Work Text:
The Leaky Cauldron was packed to the brim, considering it was a Thursday night. The new “Happy Hour” sign, charmed to flash in obnoxious gold script above the bar, flickered against smoke-stained beams and low hanging lanterns. The air smelled like spilled ale, fried chips, and damp wool cloaks—evidence of the rain that hadn’t stopped all week.
Hermione and her band of merry men were crammed into a booth near the back wall, the red leather seat cracked with age and patched in places with mismatched magic. It was their usual post-shift ritual, the one night a week where the Auror department emptied itself into The Leaky to rid themselves of their grievances.
Halfway through their second round, the edge had worn off the day just enough to make everyone louder and a little looser. Ron’s complaints overlapped Harry’s, and Seamus had stolen half of Hermione’s chips without asking. Draco stood to grab their third, and if they were smart, their final round.
“Kingsley wants incident reports filed within twenty-four hours now. Twenty-four. Doesn’t he know we don’t have time for that?”
“Harry, YOU are the reason we had to make that change. All of us, aside from Ron maybe, are able to get them in within the 72 hour allotment but nooo mister golden boy had to slack off for the fourth time this month. Now we’re all paying for it!”
“Mione, how does this surprise you? You helped me with 98% of my assignments in school and the other 2% I just never turned in.”
“You’re absolutely hopeless,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“That’s not even the worst of it,” Seamus said, “Seven arrests, the prep for the annual audit, and I had broom patrol three times. I’m pretty sure my hairline blew back a few inches from the windstorm.”
“Bloody brilliant week.” grumbled Harry.
Ron groaned, “but at least tomorrow’s Friday!”
Hermione was eying a brunette witch who had been trying to chat up a certain blonde. To her surprising amusement, he’d brushed her off rather rudely.
“Oh, but it’s Friday the thirteenth!”
“Not this again! There’s no bloody way any of that stuff is real, ’Mione.” Ron chuckled as he unhooked his wand holder from his right bicep.
Draco, who was now walking back from the bar followed by a floating tray, furrowed his brow as he started to pass around the drinks.
“What’s not real?”
Hermione took her butterbeer without looking away from Ron.
“Friday the thirteenth,” she said. “It’s a muggle superstition, but the day is meant to be particularly unlucky.”
Ron made a face. “She does this every time. There’s no such thing as one unlucky day.”
Draco slid into the booth beside Hermione, one knee brushing against hers beneath the narrow table, “I don’t know about that,” he said lightly. “March 1st was pretty unlucky for us all.”
“Oi that’s my birthday, you git!” Ron shot back as Seamus nearly choked on his firewhisky, coughing into his sleeve with a wheezing laugh.
“It’s alright Ron,” Harry said dryly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I think it’s cute that Drakey here remembers your birthday.”
“Shut it, Scarhead.” Draco flicked a rolled napkin at him. It bounced off Harry’s shoulder and landed in Ron’s butterbeer.
Ron stared at it. “Brilliant.”
Laughter spilled over the table, blending into the steady hum of the pub around them.
“Alright then Granger, let’s hear it. I know you’re dying to tell us all about these superstitions.” He angled his body toward hers, shoulder turning in, knee settling a little too close.
The lantern light caught in her hair, copper and gold flickering through the darker curls. A faint blush rose along her cheeks when she realized how close he’d leaned.
“Uhm, okay well,” she began, tucking a curl behind her ear. “There’s a few pretty common ones: walking under a ladder, a black cat crossing your path, breaking a mirror. They all give you some sort of bad luck. The mirror for example is seven years!”
Draco gave her an unimpressed look, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s it? That’s the great Muggle fear list?”
“Those are a few, but yes.”
He leaned back slightly, stretching his arm along the back of the booth. His fingers rested just behind her shoulder. Close enough that she could feel the warmth of him through the leather.
“How disappointing. And quite boring too.”
Hermione ignored him. “Stepping on cracks! What about that?”
Ron perked up. “Oh, that one I know. Breaks your mother’s back.”
Draco’s jaw dropped. “Breaks your wha—”
“It’s a children’s rhyme, Draco” she said lightly.
“A horrific one,” he scoffed back. “You tell these things to children?!”
Ron pointed at him. “See? Even Malfoy thinks it’s stupid.”
