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Draco Malfoy is the least surprising bloke Blaise Zabini knows. Pureblood by birth, sorted into Slytherin, and of course, a Death Eater. It was practically written in the stars.
Though, Draco does regret the last bit. Blaise knows that well. After all, he's been Draco's friend since they were children, and he knows that Draco was forced into being a Death Eater after Lucius failed a mission.
Nevertheless, point withstanding, Draco remains the most predictable wizard Blaise knows, which means he'll marry a Pureblood princess from the Sacred Twenty-Eight, just like everyone expects.
Which is why it came as a shock to him when Draco revealed he'd been in a secret relationship with Hermione Granger since before the war.
How did none – perhaps other than Theo, who was completely unfazed – of the Slytherins know?
Blaise’s reaction was, by all accounts, the second best. Pansy, on the other hand, was dramatic as usual ("Granger? You mean Hermione Granger? The one from the Golden Trio?"). Potter was less dramatic but equally stunned, mouth agape and eyes wide. And then there was the Weasel. His reaction was priceless – veins popping, face bright red, eyes burning with fury ("How could you, 'Mione? How could you betray us?").
His outrage might have been funny if he hadn't gone on a full rant about how all Slytherins were evil and deserved to have been killed in the war.
Luckily – or, more likely as Blaise suspects, unluckily – for him, it had been Hermione who cut him off mid-rant with a sharp "Stupefy!" before daring him to make any more incriminating comments about the Slytherins since, last she checked, they'd been instrumental in Voldemort's defeat.
Blaise, Theo, Pansy, and Draco would have chimed in with their own agreement, because, yes, they did offer valuable information ("No, Potter," Draco had snapped, "it’s not the same as defecting."). But honestly, it felt nice to have the Golden Girl defending their honour.
It wasn’t just the simple act of her defending them – it was the unspoken message behind it: that, despite the war, despite their affiliations (whether by blood or Hogwarts house) with Voldemort, they were still worth defending. And that meant more than any of them could say.
After the war, Hogwarts has become a place for healing – somewhere to rebuild what had been shattered, a chance to complete the education that had been interrupted. Draco, Hermione, and Blaise were among the few who have returned.
And, in the quiet of the Slytherin dorms – now open to any student after the war, thanks to the new policy of inter-house unity, which meant no one wanted to be in the Slytherin dorms – away from the prying eyes of the rest of the school, Blaise begins to notice something about Draco and Hermione's relationship.
The thing about missing someone is that you don't really know how much you've missed them until you actually see them. Not seeing in the passing, fleeting sense, but seeing in the way your gaze lingers, pierces past the surface, and finally settles into the quiet corners of their soul.
It is the physicality of seeing someone that exacerbates everything, that sharpens the ache, that makes the time spent apart feel a little more real. You don't realise that time is passing until it passes. You don't realise how you miss someone until you physically lay eyes on them, and you instinctively find yourself studying every inch of them, trying to catalogue what stayed the same and – more importantly – what has changed.
And then – only then – does the longing crystallise into something visceral, for you suddenly feel the desperate urge to make up for lost time.
For Blaise, though his relationship with Ginevra Weasley only began in the quiet aftermath of the war, he still feels her absence keenly whenever she isn’t by his side. Her presence, ethereal yet grounding, has become his anchor.
And if he, in such a short span of time, can feel so deeply for Ginny, he can only imagine the depth of Draco and Hermione's feelings.
Their love had blossomed in shadows before the war, a fragile secret forced to wither as they fought, for the most part, on opposite sides. Now that they have returned to each other – whole in body but fractured in ways words cannot mend – they have all the time in the world to bridge the chasm left by time and trauma.
In the Slytherin dorms, Blaise often finds Draco and Hermione doing nothing yet everything at the same time. In their shared silences, there is an undeniable gravity, as if they exist in a world all their own. Draco, who rarely lets his guard down, would sit with a quiet ease in the common room with Hermione. Blaise notices how Draco's typically sharp features would soften as his eyes follow her every movement, as if he fears she might vanish if he looked away for too long.
Hermione, for her part, seems entirely at home in their space. If she isn't busy scribbling on her parchment, her fingers would absently trail over the spines of Draco’s books or linger on the cuff of his sleeve when they sit next to each other. She doesn't speak much in these moments, her usual fervour replaced with a quiet comfort, as if words are unnecessary when Draco is near.
