped his head in confirmation; he did in fact mean it.  Not that he was any kind of expert on personal responsibility, but he’d had his share of inflicting harm, both purposefully and not, and Weasley’s crime wasn’t really a crime at all.  

Perhaps absolution was easier to swallow when the permission came from a certified scoundrel, because she gave him a decisive nod, and her eyes narrowed with determination.  “Well, regardless.  I can’t have this happening to my friends anymore, Malfoy.  Which is why I’m counting on your cooperation. You like her, right?” 

Draco sputtered.

“Oh, shut up.  It’s a rhetorical question.  You like her, so you won’t let anything happen to her, right?  Because I can’t be everywhere at once and I can’t lose anyone else.” 

Only a lifetime of impeccable manners training kept him from gaping at Weasley like a dimwitted fish.  At last, he gathered up his bearings enough to reply: “I promise.  I don’t want to lose anyone else either, you know.”   

Ginny frowned and her eyes flicked to the Slytherin table for a second before she remembered. “Crabbe?” 

His name hurt to hear.

“I know you didn’t like him—” 

“I hated him,” Ginny said, eyes glistening,  “but you don’t need to explain yourself.  He didn’t deserve to die, anyway. He was young, and there would have been time for him to grow up and learn a different way.  Like you did.” 

Draco’s shoulder’s stiffened.  “I don’t know that I have.” 

Weasley regarded him with a raised brow, leaning back as if doing an inspection. He squirmed at her razor-sharp gaze. It was as though she could see straight through him, as if she had the emotional version of Mad-Eye’s ugly eyeball.

“You’re only prattish now, and maybe a bit aloof. But not a frightful menace anymore, and you’ve toned down the deathy vibes. Hang around more, and we’ll set you straight.”

Draco looked down at his lap and scoffed. 

“You’re welcome here anytime, Malfoy,” Ginny said, softer.  “I remember what you said, you know.  I think about it a lot… that it’s hard to change when you’re constantly surrounded by your circumstances.  Well, you won’t have to be anymore.  Even when Hermione isn’t here, you’re still welcome.  Alright?” 

A swell of gratitude filled Draco, and he looked away.  He wanted to scoff, wanted to brush her off and stand tall.  He wanted not to need anything.  But his throat was peculiarly tight, and his eyes burned hot for some stupid reason, and his chest was heavy with undeserved gratitude.

So he barely whispered a thank you, then scurried away.

∞∞∞

Hermione was bent over her cauldron when Malfoy snicked the door open after a gentle knock.  

“Granger?”  He said it tentatively, like he was approaching a wild beast.  His shoulders were hunched inward, which made him look smaller. Younger. “I brought you food.”

Her eyes drifted from the small platter to Malfoy, then back to the cauldron, then back to Malfoy.  She didn’t need his soft words and his culinary offerings, she just needed to make things right.  With barely an acknowledgement his way, she went back to pouring over the cauldron base.

He sighed, then set the bundle of food beside her, definitely harder than necessary.  When she jerked her head toward him, he met her gaze, cool grey eyes intent on her. 

“Well?”

“It’s layered with compulsions,” Hermione said, gesturing to the cauldron.  He blinked, seemingly thrown off by the change of topic.  “This cursed Sleekeazy is clearly different than this other sample batch from Diagon Alley, which means it was specially made and perhaps targeted… And if I know the Auror office, I’m better off sending them a full report if I want them to start looking into this.  They already brushed off the letter I sent yesterday.” 

With that, she turned back to her potion, hoping he understood himself to be dismissed.

For a moment, there was complete silence in the room.  Then: 

“That’s all you have to say?  You said I could help, Granger, but you haven’t said a word to me since we left my room!” he snapped.  “I’d think you hate me now, except you won’t talk to the rest of your friends either.  At least I have the pleasure of bringing you sustenance.  Since obviously you can’t ask a house elf, no, that would be far too simple—” 

Her shoulders tensed, her hackles raised.  “I just have a lot to do, Malfoy.   A lot to work through, and chit-chat is distracting.” 

“ Chit-chat —Granger!  I’m not here to distract you, I’m here to help!  At least tell me where the fuck you got the stuff, then?” 

She narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips.  “Pansy Parkinson.” 

This seemed to stop Malfoy in his tracks, at least for a moment.  Then he shook his head, blinking furiously.  “Pansy wouldn’t have done it on purpose, though.  She wouldn’t have.” 

“I know that,” Hermione said, turning back to the potion.  “She’s almost certainly a victim.”

“You have to go tell her!” 

“Yes, it’s on my to-do list,” Hermione said through gritted teeth.

“Granger—!” His face was flushed, body taut with irritation.  A vein twitched on his forehead.  “You— Merlin—”  And then suddenly, he stopped.  His eyes fluttered closed, and Hermione couldn’t help but notice the soft curve of his Adam’s apple when he tilted his head back, and the way the light from the torch reflected off his face.  

He breathed out, slowly, then looked her in the eye.  “I know there is a lot to do, and that is why I am offering my help.  Do you have a to-do list that I could look at?  Maybe… I could just take some of the items?”

Her stirring slowed.  Heavens, yes.  Hermione wanted that so much.  

But.

The Sleekeazy hadn’t been freeing for her.  The lack of willpower, letting it all go… the lack of power had been a cold, cavernous empty in her chest.  And it hadn’t escaped her that no one had stepped up in her place.  No one had seen what was wrong, no one had fought with Quibbling, no one had taken over the things Hermione always did for others… 

“Look what happens when I drop my guard for just a moment, Malfoy,” she whispered, staring down at the desk.  “I can’t afford to let them get away with this.  This little problem has become my responsibility now.  I can’t leave this to chance, I can’t just not… The reason this happened was because I panicked, all because I tore up my to-do list—”  

“Hermione.”  Her eyes flew open, and she looked up at him, shocked.  Her heart fluttered, and something anxious yet pleasant writhed in her stomach.

Malfoy had a decisive glint in his eye.  “This didn’t happen because of your to-do list. Do you know the Weasley girl just tried to convince me of the same thing?  That it’s all her fault?”  

“Of course not, I don’t blame her—” 

“Right!”  His eyes fixed her in place, and her heart pounded in her chest.  “This happened because Purebloods are rotten.  I’m nearly certain that this is the doing of a Pureblood family, and you just got caught in the crossfire.”  

He moved closer, and she smelled his spicy aftershave, and the clean scent of the shampoo she’d used on her own hair just last night.  He gingerly placed a hand by hers, not quite touching.  She remained completely still.  Had she imagined that crackle of energy in the space between their fingers? 

“This isn’t your fight at all.  But you’re going to take them down anyway, because you get things done.  And I like that about you.”  His face was almost at her level now; she barely had to tilt her head up to watch him speak.  “This is what happens when the rest of us wait on someone else to take care of life’s problems.”

Hermione swallowed, transfixed on every word pouring from his lips.  

“That ‘someone else’ becomes you, and then you delude yourself into thinking that the responsibility to make the world a better place isn’t a collective effort.  You think it’s all on your shoulders.  And it’s not, so give me the damn list!”  He held his hand out expectantly.   

“I don’t actually have it all written—”

“And another thing,” Draco interrupted.  “You aren’t writing a full report.  Summon Pot-head and Weasel Wanker and do your Golden Trio thing.  Make them help too.  And bring the good Weasley while you’re at it. We’re all going to work on this together.” 

A tight, twisted knot in Hermione’s chest loosened.  This wasn’t like the potion.  Maybe releasing control wasn’t the same when it was on one’s own terms.

And—

She stood up slowly, eyeing Malfoy’s nervous frame.  It made all the difference having someone she could trust.  

She launched herself at him and wrapped his body into a tight, thankful hug.

“You know, this is the second time today that a witch has hugged me and cried,” he murmured into her hair, voice muffled.  But all the same, his arms snaked around her waist, and he pulled her tight.

Finally, Hermione had a partner.

∞∞∞

Potter and Weasel had been summoned. 

Dean Thomas watched over the control batch of Sleekeazy while Ginny Weasley minded the Exploratory Potion (“twice clockwise, once counter—” Granger said so many times that the ginger bopped her on the nose with a ladle and told her to shut up).

And now, Draco and Granger stood outside Pansy’s dormitory, like a team. 

Like a pair. 

He watched from the corner of his eye while she rapped her knuckles on the door for a second time, frowning.  Did she know they were a pair?

