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The flat was dark.
Hermione Granger lay in bed, staring at nothing, her eyes tracing the familiar cracks in the ceiling she’d memorised over the past seven days. It had been seven long days since she’d walked in on Ron with Lavender Brown. Seven days had passed since her world had shattered into pieces so small she wasn’t sure she’d ever find them all.
The curtains were drawn tight against the afternoon sun. She preferred it this way. The darkness that surrounded her felt appropriate, as if the world were mourning with her. Except the world wasn’t mourning. The world was having a field day.
On her bedside table, beneath a cold cup of tea she couldn’t remember making, lay the latest edition of The Daily Prophet. She’d stopped reading them after the third one, but they kept arriving. Rita Skeeter’s poison pen had been working overtime.
“The Brightest Witch of Her Age Couldn’t Keep Her Wizard: An Exclusive Look at Hermione Granger’s Romantic Failures.”
“Sources Close to Weasley Reveal: ‘She Was Always Too Much Work.’”
“From War Heroine to Heartbroken: Has Hermione Granger Lost Her Magic?”
Each headline was a fresh wound. Each article suggested, in increasingly creative ways, that she was unlovable. Too intense. Too demanding. Too much. And the worst part? A treacherous voice in her head whispered that perhaps they were right.
She’d given Ron five years of her life. There had been five years of compromise and patience, and many times over the course of those years, she had made herself smaller so he could feel bigger. She’d pretended more than once that she didn’t mind when he forgot her birthday, rolled his eyes at her work, or made jokes at her expense in front of their friends. She’d told herself it was normal, that relationships required sacrifice, that love meant accepting someone’s flaws.
But he’d still cheated. He’d still chosen someone else.
What did that say about her?
Hermione pulled the duvet higher, cocooning herself in its false comfort. Her hair was a rat’s nest; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d washed or brushed it. There was a plate of something on her desk that Ginny had brought round three days ago, untouched and probably growing mould by now. She should get up. She should shower. She should eat.
She didn’t move.
A sharp knock at the door made her flinch.
“Go away, Ginny,” she called, her voice hoarse from disuse.
“Not Ginny.”
Hermione’s eyes widened. That voice was deeper, posher, and decidedly male.
“Draco?”
“The very same. Open the door, Granger.”
“I’m not—I can’t—just go away.”
There was a pause, then the distinct sound of a lock clicking open—wandless magic. Of course.
“I’m coming in,” Draco announced, and before she could protest, her bedroom door swung open.
Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, immaculate as always in dark trousers and a grey jumper that probably cost more than her monthly rent. His pale hair was swept back, his grey eyes assessing as they took in her room and her.
“Right,” he said, his tone brisk but not unkind. “This ends now.”
“Draco, I really can’t—”
“You’ve had a week, Hermione.” He moved into the room with the confidence of someone who belonged there, setting down a bag she hadn’t noticed he was carrying. “A week to wallow and mourn and feel sorry for yourself. That’s more than generous, considering Weasley doesn’t deserve a single tear from you. But enough is enough.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly.” He crossed to the windows and yanked the curtains open. Hermione hissed as sunlight flooded the room, covering her eyes. “I understand that you’ve been rotting in this bed whilst that absolute tosser carries on with his life as if he didn’t just destroy yours. I understand that Rita Skeeter has been eviscerating you in print whilst you’ve been too devastated to defend yourself. And I understand that you’ve forgotten something crucial.”
“What’s that?” she asked bitterly.
Draco turned to face her, and his expression was softer than she’d ever seen it. “That you’re Hermione bloody Granger, and you deserve so much more than this.”
Something in her chest cracked. She felt tears prick her eyes and looked away, ashamed. “I don’t feel like Hermione Granger right now.”
“I know.” His voice was gentle. “That’s why I’m here.”
He moved to her desk, vanishing the mouldy plate with a flick of his wand, then began unpacking the bag. The smell hit her first—rich and savoury and achingly familiar.
“Is that—”
“Shepherd’s pie from that little place in Diagon Alley you love. The one that does it with the rosemary and the extra cheese on top.” He glanced at her. “And yes, I got the side of honey-glazed carrots, even though you always claim you’re too full for them and then eat half of mine.”
Hermione stared at him. “How did you—”
“I pay attention.” He continued unpacking, producing a thermos. “I’ve also brought proper tea. None of that dishwater Weasley always made you. Earl Grey, steeped for exactly four minutes, one sugar, splash of milk.”
Her throat tightened. Ron had never remembered how she took her tea. In five years, he’d never once made it right.
