It was early morning. Hermione's alarm had been going off for probably fifteen minutes. She was staring up at the ceiling, lips pressed together.
Her covers and pillow were warm around her, but her body felt disconnected. She hadn't slept. She had stayed in the Slytherin common room for an hour or two after the incident, trying to seem normal around their friends.
Her dormmates — Lavender, Parvati, and Kellah — had been getting ready for classes. She could hear them moving around the room.
She had Herbology first. He wouldn't be there; that wasn't a problem.
She still didn't want to go.
The thought of putting on her uniform, of pretending everything was fine when it most certainly wasn't, made her stomach twist.
"You know she'll panic the second she realises she's late." Lavender was whispering to the others.
"Give it another minute," Parvati murmured back. "She always bolts up eventually."
Hermione stayed still.
They weren't wrong. She would panic. Normally. But this morning felt like some faraway version of her life was playing out in real time, and she was only halfway present — as if her body were here, lying flat in her bed, while her mind was still stuck in the dungeons, replaying every second of —
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"She's still not moving." Lavender said after a minute. "Should I go get Ron?"
"I thought she and Ron weren't talking." Parvati pointed out.
"Well, I don't want to talk to her!" Lavender hissed. "And Kellah's gone already."
Hermione's jaw clenched. She could feel the heavy silence that followed Lavender's words. It wasn't as though they were wrong — none of them were close, not really. They coexisted. Shared a dorm, shared a bathroom, borrowed the occasional hair product. But friends? No. Not even close.
"She might be ill," Parvati said uncertainly, though her voice didn't sound concerned — just vaguely uncomfortable. "I could get Madam Pomfrey? Or tell Neville to tell Harry to tell her."
Hermione slowly turned onto her side, away from the voices, pulling her covers up higher. Her throat felt tight. The knot in her chest that had formed in the dungeons hadn't gone anywhere. If anything, it had expanded, pressing against her ribs, rising like a tide every time she replayed the moment he pulled away.
She should have stayed away from him.
She had stayed away. For days. She'd been so careful. Avoided being alone with him. Avoided looking at him, speaking to him. She'd drawn the lines. But he'd blurred them. They'd blurred them. And now — now it was a mess.
She reached into her covers, pulling out the stuffed dragon Draco had gifted her for Christmas. She sighed softly as she hugged it to her chest.
"I'm fine." She finally croaked, still hearing them whispering about her. "Just… hungover."
Parvati let out a quiet, sceptical "Hmm," and Hermione could practically hear her raising an eyebrow.
"Hungover?" Lavender echoed, sounding far too smug about it.
Hermione didn't answer. She pressed her face into the dragon's plush head, letting the faint scent of cedar calm the buzzing in her mind. It smelled like him. Or maybe she was only imagining that now, because she'd held it to her chest so tightly the night before that it had practically absorbed her heartbreak.
They were thirty minutes into Herbology, Lavender practically sitting in Ron's lap as they worked on some group assignment. Harry kept glancing at the door, waiting for Hermione to rush in, but the later it got, the less he believed it would happen.
Neville was going on about the properties of the plant in front of them.
"…it's called Fanged Geranium," Neville was saying, his dragon-hide gloves carefully nudging the pot forward. "And if you don't use dragon dung compost in the early stages, the teeth become… well. Rather carnivorous."
Ron made a noise somewhere between interest and horror. "So it bites harder?"
"Exactly." Neville beamed, then glanced down at the plant, whose jagged little leaves twitched ominously. "This one's still young, though. Shouldn't bite too badly."
Lavender let out a performative little squeal and gripped Ron's arm tighter, leaning closer. "Ugh, I hate Herbology. I'm going to get dirt under my nails."
"Hey, Lavender," Harry said — probably the first words he'd ever addressed to the girl directly. "You room with Hermione."
Lavender blinked at him. "I do."
"Is she ill?"
Lavender blinked again, slower this time, as if deciding whether or not to bother answering. "She said she was hungover," she replied, as if she'd been dying to be asked. "Parvati thought she was dead."
"I didn't say that," Parvati muttered.
"She looked awful this morning," Lavender went on, clearly enjoying the attention. "Didn't even wash her face. Just… lay there. I offered to get Madam Pomfrey."
"I offered to get Madam Pomfrey," Parvati corrected.
