Over the following days, Hermione practically took up residence in the Room of Requirement — with or without Draco.
"Right," Draco decided one morning, walking in and plucking the wand straight out of her hand.
Hermione spun around, reaching for it instantly, but he held it just above her reach.
"Malfoy, give it back!" she snapped.
Draco kept his arm raised, unbothered. "You've spent more time in here than I have, and this is my task, not yours."
She didn't respond, rising onto her toes to grab for it.
"Tell me why you've practically moved in."
"I have not moved in," she said flatly.
"You haven't seen your own bed since Tuesday."
"That is not true!"
Draco leaned away with casual ease. "Granger, you look like you haven't slept in days — and I say that as someone who has watched you fall asleep on several different pieces of furniture in this room because you've been actively avoiding the bed."
Hermione shook her head. "I'm not avoiding the bed. I just — it doesn't matter. I'm fine. I've managed late nights before."
Draco did a slow once-over, taking in the shadows under her eyes, her fraying composure, the general aura of exhaustion she was trying to project through. "You're going properly mental, Granger."
"Oh, because I'm a Muggle-born, I couldn't possibly push myself—"
Draco raised a hand, cutting her off cleanly. "Did I say that? No. Don't put words in my mouth. I think you're stubborn and obsessive and probably one more sleepless night away from whispering sweet nothings to the Vanishing Cabinet."
Hermione scowled. "I'm sleep-deprived, not delusional."
"By tomorrow, you'll be writing 'Malfoy is dreamy' in the margins of your revision notes."
Hermione made a sound of pure revulsion. "I'd sooner let a Dementor Kiss me."
"Go," Draco said, dropping his voice as he placed his hands on her shoulders. "Eat something. Sleep. Have a bath. Talk to your actual friends. Do something other than obsess over this cabinet for a few hours."
She practically melted under his hands, her shoulders releasing without her permission.
"Fine," she said quietly. "But not because you told me to."
"Understood." He stepped back, handing her wand over.
Hermione took it and moved toward the door. She paused with her hand on the frame. "Don't think about me in the bath, Malfoy."
Draco closed his eyes, groaning as the door shut.
"Don't think about me in the bath," she'd said. As if he had been. As if he would.
Now, of course, he was.
Bloody Granger.
He took a steadying breath and turned back to the cabinet, pulling out his wand. He needed to concentrate. There were only so many hours in a day, and there were absolutely no excuses for this sort of distraction.
He tried to picture the incantation, the way the cabinet's wood would regenerate, the cracks sealing along the grain — tried not to picture her sinking into warm water, head tipping back, steam curling softly around her—
He flicked his wand with a sharp motion and muttered the repair spell, but the cabinet barely responded. His magic sputtered and fizzled at the surface, weak and unfocused.
This is ridiculous, he told himself.
He tried again. The war. His parents. The task. Something — anything — to anchor his thoughts.
That lasted approximately thirty seconds.
Thirty seconds before his mind conjured her again, unbidden — her neck tilting back, hair clinging to damp skin, lips parted slightly in something like relief.
"Not thinking about her in the bath," he said under his breath, with great conviction. "Not thinking about—"
The Room of Requirement, entirely without conscience, promptly conjured a softly lit bathroom scene in the corner. Warm water. Steam. Fluffy towels.
Draco let out a strangled noise — somewhere between a curse and a groan — and spun on his heel to glare at it.
"You cannot be serious."
The Room remained utterly indifferent to his suffering.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. He was a Malfoy. He had control. He did not fall apart because some impossibly clever, irritating, thoroughly captivating girl made an offhand comment on her way out the door.
But then he thought of the way her shoulders had gone slack under his hands.
What else—
No.
---
Halfway down the corridor, Hermione smirked to herself. She hadn't planned to say it, but the way Draco's expression had shifted — that split second of sheer, visible alarm before he'd scrambled to recover — had been utterly worth it.
She was still laughing quietly to herself by the time she reached the Prefects' bathroom.
It had been so easy. A handful of words, and Draco Malfoy — smug, insufferable, always-in-command Draco Malfoy — had looked as though she'd hit him with a Bludger.