“Draco, you didn’t have to—”
“Eat,” he commanded, handing her the container of shepherd’s pie and a fork. “Then shower. Then we’re going out.”
“I can’t go out. I look like—”
“You look like someone who’s been through hell,” he interrupted. “But you’re still beautiful, even with questionable hair and yesterday’s pyjamas. Now eat.”
Perhaps it was the firmness in his voice, or perhaps it was the fact that the shepherd’s pie smelled divine, and she couldn’t remember her last proper meal, but Hermione found herself obeying. The first bite was heaven. The second made her realise how hungry she was.
Draco poured tea into a proper mug and handed it to her. She took a sip and nearly moaned. Perfect. It was perfect.
“How do you know all this?” she asked quietly.
He settled into her desk chair, watching her with an unreadable expression. “I told you. I pay attention. I always have.”
There was something in his voice, something weighted and significant, but Hermione was too tired and too overwhelmed to examine it. Instead, she ate and drank her tea, feeling the first stirrings of something other than despair.
When she’d finished, Draco stood. “Right. Shower time.”
“Draco—”
“Non-negotiable, Granger. You’ve got twenty minutes. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”
She wanted to argue, but the thought of hot water and clean hair was suddenly appealing. With effort, she dragged herself out of bed. Her legs felt weak, unsteady.
Draco’s hand shot out, steadying her. “Easy.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not, but you will be.” His hand lingered on her arm for a moment before he released her. “Go on. I promise I won’t rifle through your knickers drawer.”
Despite everything, Hermione felt her lips twitch. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re stalling.”
She grabbed clean clothes, opting for a comfy pair of jeans, a soft jumper, and undergarments before heading to the bathroom. The moment the hot water hit her skin, she felt something inside her loosen. She washed her hair twice, scrubbed her skin until it was pink, and stood under the spray until the water began to cool.
When she emerged, towelling her hair, she found that Draco had been busy. Her bed was made with fresh sheets, though she had no idea where he’d found them. The windows were open, letting in fresh air, and her flat no longer looked like a depression nest.
He looked up from alphabetising her bookshelf—of course, he was—and smiled. “There she is.”
“You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to.” He crossed to her, reaching out to tuck a damp curl behind her ear. The gesture was so tender, so intimate, that Hermione forgot to breathe. “Better?”
“Better,” she whispered.
“Good. Now, we’re going out.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
The Muggle ice cream parlour was tucked away on a quiet street in Bloomsbury, the kind of place that looked like it had been there for a hundred years. Draco held the door open for her, and Hermione stepped inside to a world of pastel colours and the sweet smell of waffle cones.
“Ice cream?” she asked, bemused.
“Ice cream,” he confirmed. “When was the last time you had ice cream, Granger?”
She couldn’t remember. Ron had always said it was too childish, too frivolous.
“Exactly,” Draco commented, as if she’d spoken aloud. “Pick whatever you want. My treat.”
Hermione studied the flavours behind the glass: honeycomb, salted caramel, raspberry ripple, and mint chocolate chip. So many choices. She felt paralysed by them.
“The raspberry ripple is excellent,” Draco murmured. “And I know you have a weakness for anything raspberry.”
She did. She’d forgotten that about herself.
“Raspberry ripple, please,” she told the teenager behind the counter. “Two scoops.”
“Make that three,” Draco added. “And I’ll have the salted caramel. Two scoops.”
They took their ice creams to a small table by the window. Hermione took a tentative lick and felt her eyes widen. It was perfect, tasting tart, sweet and creamy.
“Good?” Draco asked, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Incredible.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a moment, watching people pass by on the street outside—normal people, living normal lives, unburdened by prophecies, wars and public heartbreak.
“I bought The Daily Prophet,” Draco said suddenly.
Hermione nearly dropped her cone. “You what?”
“Well, technically, I bought the parent company, but yes. The paperwork went through yesterday.” He took a deliberate lick of his ice cream, entirely too casual. “First order of business was terminating Rita Skeeter’s employment.”
“Draco—”
“Second order of business was reporting her to the Aurors for being an unregistered Animagus. Funny thing, that. Turns out there’s quite a hefty fine, and potential jail time, especially when combined with charges of slander against a war heroine.” He met her eyes. “She won’t be bothering you again.”
Hermione’s mind reeled. “You bought an entire newspaper company to fire Rita Skeeter?”
“I bought an entire newspaper company because it was a sound investment and because I was tired of reading rubbish every morning,” he corrected. “Firing Skeeter and having her arrested was just a delightful bonus.”
“Draco, you can’t have done that.”
“I can, and I did,” he finished. “She was hurting you. I couldn’t allow that to continue.”
