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There are a few rules you pick up if you survive five years at Hogwarts.
Rule One: Never jinx someone without checking if they have a vengeful older sibling. There’s nothing worse than finding yourself hexed back by a sixth-year who thinks family honour is a duelling sport.
Rule Two: Hogwarts corridors always listen. Whisper something scandalous and you can bet the suits of armour will carry it down three staircases and into the nearest gossip circle before you’ve even turned the corner.
Rule Three: If you think you’ve gotten away with something in class, you haven’t. Someone’s already telling McGonagall.
Rule Four: If Granger’s lips go thin, you’re done for.
Rule Five: The only thing worse than detention is detention with Hermione Granger.
And I thought that was enough to survive. Until the day I proved myself wrong.
The trouble started in Defence Against the Dark Arts. It always does, doesn’t it? One moment, the room was buzzing with ordinary hexes—soft bursts of light, sparks catching in the air, people pairing off and showing off what they thought counted as skill. Nothing beyond fourth-year standard and I was already bored. The sort of lesson you could sleepwalk through if you’d already spent enough time dueling in corridors (not that I’m admitting anything). My wand itched for something more.
My partner that day was Crabbe, which meant I was effectively practicing alone. On the other side of the room, Hermione Granger was calmly demonstrating a perfect Shield Charm to a group of wide-eyed Gryffindors. And then, predictably, some idiot had to ruin it.
“Books can’t save you in real life, Granger,” the boy sneered. I have no clues but, A Gryffindor, of course. Always so brave when the professor’s back was turned.
I could’ve ignored it. I could’ve rolled my eyes. I could’ve let Granger handle it herself—Merlin knows she’s better at comebacks than most of us. But the words hit wrong, like a badly-cast charm that sparks against your skin. My wand was already up before my brain thought better of it.
The jinx I chose was meant to be harmless—tongue-tying, with a bit of dramatic smoke for effect. A laugh, maybe a lesson learned about running his mouth.
But the room had other ideas.
Instead of a silly trip and splutter, the boy froze where he stood, locked in place as though his body had been bound with chains of smoke. Shadows coiled up the walls, flickering in shapes no one wanted to name. His mouth opened, but the words came out doubled, layered with a rasp that didn’t belong to him.
The laughter in the room died fast. Even Gryffindors know when something’s gone wrong.
Shadows pulsed across the ceiling, crawling like smoke trapped in glass. The boy’s eyes rolled white, his mouth still working, but every word he tried came out with an echo, like two voices speaking at once—his own and something older, rougher.
Hermione was already moving. Of course she was. Before I could lower my wand, she had hers drawn, sharp and steady. She muttered counter-curses in a stream, hair falling into her face as the smoke clung stubbornly to the boy’s arms.
I should’ve stepped in. I should’ve undone my own mess. Instead, I stood there, wand still half-raised, feeling the air thrum around us like the castle itself was holding its breath.
When the last coil of smoke finally peeled away and dissolved, the Gryffindor collapsed onto his chair, shaking. His tongue lolled, still faintly grey, his voice breaking in two when he tried to say “I’m fine.” Nobody believed him.
That was when the room went silent.
And there she was—Professor McGonagall in the doorway as if the castle itself had summoned her. Perhaps the very stones were her spies. Her eyes swept over the scene: the pale Gryffindor, the smoke still curling in the corners, and me—wand drawn, guilty as sin.
Her mouth pressed into that line I’d seen a hundred times, the one that meant the hammer was about to fall. “Mr. Malfoy,” she said, every syllable clipped and cold, “you will report for detention this evening.”
I opened my mouth to protest—
“And,” she added, turning her gaze to Hermione, “Miss Granger will supervise. Since you clearly need a reminder of both responsibility and control.”
The boy whimpered. The class held its breath. Granger’s eyes found mine, not burning with anger but worse—with sharp, piercing disappointment, and a question she didn’t ask out loud: Why?
I slipped my wand back into my sleeve, smirk pasted on like armour. “Brilliant. My favourite way to spend an evening.”
Inside, though, I was already drafting the next line for my list:
Rule Six: If you’re going to jinx someone, make sure Granger isn’t close enough to see why you did it.
