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“It hurts,” the first year sobbed.
Hermione knelt lower, her voice a hushed ribbon of calm in the dim corridor. “I know. I know — keep your voice down, all right? If someone hears—”
Madeline’s hand shook in hers. The carved words were livid and swollen, skin split and furious.
Hermione swallowed her own anger. Umbridge’s quill wasn’t discipline. It was cruelty dressed in lace.
“I can’t remove the scar,” Hermione murmured. “But I can take the pain away.”
Madeline hesitated, indoctrination battling instinct, before offering her trembling hand.
Hermione lifted her wand.
Golden light spilled over torn skin.
The corridor hummed softly.
Madeline’s breathing steadied.
And then—
“Well. Isn’t this touching.”
The light flickered.
Hermione didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.
Draco Malfoy’s voice was silk wrapped around a blade.
She rose slowly, placing herself between him and the first year. “Shouldn’t you be lurking somewhere more dramatic?”
He leaned against the wall as if he’d been artfully arranged there by a Renaissance painter. Pale hair immaculate. Expression lazy. Eyes razor-sharp.
“I was,” he replied smoothly. “Then I smelled righteousness.”
Hermione scoffed. “Tragic for you.”
His gaze shifted — not to her face — but to Madeline’s hand just as the final threads of gold sealed the wound.
His jaw tightened.
“Did she do that?” he asked quietly.
Madeline nodded.
He stared at Hermione.
Not mockingly.
Assessing.
Something unreadable flickered through his eyes.
“She didn’t ask me to,” Hermione said before she could stop herself.
His gaze dragged back to her. Slowly.
“You never do wait to be asked, do you, Granger?”
The implication settled heavy in the air.
Madeline fled under his dismissive instruction, leaving them alone in the corridor.
Silence expanded.
Hermione crossed her arms. “Well? Go on. Deduct points. Deliver a monologue.”
He pushed off the wall.
“You’re out past curfew.”
“So are you.”
“I’m on patrol.”
She arched a brow. “And I’m performing community service.”
He stepped closer.
Too close.
The air shifted.
“You do realise,” he said softly, “that if Umbridge finds you wandering about after hours, she won’t be using a quill next time.”
“And you’d just love that, wouldn’t you?” she shot back.
His eyes darkened.
“You assume too much.”
“And you posture too much.”
He stopped inches away.
Hermione refused to step back.
Refused to let him see the way her pulse had begun a treacherous sprint.
“You’re reckless,” he murmured.
“You’re predictable.”
“You have no self-preservation instinct.”
“You have no soul.”
His lips twitched.
“You blush when you’re angry.”
Her stomach flipped.
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“I hate you.”
“No,” he said softly, eyes holding hers in a way that made something dangerously hot coil low in her stomach. “You don’t.”
The corridor seemed to shrink.
And then—
His head snapped toward the courtyard.
He grabbed her.
Hard.
She barely had time to gasp before he pulled her into a narrow alcove, pressing her into shadow just as the sharp click of kitten heels echoed down the hall.
“Malfoy—”
“If you value your skin, silence.”
The space was impossibly small.
Her back hit stone.
He stepped in front of her.
There was nowhere else to go.
His chest nearly brushed hers. One arm braced against the wall beside her head, caging her in without quite touching.
His breath ghosted warm across her cheek.
“Comfortable?” she whispered sharply.
“Thrilled,” he muttered back.
Umbridge’s silhouette appeared at the mouth of the corridor.
Draco leaned forward slightly, shielding Hermione completely.
“Evening, Professor,” he called smoothly.
Hermione’s heart pounded violently in her ribs.
He was so close she could feel the vibration of his voice through his chest.
“Mr Malfoy,” Umbridge purred.
“What were you doing here?”
“Being thorough.”
Hermione almost choked.
They exchanged pleasantries.
Then—
“Professor,” Draco added casually, “regarding the quill punishments… perhaps first years require alternative methods.”
Hermione froze.
Umbridge’s voice sharpened.
Draco’s tone did not waver.
“And Father did ask after your family,” he added lightly. “Doncaster, wasn’t it?”
A weighted silence followed.
Umbridge retreated.
When her footsteps finally faded, Hermione exhaled.
Draco didn’t move.
He was still braced over her.
Still trapping her in the alcove.
Still looking down at her in a way that felt far too deliberate.
“You can let me out now,” she said quietly.
“Can I?”
Her throat tightened.
“Yes.”
He didn’t step back immediately.
Instead, his eyes dropped — just briefly — to her lips.
Then back to her eyes.
Her pulse stuttered.
The corridor was empty.
Too empty.