“I think most things are stupid. Don’t take that as agreement, Weasley.”
Hermione bristled at his response. “So what? You don’t believe in luck?”
“I believe in reality, Granger,” he said, his voice lowering slightly beneath the pub’s noise. “And there’s no reality in which any of those things would cause bad luck to befall on a person.”
She raised a brow. “So if tomorrow you happen to break a mirror, walk under a ladder, and step on a crack—”
“I won’t.”
“Hypothetically.”
He shifted, arm still draped behind her, his thumb brushing lightly against the leather just behind her shoulder. “Hypothetically, I would continue my day like any rational person.”
Her eyes flicked to his arm. Then back to his face.
“And if a black cat crosses your path?”
“I’ll shoo it on its way.” His gaze dipped briefly to her mouth. “You’re challenging the wrong one, Sweetheart. I’m not superstitious.”
She tilted her head. “Not even a little?”
“No.”
Hermione lifted her nose and turned away. “Fine! Just don’t run crying to me tomorrow when you’re overrun with bad luck, Malfoy.”
“Oh back to Malfoy, is it?”
She pouted out her bottom lip just a touch, but a mischievous twinkle shone in her eye. “You’re Malfoy when I’m angry.”
“I love it when you’re angry.”
She studied him, eyes dropping to his mouth, then back up to his eyes.
Draco held her gaze. He wasn’t going to look away first.
Harry cleared his throat loudly. “If you two are done with your little foreplay thing—”
“Mate, I’m eating here.” groaned Ron as he shoved the last remnants of his chips into his mouth, then washed it down with his drink.
“Riiiiight. Well anyway, I gotta get home to Gin so I’ll leave you two to it.”
“Oi don’t leave us here with them!” yelled Seamus as he and Ron hurried out right behind him.
Draco didn’t move right away.
Hermione reached for her coat, but her arm missed the sleeve entirely. She huffed under her breath and tried again, the lining twisting around her wrist.
Draco stood.
“Here,” he said, before she could argue.
He took the coat gently from her hands and held it open. She stepped into it, closer than necessary. Her hair brushed the underside of his wrist as he guided her arm through properly. It took everything in his power not to reach for one of her curls.
“Thank you,” she said, softer now.
Draco adjusted the collar without thinking, just a small, absent tug so it sat straight against her neck to brace herself from the cold. His fingers lingered a second too long as he watched a blush creep from her chest to her neck, finally landing on her cheeks.
Seamus made a pointed coughing noise from the doorway. “Sorry then, forgot my coat.”
She stepped away first. “Goodnight, Draco.”
“Goodnight, Granger.”
He watched her walk out, and he caught himself holding in a breath he hadn’t meant to. He stepped out into the cold air a few minutes after her.
The street was quieter than the pub had been, the noise fading behind him. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and replayed the last ten minutes against his will.
Just when I’m angry.
I love it when you’re angry.
Bloody idiot.
He dragged a hand down his face.
He knew better than that. He knew exactly how thin the line was between banter and something else. And he also knew that if he pushed too far, too fast, he risked breaking the very fragile friendship they had managed to create since the war.
He needs to stop.
Stop leaning into her space. Stop letting his arm fall along the back of the booth like it belonged there. And he definitely should stop touching her collar like that.
The problem was, she hadn’t pulled away.
Her eyes had dropped to his mouth. She had leaned closer first. Or maybe he’d imagined the whole thing.
He wouldn’t put it past himself. Not where Hermione Granger was concerned.
He reached the apparition point and paused, staring down at the pavement. There was a thin crack running through the stone. He stepped over it, and disapparated.
When he made it to his townhouse, his mind couldn’t help but ruminate over their conversation tonight. A day made for bad luck? Right. Like his first sixteen years hadn’t been unlucky enough. He made it halfway up the stairs, before stopping abruptly at the entrance to his bedroom doors. For no particular reason, he turned and stalked to his study, and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment from the corner of his desk.
Mother,
No reason for alarm, but I suggest you avoid unnecessary outings tomorrow. Stay indoors. Read a good book. Reorganize the acquisitions you and Pansy pillaged from every French boutique last month.
Also, avoid irregularities in stonework. And ladders. Particularly ladders in the library.
Just as a precaution.
Your loving son,
Draco
He sealed it before he could reconsider.