It pleased her more than it should have.
But then the little voice at the back of her mind started up. Because, logically — if it hadn't meant anything to him, he wouldn't have reacted at all. He would have rolled his eyes and told her to get out. But he hadn't. He'd frozen.
Which meant he had been thinking about it.
Which meant he might think about her. In that way.
She reminded herself — firmly — that he was still Malfoy. Whatever she might feel behind closed doors, it was still Malfoy. Nothing about that had changed. There was no world in which he would actually—
Except now he was Draco, too.
By the time she reached the bathroom, the heaviness in her limbs had fully caught up with her. Her head wasn't buzzing with thoughts of the war, or Harry and Ron, or even the Vanishing Cabinet she'd been pouring herself into.
No.
It was buzzing with thoughts of him.
Draco, who had taken her wand just to make her rest. Draco, who had set his hands on her shoulders with such quiet steadiness that she'd gone soft without meaning to. Draco, who had looked at her with that strange, exasperated tenderness — like she was something he hadn't solved yet but wanted to.
She turned on the taps, watching the water rise as steam drifted toward the ceiling. She just needed to wait it out. That was all.
She let her robes fall — not at all picturing him helping her out of them — and sank into the bath.
She looked out the window at the sky. She needed a break. Not from the cabinet, not from Harry and Ron — from Draco. She needed an entire day where she didn't think about him.
Today was supposed to have been a Hogsmeade trip. But judging by the darkening clouds and the heavy roll of snow already accumulating on the grounds, she suspected that wasn't happening.
---
Hermione headed to the Great Hall for lunch after her bath, watching the snow fall in thick curtains beyond the tall windows.
Even with Hogsmeade cancelled, she could find a way to keep herself occupied. Harry would probably be trailing Draco in his thoughts, if not literally, and Ron would find some way to irritate her. She could find Ginny, but Ginny appeared to be in the middle of something with Dean, and she didn't particularly want to be the awkward third party. Not that her new Slytherin friends were any easier — they also happened to be Draco's friends.
She walked into the Great Hall, letting her gaze move over the room. Ginny sat at the Gryffindor table in what looked like a tense conversation with Dean, and Hermione quietly crossed that option off the list. Ron was with Lavender. Luna was apparently holding Harry captive.
She could sit alone, but that would only give her thoughts more room to run riot.
Pansy caught her eye from across the room and raised an eyebrow. Hermione sighed, crossed the hall, and sat down beside her. "Pans."
Pansy's brow arched further. "How kind of you to grace us with your presence. I believe the last time I saw you, you were having a small epiphany about wanting to—"
"Pansy." Hermione cut her off, glancing pointedly at Theo and Blaise, who had gone very still.
"We already know," Blaise said helpfully.
"Daphne told me," Theo added.
"And Theo told me," Blaise confirmed.
Hermione dropped her face into her hands. "Brilliant. So glad my personal crisis has been distributed so efficiently."
"It's not a crisis," Pansy said, picking up a grape. "Just the relevant people know."
Theo snorted. "And by relevant, she means the ones who've had front-row seats to this particular disaster."
Hermione glared at him. "It isn't a disaster. Nothing is happening."
"Because you called him attractive and then immediately categorised it as friendly feeling," Pansy said. "Honestly, I prefer it this way. I like having you as my friend and Draco as mine. Separately."
"Good. That's exactly what we are." Hermione grabbed a roll with more force than strictly necessary.
Dumbledore rose at the podium and cleared his throat, quieting the room.
"Due to the incoming storm, today's Hogsmeade visit has been cancelled. It will be rescheduled following the holiday break."
The collective groan rippled across the hall. Hermione exhaled, caught somewhere between relief and mild frustration. She had wanted an escape, but now had no obvious one.
"So what do you think, Hermione?" Theo asked.
She blinked. "Sorry?"
Pansy huffed. "Come back to ours. We'll play something. Have a chat. A drink — hot chocolate or fire whiskey, your pick. Both, ideally."
Hermione turned the idea over. The Slytherin common room. Warm. Removed from everything. There was a decent chance Draco would be there, but then again, there was a reasonable chance she'd spend the entire day thinking about him wherever she went.
