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The rays of sun warmed the back of his neck as he settled into his seat in the long-forgotten History of Magic archives tucked away in a far corner of the library. It was his sanctuary—quiet, dust-heavy, and largely ignored by anyone who had better things to do than wallow in the past.
He meticulously placed his ink pots: one Enchanted Emerald, the other Sorcerer’s Sapphire. The matching snow-white quills were arranged just so, perpendicular to their corresponding pots. A neat stack of parchment, a battered textbook, and the familiar leather-bound journal he could never seem to leave behind.
He opened the journal to a fresh page, bracing himself to write what should by now have been a familiar greeting. His quill barely scratched the beginning of a G before the hairs on the back of his neck rose, despite the shafts of afternoon sunlight slanting across his table.
The sound came next—footsteps, pounding up and down the aisles, far too loud for this sanctuary. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to ignore it, though his fingers clenched white-knuckled around the edge of his chair.
“Malfoy! You foul-mouthed ferret! What the bloody hell is this?”
The shout slightly muffled, swallowed by the teams of parchment surrounding him, moments before Ronald Weasley’s plum-red face appeared in the aisle. Draco had thought himself rid of him this year—apparently not.
Something clattered onto his desk. A journal. Familiar, except for the scratched-in heart carved onto the cover. At its center, in a looping scrawl: a single, damning initial— G.
He raised one pale eyebrow. “A journal?” he said incredulously, like the very word was beneath him.
Weasley snapped it open to a dog-eared page, jabbing a finger at the ink scrawled across it in Draco’s unmistakable hand.
Why would you tell me Sleekeazy’s is a Potter invention? Now I’m obligated to change my entire hair routine out of principle. Say, you wouldn’t be able to show me any of the charms you use to tame that lioness’s mane of yours?
“Need hair tips, Weasley?” Draco drawled, leaning back in his chair. “Granger never did share those charms, but she did show me this Muggle product she uses. Mousse, I think she called it. Smelled rather lovely. I appreciated the hands-on tutorial. I’m sure she could give you one.” His grin turned wolfish.
“This is not about the bloody hair tips!”
“Obviously,” Draco said smoothly, his eyes flicking to Weasley’s hair.
Weasley flipped to another page with unnecessary force.
Granger, your mind is incredible. If it weren’t for your use of Muggle logic operators, we’d have never finished that Arithmancy project on time. You’ll have to loan me the book you used so this isn’t just another thing you know more about than me. You lost me at ‘biconditional statement,’ and I’d like to do more than take your word for it.
“Granger is good at Arithmancy. Even better at Maths, apparently. Brightest witch of her age and all that.” Draco tilted his head, feigning confusion.
“Well fucking obviously Hermione is smart! She’s the brightest witch of her age!” Ron spluttered, clearly grasping for something that would stick.
Draco smirked. “And yet you felt the need to point it out.”
Flushing deeper, Ron flipped again and slammed his palm flat on the next entry. “What about this?”
Granger,
Sometimes I wake at night with your screams ringing in my ears, lying in a pool of my own sweat. The guilt and panic I feel I’m sure pale in comparison to what you felt that day. You didn’t deserve that—any of it. Not my childish bullying, not the torture, or the hellishness in between. I know I’ve driven my apologies through the veil and back, so I’ll say this instead: I’m in your debt. If you ever need anything—an illegal portkey to flee the country after you get into inevitable trouble after we’ve left these walls, or an investor for all your imported yarn for your house-elf knitting crusade, I’m just an owl away. Every time I see your bushy hair and doll teeth tucked into that too-wide smile, I thank Merlin I was so wrong, and that you’re bloody alive.
Draco
Blood rushed to his cheeks, but Draco forced himself not to flinch, keeping his gaze steady even as his pulse thundered.
“What about it?” he said coolly, as though daring Ron to make something of it.
“What about it? Who do you think you are, coming after my girlfriend?”
The echo of running footsteps silenced them both.
“Ron! What do you think you’re doing?” Hermione’s voice rang shrill and furious as she skidded into view, clutching a worn parchment to her chest. Her face was flushed, hair tumbling around her shoulders. “Leave Draco alone! We’re friends.”
“Friends? Draco?! Hermione, it’s right there. Your brilliant mind, your doll teeth, your too-wide grin—” Ron jabbed at the journal like it was evidence in a trial.
“Are you implying she doesn’t have those qualities?” Draco interjected silkily.
“No—of course she’s brilliant!” Ron sputtered, flailing.
Draco cleared his throat, beginning to gather his things, cringing as he shoved parchment into his satchel with less grace than usual. He picked up Hermione’s journal last, brushing a thumb across the carved G on the cover.
“To be clear,” he said, his voice steady now, “I was in fact coming on to you, Granger. We can talk about it later.” He held the journal out to her, their fingers brushing as she took it.
Then, with a parting smirk, “See you around, Weasley.”
He swept past them, leaving two stunned Gryffindors in his wake.