What if he just threw his arm around her shoulder?  Pulled her close…? 

The door cracked open, and Blaise poked his head out. His eyes slid curiously to Granger before meeting Draco’s gaze. “We are a bit busy in here, mate,” he said, frowning with curiosity.  Though evidently, he wasn’t curious enough to stick around—he was already easing the door closed. 

“This is worth your time,” Draco started, hoping to wheedle his way in through intrigue.

Granger jutted her heel out and stuck it in between the door and the wall.  “Pansy is in danger,” she said bluntly.

Draco threw her a scandalized look. What kind of subterfuge was she playing at?  But then Blaise’s eyes popped open, and he let them in, so it had seemingly done the trick.

Pansy was sitting on her bed, red eyed, dabbing a tissue neatly down her tear tracks.

“Oh! So not only do you burst in here whenever you want, but now you’re just letting anybody into my room?” she said a bit hysterically.  “Why not invite the whole school?” 

Blaise rolled his eyes.  “They said it was important and that you’re in danger.” 

Pansy tilted her head back and groaned.  “What is this, some kind of roleplay move?  I’ll grant you it’s creative—but I’m not changing my mind.  We can’t get back together, and that’s final.  And you can’t tempt me with a foursome…. I can’t pretend I wouldn’t be interested, but it simply must not happen, Blaise.”

“That’s not— what?” Draco cut off, eyes wide. “Wait—“

“This isn’t roleplay.  We’re being serious!”  Granger had clearly had enough, her lips pursed into that stern McGonagall-esque look that made Draco wonder if he had a teacher kink.  “You need to wash out that Sleekeazy.”

“What—my Sleek— no!  I’ve already styled it for the day!”  Pansy cried, aghast.  She sniffled and wiped her nose, somehow conveying dismay as she did so.

Draco exchanged a glance with Granger.  You try something, he thought she was saying.  He tried to focus, though having a silent language with her did make him rather giddy.   

After a bit of thought, Draco strode up to Pansy with confidence and grabbed her hair. “Do it. Wash your hair.” 

She knocked his hand away with a horrible curl to her lip. “The fuck?” 

Blaise stepped in front of Draco, putting his body between him and Pansy.  “Yeah, what the hell, mate?  You said she was in danger, not that you had some weird agenda with her hair?!” 

Pansy peeked around Blaise to stare at Granger with a teary sneer. “Well, you’re back to your regular bushy style, I see.  Is that what this is?  You ran out and now you’ve got your bodyguard to bring you more?  Or perhaps rid the world of all beauty products?  Just because you’ve decided to look horrid, it doesn’t mean everyone should.”

“No, Pansy—you gave me Sleekeazy from your private batch, remember?  Well, it was affecting my behaviour.  It made me more compliant… it’s probably affecting you too.”  Quickly, Granger started to explain at top speed.

Pansy seemed dubious, but Draco was particularly interested in Blaise’s reaction.  At first he sneered, but after a moment his head jolted backwards, and by the end of it he was nodding along.  

“It makes so much sense…”  Blaise scratched his scruffy chin.  “And of course Pansy wouldn’t realise, because she only uses a bit.  But you’d have seen it right away.  You must have been slopping it in to control that nest…” 

Granger shot Blaise a filthy look, and he threw up his hands. “Just saying.” 

Pansy was looking between all of them, eyes wide, clutching her tissue in her hand.  She suddenly looked very small, and Draco felt a deep pang at the thought that he’d simply brushed off one of his oldest friends rather than trying to dig deeper.  

Blaise dropped to his knees and clutched Pansy’s hands in his.   Draco could just barely hear him murmur “please try this.”

With a deep, shaky breath, she nodded once, then rose. 

“It isn’t enough to just rinse,” Granger called after Pansy as she headed to her shower.  The door clicked firmly shut.  “Really scrub!” 

The shower turned on, and Blaise paced.  “Could it really be…?” He shook his head, agitated. “We always talked about running away together.  I couldn’t figure out why she’d changed her mind.  And then sometimes she would come to me at night, and I’d think…” 

He turned to them, eyes full of emotion that Draco had never seen.  “Thank you for telling us.  We’ll keep it quiet, of course.  Do you want money, Granger?” 

Granger jerked her head back as if she’d been slapped.  “I don’t need a reward,” she seethed.  “Outing these dirtbags is all the compensation I need.” 

Blaise’s entire body stiffened.  “You can’t mean you’re telling others?” 

Draco’s stomach dropped.  He hadn’t thought this far ahead, and of course his Slytherin friends would be shocked… One simply didn’t stir up trouble in their world, barging into situations like a Gryffindor in a china shop.  Heroics and drawing attention to oneself was seen as much too dangerous.

Meanwhile, Granger stared at Blaise, her jaw opening and closing with pure shock, eyes flashing dangerously.  “Of course—we’re reporting them!  We’re going to start an investigation!”

Suddenly, Blaise was stepping into Granger’s space, looming over her.  Unconsciously, Draco found himself drifting closer, his hand lightly brushing his wand.   “You can’t do that,” Blaise hissed.  “They’ll just find another way to control her, and the whole thing will get buried immediately.  It’s absolutely pointless.” 

“We can send it through the proper channels—” 

“There are no proper channels for Pureblood matters,” Blaise spat.  “And that’s what this is, despite your involvement… You may have been an unintended side effect, but it’s very clear that this Sleekeazy business should never have concerned you.  Because this is a Pureblood problem, and it requires Pureblood solutions…” 

Granger’s fists were curled, her cheeks flushed cherry-red.  She looked dangerous.  Suddenly, Draco was forcefully reminded of the year they’d been forced to care for Hagrid’s blast-ended skrewts.  

The second Draco made the decision to step in, it was like all of his uncertainty had melted away.  He looked his friend in the eye, lifted his chin.  “Blaise.”  His friend’s face snapped to the side, away from Granger’s, eyes wide at the commanding tone Draco had just used.  He could barely believe it himself.  “Things have to change for us… We have to try.  So we’re doing this Granger’s way.” 

The argument was interrupted by Pansy banging the door open, eyes alight.  Still wet, her clothes clinging to her damp skin, she launched herself into Blaise’s arms. 

“I feel the difference now,” she mumbled into his shirt.  “And I’m sorry.  I’m sorry…” 

Blaise pulled her in close, squeezing tight, his head buried in Pansy’s freshly washed hair.  Draco suddenly had a nearly irrepressible urge to hug Granger like that, too.

“I should have seen,” Pansy continued, voice shaking with something between relief and rage.  “I would have these foolish thoughts at night, or I thought they were.  By morning, I’d always see them as the dreams they were… But they weren’t dreams, they were me—”  

Then she stiffened and looked over her shoulder straight at Granger.  As if barely hanging onto her pride by a thread, she detached herself from Blaise and pulled her posture up straight.  Draco supposed he understood the revulsion of showing emotions in public. 

“You were right, Draco,” Pansy said snottily.  “It was useful to make a Gryffindor friend.”

Draco rose his brows.  That was quite the show of gratitude for Pansy.   

Granger smiled.  “Your welcome, Pansy.”  

Blaise, on the other hand, was practically a changed man.  Draco had never seen him like this before: acting like he didn’t mind showing his hand.  He walked up to Granger and after only a brief pause, clasped her hand in his.  “Thank you,” he said sincerely.  “If you ever need something.  I’ll owe you one favour.” 

Draco’s eyes popped open.  Pansy gasped audibly and threw her hand over her chest.  

Granger had no idea what she’d been offered, clearly.  With a mystified glance at Pansy, she looked back at Blaise and smiled.  “No one deserves to be controlled.”

“Any favour,” Blaise repeated with a serious frown. 

Pansy hissed out a soft “my word.”  Draco didn’t know what to do with his hands.  At last, overcome with some kind of brotherly gratitude, he reached out and gave Blaise an odd, hopefully-manly shoulder shake.  

They exchanged nods, then he glanced at Granger, tilting his head to the door; it was time to go.

“Thank you for backing me up,”Granger whispered to him as they left, offering a small hug from the side.   “And thank you for all your help today. You’ve done a good job.” 

A surge of confidence that he’d never had before came over his body.  Maybe he could do this.  Maybe he could make the right decisions every once in a while, especially if the result was Granger in his arms.

You like her, don’t you? he heard the echo of Ginny.

He shook it off.  