It is only at night, in those rare moments when Hermione or Draco forgets to silence their room, that Blaise hears it all. If he’s being honest, he would much rather overhear the intimacy of their love than the torment of their nightmares. The sounds of terror are helplessly haunting, cutting through the stillness of the dorm like a blade. Sometimes, the cries come from Draco. Most of the time, they come from Hermione.
However, it is when it’s Hermione’s turn to be consumed by the darkness, and when Draco emerges from their room in search of a calming draught, that Blaise sees it – the depth of Draco’s love for her.
It’s a love that radiates in the smallest of gestures: the way his hands tremble as he fetches the potion, the way his jaw tightens as though he could take her pain into himself.
It’s a love both glaringly apparent and achingly gentle, a tenderness born from the wounds they share yet cannot heal for one another.
In those moments, Blaise understands that their love is not loud or ostentatious – it is quiet, steady, and unyielding, a fragile thread woven through the wreckage of who they once were.
If anyone were to ask him about love, he would speak of Draco Malfoy's love for Hermione Granger.
This is a form of love, he thinks: for when Hermione screams in her nightmares, it is Draco's throat that burns and chokes up; when she sobs, it is his eyes that fill with tears, a mixture of salt and regret, tracing paths of grief.
This is love: Draco Malfoy, who sits with Hermione Granger on their bed in the dark, looking up at the impossibility of light together.
* * *
Theodore Nott isn’t surprised by the revelation of Draco and Hermione’s secret relationship before the war. After all, he’d suspected and then seen it unfold.
The way Draco’s gaze lingers on Hermione during their shared Potions classes, the subtle shifts in his posture when she’s near – these are things Theo notices, even if no one else does. It’s not the kind of thing that screams passion, but it’s there, like a quiet undercurrent that can’t be ignored. And Theo, ever the observer, has always been quietly aware of it.
Though, if Theo were ever asked to pinpoint the exact moment when Draco and Hermione's secret relationship began to shift into something undeniable, he would say it was the moment Harry used Sectumsempra on Draco during their sixth year.
It’s known by all that Hermione Granger had screamed and raged at Harry until her throat went raw. What is unknown to everyone – except Theo, who had planned to visit Draco – is that Hermione had also made her way to the infirmary.
In that precise, fragile moment, Theo watches something change.
He watches as Draco, who had always kept his distance, finally grows warm enough to fall in love with Hermione. He watches as Hermione, who had always fought for the greater good, finally grows cold enough to fall in love with him.
Theo watches as the lines between light and dark, between good and bad, between future War Heroine and Death Eater, finally begin to blur and give way. In that silent, intimate space, their bodies meet in an embrace so tight it nearly transcends everything – an unspoken bond, almost like a soul-binding promise.
If their relationship had ever been fleeting, it is in that moment that it solidifies, rooted deeply enough to become something more than either of them could have ever imagined.
And, as the war had thickened, Theo prayed to Merlin for their survival, for he knew – knows even now – that there is no universe where Draco Malfoy would continue to live on without Hermione Granger.
In the aftermath of the war, as the dust settles and the world begins to heal, Theo watches the love between Draco and Hermione grow again.
It’s as though they’ve been given a second chance. Their relationship, once a whispered secret, now blooms in the light, almost as though it is casting a golden light – no longer hidden behind closed doors, no longer shadowed by the fear of discovery.
For Theo, watching this is almost like witnessing the start of a new era – a love that has survived the worst and come out on the other side, stronger and more unbreakable than before.
There is, as Harry Potter loves to describe him whenever they go on dates, wearing your heart on your sleeve – and then there is Draco Malfoy: letting love wear you as decoration, almost like a haphazard ornament.
From Theo's vantage point, the change in Draco is undeniable. It's in the way he looks at Hermione – softly, with a tenderness that was once unimaginable from someone like him. For a boy who was moulded by Bellatrix's cruel hands during the war, it takes an immense softness to unlearn the sharp edges of violence drilled into him, to erase the shadow of bloodshed and replace it with something as delicate as affection.
There are no longer veils of indifference, no more cool detachment – the walls he built around himself during the war are crumbling, piece by piece, until all that remains is the raw, vulnerable heart he has learned to embrace.
