Chapter Text
The Hogwarts library had its own pulse, a heartbeat Hermione Granger had learned to tune herself against over the years. The air was heavy with parchment dust and old ink, and the sconces along the walls sputtered softly as if reluctant to disturb the hush. Every table carried the quiet weight of centuries of scholarship, of tired students and harried professors alike.
But tonight the silence felt deeper, thicker, as if the very walls had muffled themselves to grant her solitude. She sat in her usual corner, the same polished oak desk beneath the high-arched window, and spread her papers in the meticulous chaos only she could navigate. Ancient Runes translations fanned outward like a general’s maps, Arithmancy proofs stacked high enough to resemble barricades, a half-unfurled Magical Theory essay threatening to slither to the floor.
Her quill darted like a weapon, strokes sharp, purposeful. Ink had crept across the side of her hand where she smudged and corrected, tiny stains marking her wrist and the edge of her sleeve. She didn’t care. She lived for this rhythm—the scrape of quill, the scratch of thought made physical.
The world outside might be chaos: Gryffindors squabbling, Slytherins scheming, Ravenclaws debating into the night. But here—here she could order the mess into meaning.
Which is why she didn’t look up when the air shifted.
At first it was only the faint brush of footsteps against stone. Measured. Unhurried. Then the prickle at the back of her neck, as if someone had slid into her orbit without invitation. And then the scent—sharp, deliberate, expensive. Not just soap or cologne but something cultivated, like everything about him.
She didn’t need to raise her eyes to know.
Draco Malfoy.
“You’re in my seat,” he drawled, voice cutting through the silence like a blade dragged across silk.
Hermione’s quill froze mid-stroke. The ink bled into a blot before she exhaled, slow through her nose. She straightened, shoulders taut as bowstrings.
“Your seat?” Her voice was crisp, clipped. “The last time I checked, the Hogwarts library was not the Malfoy family drawing room.”
She lifted her gaze, and there he was.
Leaning one shoulder against the shelf with infuriating poise, pale hair gilded by lantern light until it gleamed like molten silver. He carried himself the way he always had—like the very stones beneath his feet were flattered to hold his weight. Too close, of course. Always too close. As though proximity itself were another of his weapons.
“Still,” he said, tilting his head in that maddeningly slow way, “I make the furniture look better than you do.”
Her glare was sharp enough to cut parchment. She had an arsenal ready—barbs about egos swollen beyond reason, about inferiority complexes disguised as cheekbones—but the words lodged in her throat.
Because damn him. He looked good.
The dark jumper clung indecently well, sleeves pushed to the elbows to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle. His posture was casual but deliberate, every inch of him screaming I know you’re staring, Granger. The faint flex of his hand where it drummed idly against the wood. The way shadows licked across his jawline, clean and sharp as if carved by intent.
Her lips betrayed her before her brain could intervene.
“I beg your finest pardon,” she blurted, voice tight as a bowstring, “but you look—well, you look entirely too edible for anyone’s peace of mind.”
Silence fell heavy as a curse. Even the torches seemed to crackle lower, as if the books themselves leaned forward to listen.
Draco’s eyebrows rose, slow, deliberate, delight curling at the edges of his expression like smoke. Then his smirk unfurled—dangerous, softened at the edges but sharp in the center. “Edible, Granger?”
Her heart plummeted to her shoes. “I meant… respectable.” Heat surged up her throat, betrayal written scarlet across her skin.
“Respectable. Edible. Easy mistake to make.” His voice dropped low, velvet over flint, vibrating in the air between them. He leaned closer, conspiratorial. “Tell me, do I look delicious to you—or just… digestible?”
Her quill snapped in half. The crack echoed louder than it should have.
“Malfoy,” she hissed. It was meant to be venomous, but it slipped out half-breathless, her pulse betraying her.
“Yes, love?”
The word curled around her like smoke. She hated the way her pulse skipped. Hated that she couldn’t stop staring at his mouth—smiling like he’d already won a battle she hadn’t even realized she was fighting.
Her mind betrayed her, scattering into fragments: that mouth against her throat; those hands sliding up her thighs; the weight of his body pressed too close. Heat licked low in her stomach, shame flooding in its wake. She slammed the drawer shut in her mind and forced her chin higher, Gryffindor indignation like armor.
But her eyes kept cataloguing him: the pale slash of wrist where the sleeve slipped, the faint scar along his knuckle, the deliberate calm of a predator who knew he’d been seen.
When Madam Pince shuffled past, muttering about “noise levels unbecoming of scholars,” Draco leaned even closer. She could feel the heat radiating from him, taste the arrogance in the air. His lips nearly brushed the curve of her ear as he murmured:
“Do keep staring. I rather like being your finest pardon.”
Her lungs forgot how to work. The ache in her chest surged into something half-laughter, half-despair, braided tight with a need she refused to name. With a snap, she slammed her book closed, the sound ringing like a shield raised between them.
“Library’s closing soon,” she managed, gathering parchment with trembling fingers, shoving past him with her chin lifted higher than necessary. “Find another seat.”
Her shoulder brushed his as she passed, and every nerve in her arm lit up like fire.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Only watched her retreat, grey eyes burning between her shoulder blades. The ghost of her words still lingered, warm and alive.
I beg your finest pardon.
Yes. He’d be keeping that one.