He couldn’t think about that part.  Not yet.  

Not when he had no idea if he had a chance of her liking him back.

∞∞∞

With Malfoy by her side, Hermione could finally contain the force of her rage enough to focus her energy.  Before, her fury had been similar to solar flares on the sun—wild and unpredictable in their intensity and direction.  Now she was a laser beam.  Focused and deadly.

She had furiously owled back and forth with Harry, Wizengamot members, Arthur Weasley, and every contact she could think of, but they were all telling her the same thing: to wait.  

Harry wasn’t even allowed to participate in the investigation anymore, for reasons unknown.  The Wizengamot was largely unhelpful, though Margot Doge said the DMLE was in some kind of lock-down.  Arthur hinted at some kind of internal inquiry and cautioned against getting involved.  

And Kingsley wasn’t even bothering to try to recruit her anymore; her letters were all rebuffed, his one paltry response using vague phrases like ‘more time is needed’ and ‘let us take it from here.’ 

Hermione was tired of waiting.

She lamented about this to Malfoy again and again, often questioning if they should try a new tactic or even take on the investigation themselves.  In the end, they never agreed about what should be done, with Hermione feeling unusually inattentive.  She told herself that it was nothing, that she was trying out the whole ‘hands-off’ attitude.  And she could tell that Malfoy wanted to help, removing all superfluous distractions. 

But really, despite his best intentions, he was her newest distraction.

She stared at him often.  The way that four months past his trial date, his skinny arms had now developed lithe, corded muscles. She catalogued each of his smirks and smiles, what made him laugh the most, each wrinkle of the nose or twitch of the lips.  She let her eyes rove from his platinum blond hair, past his long, pale lashes as he looked down at his books, down the bob of his Adam’s apple to the dip of the collarbone at the base of his throat.  

Whenever she caught herself doing this, she would shake her head violently or forcefully move her face away from him.  The night after Pansy’s room, she became so twitchy in the library that she looked up to find Malfoy was watching her, concerned. 

Having finally finished her most recent letter to the Ministry, Hermione rolled her shoulders back and let her eyes drift to Malfoy.  He was hunched over a book, brow furrowed.  His pale lashes fluttered as his eyes darted back and forth.  She idly wondered if he had a bit of Veela blood somewhere down the line.  There was something about his face… he was handsome, of course, but it almost felt more fitting to describe him as beautiful.  

Malfoy’s eyes tracked over a line and he let out a soft, sharp inhale at something he’d read.  Her gaze softened at the thoughtful way he ran a finger over his lips.  Fingers that had pulled Bullstrode away from her, lips that had spoken a claim over her when she’d needed his help most… 

“Why did you say that I’m yours?" she blurted out impulsively.  “That night, when you saw me with that horrible boy…?” 

He startled, then chewed his bottom lip while he looked at her speculatively. 

“Well, I had to say it, didn’t I,” he said slowly.  “To intimidate him.  Seem like I had the upper hand. To look worried would be weakness.”

“Right.”  Strangely, something small deflated in her chest.  Which was silly, because it didn’t matter at all.  She didn’t even know why she’d asked.   

“Why?”  He tilted his head as he observed her, as if he were now paying closer attention; his eyes roved over her body, tracked the details of her face.  She needed to distract him, fast.

“Just curious.  And I heard that little inhale just then, Malfoy. What are you reading?”  

“Oh, right…”  He flushed and looked down at the book, fiddling with the edge of the page.  She repressed the urge to admonish him for it.  “I’ve been working my way through the books that you cited in your letter, actually.  The ones on cults and childhood trauma…”

Hermione glowed.  A sunburst of warm liquid joy poured from her heart and spread through her body, all the way to her fingertips.  “I’m so glad, Malfoy!  And those are muggle books too!”

Malfoy shifted uncomfortably.  “They’re… very helpful.  There isn’t anything like this in the Wizarding World.” 

“Which book?” 

Malfoy hesitated, then stared at her like he was deciding something.  “Combating Cult Mind Control,” he said finally, holding up an old beaten copy.  

“That’s a good one,” Hermione said.  

“They all help,” he said vaguely.  

“When in doubt, researching has always helped me sort out my own thoughts, too,” Hermione told him.  “I’m proud of you.”

He didn’t respond, but his lips curved up into a pleased little smile.

They were interrupted by Harry, storming into the library.  Harry, who was supposed to be working on her case—?

“Did you find something?” Hermione asked, standing up quickly.

Harry looked between them both.  “The opposite.  I’ve been fired.” 

Chapter Text

Harry sank into the chair across from her with a wilted sigh.  He took off his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut.  Then, in a final, dramatic show of desperation, he cradled his head in his hands and muttered, “You’re absolutely right about everything.” 

At this pronouncement, Malfoy kicked Hermione’s foot and raised his brows as if to say, ‘See?’  

She ignored him, even if her insides did glow like a fireplace in winter at their inside joke. 

Instead, she wavered between getting up to comfort Harry versus giving him space, unsure what might help most. Mostly, she was concerned her friend was having a mental breakdown.  At last, settling on an awkward half-standing, half-leaning position, she asked, “What was I right about, then?” 

Harry lifted his head, his bright green eyes meeting hers.  “I’m just getting ahead of your reaction before I tell my story.”

And then he launched into an explanation of everything that had happened since he’d received Hermione’s owl: the investigative malaise in the Auror office, the sluggish pace Harry met whenever utilising office resources, and the eventual shelving of the entire Sleekeasy case with Harry’s mandatory reassignment. 

“And that was the final feather that broke the Augury’s back.  The atmosphere in the DMLE had already felt off, but… I don’t know, my gut instinct was that there was something more going on. You know?”

Hermione nodded. 

Harry sat back and sighed. “That was when I began to suspect that someone had managed to get Kingsley under an Imperius.  So I followed him—”

“And you were caught?” Malfoy interjected loudly. “You were caught following someone?  But you’re so subtle, Potter, how ever did anyone notice—”

“Shut up,” Harry snapped.  “Yes, Kingsley caught on, and he told me that I was clever for having noticed the change.  But that all of the strange behaviour I’d noticed lately had an explanation: it was an effort to root out a mole. And you know… it’s Kingsley!   So I ignored my intuition and I went home.  Next day there was an article in the paper—” he slapped down a Daily Prophet, “—and I was fired.” 

“Potter’s Breakdown: How for One Shattered Man, the War Never Ended… by Rita Skeeter!” Hermione fumed, reading the pages with increasing rage. “Why didn’t you… You should have told me!” 

Harry shot her a desolate look.  “Like I said, you’re absolutely right.  I should have, but you know how it is… trust no one, keep secrets, and take care of things yourself.  It’s a hard habit to break.  And I’ve got a long history of people not believing me, even when I’m right.” 

At this, he shot an annoyed look at Malfoy, though there was no heat behind the glare. Just the simmering resentment of being, once again, vilified in the press. 

“And anyway, Ginny told me what you said, about everyone throwing their problems at you,” Harry said, scratching the scruffy back of his head. “I thought I could do this on my own.”

That hit her like a punch in the gut.  Harry’s issues with control went possibly even deeper than her own—after all, he’d been fending for himself even under his Aunt and Uncle’s roof—even though it manifested in a different way.  This kind of moment was exactly what Hermione was afraid of, exactly why she feared saying no to requests.  Because now the one person who she would go to the ends of the earth for was afraid to ask for her help.

“You’re not like all the other idiots who ask Granger for things, Potter,” Malfoy sneered suddenly. “You’re the Chosen Twat.  Can’t you tell the difference between an imposition and a matter of importance? Merlin knows how Granger puts up with you.  Took you long enough to even show up and spit it out, that’s yesterday’s paper—” 

A warm feeling bubbled to the surface as they continued to bicker. Maybe, she realized with a start, Harry was now one of two people who she would go to the ends of the earth for.

She glanced fondly between the two boys, watching as Malfoy continued to needle her best friend.  “sitting on your arse while we could have been—” 

“Twenty-four hours isn’t enough time to ‘become a layabout’ Malfoy,” Harry hissed, cutting him off. “And just this morning I went to my parents house—the one in Godric's Hollow—I just needed to think, alright? There was a whole safe with pictures, family heirlooms that hadn’t ever been opened.  I’d been meaning to for a while…”

“I didn’t know you wanted to do that, Harry,” Hermione said softly.  “I would have gone along.”

