Chapter Text
Hermione saw him again for the first time in five years on a rooftop in London, dressed in black, like some tragic poet who had lost his quill. She, in contrast, was in white, not by design, but because she had spilt coffee on her blouse earlier and borrowed one from Ginny.
It was Ron’s birthday, and it was supposed to be a small party. A ‘low-key gathering,’ Harry had called it, which she should’ve known was a lie because Ron never did anything low-key. And in classic Weasley fashion, that meant everyone they had ever spoken to had been invited.
And that included him .
Draco Malfoy.
The last time Hermione had seen him had been at an end-of-year Ministry gala, all sharp suit and sharper gaze, a glass of something expensive in his hand. They’d exchanged pleasantries, just enough to be polite, just enough to leave something unfinished, as if her leaving had left a subtle mark on everything between them.
The next morning, she’d taken a Portkey to Romania to take over a division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Five years of dragons, werewolf policies, and wrangling international legislation, while life in London carried on without her.
She had seen glimpses of him since, of course.
The Prophet had been diligent about keeping up with his career; a mix of old family money and clever investments had turned him into something of a reluctant public figure. The headlines always made sure to mention the war, his name forever tied to the burden of his past. But that wasn’t the Malfoy she had known before she left.
The Malfoy she had known had been... always around.
That was just how things had been back then. Somewhere between the war and now, he had begrudgingly become Harry and Ron’s friend during Auror training.
A mutual loathing had turned into reluctant teamwork, then something like respect. Ron had eventually left to work with George at the shop, and Malfoy had stayed.
Became Harry’s partner.
Became part of the background of her life: there at dinners, at birthdays, at Sunday pub nights when she least expected him.
They had spent months orbiting each other, but Hermione had left before they could collide.
It had started gradually.
She’d find him across a pub table with Harry and Ron, sleeves rolled up, fingers tapping against his glass as they argued over something work-related. Their disagreements had become oddly comfortable, woven into their routines in a way that would have been unimaginable a decade ago.
Harry would accuse him of being insufferable, Malfoy would smirk and counter with something infuriatingly reasonable, and Ron, despite his initial resistance, had long since learned to roll his eyes and join in.
And she had been there, too.
Half-listening, half-smiling, inserting a comment when she couldn’t help herself. More often than not, Malfoy’s gaze would find her, lingering just long enough to make her wonder if he was waiting for something.
Then there were the nights at Grimmauld Place. Ginny, ever the strategist, had made a point of manoeuvring her into the seat next to him, nudging her wine glass closer when she reached for it, pressing her lips together in obvious amusement whenever he leaned just a little too close to say something dry and cutting. And Malfoy, for all his carefully constructed indifference, had spent the entire evening pretending not to find it amusing, too.
Before that, another Ministry function. A charity gala for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, where she had caught him watching her from the other side of the room. He hadn’t looked away when their eyes met. Neither had she.
And before that, there had been the night after a long Ministry conference, when they had both lingered outside the Leaky Cauldron, neither of them quite making a move to leave. It had been cold. He had lit a cigarette—not to smoke, but to occupy his hands. She had accused him of trying too hard to look brooding. He had told her she was infuriating.
She had laughed. He had smirked.
Every moment was a near miss. Every glance, every biting remark, every almost-touch a push and pull that neither of them had the courage to answer.
And then she had left for Romania, and the orbit had broken.
Now, on this rooftop, under golden fairy lights strung up with definitely unsafe magic, he was watching her.
She turned to him, still clutching her half-empty glass of champagne, and arched a brow. “What?”
His lips twitched, just a little. “I was wondering if I should jump.”
She startled. “Off the roof?”
That almost smirk deepened. “No. Into trouble.”
Something about the way he said it made her stomach dip, like missing a step on the stairs. “Are you always this cryptic?”
“Only when I see a girl wearing white at a party and think, ‘I might be in trouble’.”
Oh.
Her breath caught slightly.
She should have run. That’s what every rational bone in her body told her to do. He had been a walking red flag in school. Arrogant, sharp-tongued, born with too much money and too little kindness. But he wasn’t that boy anymore.
He hadn’t been for a long time.
She tilted her head. “That’s incredibly arrogant, you know.”
“Yes, well. Some things never change.” His lips quirked. “That’s what you always said, isn’t it?”
It was what she always said. In school. After the war. Even when he and Ron started getting along, when he stopped sneering at her quite as much, when his sharp edges dulled just enough to seem tolerable.
Some things never change.
But maybe she had been wrong.
“Why are you still standing here, Malfoy?” she asked.
He tilted his head. “Because I don’t particularly like anyone else at this party.”
She scoffed. “You’re even friends with Harry now.”
“Yes, but Potter is over there—” he motioned toward the other side of the rooftop, where Harry and Ginny were deep in conversation with Neville and Luna—“and you’re over here.”
The shift in tone made her fingers tighten around her glass. She stared at him, and he stared back, the light catching in his pale eyes.