"I'm not sure—"
"Sounds wonderful, actually." Ginny appeared from behind Hermione, dropping into a seat. "Assuming I'm invited."
Pansy gave her an assessing look before lifting her chin in gracious acceptance. "I suppose you'll do."
Ginny grinned. "Brilliant. And so is she." She jerked her head toward Hermione.
Hermione looked at her. "I didn't agree to anything."
"Too late. I agreed for you."
Pansy stood, already pleased. "Ours in an hour, then. Bring your drink of choice."
---
Ginny practically dragged Hermione through the corridors to the dungeons.
"We could stay in Gryffindor Tower," Hermione argued. "Play something with our own friends."
"These are your friends too," Ginny said briskly. "Besides, Dean and I had a row. I need a distraction. And so do you."
Hermione let herself be towed along. "This isn't a distraction, Gin. This is a very specific form of self-inflicted misery. Ron will be furious."
"Ron doesn't run your life." Ginny tightened her grip on Hermione's arm as they rounded a corner. "Honestly, Hermione, you're basically one of them at this point. Pansy's practically claimed you, Theo and Blaise treat you like you've always been around, Daphne looks at you like you're her long-lost—"
"Selcouth," Hermione said to the stone wall, which obligingly slid open.
Ginny blinked. "You did that deliberately."
Hermione shrugged and walked in.
"Finally," Pansy called from the sofa, legs draped over Daphne's lap. "I was starting to think you'd lost your nerve."
"The thought did occur to me," Hermione admitted, sitting down.
Theo smirked from the armchair opposite, casually spinning his wand between his fingers. "Glad you pushed through. We have games, we have drinks, and—" He gestured toward the corner table where Blaise was setting down a steaming pot. "—hot chocolate for Granger, to forestall any lectures about our livers."
Ginny snorted. "Please. Hermione can outdrink half the tower. What are we actually working with?"
Blaise began a solemn inventory. "Vodka, fire whiskey, and a deeply suspicious bottle Theo insists is fine."
"Define fine," Hermione said.
"It won't kill you," Theo said. "I bought it off a bloke in Knockturn Alley."
"That is not the reassurance you think it is."
"Relax, Granger." That familiar, insufferable voice. The sofa dipped as Draco vaulted over the back of it and dropped into the seat beside her, his arm not quite around her shoulders — resting along the top of the sofa, just behind her head. "If it kills us, at least we go out together."
Hermione tilted her head back with a groan. "A death pact with you. What a comfort."
"What are we playing?" Ginny asked, grabbing the fire whiskey.
"Well," Daphne began, tapping her chin with theatrical consideration. "Veritaserum or Dare?" She offered it up with a wicked grin.
Hermione and Draco both sat up at once. "No," they said together.
Draco glanced at her. "What have you got to hide?"
Hermione looked back at him. "Rich, coming from you."
"Fine. Let's play."
"Fine."
Ginny watched them with narrowed eyes. "Are they always like this?" she muttered to Blaise.
"You have absolutely no idea," he replied.
"What about a Muggle game?" Pansy offered.
Hermione raised an eyebrow, momentarily grateful for the pivot. "What kind of Muggle game?"
"I don't know — anything. Tell us one."
"There's charades, trivia, Never Have I Ever, poker, or craps, I suppose."
"Poker?" Ginny brightened.
Theo frowned. "What's poker?"
Ginny laughed. "A card game. Hermione taught us over the summer at the Burrow. She could teach you lot."
"I can explain the basics," Hermione said. "Though I should warn you — it's less about strategy and more about convincing everyone else you're winning when you're absolutely not."
"Sounds perfect for you," Draco said.
Hermione rolled her eyes, conjuring a deck of cards and a stack of chips. "Usually played with money, but we don't have to."
"We could always strip," Ginny suggested brightly.
Hermione's hands froze over the cards.
Ginny grinned at her expression. "What? It's called strip poker. You've heard of it."
Hermione stared at her. Ginny knew perfectly well that she'd heard of it — she was the one who'd introduced Ginny to the concept in the first place.
