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Summary
Hermione braced herself for impact. For recognition. For old bitterness.
But Malfoy only offered a lazy, good-natured smile and asked, “What’s your name?”
Her mind spun.
What in—to borrow Ron’s turn of phrase—Merlin’s saggy left bollock was happening.
You know me. You used to sneer my name across corridors.
But the past felt thick in her throat, too complicated to hand him all at once.
So when she began, “My—” and faltered—
He stepped closer. “Mi, then?”