When Draco smiles at Hermione, it’s with a warmth that lights up the room, as if she is the very reason he breathes. Even the smallest gestures, like the way he brushes a strand of hair from her face or the way he leans in just a little closer when they converse, speak volumes about his love for her, a love that is so sincere and no longer afraid to be seen.
Even in the quiet moments, when they sit side by side, their fingers brushing without need for words, Draco’s affection is there, unspoken but all too clear.
It’s almost strange to see Draco, of all people, be so openly vulnerable. But, for Theo, it’s a beautiful thing to witness.
In the quiet unfolding of this love, Theo sees something that was once lost to time – a redemption that only the bravest hearts could ever claim.
* * *
Pansy Parkinson is, unlike Theo, extremely surprised when she learns about Draco and Hermione.
At first, the revelation feels like a betrayal, a tearing apart of the world she thought she knew, for Draco had been raised as a Pureblood, taught to view Muggle-borns like Hermione Granger as beneath him.
But, if someone were to ask her to think about it seriously, she might have admitted that there were signs.
The Yule Ball, for instance, stands out in her memory. Draco, who had always been quick with a biting remark about Granger’s frizzy hair or Muggle-born status, had been uncharacteristically silent that night. When Hermione stepped into the Great Hall in her periwinkle-blue dress robes, Draco had frozen, his usual sneer replaced by something unreadable.
For the rest of the evening, he had barely spared Pansy a glance, his eyes instead following Hermione and Viktor Krum with a quiet intensity that bordered on envy. His glares at Krum were sharp enough to cut, and he hadn’t cared one bit about how his distracted brooding had ruined Pansy’s Yule Ball.
At the time, she had brushed it off as a fit of petty jealousy, but now, with the weight of hindsight, it feels like something far more significant.
She supposes that even if she rewinded time with a time turner and donned on the same, exact dress Hermione wore, Draco Malfoy would still turn his head towards Hermione Granger and ruin her Yule Ball.
Once her surprise has passed, though, Pansy realises that she hates the idea of their relationship. Not because she loves Draco – those feelings faded long ago – but because it forces her to see him as something other than the cold, unyielding boy she has known all her life.
Hermione Granger had somehow reached parts of Draco that Pansy didn't even realise existed. And this feels more like a betrayal than the revelation itself, for it is a betrayal of an unspoken bond she thought they shared.
It isn’t until a rare moment when Draco isn’t glued to Hermione’s side that Pansy confronts her and something inside shifts in Pansy. The question escapes before she can stop herself, sharp and demanding: "Why Draco, of all people? You could have anyone now. You're the war heroine, you're revered and untouchable."
Hermione doesn’t flinch. Instead, her response comes with quiet certainty as she looks at Pansy in the eye, a vulnerability that catches the Slytherin girl off guard. "Because he's the closest thing I have to a home."
She has never thought of Draco as anyone's home. To her, he is a fortress – stone walls, iron gates, and a thousand locks to keep the world out.
But now, as she watches Draco with Hermione, she sees it: the way his edges soften in her presence, the way he lets himself be undone, rebuilt, and truly seen.
It reminds her, painfully and beautifully, of her bond with Neville Longbottom. Just like Draco and Hermione, Pansy and Neville find hope in their opposites – a boy who has every reason to hate her, and a girl who never thought she could deserve his forgiveness.
And because Neville had taken the first step in the beginning by leaving Pansy a single white tulip – a quiet offering of forgiveness – she follows his lead. The next morning, she places a freesia on Hermione’s table, its soft petals trembling under the faint light of the Slytherin common room – the flower of trust, of friendship, a silent bridge between past and present.
Draco finds her not long after. He says nothing at first, just crosses the Gryffindor common room with purposeful strides and pulls her into an embrace. In that moment, as she stands in the circle of Draco’s arms, Pansy feels the quiet gravity of Hermione’s effect on him: she has shown him that love can exist without conditions, without boundaries.
Over time, Pansy and Hermione have grown closer, and it is due to their unlikely friendship that Pansy finds herself here today, not as an outsider, but as someone who has come to understand the weight of rebuilding shattered lives. She knows now that even Hermione Granger, the revered war heroine, is not immune to the irreparable scars left by the war.