“Well, that’s what finally motivated me to come tell you everything,” Harry admitted.  “I remembered Christmas, and I thought how we’ve—how you’ve always been there for me, no matter what.  And I know the investigation was supposed to be my part, but—” 

Hermione put a hand up.  “No, this is different.  You are always an exemption, Harry.” 

“Alright, we get it. The Golden Trio, best friends forever.  So, what now? Can we start planning?  Who will listen to us?” Malfoy interrupted, glaring at Harry with what Hermione suspected was a bit of jealousy.  He wasn’t used to sharing her attention, she realised.  

“Well, in the past we’ve gone to the Quibbler, or had the Order on our side.  But now I doubt they’ll listen to ‘the tragic hero living in a perpetual conspiracy,’” Harry said bitterly, looking down at the Prophet article. 

“But everyone knows Skeeter is just a sensationalist hack,” Hermione said, taking the article from him. She wished that she could take away the anguish it caused as well. 

“Right,” Malfoy added flippantly.  “You’ve had loads of smear campaigns, and you always bounce back.  You’re The Chosen One.”

“Never spearheaded by a supposed member of the Order, though,” Harry said darkly, running his hands through his hair. “I don’t know how to fix this.” 

“A better hairstyle could do wonders.”  

“Can you be serious, Malfoy?” Harry snapped.  Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, holding back a smile.

Malfoy straightened in his seat and lifted his chin, absently patting his own hair into place (not that a single strand was amiss).  “I am being serious!  Presentation is everything, and you look like a crazed man right now.  Merlin, it’s a pity your family ever sold off Sleekeazy—”

Hermione jolted her head up in surprise and Harry stared blankly. “What?”

Malfoy looked between the two of them, baffled.  “Merlin, Potter, you’ve really got no idea why you’re wealthy? Father made me memorise—”

“Wait!” Harry held up a hand, his face draining of colour. “Nobody move, I’m thinking!  I’m pretty sure I’ve got something…” 

“This is how you process thoughts?  How are you alive?” Malfoy’s lip curled in disgust.  

Without replying, Harry stood up and sprinted out of the library.

“Always charging off,” Hermione sighed. 

Malfoy turned to her. “Are we just supposed to sit around and wait, then?   Twiddle our thumbs while Saint Potter—” 

“Just give it a moment.” 

Thirty minutes later (not even remotely a moment, Malfoy grumbled), Harry came charging back, severely out of breath.  He dropped a heavy book on the table. “I got this from the safe in Godric’s Hollow. My father’s ledgers…” He looked at several pages in a row frantically, clearly lost.

Hermione sat up with a gasp.  “Does it go back far enough? It might lead us to …!”

“Give me that,” Malfoy snapped, flipping through the ledger with practiced fingers.  Hermione scrunched up close to watch, her arm leaning against his. 

And finally, they found the handwritten document:

Sleekeasy Corp – Transfer of Property to The Bullstrode family

Hermione sucked in a breath, her chest caving in like she’d been punched in the gut, even as a simultaneous shiver of excitement ran up the back of her neck.  She’d have to see him again, but at last, finally, they were getting somewhere.  

“Shit,” Harry breathed.  

“It must be Avery Bullstrode’s father,” she said, tapping her finger rapidly against the table.  “That’s how he recognised it so quickly… We need to go talk to him—” 

“There’s a problem with that, Hermione.”  Harry frowned and looked into the distance, thinking.  “I already tried to interview him once, but there are special regulations for contacting an underage student who is awaiting any sort of trial, even for a minor offence—I know, I know, it doesn’t feel minor to me either.  But he’s contesting his expulsion and has to be formally tried, which is hard to do if we can’t prove he knew about the Sleekeazy, or that it even exists.”

“Well of course it exists, I have some!” Hermione cried, tapping her finger even more rapidly.  “And I can share my memory of the moment—” 

Tap - tap - tap - tap - tap - tap

Malfoy reached out and rested his hand over hers, stopping her rapid-fire assault on the table.  “He can argue that you made it yourself, or that you and Pansy colluded together. There are…” he worked his jaw back and forth, as if it disgusted him to even speak the words.  “Many protections in place for Pureblood men against fortune-seeking women.” 

Hermione clenched her fist, but immediately wished she hadn’t; his palm had felt nice against the back of her hand, and at her movement, he’d withdrawn his own cool fingers.  

She stared at his clean, neatly-trimmed fingernails as she spoke, still in a confusing mood halfway between rage at Pureblood society and simply missing the feel of his hand on hers.  “Well, it doesn’t matter.  We don’t need him anymore, anyway. We’ll just speak to his father.”  

“That’s part of the problem, though,” Harry added.  She looked up and realised he’d been watching her watch Malfoy, eyes narrowed.  “If we can’t get to the son, we can’t get to the father… They’re all under similar protections, with wards and hidden addresses.” 

“And that’s just from the Auror side,” Malfoy added, lifting his chin at Harry.  “If Bullstrode isn’t leaving the house, it will make it that much harder to gain information.  You can’t pull memories from a Pureblood house to watch in a Pensieve.  It just looks like static.  We could break in and get him to confess to everything, but as long as we stand on his property, none of our information would do any good in court.” 

So many obstacles… 

Hermione dragged her gaze away from Malfoy, from Harry, from everything but the safe conformity of the book in front of her and Malfoy.  A finite number of pages.  Clear lines for each ledger entry, titles and summaries, data points.

Not ambiguous and full of abstractions and hurdles like real life.  

She wanted to spiral.  Wanted to lose herself in the crushing weight of overwhelm and succumb to helplessness.  There was so much to do.

Too much to do.

But then she looked at Malfoy, watching her with a brow furrowed, and remembered his words.  You delude yourself into thinking that the responsibility to make the world a better place isn’t a collective effort.  You think it’s all on your shoulders, he’d said. 

She straightened her shoulders and set her mouth into a grim line, looking between Harry and Malfoy with determination.  “We’re going to ask for help,” she announced.  “Harry, go get Ginny and Dean, they should be in Gryffindor tower.  And Malfoy…. Draco.”  She turned to him.  

His eyes were shining.  “Remember that favour from Zabini?  How far would he be willing to go?” 

∞∞∞

Three days later, a full plan had been set into place.

Draco felt an incredible swell of pride when McGonagall ushered them into the Headmaster’s suite.  With lips so thin they were nearly white, she led them to her private Floo to move to Grimmauld Place untracked.  

When Draco had been a mere first year, this had been the kind of special privilege and attention he had wanted from his teachers as a Malfoy.  Now, he was beginning to earn that respect.  Not with his name, but by the company he kept.

“Powder here,” McGonagall said tightly, sweeping a glazed urn shaped like a Phoenix egg in front of the students.

“We could use all the help we can get, if you want to come,” Hermione said, a heap of Floo powder clutched in her hands.  “I know our plan is technically illegal, but—” 

Professor McGonagall put up a well-lined hand, eyes softening. “Much as it pains me, I agree with Mr Potter’s earlier assessment,” she said in a slow voice, as if every word were a slicing hex.  “I must keep my position secure for the protection of the students and be available to collect you should anything go awry.  Unfortunately, my unwavering loyalty to Mister Potter is too… well known.  The old members of the Order are no longer organised and aligned, and if I were to be detained, Quibbling could very well become the next Umbridge.  I realise it may not be the most valorous choice.” 

And suddenly, Draco had quite a lot of sympathy for her; because he realised she always made the choices that his own mother made.

Narcissa Malfoy always put herself, body, mind, and soul, in between her family and harm’s way.  Not prone to useless acts of protest, she instead made a conscious decision to stay behind. So that something, someone, would still be there if all else failed.  The last, ultimate line of defence. It was its own kind of courage.  

“You have to stay,” Draco agreed, surprising himself.  “But that’s a brave choice too.”  He hadn’t meant to speak up, and only with great restraint did he stop his hand from flying over his mouth.  Though when McGonagall turned her stare onto him, he couldn’t help but take a step back.

But her lip quirked up just the slightest bit.  “I think Miss Granger was in the right when she took a chance on you.” 

His face heated when Hermione smiled approvingly at the exchange, sending the Professor a final nod before ducking into the flames and calling out “ Grimmauld Place!” 

When Draco followed her, he could barely contain his grin.  Though, the cosy feeling of welcome did not last long at all.