With his mind at ease, he showered, readied himself for bed, and fell asleep knowing tomorrow would be just a regular, no-nonsense, ordinary day.
He woke before his alarm, which on a normal day might have impressed him if it hadn’t come paired with the faint frustration of being pulled from something he would have very much preferred to continue.
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and rubbed away the last of his sleep. When he glanced toward the window, he noticed the rain had finally stopped and the air beyond the glass looked crisp and fresh. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and crossed the room, sliding the pane upward just enough to let the cool breeze drift in.
He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, taking in the calm. The day felt promising.
He turned toward the bathroom to begin the small, orderly rituals that made the rest of the day manageable.
Fresh from the shower, he stepped into his wardrobe, choosing his clothing with perfected ease. Most of it would be concealed beneath his Auror robes, but he still took a certain satisfaction in the details. Hermione seemed to notice the details too. The way her gaze would linger on his arms when he rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, or when her breath would hitch when he’d squat low to grab a heavy file box off the ground, an angle that was, objectively speaking, difficult to ignore.
With his ensemble nearly complete, he stepped in front of the full-length mirror near the wardrobe and adjusted his tie, leaning closer to inspect the knot.
There was a thud behind him.
Before he could turn properly, something grey and feathered burst through the open window— which he did not remember opening so widely. He saw wings beat violently against the air of the room, stirring the curtains, scattering the careful stillness that had been there moments before.
“For Merlin’s sake—"
The owl swooped too low, too close, and he ducked on instinct, stepping back to avoid a collision. His heel caught on the edge of the rug and his balance slipped from him. Before he could correct himself, his shoulder struck the mirror with the full weight of his body.
He heard it before he saw it.
One long, sharp split cut clean through his reflection, eerily dividing his face in two.
He stood there for a second, hand still against the glass, staring at the crooked version of himself staring back.
Hermione’s voice resurfaced from the night before. Seven years of bad luck.
“This is absurd,” he muttered under his breath. You are a wizard, for God’s sake.
“Reparo.”
The charm worked easily enough. The crack sealed, the glass smoothing over until his reflection returned to its usual, orderly shape. For a moment, he thought he saw a faint distortion when he shifted his head, but he was likely just unsettled from the avian attack he’d endured just a moment ago.
The owl, evidently satisfied with the destruction it had caused, settled primly atop the wardrobe and extended its leg. An envelope tied to it ever so delicately.
“You’re very lucky I am not in the mood for owl stew.”
He removed the letter without looking at the handwriting and set it aside on the dresser. The owl took its leave, and Draco took it as a sign to take his. He grabbed his coat, stepped out into the cool air, and told himself that he needed to shake off the morning. Whatever nonsense the day intended to produce, he would meet it properly and composed.
By the time he reached the Ministry Atrium, the morning had settled into its usual rhythm. Witches and wizards bustled across the polished floor in purposeful strides, the great golden fountain at the center casting shimmering light toward the enchanted ceiling above.
Draco adjusted the cuff of his sleeve as he stepped away from the Floo, still faintly irritated by the odd start to his morning, but it was nothing a cup of coffee and a verbal spar with Hermione couldn’t correct.
He didn't see the trainee until it was too late. The young Auror barreled around the corner from the security desk with frantic urgency, a stack of parchment—far too tall to be carried without magical assistance—teetering dangerously in their arms.
They collided.
Draco instinctively reached out to steady both the trainee and the precarious tower of paperwork. For a brief, hopeful second, it appeared he had succeeded.
Then a sudden, inexplicable current of wind caught the edges of the parchment and lifted them like startled birds. Sheets scattered in every direction, spiraling around the room before floating down toward the fountain.
Draco stared, but the trainee made a strangled noise and lunged forward.
“No! I need those!”
The first few pages hit the water.
Draco moved quickly, boots striking the marble as he attempted to intercept at least a portion of the floating disaster. He bent to grab a sheet that had landed near the fountain’s edge.
But the marble beneath his foot shifted.
No…it wasn’t the floor. It was him.
One rogue page, already damp from the fountain’s spray, had plastered itself neatly beneath his heel. His footing vanished and before he could recover, he fell into the fountain with a splash loud enough to silence the entire atrium.
“FUCK!”
The cold struck first, soaking through wool and cotton in a matter of seconds. Water surged up around him, drenching his hair, his collar, every carefully selected detail of his morning.