"You only lose something if you lose a hand. So just don't lose," Ginny said cheerfully.
Pansy glanced at Draco, then back. "And here I thought your brother was the entertaining Weasley."
Hermione huffed. "Fine. Strip poker it is." She began dealing as she explained the rules, though she kept finding her gaze drifting toward Draco, who had settled rather too close for comfort.
Pansy and Daphne grasped the game quickly; Theo and Blaise took a bit longer, but within a round or two the whole group was in, the drinks flowing, the banter coming easily.
Hermione peeked at her hand. Two kings. She kept her expression carefully neutral.
Pansy surveyed her own cards with a calm she'd presumably learned in a drawing room. "I'll raise," she said smoothly, pushing in a few chips.
Theo, sitting with a pair of jacks, hesitated before calling. Blaise, working with a ten and a three, sighed and threw in to match.
"Malfoy," Hermione said, keeping her voice level.
"Raise." He pushed in a sizeable stack without hesitation, his gaze meeting hers over the table — just for a moment.
"Then I raise as well." She matched him with deliberate calm.
Pansy's expression sharpened with amusement.
They went round the table. Ginny folded, though not before making abundantly clear she wasn't concerned about her wardrobe.
The rounds progressed. Theo dropped out first, lamenting his luck. Blaise followed. Pansy held out longer than expected before folding with a theatrical sigh.
Three remained: Hermione, Draco, and Ginny.
Draco's face was entirely unreadable — that lazy smirk, those fingers tapping idly on the back of the sofa behind her.
"All in," he said.
Hermione studied him. She chewed the inside of her cheek. His posture was too relaxed. His eyes were doing that focused thing she'd learned to recognise — the same look he wore when they were deep in a problem with the cabinet. He was bluffing.
"All in," she said.
Ginny exhaled. "Well then. I suppose it's just me." She called.
Pansy dealt the last card with ceremonial gravity.
Ginny flipped hers first — full house — and laughed.
Draco scowled, turning over a pair of twos. Hermione laid down her kings. Neither came close.
"Should've known," Blaise muttered. "Weasley luck."
"This game is cursed," Draco said.
"Yeah, yeah." Blaise waved a hand. "Get on with it, both of you."
"This is absurd," Hermione began, already reaching for some form of argument, but Draco had stood and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers.
"Wait—" Hermione was on her feet. "This is insane. He doesn't have to—"
Everyone looked at her.
Draco raised a brow. "Granger." His voice was smooth. "If you wanted a private viewing, you only had to say so."
Hermione's face went scarlet. "That is not what I — I just think—"
"You're slurring," he noted.
She looked to Ginny for support. "You won. Do you actually need to strip him of his last shred of dignity?"
Ginny appeared to give this genuine consideration. "Well, given how many times he's tried to humiliate Harry..."
"Granger, it's fine," Draco said.
"Malfoy, you genuinely don't have to—"
When his hands moved again, Hermione reached down, grabbed the hem of her camisole, and yanked it over her head in one motion, tossing it onto the sofa. "There. I lost too. Happy?"
The room went quiet.
Draco's gaze dropped to her — unavoidable, unwilling — and stayed there a fraction of a second too long.
She was wearing a red bra. Lace. And he absolutely had not been expecting that.
'Right,' he thought, his mouth going dry. 'Question definitely wasn't answered the first time.'
He blinked. His expression smoothed over almost immediately, but not before something flickered across it.
Hermione glanced over at him, swallowing once, then reached for her glass of fire whiskey and knocked it back in one go. "You'd think you'd never seen a girl in a bra, with the way you're staring, Malfoy." She laughed it off.
Draco scoffed, recovering. "I just didn't have you pegged as a lace woman, Granger."
Hermione looked down at herself. "I didn't realise you'd given much thought to my undergarments."
And then — to everyone's considerable astonishment, including his own — Draco stuttered. "I — I didn't — I wasn't—" He opened and closed his mouth, his composure well and truly gone.
Ginny stared.
Hermione stared.
"Well," Ginny said, clasping her hands together. "I think that's my cue. Bed, anyone?"