The fireplace was tucked into the back of the kitchen, opposite the stove and sink.  Draco stepped out gingerly, poking his head round the corner. The Weasel was already there, sitting at the long kitchen table with Potter and Dean Thomas, back turned, chattering at a rapid pace. “I just can’t get George to take a look. Fred—well, he was always the one with the wilder ideas, George was more the business side as it is, and that’s not factoring in how I’ve been running the shop by myself for ages now—” 

When Draco cleared his throat to announce himself, Thomas smiled, Potter offered a civil nod, and Weasley broke off, eyes widening when they lit upon him. 

“What the fuck is he doing here?”

Even though it was a punch in the gut to be reminded he was still the odd one out in this group, by Weasley of all people, he straightened his posture and kept the muscles of his face relaxed.  “You really are exceedingly dull, aren’t you?” Draco drawled, looking around, as if Weasley were the least interesting thing in the room. “Isn’t it obvious? I’ve joined the Hero League.” 

“Like hell you have!” Weasley spat, clambering out of his chair.  “Hermione, I know he’s your little project, but we can’t actually trust him.” 

“Ronald, sit down,” Granger snapped, moving past Draco and selecting the seat farthest from the ginger.  “Draco is helping.  This is happening.” 

“You can’t be serious—” Weasley shot a pathetic, ‘back-me-up’ sort of look at both Thomas and Potter, but to Draco’s delight, neither proved helpful in his exclusionary cause.   

“Over here,” Granger demanded, pointing at the seat beside her.

With great satisfaction, Draco sauntered over while Weasley worked his jaw back and forth, never taking his eyes off him.  He made a great show of lowering himself into the chair, pretending he hadn’t noticed Granger rolling her eyes. “Now, where were we?  Something about a wild idea that the twin—”

“FRED,” Weasley spat.  

“Yes,” Draco said, nodding respectfully.  “What’s this about his old notes?” 

“Why?  Going to take a shot at my brother?  Comment on their peasant joke shop, or tell me we can’t read his untidy handwriting because he didn’t have a calligraphy tutor?” 

“I actually liked both those twins,” Draco admitted with a shrug.  At Weasley’s shocked face, he scoffed and gave Weasel a scathing look from head to toe.  He added nastily, “In fact, the more Weasleys I meet, the more I think I simply judged the rest of the lot based on my first impression. And unfortunately, that first impression was meeting the family dud.” 

“Boys!” Granger cut in sharply.  And Draco had heard her do this so many times to Potter and Weasley, irritable yet fond, that he simply felt glad that he was one of her boys now too.  “Just apologise and move on.  Both of you.” 

Draco took a deep breath and sneered at the way Weasley’s ugly freckles exploded across his face.  “Fine,” he muttered. “I don’t like Polyjuice Potion either, but it’s useful.  If he’s that important I can tolerate him.” 

Potter put his head into his hands. 

“I don’t like you,” Weasley said, smouldering.  “You want to stick around, fine—you don’t need me to chase you off.  You’ll be gone, tail between your legs, before long anyway.” 

“Just… Alright, that’s fine,” Granger said, clearly annoyed.  “Now let’s go through this again.  Zabini was able to reveal the Bullstrode location to us and provide access to all of the Wards, as well as a vial of the family’s blood… I really don’t want to know, do I?” 

Draco shook his head.  “Just try not to think about it.” 

She shook her head.  “Well, there’s that.  Once we’re inside, Harry will set the Anti-Apparition wards and lead us to the family.  Ron and Draco will immobilise everyone, Dean is in charge of collecting the memory, of course.”  She turned her head sharply toward him.  “Do you have everything you need?” 

Thomas nodded seriously, pulling out a small painting of the entire Bullstrode family.  “All that’s left is the awakening charm.  Once we get them talking, the portrait will do the rest.” 

Draco’s head snapped up. “Wait, what does he mean, the portrait will do the rest?” 

Thomas winked. 

“Oi!” Weasley drew his brows together and scanned Draco suspiciously, then whisper-shouted across the table, “Don’t tell him, Dean!  He might betray us later.” 

Potter rolled his eyes.

Thomas just shrugged and sent Draco a cheeky smile.  “I guess you’ll find out soon.”  He winked again. 

“Stop bloody winking at me, mate, what does the portrait have to do with anything?” 

“Alright, alright.  So, while I was trying to perfect my charm work on awakening the portraits, I mistakenly discovered—” 

“ I told you don’t tell that ferret anything—” 

“Enough!” Granger shouted.

Draco wanted to press the point and grumble, hating to be out of the loop in any way, but currently Weasel looked like the petty one at the table, with Granger now shooting him dirty looks and even Potter shaking his head, as if completely fed up.  So with what could only be described as truly admirable restraint, he let it go, putting his hands up in the air.

Weasel crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, glaring at the kitchen wall.

Granger straightened in her seat, a familiar Hermione-ish gleam in her eye.  “Alright, we’ll get there, everyone.  For now, let’s keep going with the plan.  And, we can all take this as a wonderful lesson in the importance of trial and error, and commend Dean for learning the process himself from the ground up rather than simply memorising words on a sheet.  In fact…” she sucked in a long breath.

Luckily, Potter cut her off with a quick, “ Later, Hermione.” 

“Right.  Well, in any case, this all brings up our greatest issue, since Dean has such a limited window of time to collect the confession...” 

“How to get them to talk, since the Bullstrode Estate negates Veritaserum,” Draco supplied, itching to be the best student in class.

“Exactly right,” she said warmly.   Draco preened, taking special delight in the way Weasel tightened his lips in distaste.  “Ron, didn’t you say you had a solution to that?” 

Weasel’s lips thinned even further.  “I looked into the aerosol that Fred invented.  It was supposed to reveal embarrassing secrets, but the brew was so close to Veritaserum that they weren’t allowed to sell.  But the thing is, I’m very… aware that it worked.”  Weasley flushed a deep puce, and it was only Granger’s fierce warning glare, already blazing through Draco’s soul, that prevented him from immediately taunting the red-head.

Even if he did already have about seven zingers in mind.

“Harry and I found it, and we were up half the night looking,” Weasley said finally.  “The notes are upstairs if you want to try, Hermione, but half the problem is deciphering the twins’ shorthand, so I don’t know…” 

“Well, where are the notes now?” 

Potter flicked his gaze upwards.  “Ginny’s holding onto it upstairs.” 

“He means I’ve been clutching it to my chest, sobbing my eyes out,” cut in the dry voice of Ginny Weasley.  Despite the wry sarcasm in her voice, she clearly had puffy, reddened eyes and a soft warble when she spoke.

Granger’s eyes lit with sympathy at once, checking her friend over.  She rose with her arms out, already saying, “It’s okay, Gin, I know this has been hard and—” 

Ginny held her hand up, stopping Granger.  “I know a bit of their shorthand, actually,” she whispered.  “It took a really long time, you see.  They were always bickering in the notes, and it takes quite a while to piece together their final recipe.” 

With a sniffle, Ginny slid into the seat beside Potter and placed a small vial of a light, grassy potion onto the table.  Then she leaned into Potter’s chest and let out small, choking sobs, shoulders shaking, while he hugged her and rubbed her arm.  

“Ginny,” Granger said weakly, sinking back into her seat.  “Is this—” 

Ginny peeked up, wiping her eyes.  “I was meant to join the shop when I graduated, you know.  I was going to work with F-Fred, and then he—” she turned her face back into Potter’s shoulder.  “I can’t even look at George,” she whispered, barely audible.

Draco suddenly felt it was too intimate to watch and looked away.

And where else would he look, of course, then at Granger, who was watching Ginny with a stricken stare, though her eyes kept darting to the vial.  

“I decided to take a leaf out of Malfoy’s book.”  

Draco whipped his head back toward Ginny, completely shocked.  She was already looking at him and met his gaze steadily.  “Hermione has shouldered everything alone for too long.  If Malfoy could learn to face his awful past on his own, I knew I could face something I would rather have ignored as well.  For her.”  

Mouth slightly ajar, Draco’s eyes slid to Potter, who was nodding. Like he agreed.  

Something small and rotten in the corner of his heart glued itself back together.  A quick glance at Granger finished the job.  She was smiling at him like he’d never been smiled at before.

“After all, you’re not better than me,” she told him, eyes narrowed.  “I won’t have people saying that Draco Malfoy is more emotionally mature than I am.”  