Standing at a respectful distance, Pansy gives Draco and Hermione their privacy. If there’s one thing Pansy has learned from Neville, it’s that love takes many forms. As she observes Draco with Hermione, she sees how his love is nothing like her own love for Neville, yet just as profound.
From afar, she watches Draco’s quiet devotion as he waits with Hermione to approach Jean and David Granger – folding his robe around her and wrapping a tight arm around Hermione's shoulders to create a private hollow to express her heartache.
It is in his arm, a protective shield against the world and its afflictions, that Hermione's grief finds a home in Draco – a sanctuary where grief is not meant to be overcome, but gathered and cradled in the hands of another who is willing to embrace it and who gives it the utmost care and understanding.
And as Pansy watches this love – steady, enduring, and quietly transformative – she thinks that perhaps Neville is right: love, like flowers, blooms softly, even in the unlikeliest of places.
* * *
Harry Potter never thought he'd see the day.
Even with Theo's quiet reassurances about Draco and Hermione, Harry's skepticism remained. It had always been so hard to reconcile Draco Malfoy he’d known in school – the smug, arrogant Slytherin with the weight of his family’s legacy – and the man who stood beside him now as an Auror, working shoulder to shoulder on missions, the two of them forced to cooperate despite everything that had come before. Yet, it wasn’t just the years that had passed since the war; it was also the transformation Draco had undergone during it, the one who had defected in the middle of the war because of, allegedly, Hermione.
Nevertheless, their dynamic, even after all these years, is still peppered with snark. Their exchanges are sharp, sarcastic – too sharp sometimes, though Harry can’t help but notice the small cracks in the armour. Draco doesn’t hate him anymore, and, despite the occasional jabs, they both seem to have settled into some strange, albeit friendly, camaraderie.
It’s only when Hermione is critically involved that Harry truly begins to understand.
It happens one night on a stakeout. Harry has always found stakeouts boring. The long, cold hours with nothing but the faint whisper of wind to break the silence. He’s done enough of them to know the routine: watch, wait, and keep your wits about you.
Yet, the sudden arrival of a familiar Patronus breaks the stillness of the night and snaps him out of his thoughts. It takes him a moment to recognise the shimmering white lynx – Theo's. The lynx bounds for Draco in urgency and delivers its message: Hermione is having a panic attack.
The change in Draco is instantaneous. His eyes widen, the usual cool detachment replaced with something raw, something urgent. Without a word, he turns away from the mission, his footsteps quick and sure.
Harry stands frozen, the cold of the night creeping into his bones. He expected Draco to hesitate, to question whether abandoning their post is worth it. After all, it is a stakeout. They are professionals. But Draco didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even glance back at Harry. He simply left. His only focus now is Hermione.
In that brief moment, Harry understands – truly understands – the depth of what he’d witnessed between them. It isn't about whether Draco Malfoy loves Hermione. It is how he loves her, how he drops everything, no matter the risk, to be there when she needs him. It is a kind of devotion Harry has never expected from the Draco Malfoy he’d known.
When they finally arrive at the Department of Mysteries, Harry watches from the doorway beside Theo. His hands clench at his sides before Theo reaches out and intertwines their fingers together.
Harry observes as Draco wraps Hermione in a calm that he has never seen from anyone else. His voice is low, soothing, a steady presence that anchors her as she's falling apart. "Hermione," he says, "it's me, Draco. Come back to me, love. I'm here. I'm always here."
And it is as Harry watches, absorbing the way in which Hermione's unfocused gaze fixes on Draco, how she shudders before collapsing into Draco’s arms, that he finally understands: Draco is the peace Hermione needs.
Draco is to Hermione what Theo is to Harry.
Theo is Harry’s harbor – steady and unflinching, always there when the storm rages too loud.
For Hermione, Draco's love is not just a whispered thing; it is a quiet force, strong enough to bring her back and hold her together when nothing else can.
Two years later, Harry stands beside Hermione, guiding her down the aisle towards Draco. As they walk, Harry notices the way Draco's gaze locks onto Hermione. There is a quiet intensity in Draco's grey eyes, a tenderness that speaks of years of longing, now finally culminated and realised.
And in that breath of time, Harry understands why Albus Dumbledore had so firmly believed in the simple power of love, even though Voldemort had been a formidable dark wizard and Harry was just a child.
For love is the only true and pure immortality; it is the only legacy that lingers triumphantly.