Lavender sighed. "Well, it was positively dreadful. She was clutching that little dragon thing of hers."
"Dragon thing?" Ron asked.
She nodded. "Stuffed animal. A plush. Whatever."
"She's been sleeping with it since Christmas," Parvati added.
Ron snorted. "Are we sure she hasn't been Confunded? I can hardly imagine Hermione with a stuffed animal. Was it pink?"
"Green, actually," Lavender responded.
"A green dragon," Neville repeated, looking at Harry and Ron, who were obviously too thick to piece it together. "That she got for Christmas."
"Why are you looking at us like that?" Harry asked.
He shook his head. "Nothing. Maybe tell Ginny, though. She's actually got a brain."
"Oi!" Ron snapped.
Harry had resolved to speak to Hermione during the morning break after Transfiguration, as he didn't have enough time between classes. However, as they walked into the classroom, they found Hermione already sitting at her regular desk, materials spread in front of her.
She didn't look up when they entered.
Her quill was already in her hand, parchment rolled neatly beside her book, but her shoulders were rigid, her eyes fixed on a spot on the page she clearly wasn't reading. There was no sign of her usual flurry — no reorganising her inkpot three times, no muttered checking of assignments. Just stillness.
Harry slowed as he walked in, and Ron very nearly walked straight into him.
"Harry!" Ron hissed, and Harry shushed him, making his way to the seats beside Hermione.
Harry dropped into the seat next to her and leaned in slightly. "Hey," he said quietly. "You okay?"
Her eyes flicked toward him, then back to the parchment. "Fine," she said, voice clipped.
"You weren't in Herbology," he pressed, watching her face carefully. "We were worried."
Hermione nodded. "Yeah, I… I was hungover. Still am, a bit. Margaritas with Pansy and Daphne last night didn't go as planned — we made them a touch too strong."
Ron blinked. "Margaritas?"
Hermione didn't look at him. "Yes, Ronald. A Muggle cocktail. Lime, salt, tequila." Her voice was flat. Not sharp, as it might have been if she were herself. Just… mechanical.
"Strawberries sometimes." Her voice wavered. "Can we please just focus on class?"
He wanted to ask more — about the dragon, about why she looked as though she hadn't slept in a week, about whether it had anything to do with the strange tension that had been building since the Christmas holidays — but he didn't get the chance.
Professor McGonagall swept into the room just then, her usual brisk presence cutting through the awkwardness like a Severing Charm.
"Wands out," she called without preamble. "We'll be turning teacups into hedgehogs today. But first:" She waved her wand, writing the word Notes on the blackboard.
As the classroom fell into the soft murmur of parchment rustling and quills scratching, Hermione finally moved. She dipped her quill into her inkpot, and her hand started flying across the page — but Harry could tell she wasn't taking notes. Her eyes weren't scanning the board. She wasn't even blinking much.
She was writing like she had to. Like she needed to focus on anything but what was actually in her head.
Harry kept glancing sideways at Hermione, but she didn't look up again. Her quill moved steadily across the parchment, though he could tell it was aimless — more doodles than notes, the kind of mindless scribbling she used to scold him for.
Beside him, Ron was trying to catch Harry's eye, mouthing "margaritas?" with a bewildered expression.
"Miss Granger," McGonagall said as she wrote on the board, certain she'd be able to answer, "what is the primary danger when casting the Vita Transformare spell without first anchoring the object's core composition?"
Hermione looked up from her notes, eyes widening slightly as she searched her memory. "Um… it could — it could shatter."
McGonagall's chalk stopped. She turned to look at the girl. "Not exactly. It could cause inanimate objects to take on animate properties."
There was a heavy pause, McGonagall's eyes lingering a beat too long on Hermione before she turned back to the rest of the class. "Mr Finnigan, perhaps you'd be so kind as to attempt the spell first?"
Hermione leaned her head against her hand, trying to hide her face, eyes closing.
It was safe to say that for the remainder of the lesson, Hermione made no effort to answer any questions, and McGonagall, noting her unusual behaviour, made no effort to call on her.
When class ended, chairs scraped as students rushed to leave.
Ron looked at Hermione. "If you're really hungover, we've got about half an hour before Charms. We could sneak down to the kitchens and get you some food."