He found himself fighting a smile as he held her gaze.  “I can out-emotion you any day.” 

“You can’t even take a hug without thinking someone’s out to kill you—”

“— incredibly strong arms, though, so that’s not a fair example—” 

“You hugged him?” Weasel spat, glaring at Ginny.  

Granger, who had been watching the two bicker with a soft smile, let out a heavy sigh and shook her head.  Potter, who still had his arm around Ginny, pulled her closer.  

“At least neither of us have the emotional range of a teaspoon,” Draco mocked, raising his brows in Weasel’s direction.   She snorted, and his least favourite Weasley glowered. 

“Ginny, you’ve really come through,” Granger said at last, beaming.  “If we have the impetus for a forced confession, then there’s nothing left to do but try it out.  We leave tonight.” 

∞∞∞

There was a sharp November chill in the air as they picked their way through the gardens, their bodies shadowed against the evening light.  From her place at the rear, Hermione’s eyes always drifted back to Draco.  Even in this moment of incredibly high stakes, she couldn’t help but notice the smooth curve of his muscled neck and the way his pale light gleamed in the sunset. 

Even as she swept her wand back and forth, checking for unexpected security measures, she couldn’t help but wonder how it must feel for Draco to break into a Pureblood home with a family so like his own.

From the set of his shoulders and the occasional glimpse of his clenched jaw, she suspected that for him, this decision meant more to him than a choice for a single night; it was about turning against all he knew, permanently.  

At least, that was what Hermione liked to imagine.  

Apparently thinking along the same lines, Ron sidled up to Draco, his body tensed.  “Having second thoughts about betraying your own kind?”  he jeered in a harsh whisper.

Draco didn’t even glance to the side, just waved his wand to unlock the side door to the servants’ quarters.  “They aren’t anymore.” 

A burst of butterflies that had nothing to do with the mission swelled inside her.  

Ron grunted and sidled back again, the back of his neck flushing red, scratching his nails against the back of his head.  She didn’t even need to see his face to know that he was both annoyed and pleased by Draco’s answer.

It didn’t take long to hear the murmurs of the Bullstrode family and the clinks of forks against plates.  Evidently, they were eating dinner.

With a deep breath, Hermione set her shoulders Disillusioned herself, sharply inspecting each corner of the room for any dangerous surprises.

She released a soft green wisp from the end of her wand—the signal to go—and Harry, Ron, Draco, and Dean burst into the dining room.  

Millicent, Avery, and the Bullstrode parents barely had time to cry out before the boys had conjured binds to tie them all to their seats, uncaring as their dinner plates clattered to the floor. 

Armand Bullstrode thrashed back and forth in his binds, straining uselessly with his fingers for the wand that had rolled onto the floor, until Harry casually summoned it.

“Don’t say a word to these children,” he spat at his family.

“Yes, father,” Millicent intoned.  

“Of course, dear,” Mrs Bullstrode said, looking at her lap.

Even though Millicent had once held Hermione in an aggressive headlock, she suddenly felt a pang of sympathy.  After all, she didn’t have to like Millie, or for that matter know her very well, to remember her fiery spirit.  Yet her own family had willingly reduced her to this… 

“Alright, here goes nothing,” said Ron.  He held up Ginny’s potion, and with a wave of his wand sent it flying toward the family, wrapping them in a mist. 

Armand Bullstrode thrashed, gasping and coughing.  “The fuck is this?” 

Ignoring him, Harry strode forward.  “Why did you invent a version of Sleekeazy that would make the user docile?” 

He sputtered and it spilled from his lips: “Daisy was talking back too often.  She was off scheming with the other wives, talking about not testifying on our behalf, letting us rot.  As if we’d be letting the women make the decisions,” he spat.  Apparently, now that he was letting it all out, he was happy to keep going.  “And Millie—talking about marrying Half-bloods, about running away…. They needed to be kept in line.  Imperio wasn’t an option long term, and we needed it to last.” 

“You didn’t have a problem using Imperio against Kingsley Shacklebolt, though, did you?” Harry cut in angrily.

“That was Percival,” Armand Bullstrode spat.  “He was the one who suggested selling it to other families too, ones with problems similar to our wives… But Shacklebolt was onto us, and anyway, we don’t care about damaging his brain.  He isn’t family.” 

“Why not?” Hermione asked quietly, stepping forward.  “If the long term plan is to keep your women in line, who cares if their brains are broken?”

An evil rage flashed in Bullstrode’s eyes.  “You don’t know anything about family, mudblood,” he spat.  “They’ll come around.  A Wizard does what he has to do, but this is all for the safety and benefit of my family.” 

“I only see how it benefits you,” Hermione snapped back.

“Wrong again, mudblood,” interrupted Avery, who was watching the proceedings with a smug smirk. “I’ve quite enjoyed utilising the Sleekeazy, and I quite like the idea of taking what I want if I like what I see.  Only wish I’d been able to get a little muddy—”

And then there was mayhem, because Draco had rushed past Harry and Ron, eyes flashing, and he punched him in the mouth.  

“ Fuck!”  Draco clutched his thumb, which was broken.

“My teeth!  My mouth!” Avery Bullstrode cried pitifully, but everyone ignored him.

Hermione rushed over, and Avery looked up gratefully. Like she was there to help him, the idiot!  “ Brackium emendo! ” she said, holding Draco’s hand softly in hers.  His thumb healed, but he barely seemed to notice, still smouldering at the youngest Bullstrode child.

“That isn’t how you throw a punch, Malfoy!  You have to be careful.  Look, Draco.  Look at me, not at him.” 

Draco dragged his eyes away from the boy reluctantly, breathing heavily.  He let out a long slow breath, then, like a flower unfurling its petals, his lips reluctantly turned upwards into a smile.  

“Yes, you are the punch expert, aren’t you?” 

She nodded encouragingly, her eyes not leaving his.  “Here, let me demonstrate.”  She folded the thumb over the top.  “Never wrap the fingers around the thumb like that, let it rest right here, between the first two fingers. And with the non-dominant hand, you hold it out to block and can jab out.  But with the dominant hand, use your entire body—” 

And she punched Avery in the face with force that shocked even her. 

“Do I get a turn?” Ron quipped. 

“We’ll get you for this,” Bullstrode the elder was snarling, fighting against his ropes.  

“Well, we’ll see,” Harry said mildly.  He turned to Dean.  “So did you get all that?” 

“What — what do you mean — this is a Pureblood home, we’re protected from memory charms in court —” 

“Ah, but this portrait,” he pulled forward a small portrait of the Bullstrode family, “That I painted yesterday, can repeat back words said in the presence of its subject.  No matter where I bring it.” 

Both Bullstrode men’s faces greyed.  

Hermione smiled. “Gotcha.” 

∞∞∞

Despite his delight that he’d helped the Golden Trio save the day, Draco couldn’t help but feel a lack of resolution, like an itch too deep to scratch. 

Throughout the next several days, the Portraits revealed the Bullstrode’s secrets and Pansy testified against her father.  Witness statements were made, Shacklebolt was sent to St Mungo’s to recover from extended Imperius influence, and the DMLE began the slow task of implementing better safeguards, supervised by The-Boy-Who-Was-Redeemed-Yet-Again.  Granger moved through it all with her head held high, confident and assured. 

As for Draco, it was a shock to the system to be treated like one of the heroes.  Solicitors smiled indulgently his way, reporters asked about his redemption story, and people were even deigning to shake his hand again, which had been a notably unpopular course of action with the wider public up until now. During the Parkinson trial, Weasley even sent Draco a small nod.  

It was all he’d ever wanted… Except not anymore.  

He was driven to distraction by the tilt of Hermione’s chin as she confirmed details for the DMLE, obsessed with her neck as she bent over court documents, struck down by Hermione’s lips when she testified.

He couldn’t focus on a single minute of his redemption, because he could only think of how he wanted those lips for himself.  

The entire world seemed to want a piece of her; he wanted everything.  All of it.

All of her.

Chapter Text

For once, Ginny was in the library next to Hermione rather than Draco.  She was speaking animatedly about her self-proclaimed Pansy Project.

“I feel like she’s my version of your Malfoy.  But instead of studying constantly, we’ll be going to the salon,” Ginny said, observing her nails. “Where is he, anyway?”

“He’ll be here later,” Hermione chirped.