Hermione nodded quickly, reaching for her camisole and pulling it back on. "Absolutely. I'm exhausted." She did not look at Draco again.
---
The next evening, Harry and Hermione were in the library in their usual corner, voices low.
"He's perfectly free to snog whoever he likes," Hermione said quietly. "I genuinely couldn't care less."
Harry gave her a sceptical look, lowering his book. "You don't look like someone who couldn't care less."
Hermione turned a page with more force than necessary. "I'm not discussing this any further."
"You never discuss it," Harry said. "You get defensive and change the subject."
"I am over it." Hermione set her book down and turned toward him. "Really, Harry. You have to believe me."
Harry studied her.
"Alright," he said carefully. "Let's say I believe you. If you're over it — why can't you stand to be around him?"
"Because it's absurd! I'd be keeping my distance if you were snogging someone in every corridor too."
"So you do still care."
"Harry." She lowered her voice sharply as Madam Pince looked their way. "I do not care for Ron Weasley. Not in that way. Not anymore."
Harry tilted his head. He didn't believe a word of it.
"I've moved on!" She shut her book, earning a loud shush from across the room.
Harry leaned in. "Moved on to what, exactly?"
She hesitated.
One beat too long.
Harry's brows lifted. That was all he needed.
"Hermione," he said quietly. "Who?"
Hermione scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. There's no who. I've moved on to focusing on my NEWTs."
Harry let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Right. Is that also why Ginny said Malfoy looked like he'd forgotten how to breathe last night?"
Hermione's grip tightened on the spine of her book. "Ginny needs to learn to keep her mouth shut."
"So she wasn't wrong?"
"I didn't say that." The words came out barely above a whisper.
"But you didn't deny it."
Hermione pressed her fingers to her temples. "Harry, you're being ridiculous. Malfoy does not fancy me."
"I never said he did. Tell me you don't fancy Draco Malfoy." Harry's voice was completely flat.
Hermione's mouth opened.
One.
Two.
"Oh my god." Harry was on his feet.
Hermione grabbed his wrist and yanked him back down with considerable force. "Would you keep your voice down?" she hissed, glancing around the library. Several heads turned. Madam Pince levelled them with a look that could curdle milk.
Harry stared at her, the expression on his face somewhere between astonishment and horror. "You fancy Malfoy?"
Another pause.
"I don't," she said.
"You did it again!" Harry hissed.
"Shut up!" Hermione pressed. "Harry. This is completely absurd. I don't fancy Malfoy. I don't fancy Ron either. Can't I simply exist without fancying anyone?"
Harry shook his head slowly. "This is Malfoy. He's a Death Eater, Hermione."
"He is not a Death Eater, Harry."
Harry opened his mouth.
"You should be focusing on other things," Hermione said, cutting across him. "Like the fact that there are at least a dozen girls — including Romilda Vane — actively discussing how to slip you a love potion. They're hoping to secure an invitation to Slughorn's party, and I'm fairly certain a number of them have managed to obtain something from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes that might actually work—"
"Why didn't you confiscate them?" Harry demanded.
"They didn't have the potions on their persons. They were just talking tactics." Hermione sighed. "Just invite someone to the party. That'll make it clear enough. It's tomorrow evening."
Harry dragged a hand through his hair. "There isn't anyone I want to invite."
Hermione looked at him. "Is that why you've been finding so many reasons to be near Ginny lately?"
He scowled. "I don't know, Hermione. Is that why you keep finding reasons to be near Malfoy?"
Hermione faltered. "That's entirely different."
"Right — because you and Malfoy are bonding over, what, exactly? A shared fondness for Arithmancy? The moral nuances of house-elf legislation?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "We have genuinely interesting conversations, for your information. Which is more than can be said for discussions that begin and end with Quidditch."
Harry snorted. "And none of this explains why Malfoy apparently looked like he'd been hit by a Bludger last night."
"That's an exaggeration."
"Is it?"
"Is he who you're going with? To the party?" Harry asked, eyebrows raised.
"Don't be absurd."
"He didn't ask you then?"
Hermione put down her book. "I sincerely hope someone slips you a love potion tonight."