"I'm fine," she whispered, grabbing her things and leaving the room without another word.
Somewhere deep in the dungeons, in the Slytherin common room during the dinner hour, Draco walked in and made his way over to where Astoria — Daphne's younger sister — sat with her friends.
Astoria was settled on one of the curved green velvet settees near the fireplace, legs tucked under her, hair in a glossy twist over one shoulder. She was laughing at something one of her friends had said, delicate fingers twirling the end of her wand. The glow from the hearth threw flickering gold across her face.
Draco didn't hesitate.
He strode in, ignoring the low hum of conversation that filled the common room and the way several younger students went quiet as they noticed him. His expression was cool, unreadable, the lines of his uniform immaculate, silver tie loosened just enough to seem effortless.
"Ladies," he said, voice smooth as silk, as he approached the settee.
Astoria looked up, a little startled, but the surprise morphed into something sly almost instantly. "Draco," she said sweetly, tilting her head. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
He shrugged. "I was in the Great Hall enjoying my dinner when I spotted a stack of macarons. Now, correct me if I'm wrong — though I'm certain I'm not — Daphne has mentioned they're your favourite sweets?" He raised his hand, holding out a small bag of mixed-flavour macarons.
Astoria's eyes lit up at the sight of the bag. "You brought me macarons?" she asked, her tone light, though a curious flicker crossed her expression.
Draco grinned, holding them out. "Only the best for a Greengrass."
The girls around Astoria giggled, and she arched a brow, accepting the bag with a perfectly practised smile. "Flattery, gifts… careful, Draco. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to court me."
"Perhaps I am. Would that be so terrible?" he asked.
She laughed softly, a flush of pink rising to her cheeks. "I just didn't expect it, is all."
"I like to make my intentions known," he explained, almost as though bored with the conversation. "If you're not interested, however…" He made as if to leave.
Astoria reached out quickly, her fingers curling around his arm.
"I'm interested!" she said, her voice lilting.
Across the room, Blaise — sprawled in one of the armchairs with a book he was not reading — glanced up at Theo.
They exchanged a look. The kind that said, Is this really happening? Followed by Theo's silent, Yes, and it's utterly ridiculous.
"Mid-life crisis?" Blaise muttered.
"Or a pity performance," Theo muttered back.
Back by the fire, Astoria had taken a pale green macaron and bitten into it with a hum of appreciation. "Pistachio," she said, licking a crumb from the corner of her mouth. "That is my favourite."
Draco hummed, reaching into the bag and plucking one of the pale green ones for himself. He took a bite. "I can see the appeal. Almost as sweet as you."
Astoria blushed. "If only Daphne could hear you. What would she say?"
"I'm not afraid of your sister," Draco assured her. "Tell me, Astoria — does your taste in desserts reflect your taste in men?"
Astoria's smile deepened, amusement dancing in her eyes. She twirled another macaron between her fingers. "How do you mean?"
"Macarons are rather… finer… than other desserts. Classy. A dessert your mother would adore if you brought it home."
"Are you implying you're classy?"
"I'm a Malfoy. We breed class."
"Your reputation says otherwise."
"Perhaps I've matured over the holidays," he said just a touch too quickly for it not to be rehearsed. "I assure you, Astoria, my intentions are entirely honourable."
Theo rolled his eyes so hard he was fairly certain they'd fall out. "Honourable?" he mouthed at Blaise, who snorted.
Astoria hummed. "Tempting. I can already see the headline in the Prophet — Astoria Greengrass: The Witch Who Civilised the Malfoy Heir."
"Exactly," Draco drawled, plucking another macaron from the bag as if it were a brandy glass. "You get the glory, I get the pleasure. A rather fair arrangement, don't you think?"
Across the room, Blaise gave Theo a pointed look over the edge of his book. "Should we stop him?"
Theo raised an eyebrow. "And ruin the one-man show? Never."
They both turned back to the scene by the fireplace, just in time to see Astoria inch a little closer to Draco, her knees brushing his.
"So other than honourable… what are your intentions?"
"Dinner. This weekend. Perhaps a walk by the lake, if you behave."
Astoria glanced at her friends before turning back to Draco with a soft nod. "I'll be there."