When Ginny raised her brows knowingly, Hermione glanced away, fighting the urge to shield her eyes.  It was a good thing that Ginny didn’t know Legilimency.  A true miracle.

“The other difference, of course, is that Pansy and I don’t have the same smouldering chemistry—”

“We don’t smoulder,” Hermione mumbled, irked. 

“So… What do you get up to in here?” Ginny asked, flipping open a book idly and peeking inside, as if hoping to find a broomstick rather than words.

“Well, we research,” Hermione started. “Of course, I always have my own projects, and that infamous to-do list…” She carefully avoided the look Ginny was giving her and continued. “As for Draco, he’s been reading about cults, and brainwashing, and muggle psychology,” she gushed, unable to stop the swell of words despite herself. “He started off with citations for my letter, and he reads nearly whatever I recommend!”

“So you’ve got a crush on him, then.”  Ginny raised her brows at Hermione’s startled look.  “Right? Isn’t that what’s happening here?” 

Her nerves spiked. “We’re friends,” Hermione said in a strange, high-pitched voice that honestly was worse than having not responded at all.  This is why Ginny didn’t even need Legilimency, Hermione groused internally.

“He’s getting a lot of your attention for a friend,” Ginny observed.

“I can’t like him.”

“Dangerous game,” Ginny agreed.

“He’s fit, though.”

“Very,” Ginny agreed. 

“Oh, stop looking at me like that,” Hermione grunted.  

“Well, you’ve got a type.  Excuse me for being suspicious,” Ginny said.  “Sassy quidditch players who are a bit mean, but funny… And whom you want to fix.” 

Hermione snapped her head toward Ginny, horrified.  “That is not true!” 

“You’re right, definitely not true,” Ginny said.  “Ron is a gem.  Krum wasn’t silent and moody at all.”  At Hermione’s sigh, she added, “Oh come on, we’ve all been there.  By the time I got serious about Harry, I was working off potential too.  He was a bit shouty before me, didn’t you notice?”

“Maybe… I like the idea of Draco,” Hermione grumbled.  “What he could have been, if he weren’t a Pureblood.  It intrigues me.   To know if I could do it, I guess.  Fix him.  Well at first, anyway.  Now…”

“Now he’s fixed, and he’s rather good-looking, so you wonder if you might get a little something out of all that hard work?” 

“Must you?”  Hermione rolled her eyes.  “And I didn’t fix Draco.  He’s worked on himself.  Really that’s what makes me…” 

“Makes you what?” Ginny prompted, eyes shining.

“Oh, shut up.” 

Ginny looked like she wanted to say more, but she caught sight of something— someone —over Hermione’s shoulder and smiled slightly.  “Well, fine.  You don’t have to tell me, but just make sure you know the answer for yourself.”  

Her heart clenched with a thrill of fear and excitement as Ginny pushed up from the table. 

“Leaving already, Red?  Did I do something?” Draco drawled, though his posture was open and friendly.  His eyes slid to meet her own, and it was impossible to deny the way his gaze softened slightly, the way his polished smile gentled, like butter melting in the sun.  

“No, you haven’t done anything at all.  Neither of you have, it seems.” 

“ Gin,” Hermione hissed.

Draco hmphed and slid into his usual seat, casually sending Hermione a familiar grin.  “Strange friend you’ve got,” was all he said.

After Ginny left, Draco relaxed into his seat, settling into a leather-bound book.  Normally she’d be right there with him; the sense of erudite calm, the tension leaking from her shoulders and stored safely among the shelves, breathing easier in this space surrounded by history.  

But instead, she just heard Ginny’s voice over and over: “ Just make sure you know the answer for yourself.” 

Did she?

∞∞∞

Draco wasn’t stupid.

He knew exactly what the two girls had been talking about in the library the night before from the smug little grin Ginny wore and the way Hermione’s face had flushed.

But he had one more important thing to resolve, to prove that he deserved to be with her.  

To her, but also to himself.

The History of Magic room didn’t look any different as he walked in; rather sparse, rows of chairs, a shabby set of drapes and half-empty shelves along the walls that seemed to harken from Binn’s glory days, if he’d ever had any.

But Draco was different.  So he intentionally straightened his shoulders, which itched to curl inwards, and lifted his chin, even though it was tempting to drop his eyes to the floor, and settled into his seat.

“You look… focused,” Blaise commented.  

“I have a plan today,” Draco murmured, lining up his expensive muggle pens.  

With a sigh, Blaise sat back in his seat.  “Just leave me out of it, whatever it is.”  

Quibbling stood as usual, confident and sure, at the front of the classroom, ready to sneer his way through another class. 

While the rest of the students filed in, Draco sized him up like a duelling opponent.  Velvety purple robes, impeccably fitted, reminded the room of his wealth and perceived superiority.  Sure, he was handsome, but the man had no warmth in his eyes.  Draco fancied they were empty and vacant.  

Only Hermione’s entrance had the potential to knock him off course, but he purposefully checked his notes one more time, labeled and sorted for easy access.  There was no way he would let himself get caught off guard.

“I’m glad you’re back,” said Looney Lovegood, so faintly Draco could barely hear.

“I haven’t missed a single lesson, Luna,” came the sweet music of Hermione’s reply.

“But you were gone.   And I missed you.”  Draco chanced a peek at the two and saw that Hermione had a hand brought to her chest, looking rather touched.  

“From now on, the parsnip cream should—” 

Draco covered his mouth with his hand and tried not to laugh as Hermione’s face fell into a familiar scowl.  As a reward for asking a question at the end of the lesson—a big step for him—he was going to secure some of that parsnip cream and gift it to Granger.

“Welcome, welcome.  Time to get started,” Quibbling called out smugly. “We’ve got a wonderful lesson today.” 

From the corner of his eye, Draco caught a glimpse of Hermione’s eye roll.

“Today we focus on the history of house elves,” Quibbling announced.  “We must move through this conversation with sensitivity and care.  As the superior race, it is easy to forget that we are leaders, and responsible for the lessers.  There are beings who rely on being led, rely on us .” 

Hermione‘s hand shot into the air, eyes burning.

Quibbling ignored her.  “The relationship between wizard and elf is a joyous one, for they love to work and they love to be told what to do.  And we sure love having them.” 

“How do you know that they are not just conditioned to be subservient and frightened into submission with threat of physical punishment?” Hermione snapped, clearly unable to stand it. 

Quibbling sighed indulgently.  “Please wait to be called upon, Miss Granger.  I’ll give you your moment for your inevitable rebuttal… Don’t I always?” 

“I’m not in a complacent mood.” 

He paused and thoughtfully tilted his head.  “I heard about your little escapade with the hair potion.  Despite what you may think, I am sorry that such a thing happened to you.  I have told you time and again that I do not wish anyone ill will, and had I known that’s why you were no longer speaking up in class, I would have said something immediately.  I want you to integrate, Miss Granger.  I want you to learn something from this class.”  

He really meant it, Draco realised.  Ever since the truth about the potion had come out, Draco had wondered if Quibbling was yet another evil ploy out to dismiss and beat down.  But that wasn’t what he was at all.  He was worse.

He really, truly thought he was helping.  He really thought he was pro Muggle-born.  

Draco looked closer.  Quibbling’s eyes weren’t empty and vacant.  They were pitying.  He looked down at his notes, which he’d prepared in the hopes of dipping his toe into the History debates, to help Hermione. But he was tired of waiting.

The Professor was still blathering on to Hermione, who was practically vibrating with anger.  “I just need you to see that not everything about this world is a conspiracy.  Some things simply are. Indeed, I read that your friend Potter has also struggled—” 

Draco raised his hand.

Quibbling broke off, his mouth hanging open in surprise at someone else raising their hand for once.  Hermione turned in her seat to see what the man was looking at and her eyes widened.  The room was so silent that you could hear a pin drop.

“Yes, Mr Malfoy?” Quibbling asked, bemused. 

“House elves weren’t always enslaved,” Draco said.  “They had to be bound to Wizards at some point.  And there is no evidence to show that they enjoy their lot versus simply being conditioned to believe it’s the best they can be.  But history is full of examples of psychological manipulation to keep a vulnerable group disadvantaged.” 

“Like what?” Quibbling sneered.

Draco swallowed.  Then lifted his chin.  “Muggle History books.  Which, until the 1600s, was our history too, no matter how much we leave out now.” 

There was a palpable tension in the room, but Draco didn’t dare look away from Quibbling’s stare. 