“But why?” The question burst out of her. “Why would you do all this for me?”
Draco set down his ice cream, his expression turning serious. “Because you’re my friend, Hermione. Because I care about you. And because someone needed to remind you that you’re worth protecting.”
Tears pricked her eyes again, but this time they weren’t tears of despair. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll finish your ice cream before it melts,” he replied, his tone lightening. “And then say you’ll let me show you something.”
She managed a watery laugh. “Okay.”
As they finished their ice creams, Draco told her a ridiculous story about a mishap during an Auror training exercise that involved Blaise Zabini, a rogue Niffler, and the Minister’s hairpiece. Hermione found herself laughing for the first time in a week. The sound felt foreign, rusty, but wonderful.
When they left the parlour, Hermione felt lighter—not healed, not whole, but less broken than before.
“Where to now?” she asked.
Draco’s smile was mysterious. “Somewhere, I think you’ll appreciate.”
The library was hidden behind an unmarked door in a small wizarding village outside of London, protected by wards so intricate that Hermione’s fingers itched to trace them. Draco murmured a password in Latin that sounded like poetry, and the door swung open to reveal what lay beyond.
“This is my private collection,” he told her as he ushered her inside. “No one else knows about it. Not even Theo, and he’s my oldest friend.”
Hermione stepped into the room and gasped.
Books. Thousands of them, lining shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. The space was larger than it should be, thanks to extension charms, and the whole room was lit by floating candles that cast a warm, golden glow. The place was cosy, there were plush armchairs, a fireplace, and she could smell the scent of old paper, leather and magic.
“Draco,” she breathed. “This is incredible.”
“I thought you might like it.” He moved past her, trailing his fingers along the spines. “I’ve been collecting since the war ended. Magical theory, history, Muggle literature, rare texts, and banned books. Everything. I thought, after everything we’d been through, after all the knowledge that had been used to hurt people, perhaps it was time to preserve it properly. To understand it.”
Hermione drifted towards the nearest shelf, her eyes scanning titles. “Is that a first edition of Hogwarts: A History?”
“A1612 printing and before you ask, yes, you can read it.”
She pulled it down reverently, opening the ancient book to the first page. The paper was thick and yellowed, the text handwritten by the original author. “This is extraordinary.”
“There’s more. Come on, I’ll show you.”
The next three hours passed in a blur of wonder. Draco showed her his collection of magical theory texts, including several she’d been trying to find for years. They debated the finer points of Arithmancy, argued good-naturedly about the historical accuracy of various accounts of the Goblin Rebellions, and discovered a shared fascination with the intersection of Muggle and magical philosophy.
“No, but you see,” Hermione insisted, gesturing with the book she was holding, “Descartes’ mind-body dualism actually supports the theory of magical cores. If consciousness is separate from physical form, then magic could be an expression of that consciousness—”
“But that doesn’t account for Squibs,” Draco countered, leaning forward in his chair. “If magic is purely consciousness-based, then every wizard-born child should have magic. The fact that some don’t suggests a physical component.”
“Unless Squibs represent a disconnect between consciousness and magical expression. A blockage, not an absence.”
“Granger, that’s brilliant.” His eyes were alight with excitement. “Have you written about this?”
“I’ve been working on a paper, but—” She stopped, realising. “Ron always said my theories were too complicated. That I was overthinking things.”
Draco’s expression darkened. “Ron Weasley is an idiot who couldn’t find his own arse with both hands and a map. Your theories aren’t complicated; they’re sophisticated. There’s a difference.”
Hermione felt something warm unfurl in her chest. “You really think so?”
“I know so. Hermione, you’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever met. Your mind is extraordinary. Anyone who made you feel otherwise is a fool.”
She looked down at her hands, overwhelmed. “He used to get annoyed when I talked about work. Said I was being boring.”
“Then he’s even more of an idiot than I thought.” Draco stood, moving to crouch in front of her chair. “Listen to me. You are not boring. You are not too much. You are fascinating and brilliant, and anyone who can’t see that doesn’t deserve a moment of your time.”
“Draco—”
“I mean it. Do you know what my favourite part of the week is? Thursday lunches with you and Theo. Do you know why? Because I get to listen to you talk about your work, about your theories, about whatever book you’re reading. I get to watch your face light up when you’re excited about an idea. I get to see the way your mind works, all those beautiful, complicated connections. That’s not boring, Hermione. That’s magic.”
Tears were streaming down her face now. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make me feel like I matter.”
His hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing away her tears. “Because you do matter. You matter so much.”
