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For a time, it had been them: Hermione Granger. Draco Malfoy. Theodore Nott.
The unlikeliest throuple Hogwarts had ever seen, although no one saw them at all. They weren’t the sort of thing people talked about in the open. They existed in shadows: after curfew, behind locked doors, under silencing charms.
A tension that snapped into something reckless during the eighth year, when the war had left them all raw and untethered.
With Theo, it had been banter sharpened into flirting, long looks across the Common Room, stolen moments in abandoned classrooms where his hands always knew precisely where to land.
With Draco, it had been glances held too long, quiet conversations that stretched past midnight, the hum of something unsaid tightening between them until it broke with a kiss neither of them acknowledged the next morning.
The three of them would relieve stress and spend cold nights in each other’s embrace — tangled together in dim-lit common rooms, hushed laughter mixing with whispered confessions.
Some nights, it was soft touches and sleepy kisses beneath shared blankets. Other nights, it was desperate hands and hungry mouths, chasing the kind of release only the three of them could give.
They were each other’s secret refuge, a private world where nothing else existed — just breath, skin, and the fragile illusion that they were enough.
They didn’t label or explain it. But for a few fragile months, they were them. A careful balance of fire and ice, tension and tenderness. Three people who understood each other in ways no one else dared to. Tucked in hidden corners, alcoves and the privacy of the Head dorms.
It was real.
Until it wasn’t.
Theo disappeared first.
One day, he was whispering in her ear, pressing her up against a corridor wall between classes — his breath hot against her skin, his promises softer than silk. The next, he was gone.
Not dead or missing. Just absent. No notes. No excuses. No goodbye.
Hermione told herself it was fine. Theo had always been reckless, hadn’t he? Maybe it was just him playing some elaborate game.
Draco never disappeared. He didn’t run. He stayed — and became a stranger before her eyes.
His touches faded into polite distance. His words sharpened into cold civility. The space he once filled beside her stayed empty, even when he was near.
And when she finally asked — because of course she did — Draco met her eyes with that detached, aristocratic calm and said, “My father’s finalised my betrothal. You understand how these things work.”
As if their nights had been a phase.
As if she had been a passing indulgence.
As if he hadn’t once kissed her like he was drowning.
And just like that, their love affair ended without a fight or closure. To Hermione, they were two cowards who couldn’t bear the weight of what they’d started.
She didn’t complain or scream. She shattered in silence but eventually stopped waiting for them to come back.
It had been months since she’d seen them — longer since she’d let herself think about them.
Until tonight.
The Thistle was alive with sound, the hum of jazz weaving between the low murmur of voices. The scent of spiced rum, firewhisky, and candle smoke clung to the air.
Hermione wasn’t even supposed to be here. Parvati had begged her to come — “One drink, Hermione, you need it. I swear it’s a decent place.”
But fate had other plans. Because there they were.
Right at the front — in her line of sight, as if the universe itself wanted to twist the knife.
Theo Nott lounged against the bar, his signature smirk curling at the edges. A slender blonde hung off his arm, batting her lashes, giggling at something he whispered. Theo looked like sin draped in charm — dressed in an open-collared black dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the faint gleam of cufflinks catching the light. His charcoal waistcoat hugged his lean frame, sharp against his dark trousers. The blonde giggled as his fingers toyed with the chain of a silver pocket watch dangling from his vest. He lounged as if the room belonged to him.
Draco Malfoy sat beside him, pristine, composed, leaning back with a glass of something expensive in hand. A dark-haired woman, Astoria Greengrass, the fiancée, leaned into him, her manicured fingers tracing patterns on his wrist. Draco wore a tailored midnight-blue jacket that fit him like a glove, lapels edged in subtle velvet. A silk grey shirt peeked from beneath, unbuttoned just enough to hint at the hollow of his throat. His black slacks and polished leather boots completed the image of perfect, effortless control.
They looked untouched. Like the war, and the nights, and everything in between had never happened.
It shouldn’t have hurt. But it did.
The betrayal wrenched somewhere deep in Hermione’s chest — hot, bitter, sharp as ice.
She could’ve turned away. She could’ve left. Instead, she walked toward the stage.
The open mic announcement echoed through the bar. Polite claps. A few cheers.
Hermione stepped up without thinking. Her heels — dark, simple, sharp — clicked softly on the worn wooden boards. She wore soft storm-grey — a sleeveless fitted top with a high collar that framed her neck, tucked into a flowing black skirt that swayed with every step. Her hair, usually wild, was pulled into a sleek low twist, soft curls left loose to frame her face.