He surfaced slowly, pushing his wet hair back from his eyes as every person in the room just stared. The trainee stood frozen at the fountain’s edge, horrified. And directly across from him, hand pressed suspiciously close to her mouth, stood Hermione Granger.
For a fraction of a second, her composure cracked. A small, unmistakable giggle escaped before she swallowed it down and hurried forward, concern painting itself neatly across her features.
“Are you alright?” she asked, offering him a hand.
He took it and he would later pretend he hadn’t noticed the brightness in her eyes.
“Yes,” he said evenly as he climbed from the basin, salvaging what dignity he could from saturated trousers. “It seems I slipped.”
“I see that,” she replied, with a bit of lift in her voice.
He took stock of the sopping mess he was making, as the trainee ran around, still gathering the rest of his documents.
Draco muttered a drying charm under his breath, flicking his wand in a sharp upward motion. The water evaporated instantly, but for some unknown reason, his clothes began to change. The fabric shrank against his forearms, stopping several inches shy of his wrists. His trousers tightened and then retreated upward to a mortifying length somewhere just below his knees.
There was a brief pause, where he was sure he was in a nightmare. Surely he had not woken at all and any second now his alarm would drag him from this particular hell.
Hermione’s composure shattered entirely. A snort escaped her before she could stop it, and she whipped a hand over her mouth in a valiant, yet unsuccessful, attempt to contain the laughter threatening to overtake her.
“Oh no,” she managed between giggles, reaching toward his sleeve as though inspecting it might undo the damage. “It seems your clothes didn’t appreciate that sudden bit of heat, Draco.”
More giggles.
Draco straightened slowly, attempting to conceal the flush creeping up his neck. Well. There was certainly no way this could get worse. He would simply go home, change, and pretend this morning had never occurred.
“Thank you for that, Granger,” he said stiffly. “I’ll just be on my way.”
“No, Draco, I’m sorr—”
She never finished, because behind them, the lift doors opened.
Of. Fucking. Course.
Potter and Weasley stepped out and immediately stopped.
Like a cat who got the cream, Weasley’s grin spread slowly across his face. “New look, mate?”
Potter glanced down at Draco’s trousers and back up again, one eyebrow arching. “Bit breezy, isn’t it?”
Hermione turned away entirely, shoulders shaking and silent tears streaming down her face.
Draco lifted his chin. “If you lot are finished,” he said coolly, “I believe I’ll owl Robards that I’m taking a sick day.”
“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” Potter said, biting the inside of his cheek. “You can just transfigure from a child’s suit back to your own.”
“Yeah, mate,” Ron added, clutching his stomach as he doubled over. “Unless you’re expecting a flood anytime soon.”
“I hate you all,” Draco muttered as he stalked toward the lifts.
When they chimed again, he stepped inside, Hermione slipping in beside him, Potter and Weasley following close behind. The doors slid shut. Laughter overtook the confined space almost immediately as Draco attempted to transfigure his clothes back to proper proportions—though they resisted far more stubbornly than they ever had before.
He finally managed to restore his suit to something approaching normalcy, though the fit remained… extremely questionable. He took a steadying breath, trying desperately not to replay every mortifying moment, particularly the ones that had unfolded directly in front of Hermione. Not once did he consider the possibility that the day had only just begun.
The rest of the morning didn't improve. It began with the coffee he had been looking forward to before the fountain fiasco.
Draco stood beside the breakroom counter, mug positioned beneath the spout of the Ministry’s temperamental coffee machine, waiting for the dark stream to pour. It sputtered once, made a sound like a dying Kneazle, and released half a cup of lukewarm sludge before slowing to a stop.
He stared at it while someone behind him coughed politely.
He pressed the button again, and nothing.
He lifted the mug, took a reluctant sip, and immediately regretted it. Bitter. Cold. Probably how the person behind him would likely describe him.
Back at his desk with his cup of disappointment, he began sorting through the memos littering his workspace. He reached to respond to one, removed the lid from his inkpot and the glass slipped between his fingers. He watched it give a slow, treacherous wobble before spilling entirely across his desk. Ink bled into parchment and dripped directly onto his already questionably resized trousers.
Black ink stained the wool in an ugly bloom, and when he reached to salvage the memos, his hands slid through it, coating his fingers in dark streaks.