That night, the Slytherin dormitory was quiet — just the steady drip of water somewhere in the stone walls and the occasional soft snore from across the room. Draco sat propped against his headboard, knees drawn up, the dark green velvet of his bed curtains pulled tight around him. A faint glow illuminated the space, his wand balanced beside him on a pillow, casting a dim halo of warm light.
In his lap was Little Women, the cover slightly bent now from how many times he'd picked it up only to put it back down again.
He hesitated.
Not because he didn't want to read it. But because reading it felt like something. Like a thread he wasn't ready to tug.
But he opened it anyway.
He had to admit, the idea of the book had intrigued him the first time Hermione had mentioned it, and he hadn't stopped thinking about it since she had gifted it to him.
He flipped to the first page with a soft sigh, running his fingers over the stiff paper that only new books had. He could picture her buying it — she had probably picked it up, put it back, then picked it up again, trying to decide if it was a daft idea to give to him.
It would've been so very Granger to leave some quote scrawled inside. Something half-sappy and too clever by half. Something he'd have no choice but to mention to her, just so she'd know he'd read it. He almost wished she had.
His thumb brushed the edge of the page before he began to read.
"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.
Draco exhaled slowly. The line hit unexpectedly hard.
He wasn't even a paragraph in, and it already felt personal.
"It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.
"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls get nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured sniff.
He laughed softly to himself. He shouldn't have been surprised that the first few sentences would find a way to call out their pureblood society.
He read in silence for several minutes, the soft rustle of pages the only sound in his little cocoon of fabric and light. And then —
He smirked faintly, amused despite himself, as Jo corrected one of Amy's words. The realisation of why Hermione liked this book so much settled over him all at once.
He turned another page.
Draco ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose as he shifted beneath the covers. The next page curled under his fingers, and he paused — not from boredom, but because he'd just realised something that made his stomach twist.
Jo reminded him of Hermione already. Fierce and sharp and unapologetic. She said too much, felt everything too loudly, and refused to fit into the neat little mould the world tried to press her into.
And he was suddenly very aware that he was curled up in his bed reading a Muggle book in secret, as if it meant something. As if she meant something.
And though it was nothing he'd ever thought to do before, he found himself reaching for the quill on his bedside table and jotting down his thoughts in the margins of the page.
Walking into the sixth-year dormitory, Ginny made a beeline for the bed she knew belonged to Hermione. It was early in the morning, still breakfast time.
"You don't live here," Parvati said flatly, staring at the younger girl as she yanked open Hermione's curtains.
Ginny didn't get a chance to respond, because as soon as she threw back the curtains keeping Hermione hidden from the world, the older girl shot bolt upright.
Hermione's eyes were wide, her hair a wild halo around her face, sleep-creased and frizzy. She quickly shoved her dragon under the covers. "What the bloody hell is wrong with you?! What if I were starkers!" she yelled.
Ginny didn't flinch. "Well, you're not, and I've shared a room with you enough times back home to know you sleep in pyjamas even if your shorts barely cover your backside."
Hermione gaped at her, face flushed as she tried to summon a response. "Are you usually looking?"
"No, but I've heard Fred mention it one too many times."
"Fred likes my backside?" she asked, a little too pleased for Ginny's liking.
"Get up!" Ginny yelled, yanking her covers away and, in doing so, sending the dragon flying.
The dragon hit the floor with a soft thump, rolling once before coming to a rather tragic stop on its side.
There was a pause.
A long one.
Then: "Is that a dragon?" Ginny asked slowly, looking down at it with the dawning realisation that she'd stumbled upon something priceless.
Hermione stared at Ginny for half a second before lunging for it.
"Ginny!" she yelled as the younger girl reached it first.
Ginny turned it over in her hands, taking in the pristine condition of the toy before looking back at Hermione. "This is new." It wasn't a question.
Hermione's face turned an alarming shade of red as she scrambled to snatch the dragon from Ginny's hands. She practically leapt out of bed, her frizzy hair still wild from sleep, her expression a mixture of frustration and pure panic.
"Give it back, Ginny," she said, her voice a shade too sharp.
But Ginny, eyebrow arched and a smug grin spreading across her face, held the toy just out of Hermione's reach. "This is new," she repeated slowly, examining the plush fabric, still perfectly shaped despite its tumble. "I didn't know you were into dragons, Hermi —" She cut herself off, her grin widening by the second. "Oh my god."