-
Dinner was unbearable. Pansy wanted every detail, Blaise wanted to know if the smoke could be bottled, and Theo just sat there smirking like he’d placed a bet on me ending up in McGonagall’s bad books before Christmas. I ignored them all. My eyes had already drifted toward the Gryffindor table—toward the halo of brown curls hunched over a plate she wasn’t touching.
She didn’t look up once.
Rule Seven: If Hermione Granger is silent, it’s not victory. It’s a storm waiting to break.
-
Detention was scheduled for seven o’clock sharp. I arrived late, obviously.
The door groaned open as though warning me of my fate. Inside, the air smelled faintly of soot and old parchment. The desks had been shoved against the walls, leaving a wide space in the centre. A bucket of soapy water and a stack of grimy cauldrons gleamed in the candlelight like iron tombstones.
“Late,” she said without looking up. “You’d be late to your own punishment.”
“I’m precisely on time,” I leaned against the doorframe, smirk in place. “You’d think punctuality was a Gryffindor fetish.”
Her lips twitched into that thin line. Rule Four, confirmed.
“We’ve got two dozen of these to scrub without magic. Better start now.”
On the chalkboard behind her was scrawled a list in her tidy handwriting:
Scrubbing cauldrons by hand.
Re-shelving potion ingredients.
Polishing trophies.
The kind of work house-elves did in ten minutes flat. But no, McGonagall wanted it done the Muggle way. Of course she did.
I stared at the rag as though it had personally insulted me. “Manual labour? What are we, Muggles now?”
“Consider it character building.”
I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “I already have a perfectly good character. Devilishly handsome. Acutely charming. Occasionally misunderstood.”
She snorted, the faintest laugh she hadn’t meant to give me, and then turned back to her cauldron. Steam hissed from the water as she plunged her rag in, determined to ignore me.
I set to work beside her, albeit far less enthusiastically. The silence stretched until my nerves itched, so naturally, I filled it.
“Tell me, Granger, do you ever get tired of cleaning up other people’s messes? I mean, Potter, Weasley… now me. It must be exhausting.”
“Maybe I just don’t like watching people drown when I can help.”
It wasn’t the answer I’d expected.
Her words settled heavier than I wanted them to. I wrung out my rag just to have something to do, watching suds drip onto the flagstones. She didn’t look at me again, just kept scrubbing, efficient and unyielding.
I should have let the silence stay. Instead, my mouth betrayed me.
“So you think I’m drowning, do you?”
Her eyes flicked up. “I think you keep setting yourself on fire and acting surprised when you burn.”
I had nothing clever to say after that, so we worked in silence, broken only by the occasional squeak of iron under cloth. By the time the last cauldron was stacked, my hands were red and raw, and she hadn’t once softened.
Rule Eight: Don’t hand Granger a metaphor. She’ll turn it into your obituary.
-
The cauldrons left more than soap burns on my hands. I dreamed of her sleeves rolled to her elbows, the rhythm of her scrubbing steady while I fumbled beside her. I hated how the memory smelled like iron and soap, but it followed me into breakfast anyway.
-
The next evening, I told myself it would be different. Spoiler: it wasn’t.
The task waiting for us was worse than cauldrons—inventory duty in the Potions storeroom. Endless shelves, dust in every corner, and jars filled with things that looked better buried than bottled. And, of course, only one ledger and one quill.
Granger perched primly on the flagstones, book balanced across her knees. She dipped the quill and began with immaculate script, ignoring me entirely.
I folded my arms. “One quill? That’s barbaric. We should report to the Department of Magical Labour Practices.”
“You can report yourself for gross incompetence while you’re at it,” she said without looking up. “Now—dictate. I’ll write.”
I crouched down beside her, too close on purpose. “You’re volunteering to be my secretary? Didn’t think you had it in you.”
“I’m ensuring this list is legible, Malfoy. If you wrote it, we’d mistake belladonna for beetle eyes and kill half the school.”
“Admit it,” I said smoothly, “you just like having my voice in your ear.”
The quill scratched harder against the page, as if stabbing the parchment could stab me too.
“If by ‘voice’ you mean incessant whining, then yes. Utterly delightful.”
“Careful, Granger,” I murmured, plucking a jar of dried nettle leaves from the shelf above her. “That sounded suspiciously like flirting.”
Her glare was lethal. “If this list is ruined, you’re rewriting it. Every. Single. Word.”