“Mr. Malfoy… don’t tell me you’ve become influenced by this nonsense?”

“I’ve always been influenced.  This has nothing to do with Her–Granger, Professor Quibbling. I did this research on my own.  While I didn’t find any examples of House Elves seeking enslavement and enjoying their lack of agency, I found plenty of examples of house elves who are thrilled to no longer be under the thumb of enslavement.  The only House Elves who insist upon remaining as they are are usually still in that position and therefore unreliable.”

Quibbling scoffed.  “Don’t tell me you’re dismissing their voices just because you want to fight for them.” 

“I’m simply saying that when you don’t have choices and live in a constant state of fear, it’s not easy to see a way out that isn’t frightening, that won’t make you fear for those you leave behind or see another way.  That it’s easy to believe your own worth is less.” Draco said coldly.  “And House Elves have incredibly powerful magic.  It’s fitting that Wizards would have wanted the power for themselves.” 

Quibbling strode up to Draco’s desk, brushing past the others, eyes alight.  “Then where’s your proof?” he spat.  

Draco frantically flipped through his notes.  “I, er—”

“I applaud your initiative, Mr Malfoy.  But providing your own false narrative does not do anything but prove the very point you tried to make, that we can’t believe—” 

He was scattered.  His notes suddenly seemed in another language. Draco felt himself wanting to waver.  

But then his eyes slid to Hermione’s and the look in her eye made him feel as if he was in freefall. Her eyes were burning, heated, like she could drag him off somewhere private and teach him a few kinds of lessons that he’d love to learn.

Quibbling turned his back, but Draco thinned his lips, closed his eyes, and took a breath.  Then, with his mind clear, he remembered what he was looking for.  

“You always talk about having history in context as a Pureblood, Professor Quibbling. Well, I have that same context too,” Draco said loudly.  “And I have access to records that go back to William the Conqueror. So I found notes on the first House Elf that the Malfoy family bound.” 

Quibbling froze, then turned.  “What?” 

“The Household Elf doth misbehave; its stubborn nature and disobedience confounds the senses,” he read out loud.  “We must guide their toilings to worthy tasks and curb their very spirit, until the elves hath been well and truly bridled. For they shall know that to disobey is to suffer.” 

Quibbling opened his mouth and closed it, stunned.

“You could have made that up—trying to impress,” Quibbling stuttered, face blanched.

“I don’t think Draco would lie,” Looney Lovegood piped up, looking between him and Hermione.  “He’s cleared all the nargles from his head.  I can see that now.” 

“I agree,” piped up Lisa Turpin, a Ravenclaw he’d never spoken to.  Though her voice was shaking slightly, she continued.  “Not about the nargle thing, but I don’t—I don’t think that Hermione is wrong just because she’s Muggle-Born.  Well, I guess Malfoy now, too.  I don’t think they should be dismissed,” she said. 

“Me too,” piped up another Ravenclaw.  

Blaise had been silent this whole time.  His eyes roving coldly over Hermione, but then he clenched his jaw and rolled his eyes.  “Same.” 

“What notes…?” Quibbling started, hesitantly taking a step forward.  Then he shook his head, eyes darkening.  “It’s anecdotal.  I won’t hear more about it, Mr Malfoy.” His eyes slid to the clock.  “Why don’t we end early today?”

As Draco packed up his things and exited to the hall, he didn’t care that Quibbling hadn’t given in.  Because he’d faltered.  The man had been curious, even just for a moment, just like Draco had been once.  And Draco had the rest of the year to try again.

“Draco!”

Her light footsteps running toward him left him breathless.  He turned and saw her eyes shining.  “Did I do all right?” he asked, breathlessly “It was kind of invigorating to argue with him actually, and at first I was incredibly nervous, but then I saw I was getting to himmmph—” 

Her lips collided with his.

Fire and joy and nerves and chills.  She made him feel like a dichotomy.  Chiaroscuro; lightness and dark, all wrapped into one.

His hands snaked around her hips and shoulders, and he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. 

Someone whistled.

“Oh!” she pulled back, looking over her shoulder. 

“Yeah, I guess…” he stepped back awkwardly.  Then shook his head.  “I don’t care.” He backed up to the wall, dragging her with him, and kissed her again.  And again.  

∞∞∞

The next evening, Hermione dragged Draco into the cosy Gryffindor common room. By now, he must have figured out that perceptions had changed, that everyone would be friendly.  Still, he stuck close to her side. 

They settled into the comfy chairs by the fireplace, where Ginny and Dean were already sitting. Dean flicked his chin up in a nod, Ginny flashed a smile. 

Draco stuck his hands in his pockets and shuffled awkwardly, but Hermione grabbed his hand to drag him onto the loveseat closest to the fire.  

He muttered something about “bossy witch” and “what’s wrong with the library” but didn’t release his tight grip on her hand. 

Crookshanks butted his head against Hermione in a friendly greeting, then focused his large, yellow eyes on Draco, sizing him up.  With a decisive meow, he launched into the blond’s lap and made himself comfortable.  “Orange, mangy beast—“ Draco muttered, unsuccessfully trying to push Crooks away.  “Not your private settee, show some respect—“

But from the corner of her eye, Hermione caught Draco petting Crookshanks absently as he settled into his seat.

They barely had ten minutes of silence before Ginny yawned loudly, stretching languidly in her chair. “Merlin, I’m bored!” 

Silence pervaded throughout the small group, and Ginny huffed. “Aren’t any of you?” 

“Depends on whether we’re dragging this conversation out any longer,” Draco said with a wrinkle of his nose. 

Ginny rolled her eyes, but Hermione laughed, her insides warming with fondness. “He just gets very focused. Gets even tetchier than me,” she told her friend. 

“What a horrible thought,” Ginny mused. “But I suppose if anyone were up to the task it would be him.”

Draco sighed and slumped into the cushions, clearly annoyed by the chatter. 

She looked up at him and smiled softly. “What are you working on, then, that’s got you so invested?”

He straightened at once, eyes lighting up. “Preparing to demolish Quibbling again tomorrow,” Draco said with a smug smirk.  “You?” 

“I don’t know. I think I finally have time to get started on one of my little private research things. I’d just love to spend some time learning about magical verbiage.  Could I learn to cast the same spells with different words?  Would I need the same inflections?  What about a language like Chinese, where—”

Even though he appeared enraptured, she cut off.  “Well, I won’t bore you with that.”

“You could never bore me,” he said soppily.

“Well, you both make me sick,” Ginny said.  The two looked up.  “Just kidding.  You’re very cute, but I swore to Ron I’d get a jab in on his behalf.  He says hello and fuck off, Malfoy,” she said with a smile.  

“Tell him to fuck off right back,” Draco said, but Hermione swore he said it somewhat fondly nonetheless. 

“What are you doing then?” Hermione asked Ginny. 

“Potions Essay,” she replied glumly. “Though I’d really rather be practicing a few of these ideas from Fred’s old notebook.  I’m set to join George and Ron at the end of the year.  And you know who else might be joining?  Pansy.” 

Draco scoffed.  “Yeah, right.” 

“Well, not the joke shop, but she does want to open a fashion boutique with Blaise, and if it were right next door I could pop over and help there too.  Can’t be a one-joke pony, you know?” 

“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Dean scoffed, who’d remained silent until now.   He had charcoal on his nose.

“Who are you drawing today?” Hermione asked.

“I’m… practicing Auror sketches, actually,” Dean said.  “Harry sent me some descriptions and an envelope with what the person ended up looking like, and I’m seeing how close I could get.  I still want to pursue art, but after what we did… Well, art can be pretty and useful.  Which, coincidentally, also describes me.” 

Draco and Ginny groaned, but Hermione only smiled stupidly as she watched the three of them interact as if they’d always been friends.  He’d melded right into the Gryffindor common room. 

For her.

Ginny nicked Dean’s drawings to flip through, but Draco learned in closer to murmur in her ear.  “I want to hear more about these magical words, Granger. Honestly.  It sounds really interesting.”

Her insides warmed.  “Really?” 

“There’s a few magical words I really like,” he said, inching closer and grinning. “My name in your mouth.  Maybe even—”

She knocked his shoulder.  “Oh, please.” 

“That’s another one,” he whispered.  He gave her a slow kiss.  “I can’t believe I get to do that now.” 

She twined her fingers in his.  “Never stop.” 

“I won’t.”