Hermione froze mid-lunge. "Ginny. Give it back." She said it very carefully, as though afraid to startle her.
"Did you buy it, or did he give it to you?" she whispered.
Lavender spun around at that, every gossip instinct in her body snapping to attention.
Hermione huffed, seized Ginny by the arm, and dragged her into the bathroom. She closed and locked the door, waving her wand to cast a Muffliato.
"It was a Christmas gift. I didn't buy it!" she hissed.
Ginny's eyes widened as if she'd just won the bloody lottery. "He gave it to you?" she whisper-screeched, clutching the dragon to her chest like it was some scandalous Dark artefact. "You mean to tell me that Draco Malfoy — ferret boy, Death Eater in training, your best friend's sworn enemy — gifted you a dragon plushie for Christmas?!"
Hermione yanked it back with a glare. "Could you not say it like that?"
Ginny's mouth opened, shut, then opened again as she leaned against the sink, hands planted dramatically on either side. "Hermione. You got a stuffed animal from Malfoy. What am I supposed to say?!"
Hermione wrapped her arms around the dragon as if it might make a break for it. "It's not that deep."
Ginny gave her a long, flat look. "Not that deep? You're sleeping with it. You nearly dove across the room when I picked it up!"
"And it means nothing, all right?!"
"It's a dragon!" She was fully laughing now. "His bloody namesake!"
Hermione didn't respond. She just looked down at the dragon in her arms and ran her thumb along its fabric spine.
Ginny softened a little, stepping closer. "Does he know you sleep with it?"
Hermione hesitated.
Then, quietly: "No."
"Did he give it to you directly, or did it appear on your bed with a note — 'To Granger, From Ferret Boy'?"
She scowled. "Directly. I gave him a gift as well. It's nothing."
"What did you give him?"
"A book. Nothing special."
"Which book?"
"Little Women and Pride and Prejudice."
Ginny grinned. "Those are Muggle."
"Yes, they are, and I'm quite sure he'll never read them." She crossed her arms. "Now, if I may go back to bed —" She was already moving for the door.
"What's the dragon's name?"
Hermione stopped dead, her hand on the door handle, her face reddening again. "Can I go back to bed if I tell you?"
"No, but I promise not to steal it and show Harry and Ron."
Hermione huffed. "It's Ferret."
Ginny blinked, completely blindsided. "Ferret?" she repeated, eyebrows shooting up. She stared at Hermione for a long moment, trying to work out whether she was joking.
Hermione turned back to face her, arms still wrapped protectively around the dragon. "Yes, Ferret," she said with a resigned sigh, as if the name had become an embarrassing fact of her life.
Ginny's lips twitched into a smile. "You named it after him?" she asked, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
"Yes, because he was being a prick about how I'd probably name it something unoriginal like Mister Scales. Yes, he knows it's named Ferret. No, you can't tell anyone. You can't hint at it. You can't even smirk strangely when he walks into a room!"
Ginny tilted her head. "Is this why you're skipping class?"
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. "I don't want to talk about it, Ginny."
"You can't skip class because of him, Hermione. It's beneath you."
Hermione didn't respond immediately. She stood there for a moment, fingers fidgeting with the dragon as if it might vanish if she didn't hold it just right. There was a slight tremor in her hands, and Ginny caught it, her expression softening. "I hurt him, Ginny," she finally whispered. "He doesn't want to see me."
Ginny's expression shifted from playful to serious in an instant. She straightened from where she'd been leaning against the sink, her teasing tone dropping as she stepped closer. "What do you mean, 'you hurt him'?" she asked gently.
Hermione bit her lip, gaze dropping to Ferret, her fingers absently stroking the plush fabric. "I don't want to talk about it."
Ginny frowned. "Okay. But if you want to… later… we can." She whispered. "Just come to breakfast and class. One thing at a time."
Hermione sat in the Great Hall with Harry — she'd been dragged out of bed by Ginny after Ginny heard she'd skipped class the day before.
He was telling her about his latest lesson with Dumbledore.
"Harry —" She cut him off, looking up from her plate, which sat untouched. "I've never come across anything called Horcruxes."
Harry blinked at her, fork hovering mid-air. "You haven't?"
His disappointment was plain.