It had been five years since she left. Five years since she had walked away from everything familiar, late nights at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry’s terrible cooking, and the quiet, steady presence of Malfoy at the periphery of her life.
And yet, standing here now, it felt like no time had passed at all. He stood there, watching her with that faint, knowing smirk. It was a dizzying thought, and she quickly shook it off, trying to steady the sudden pulse in her chest.
"Five years," she said, almost absently. "It doesn’t seem possible."
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a slow step closer, just enough to make her heart race, but not so much that it felt intrusive. It was like a thread pulling her in without her even realizing it.
“No," he said, his voice quiet but deliberate. "It doesn’t."
His gaze never left hers.
She tilted her head, trying to steady herself. "So, what now, Malfoy?"
He smirked that same enigmatic expression that had always made her wonder if he was laughing at her, with her, or something else entirely. "What happens next, Granger," he said slowly, "depends on whether or not you’ll jump."
The thing was, she already knew she would.
Dating Draco was the strangest thing Hermione had ever done, and she’d once helped break out of Gringotts on the back of a dragon.
For one, he didn’t do relationships, or at least, that’s what everyone believed. In the five years since she’d left, there had been no sign of him with anyone. No dates or rumoured flings, nothing.
So when she told Harry and Ron, they both reacted like she had just announced she was moving to Azkaban for fun. Even Ginny, who had practically been pushing her to give him a chance, just stared at her with a look that bordered on amused disbelief.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Ginny had asked, handing her a bottle of wine. “Because if you have to ask, the answer is no.”
Hermione understood where they were coming from, what they all had assumed.
Draco Malfoy had never seemed the type to commit, not since she’d left, at least. The years had passed without a whisper of him with anyone, but somehow, she thought, maybe this time it was different.
Because, here she was, six months later, sitting in Draco’s absurdly large flat, watching him attempt to cook pasta while looking disgustingly attractive.
The past few months had been a whirlwind, each day blurring into the next as they navigated their new reality. What had started as something familiar, shared spaces, long conversations over drinks, and their usual debates that had once been so easy to dismiss, had grown into something more.
After that rooftop moment, when everything they’d both been avoiding finally spilt over, their relationship shifted in a way neither of them had expected. Draco had surprised her more than once since then but in the most delightful of ways.
He had a way of making her laugh, really laugh, in a way no one else ever could. There was no pretension with him anymore, no walls to climb or shields to drop. Just...them. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like the start of something dangerous; it felt right.
Their meetings had evolved from their usual, casual hangouts into something habitual: shared mornings, dinner plans, and weekend outings. It was comfortable as if they had always been on this path, and each day was a reminder of how easy it was to fall into each other's company; a delicate balance between who they had been and what they had now become.
The first kiss after the rooftop had been hesitant, testing the waters, as if they were both waiting for the other to confirm that this was real. It hadn’t been quick or accidental; it had been deliberate, filled with everything they’d both held back.
Since then, it hadn’t stopped, the touches lingering a little longer, the smiles stretching a little wider. There was a giddy feeling that always came with the thought of him, something sweet and light, like they were both still figuring out how to be with each other, but enjoying the process far more than they’d ever thought possible.
They were in that strange, intoxicating honeymoon phase, the kind of stage where every little thing felt monumental, but in the most ordinary way.
A kiss goodbye before work, a quiet evening in with takeout, his hand brushing hers for a fraction too long. Even their disagreements, which were few and far between, seemed endearing.
She leaned against the counter, swirling her glass of wine, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Draco shot her a look over his shoulder, his brow quirking in that infuriatingly charming way of his. He flicked water at her. “I’m just boiling water, Granger. Not doing an Arithmancy equation.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You said that last time, and then we had to order takeaway.”
He huffed, focusing back on the pot with exaggerated concentration. “I’m better at relationships than cooking. That’s the important thing, isn’t it?”
She pretended to consider, tapping her glass thoughtfully. “Hmm. Jury’s still out on that one.”
Draco didn’t miss a beat. He stepped closer, his movements fluid, reaching past her to grab the salt. But as he did, his fingers brushed against her hip, just enough to make her breath hitch.
He smirked, low and confident, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. “Well, the jury should hurry up, because I’m buying you a ring, and it would be very embarrassing if you said no.”
Hermione nearly choked on her wine, the words freezing her in place as she sputtered. “What?” Her mind raced, trying to catch up with his words, but her heart was already a few steps ahead, pounding against her chest.
He didn’t look flustered. Of course, he didn’t. Draco Malfoy never flustered. Instead, he simply turned to face her fully, his gaze locking onto hers like she was it . The One. And nothing else in the world existed.
“When you know, you know,” he said simply, but with unmistakable certainty.
She froze. The pulse in her neck thudded loudly, a rush of heat flooding her cheeks. She couldn’t help but blink at him, unsure how to respond. It wasn’t what she expected, but then, when had anything with Malfoy ever been predictable?
The room was silent for a moment, just the sound of the pasta boiling softly in the background, as if the world was waiting for her response.
And Merlin help her , she knew.