He closed his eyes briefly before the irritation could fully take over.
“Scourgify.”
The worst of it vanished, though a faint shadow remained both on his cuffs and his dignity. He entered the conference room moments later with hands still faintly stained and his jaw clenched. The meeting itself was mercifully uneventful. He completed two reports before ten-thirty and filed them without another incident. He even allowed himself to believe the day had turned around. Then, as if the gods had heard his uncharacteristic optimism, an interoffice memo shot down the corridor at alarming speed and smacked directly into his eye.
He recoiled, hand flying up and the memo fluttered harmlessly to the floor. The damage, unfortunately, was done.
His left eye watered stubbornly for the next hour, forcing him into a half-squint that gave the deeply unfortunate impression that he was winking suggestively at every passing employee.
“Everything alright, Malfoy?” a junior Auror asked cautiously.
“Just perfect,” he replied, winking aggressively.
From the neighboring desk, Hermione made a soft sound that suspiciously resembled her suppressed laughter.
It wasn’t until nearly two that Robards summoned both of them regarding the internal audit.
“Retrieve the archived case files from F96–V96,” Robards said gruffly. “We’re missing three supplemental reports and two confiscation logs.”
Draco and Hermione inclined their heads and were dismissed.
The archives were predictably quiet. Floating lamps glowed dimly between towering shelves, and the air carried the faint scent of dust and aging parchment. Draco walked slightly ahead of her, trying to reason with the run of inconveniences that had plagued him since waking. His thoughts kept circling back to the mirror.
Seven years. Could he honestly survive seven years of this?
“You’re being weird.”
“I am not. I’m thinking about… things.”
Hermione studied him but, surprisingly, did not press further.
Now more suspicious of her un-Hermione type behavior, he spun around to ask her and was met with her wide eyes, the shape of small saucers.
“Granger? What’s wrong?” He stepped forward, and she stepped back.
“Draco…you—” She pointed upwards.
He followed her finger and found himself staring at the underside of a tall wooden ladder. His fingers drifted to his collar, tugging it loose from his suddenly constricting throat. Was it warmer down here?
He cleared his throat and stepped deliberately out from beneath it. “Come on, Granger. Don’t be ridiculous.”
He hurried away toward the Archive clerk who had pointed them in the direction of their case boxes. They located the requested files without catastrophe, and for a fleeting moment Draco felt vindicated.
Until—
“Ahem, Mr. Malfoy?”
The voice drifted through the aisle like overly sweet, near sickly, perfume.
Ms. Alderwick stood beside a stack of boxes, lipstick smudged cheerfully across her front teeth.
Draco inhaled, willing himself to not break into a sprint. “Yes?”
“I was wondering if you might spare a few minutes,” she said, fluttering her lashes. “There are some rather heavy storage boxes that simply refuse to cooperate with me.”
“Sorry Ms. Alderwick, I’m afraid we’re under direct instruction from—”
“Oh, he can absolutely help you,” Hermione cut in brightly.
He turned and a cheshire grin creeped across her face.
“We’re ahead of schedule,” she continued pleasantly. “And our dear Draco here prides himself on being helpful.”
Ms. Alderwick clasped her hands together. “How marvelous.”
Draco narrowed his eyes at Hermione. “Actually, don’t you need help with that—”
“Oh no,” Hermione insisted, already stepping backward down the aisle. “I’m just fine. Ms. Alderwick is counting on you.”
Their eyes locked and he could see the mischievous glint in them.
“Granger,” he warned, but she was already halfway to the exit. To safety.
“I’ll just run these up to Robards,” she said lightly. “And please take all the time you need, Draco. No need to rush!”
Ms. Alderwick looped her arm through his before he could protest further.
“You’re such a gentleman. And a strong one at that,” she said, giving his bicep a squeeze that was surprisingly firm for a woman forty years his senior.
Draco stared at the space where Hermione had disappeared.
His mind began to spiral as Ms. Alderwick steered him toward the never-ending mountain of boxes awaiting their relocation.
Each incident thus far was explainable on its own…but together? Together…He didn't like the thought of what that implied.
He lifted the first heavy box.
And for the first time since waking, a small, unwelcome seed of doubt pressed against his chest.
By the time Robards dismissed them for the evening, Draco had convinced himself that the worst of it had passed.