We fell into an easy rhythm—my voice naming, her quill scratching. It almost passed for efficiency until our hands collided over a jar of dried asphodel. The inkpot rocked like it had been waiting for this moment. I lunged for it, she for the ledger, and in that graceless tangle the inkwell tipped.
“Malfoy!” she snapped.
“Relax,” I said, holding up my stained palm. “Consider it a collaborative effort. Modern art.”
Her eyes flashed. “You’re insufferable.”
She sighed and reached for a fresh sheet, but when her sleeve brushed her cheek it left a dark streak across her skin. I swallowed a laugh, shoulders shaking.
“Don’t you dare,”
“Already did.” My smile curved wickedly. “Granger, that’s war paint. And Merlin—fierce looks good on you.”
Then—Merlin save me—she laughed. Not the clipped, proper laugh she saved for professors, but something unguarded, bright. It spilled into the cramped storeroom like sunlight in a place that had never known it.
It shook me more than I’d ever admit.
Before thought could catch up, my hand moved, thumb grazing her cheek where the ink had streaked. The smear deepened under my touch, but all I noticed was the heat where her skin met mine. She froze, wide-eyed. The world narrowed to the warmth of her skin under my thumb.
“You’re impossible,” she said at last, dipping her quill with far too much force. Yet the faint pink dusting her ears betrayed her better than words ever could.
And Merlin help me, I wanted the mess.
Rule Nine: Never share ink with Hermione Granger. You’ll end up with something messier than parchment.
-
The storeroom was worse. Ink stains were supposed to fade, but my thumb still remembered the curve of her cheek where I’d brushed it away. I caught myself brushing my own cheek the next morning. My housemates joked about me looking distracted; I let them think I was plotting revenge. Easier than confessing I was replaying the second my hand lingered too long.
-
The last night’s punishment was almost laughable: polishing trophies in the dusty cupboard at the end of the Transfiguration corridor. McGonagall had left a crate of polish and two threadbare cloths.
I picked up a particularly hideous Quidditch Cup from 1927, dented at the base. “Tell me, Granger, is polishing the names of long-dead Hufflepuffs supposed to improve my moral fibre?”
“If it scrubs some of the arrogance off you, it’s worth the effort.”
I leaned closer, pretending to squint at the inscription. “Look here—‘Best Seeker.’ Tragic they didn’t spell my name right.”
“Do try to keep your ego aligned with reality.”
I watched the way her curls fell forward as she bent to polish the dent, how a streak of dust smudged across her temple without her noticing. Something tight twisted in my chest, the kind of thing I’d usually smother with a cruel remark. But my tongue stumbled, and for once, silence filled the space instead.
The cupboard was small, the air stale with brass polish and dust. Every time she shifted, her shoulder brushed mine, and I found myself leaning closer under the pretence of inspecting her work. She glanced up at me—half annoyed, half curious—and I felt the tug of something I couldn’t shrug off.
“Problem?” Her voice caught somewhere between sharp and uncertain.
“Plenty,” I said, though my voice came out rougher than intended. My gaze flicked down—her mouth was too close, too tempting. I didn’t think, not properly. One moment I was smirking, the next I was kissing her.
It wasn’t planned. Merlin, it wasn’t even clever. But it was heat and defiance and the shocking realisation that she didn’t push me away.
When we broke apart, her eyes burned into mine—furious, bewildered, but not untouched. My pulse hammered. My smirk returned, thinner this time, barely holding steady.
Rule Ten: Never kiss Hermione Granger unless you’re prepared to want it again immediately.
“You’re making a mess,” I said, though my pulse was tripping over itself.
“And what would that be, Malfoy?”
I should’ve laughed. Should’ve deflected. Instead, I leaned in, close enough to catch the faint scent of parchment and polish clinging to her hair.
“That you’re the only person alive who makes detention… dangerous.”
Her breath hitched. The cloth slipped from her fingers. And then she kissed me—or maybe I kissed her. It didn’t matter; we met in the middle, sudden and unthinking.
It was clumsy, fierce, wrong in every way but the one that mattered. When she pulled back, breathless, lips still parted as though caught between protest and invitation, I knew it wouldn’t be enough.
When she finally broke away, both of us flushed and breathless, she muttered, “We have trophies left, Focus”
Rule Eleven: If you kiss Hermione Granger once, you’ll spend the rest of detention wanting her to do it again.