Hermione’s pulse was still hammering from Umbridge’s near discovery, from Draco’s arm braced against the wall beside her head, from the way he’d looked at her like she was something combustible.
He stepped back at last, smooth and infuriatingly composed.
“Oh, and Granger?”
She was already striding away. “What now?”
“Fifty points from Gryffindor.”
She stopped dead.
Turned slowly.
“You cannot be serious.”
“For being out past curfew.”
“You dragged me into an alcove!”
“You didn’t protest.”
Her temper snapped.
Three strides closed the distance between them.
Before he could finish that smug half-smirk, she grabbed his collar and yanked him down to her height.
The movement shocked them both.
His back hit the stone wall with a dull thud.
Hermione was breathing hard. So was he.
“Take. Them. Back.” she hissed.
His eyes had gone very still.
Very dark.
“You’re manhandling a prefect,” he murmured, voice lower now. Rougher.
“You’re abusing authority.”
“Is that what this is?” His gaze flicked to her fist twisted in his collar. “Abuse of authority?”
“Don’t you dare make this a joke.”
“I’m not laughing.”
He wasn’t.
His hands had come up — not pushing her away — just hovering at her waist like he hadn’t decided yet what to do with them.
The corridor felt smaller than the alcove had.
“You think you get to play hero?” she said, her voice shaking with leftover adrenaline. “Threaten Umbridge and then punish me?”
“You think you get to fix everything?” he shot back. “Marching around after hours like you’re invincible?”
“I was helping someone!”
“And what happens when someone can’t help you?”
The words landed hard.
She faltered for half a second.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“You don’t get to scare me like that,” he added quietly.
Her grip tightened.
“Scare you?” she echoed incredulously. “You hate me.”
His jaw flexed.
“You have a remarkable talent for misunderstanding.”
“Then explain it!” she demanded.
His hands settled on her waist.
Not forceful.
Not gentle.
Just there.
“You heal one of mine,” he said, voice tight. “You stand there shaking with rage like you’re ready to duel a professor. And I’m supposed to what? Mock you and walk away?”
“That’s usually your specialty.”
“I am trying,” he snapped, composure cracking, “to prevent you from getting yourself killed.”
The words hung between them.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
Her heart stumbled.
“You don’t care what happens to me.”
“Don’t tell me what I care about.”
She searched his face — expecting sarcasm, deflection, a sneer.
There was none.
Only something strained and furious and dangerously honest.
“You’re impossible,” she whispered.
“And you’re reckless.”
“You infuriate me.”
“You’re insufferable.”
She was still gripping his collar.
He was still holding her waist.
Neither of them had stepped back.
The air felt charged. Like a spell building without release.
“You took points,” she said, but it sounded weak now.
“You grabbed me first.”
“Because you’re infuriating.”
“Because you’re flustered.”
“I am not flustered.”
His gaze dropped — briefly — to her mouth.
Her breath caught.
That tiny flicker of attention felt louder than any shout.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured.
“I am furious.”
“Same difference.”
“Oh, I loathe you.”
His hand flexed at her waist.
“No, you don’t.”
And something in her — some taut, stretched wire of months of arguments and stolen looks and almost-moments — finally snapped.
She surged forward.
It wasn’t delicate.
It wasn’t planned.
It was collision.
Her mouth crashed against his.
For half a heartbeat, he froze.
Then his fingers tightened, pulling her closer instead of pushing her away.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t polite.
It was sharp edges and anger and everything they’d refused to say.
She felt the wall cold behind his shoulders and the heat of him under her hands and the dizzying realization that this was a terrible, catastrophic mistake—
—and she did not stop.
His hand slid up, tangling briefly in her hair, not controlling — just anchoring.
The kiss shifted.
Less fury.
More something else.
Something dangerous.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing like they’d run a mile.
Silence roared.
Hermione’s hands were still twisted in his shirt.
Draco’s forehead rested against hers.
“Well,” he said hoarsely.
Her heart was trying to escape her ribs.
“That was a mistake.”
“Catastrophic,” he agreed.
Neither of them moved.
After a beat, he added quietly,
“Worth it.”
She let go of his collar slowly.
He didn’t step away immediately.
“Fifty points,” he murmured.
She glared at him.
“You’re unbearable.”
“And you kissed me.”
“You provoked me.”
His mouth twitched.
“Detention,” he added lightly.
“For what?”
He leaned in just enough that she felt his breath again — softer now, but no less charged.
“For assaulting a prefect.”
Her eyes flashed.
“I’ll do it again.”
His answering smile was slow.
“Promises, Granger, are very dangerous things.”
And this time, when she walked away, she didn’t look back.
But she could feel his gaze on her the entire way down the corridor.
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