All of his reports were filed, the audit boxes stacked, and Ms. Alderwick had finally released him after an aggressively affectionate farewell and an entirely unnecessary comment about his “excellent lifting posture.”
He stood outside the lift, arms folded, pretending he was not waiting for the one witch he wanted to see before he left.
Hermione exited the corridor moments later, rolling her sleeves back down from where she’d pushed them up while sorting files. A faint dusting of parchment powder clung to her curls.
“You didn’t have to wait,” she said lightly.
“I wasn’t.”
She hummed, thoroughly unconvinced.
They stepped into the lift together, the doors sliding shut with a quiet metallic hiss. The descent was smooth, the hum of the machinery filling the small space.
Draco cleared his throat. “So, Granger, do you have plans this weekend?”
Hermione’s brow lifted slowly. “Why?” she asked, entirely too innocent. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
He sputtered. “I—well—that wasn’t—”
She turned fully toward him, bottom lip pressed lightly between her teeth, cheeks lifted in a smile she was clearly trying to suppress.
He straightened slightly, reclaiming what composure he could. “Would you agree if I did?”
She tilted her head, considering him in a way that felt both thoughtful and deeply amused. “I suppose that depends,” she said, tapping her finger lightly against the railing. “What did you have planned?”
He hesitated, because the truth was he had never actually expected to get this far. He’d always assumed that if he asked Hermione Granger on a date, she’d laugh him straight out of the Ministry.
“Something… well thought out,” he said carefully. “I’m not entirely incompetent.”
“Mm,” she murmured. “That remains to be seen, Draco.” The way she punctuated his name sent his pulse climbing just a little higher.
The lift chimed as they ended their descent and the doors slid open to a sleek black cat padding directly across their path.
Draco stopped so abruptly Hermione nearly collided with his back.
He stared and paled even more, if that was possible.
The cat paused mid-stride, looked up at him with complete indifference, and continued across the marble floor.
“Why,” Draco said slowly, without taking his eyes off the disappearing tail, “is there a cat in here?”
Hermione peeked around his broad frame and pressed her lips together.
“Have you ever seen a cat in the Atrium before?” his voice turning into panic, “Have you? In all the years we’ve worked here?!”
She shook her minutely as her shoulders began to tremble.
He quickly carded his hand through his nno-longer-perfectly-coiffed hair, then dragged it down his face.
“Alright,” he muttered. “This is absurd. Entirely absurd.”
He inhaled sharply. “I have to get the hell out of here.”
“Granger, if you are still agreeable, I would very much like to take you on a date. I’ll owl you the details, but I really must go.”
He took a few steps from her before she could respond.
Then froze.
He looked down and saw a thin crack running through the marble beneath his shoe. His breath left him in a rush, and he almost collapsed to his knees. “Oh no.”
Hermione rushed toward him, “Draco, it’s just—”
“Oh gods.”
He lifted his foot as though the stone itself had cursed him.
“MOTHER!”
Hermione lunged for his arm, but he was already moving. He broke into a sprint across the atrium, boots striking marble in frantic rhythm as he reached the floo.
“Malfoy Manor!” he shouted, hurling powder into the flames.
The world spun violently green but just before the fire swallowed him whole, he thought he heard Hermione’s voice echo faintly behind him.
“Draco, wait!”
Then he was gone.
He stumbled from the Floo in a violent spill of green flame and ash, barely catching himself against the marble hearth before launching into the corridor.
“Mother!”
His voice echoed down the long hallway, stripped entirely of dignity, panic fully setting in.
“Mother!”
A door flew open at the end of the corridor and Narcissa Malfoy emerged from the library, silk dressing gown flowing behind her, concern etched across her face.
“Draco?” she called, brows knitting in confusion. “What on earth—”
He crossed the space in seconds and seized her by the shoulders. “Oh gods, Mother—you’re ok—I thought—Gods, I thought I’d killed you.”
Narcissa blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
He pulled her into an embrace so tight it nearly lifted her from the ground.
“Your back,” he muttered into her hair.
“I’m back from where? I’ve remained in the house exactly as you instructed me to.” she repeated flatly.
“No! Not you’re back—your back!”
She placed her hands on his arms and gently pushed him away to inspect his face.
“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” she said evenly, “explain. What on earth has got you in such a state?”