She shook her head. "It must be very advanced Dark magic. Why else would Voldemort have wanted to know about it?" She pushed her hair back. She looked a little better today — as though she'd actually slept. "I think it'll be difficult to get any information, though. You'll have to be careful about how you approach Slughorn if Dumbledore himself couldn't get it out of him. Think out a strategy —"
"Ron reckons I should just hang back after Potions this afternoon…"
Hermione gave him a look. The kind that said absolutely not, even before she opened her mouth.
"Well," she said with a huff, "if Won-Won thinks that, you'd better do it. After all, when has Won-Won's judgement ever been faulty?"
Harry winced and dropped his fork with a clatter.
"Okay, ow," he muttered, eyeing her warily. "Didn't realise I was stepping into a war zone."
Hermione stabbed a piece of toast, though she still didn't eat it.
"Hermione, can't you —"
"No, I cannot!" She snapped, shoving her plate away. "And you'd do well to stop asking!"
Ginny sat down next to Hermione, eyes wide, shooting Harry a glare. She'd been sitting just a few benches away — not actively listening in, but not completely oblivious either. She knew how thick Harry and her brother could be, and she'd had a feeling she'd need to step in with an unrelated distraction.
Ginny cleared her throat, leaning toward Hermione with a small, pointed smile. "Have you noticed how much cologne Neville's been wearing lately? Honestly, it's enough to fell a hippogriff."
Hermione blinked at Ginny, startled by the abrupt shift. Her mouth was still set in a firm line, but the corners twitched — just barely.
"…He has been smelling vaguely of pine and something overly enthusiastic," she said dryly, her voice quieter now but still sharp.
Ginny grinned, seizing on the crack in her mood. "Right? I think it's that awful bottle Seamus got him for Christmas. Said it was called 'Dragon's Fury.' Honestly, who names these things?"
Hermione gave a short, almost involuntary laugh. "Sounds more like knockoff broom polish than cologne."
Across the table, Harry sighed in relief and pretended to become very interested in buttering a scone. "Well, I'm glad we've transitioned to safe topics like Neville's tragic scent choices…"
They both glared at him. He held his hands up in innocence.
"Please tell me you're going to class today," Ginny said to Hermione. "I cannot hear Lavender talking about you anymore."
"What's she saying?"
"Nothing to worry about. I threatened her with a Bat-Bogey Hex if she didn't stop."
Hermione's eyes narrowed, but there was an undeniable flicker of appreciation behind them. "You didn't."
Ginny smirked. "Didn't say I used it. Just… reminded her I could. Luna and I are having a picnic today if you'd like to join. No, Harry, you can't come. No boys allowed." She said before he could ask.
Hermione sighed. "Maybe. If I don't have too much homework."
She grinned. "Deal."
During Potions class that afternoon, Hermione moved to sit closer to Ernie than to Harry and Ron. She was still annoyed with Harry for asking her to forgive Ron.
"What've you done?" Ron muttered to Harry, glancing at Hermione.
Harry looked over at Ron, blinking slowly. But before he could respond, Slughorn was calling for silence.
"Settle down, settle down, please! Quickly now, lots of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott's Third Law… who can tell me —?" Slughorn looked around the classroom for a volunteer. No one dared breathe a response.
"Miss Granger?" he asked.
Hermione looked over at their professor. "The Third Law?" she repeated. "I don't — I don't recall, Professor."
Draco looked up at that, his eyes landing on her for the first time since Margarita Night. She wasn't looking back.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Slughorn blinked in surprise. "You don't recall?" he repeated, as though those words had never before been spoken by Hermione Granger in his entire teaching career.
Hermione's jaw clenched ever so slightly, but she offered nothing further. She kept her eyes on her cauldron, hands folded neatly in her lap. Not fidgeting — just very still. Too still.
Pansy glanced at Draco. "She doesn't know?" she whispered.
Draco swallowed. Hermione knew. He knew she knew — they'd spent nearly four hours discussing Golpalott's Laws.
He looked away. "Looks as though perfect Granger isn't so perfect after all."
"Mr Malfoy?" Slughorn interrupted, raising an eyebrow.
"Golpalott's Third Law states that the antidote for a blended poison will be equal to more than the sum of the antidotes for each of the separate components," he responded, word for word.