She could feel them watching her now — Draco’s grey eyes narrowing, Theo’s smirk twitching with faint surprise. Neither moved.
The first chords of the piano rang out as the band played her requested song. She’d considered choosing something safe, but she remembered why she’d come here with Parvati in the first place. This wasn’t about playing it safe. This was about facing her heartache head-on.
So, she chose Don’t Smile by Sabrina Carpenter.
Hermione took the microphone.
Don’t smile because it happened, baby. Cry because it’s over.
Theo’s smirk cracked. Draco’s hand froze on his glass. The brunette beside him whispered something — he didn’t answer. He was staring straight at her.
Oh, you’re supposed to think about me every time you hold her.
Her voice was soft — too soft for a room like this. But it cut through the air like a dagger.
My heart is heavy now. It’s like a hundred pounds.
It’s fallin’ faster than the way you love to shut me down.
She took a single step forward on the stage, her hip swaying slightly with the rhythm. A slow tilt of her head as she let her eyes scan the crowd, and stop on them.
Hermione met Theo’s eyes first. He blinked, shifting in his seat. His date looked at him, confused.
I think I need a shower, my friends are taking shots
You think it's happy hour, for me it's not.
Then she met Draco’s gaze. He didn’t look away, smirk or speak. But something flickered — dark, unmistakable — in his eyes. A muscle in his jaw ticked.
Good.
She poured every unsaid word into that song. Every piece of herself they’d touched and discarded. Every breath she hadn’t wasted asking them why.
Don't smile because it happened, baby, cry because it's over.
Oh, you're supposed to think about me every time you hold her.
Theo’s fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against his glass. Draco sat unnervingly still.
Hermione rolled her shoulders back and moved in a slow, deliberate sway with the music. Her fingers trailed the microphone stand, hips shifting in a subtle arc, head tilting with each lyric.
Don't smile because it happened, baby, cry because it's over.
I want you to miss me. I want you to miss me.
She paced the edge of the stage with feline grace, letting her gaze skim over the room before snapping back to them. She let the music guide her — a playful, mocking twirl here, a languid swing of her hips there — not overdone, just enough to draw every eye to her.
Oh, you're supposed to think about me every time you hold her.
I want you to miss me. I want you to miss me.
She twirled lightly on the final word, skirt flaring at her knees, dark eyes never leaving theirs. One hand slid over her hip, tracing the fabric as she dipped slightly with the beat, a soft smirk playing at her lips.
Pour my feelings in the microphone.
I stay in, and when the girls come home.
She leaned into the mic stand, head tilting with an almost sultry defiance — the picture of someone who had nothing left to lose.
I want one of them to take my phone.
Take my phone and lose your number.
And then, she seduced it — her hands sliding up the length of the stand, slow, as if it were an extension of them both. She curled her fingers around the microphone with a delicate grip, brushing her thumb along its edge the way Theo liked to be touched, the way Draco leaned into a kiss. Her lips brushed against the mic like a whispered confession.
I don't wanna be tempted .
She glanced toward Theo on the word tempted , arching her brow with the ghost of a knowing look — a split-second reminder of how many times he’d fallen back into her bed.
Pick up when you wanna fall back in.
And toward Draco when she sang, You can fake it, but you know I know.
His eyes flared, grip tightening on the edge of the table.
Don’t smile because it happened, baby cry because it’s over.
Oh, you’re supposed to think about me every time you hold her.
She prowled closer to the edge of the stage, giving them both a fleeting, devastating smile — a challenge wrapped in melody.
I want you to miss me, I want you to miss me
On the final chorus, she locked eyes with Draco for half a verse, holding his gaze as her lips curved on the word miss , letting her voice drop to a near whisper.
Draco’s eyes darkened — his knuckles bone-white against his glass.
When she turned toward Theo, she sang softer — almost teasing — letting her eyes flick to his date before resting on him again. Theo swallowed hard, a flicker of something close to guilt shadowing his face.
When the song ended, the room broke into cheers and loud applause — a sharp contrast to the suffocating silence that had filled it before.
Hermione lowered the microphone gently, her movements precise, almost reverent. She set it down as if sealing the last word of a private conversation only they could hear. The room fell still, watching her with a kind of stunned, breathless attention.
Theo half-rose from his chair, as if pulled forward by an unseen force. Draco caught his arm—a silent warning.
Hermione gave them both a slow, empty smile and walked away.
They didn’t follow.
And that — that was the part they’d regret.