They stayed like that for a moment, his hand on her face, her heart pounding in her chest. Then Draco cleared his throat and stood, moving back to his chair.
“Right. Where were we? Squibs and magical consciousness?”
Hermione laughed shakily. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re deflecting. Come on, Granger. Defend your thesis.”
They talked for another hour, the conversation flowing easily from magical theory to history to literature. Hermione told him about the Unspeakable project she was working on—something she’d never even told Ron about—and Draco shared details of a complex case he was investigating. They debated, laughed, and somewhere in the middle of a discussion about the ethics of memory charms, Hermione realised something.
She was having fun. Real, genuine, intellectual fun. The kind of fun she’d forgotten was possible.
She’d dated Ron for five years, and she couldn’t remember a single conversation that had engaged her like this. Not one moment where she’d felt so seen, so understood, so valued.
“What?” Draco asked, noticing her expression.
“I just—” She shook her head, wonder in her voice. “I’ve never had more fun than this. Then right now, with you.”
Something shifted in Draco’s expression. His grey eyes darkened, intensified. “Hermione—”
“Thank you,” she interrupted, suddenly desperate for him to understand. “Thank you for today. For the food, the tea, the ice cream, and this. For reminding me that I’m more than what Ron made me feel. For seeing me.”
She stood, crossing to where he sat, and before she could second-guess herself, she leaned down and pressed her lips to his.
For a heartbeat, Draco froze. Then his hand came up to the back of her neck, and he was kissing her back, soft and sweet and perfect.
Reality crashed back in. Hermione jerked away, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Oh, God. Oh God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just—you’ve been so kind, and I’m such a mess, and I shouldn’t have—”
“Hermione.” Draco stood, his voice firm. “Stop.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” He stepped closer, his hand finding her waist. “Don’t apologise. Not for that.”
“But I—”
“I’ve been in love with you for two years,” he admitted, the words tumbling out like a confession. “Two years of watching you with him, watching him take you for granted, watching him fail to appreciate the extraordinary woman right in front of him. Two years of Thursday lunches where I got to pretend, just for an hour, that you were mine. So please, Hermione, don’t apologise for kissing me.”
Her breath caught. “You’re in love with me?”
“Hopelessly.”
“But you never said—”
“You were with him. I wasn’t going to interfere. But he’s gone now, and I’ll be damned if I let you go on thinking you’re anything less than extraordinary.”
Hermione’s mind was reeling. Draco Malfoy was in love with her. Had been for years. All those lunches, all those conversations, all those moments she’d treasured as friendship, he’d felt more.
“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered.
“Say you’ll let me kiss you again,” he murmured. “Properly this time.”
She nodded, and Draco’s hand slid into her hair, tilting her face up to his. This kiss was different from the first. Deeper, more passionate, full of two years of longing and want. Hermione melted into it, her hands fisting in his jumper, as she felt something inside her slot into place.
This. This was what it was supposed to feel like.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Draco rested his forehead against hers.
“Let me take you on a proper date,” he asked. “A real one. Let me show you how you deserve to be treated.”
“I don’t know how you could top today,” Hermione admitted, her lips curving into a smile.
Draco’s answering smile was pure Slytherin. Confident and just a little bit wicked. “Oh, I have a few ideas.”
“Do you now,” she asked him with a small smile of her own.
“Mmm. I’ve had two years to plan, after all.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then her lips again. “Say yes, Hermione.”
She thought about the past week: the darkness, the despair, and the conviction that she was unlovable. Then she thought about today—the perfectly made shepherd’s pie, tea brewed just right, ice cream and laughter, and hours spent talking in the library. She thought about Draco buying a newspaper company to protect her, the way he looked at her as though she hung the moon, and how he made her feel valued, understood, and cherished.
She thought about how, for the first time in five years, she felt like herself again.
“Yes,” she replied, watching his handsome face transform with joy. "Yes, Draco. Take me on a proper date.”
He kissed her again, a kiss that was soft, sweet and full of promise. As Hermione kissed him back, surrounded by thousands of books in a hidden library, she realised something important.
She did deserve more. She deserved someone who knew how she took her tea, who celebrated her brilliance rather than diminishing it, who looked at her as if she were the most precious thing in the world.
She deserved this.
She deserved him.
For the first time in a week—perhaps for the first time in five years—Hermione Granger felt that everything might be alright. Whatever this was with Draco, it was new and delicate, yet it already felt stronger than what she had shared with Ron for years. She didn’t know what the future would hold, but where despair had once taken root, hope now began to grow. And she found herself imagining a lifetime of dates like this one, a lifetime of shared moments with a man who understood her to her core.
The End.