Before he could answer, the floo roared to life again and Hermione tumbled through the flames, slightly out of breath.
“Draco?! Draco, where are you?”
She hurried forward and stopped short when she saw him clutching Narcissa in the middle of the corridor.
“Oh Merlin.”
Draco turned, gesturing helplessly toward his mother.
“Look, Granger!” he said, still slightly wild-eyed. “She’s fine.”
Hermione’s expression shifted and the amusement that had clung to her all day was gone. In its place—guilt. Real, undeniable guilt.
Draco narrowed his eyes. “What,” he asked slowly, “is wrong?”
Hermione swallowed. “Draco… I need to tell you something.” She stepped forward, fingers twisting together nervously.
“It was me.” she said, now staring at her shoes.
“What do you mean, it was you, Granger?”
“I sent the owl this morning. And I tripped the trainee and cast a small gusting charm so the parchment would drift into the fountain—”
Narcissa’s brows climbed steadily higher.
“And I tampered with the coffee machine, and loosened the lid on your ink pot. The memo was honestly just excellent timing, I didn’t do that. But I did reposition the ladder in the archives and beckoned Ms. Alderwick over. And the cat—”
Draco stared at her.
“The cat?” he repeated faintly.
“Um, it’s Ginny and Harry’s new cat. I asked him to release her in the atrium at precisely five twenty, because I knew you’d be waiting at the lifts.”
He remained motionless.
“I’m so sorry,” she added quickly, her voice losing its earlier confidence. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I thought you’d laugh. Or at least catch on. I didn’t expect you to—”
She gestured vaguely toward the floo, toward the Manor, toward the very intact Narcissa Malfoy standing beside him.
“To what?” Draco asked quietly.
Hermione’s shoulders sank. “To panic like that.”
The word settled heavily between them.
“I just wanted to prove a point,” she continued more softly. “You were talking badly about muggle superstitions and you were so smug and certain it was all ‘quite boring.’ I thought… a little practical demonstration might persuade you otherwise.”
For a moment, Draco wasn’t entirely sure whether he was still breathing, or if the air had been sucked out of the room. Hermione stood before him, cheeks flushed, fingers still knotted together as though she were awaiting a prison sentence.
The words seemed to hang suspended between them, absurd, impossible, and yet entirely, horrifyingly believable.
Then, from somewhere just over his shoulder, came a sound entirely new to his ears.
A loud and very unladylike snort, followed by the faintest attempt at composure.
Draco turned slowly. To his shock and bemusement, Narcissa Malfoy was laughing. Not the polite, measured sort she used at her teas or Ministry galas or tedious political dinners. This was unguarded and entirely delighted.
“Oh, Draco,” she managed between breaths, pressing elegant fingers to her lips as though attempting, and failing, to restore decorum.
She patted his cheek affectionately.
“My dragon,” she said fondly. “My gullible dragon”
Then she turned to Hermione. “Brilliant execution, darling.”
Hermione flushed. “I—thank you.”
Narcissa stepped past them both, smoothing her robe. “I shall leave you two alone before Miss Granger here plots another ruse for my demise.”
And then she disappeared back toward the library, laughter trailing faintly behind her.
Draco stepped toward Hermione and she lifted her chin defiantly.
“You can’t be mad at me, Malfoy,” she said, though her bottom lip betrayed her with the faintest pout. “You did this to yourself. You know better than to challenge me.”
He stopped a breath away from her.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “Back to Malfoy, is it?”
She swallowed. “You love it when I’m angry.”
His hand slid to her waist before she could retreat.
“Oh,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to hers. “I really do.”
He closed the distance, crashing his mouth against hers in a kiss that was fierce and demanding. It was months of restraint and one very long, humiliating day finally finding somewhere to land.
She responded instantly, her hands fisting the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as their mouths moved in a heated rhythm.
When they finally broke apart, Hermione’s eyes were bright with triumph.
“I’m excited about our date,” she said softly.
He brushed a curl from her cheek.
“As am I,” he replied, “And just so you’re aware, I will be marking every Friday the thirteenth on my calendar for the rest of my life.”
Her smile widened. “As a holiday?”
“As sick days.”
She laughed into his chest.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, Draco Malfoy made a solemn vow to never, ever again, underestimate Hermione Granger.