Slughorn looked genuinely taken aback that Malfoy had the answer. "Precisely. Ten points to Slytherin. Now — do we accept Golpalott's Third Law as true?"
A few murmurs rippled through the class, but no one answered. Hermione still hadn't lifted her eyes. The silence after Draco's answer hung heavy, and Slughorn, with a slight frown, began pacing the front of the room.
Draco kept sneaking glances at her — quick, precise, as though he couldn't help himself. She was too quiet. Too motionless. And he hated how easily he could tell.
"Well?" Slughorn prompted. "Do we accept Golpalott's theory? Any dissenting opinions? Anyone?" His eyes swept the room, hopeful, but even the Ravenclaws stayed silent.
Usually, this was where Hermione would raise her hand. Where she'd quote five supplementary texts and possibly cite an obscure journal article from the late 1700s. But she didn't.
She didn't move at all.
"She hasn't got a theory?" Blaise asked quietly.
Draco glanced at him. "Maybe she's realised she talks too much. I don't know what goes on in her head."
Blaise gave him a long, unreadable look. "You used to," he said under his breath, quiet enough for only Draco to hear.
Draco's jaw tensed. He didn't answer.
At the front of the room, Slughorn gave a disappointed sigh and moved on, launching into the complexities of blended poisons and the finer points of antidote creation.
After what felt like an age of Slughorn explaining the theory — and why it may or may not hold — he finally moved to the practical portion. "You're to create an antidote for the poison within one of the phials you'll take from my desk. Good luck."
Hermione had left her stool and was halfway to Slughorn's desk before the rest of the class had even registered it was time to move. By the time Harry, Ron, and Ernie had returned to their table, she had already begun.
"It's a shame the Prince won't be able to help you much with this, Harry," she said. "No shortcuts."
Harry rolled his eyes, uncorking his poison bottle. They wouldn't even be able to cheat off her if she'd sat beside them. She'd become so proficient at nonverbal incantations that she now used them across all her subjects, Potions included.
"She's making it look easy," Pansy murmured, glancing over at Hermione's workspace from their table. "Do you think she's already worked it out?"
"She probably knew the moment she uncorked the phial," Theo added from the other side.
Draco didn't contribute to the conversation, though his own incantation slowed for just a moment.
Even from across the room, he could tell. Her movements were precise, efficient, elegant in that maddening way she always was when focused — except now, there was something mechanical about it. As though she were simply executing a sequence. Emotionless. Disconnected. Detached.
It was worse than when she hadn't been looking at him at all.
It was as if she'd shut herself off entirely — not just to him, but to the world.
"You're awfully quiet," Pansy said to Daphne, who was quietly stirring her potion while sending daggers at Draco from across the table.
"I'm trying to decide whether or not to tell Hermione that Draco asked my sister out on a date this weekend," Daphne replied.
Pansy's stirring slowed, then stopped completely. She turned her head sharply to look at Daphne. "He what?"
Daphne didn't even glance up. "He asked Astoria. Last night. My mother owled this morning, thanking me for putting in a good word with Draco." She rolled her eyes.
"While we're on the subject," Theo piped up, "that was quite the performance last night, mate. The way you asked her out — if it had been any more staged, you'd have needed a script."
"Shut up," Draco muttered.
But Pansy wasn't finished. "What, did you get tired of pining over Hermione and decide to court someone more 'pure' for family appearances?"
Draco looked up at her, raising his eyebrows. "Tell her. I don't give a damn."
"Do you realise what courting Astoria means?" Daphne whispered. "The implications alone —"
"They're better than the ones that come with the Mudblood." The words were out of his mouth before he'd thought about them.
Pansy blinked, clearly taken aback. "Draco —"
"What?" he snapped. "I'm not dense, Parkinson. I asked Astoria out. I'm courting. The same way Daphne is courting. I understand what it means. Don't push me."
"Do you?" Daphne scoffed.
Draco's eyes hardened, the tension around their table thickening. He glanced down at his cauldron, stirring without thinking, but his mind wasn't on the potion. His thoughts were tangled around the words he'd just spoken. He couldn't take them back, but something about them felt wrong. The reality of courting Astoria — of choosing the pureblood path so deliberately — didn't sit right with him. Not when his thoughts kept drifting back to the girl he couldn't shake.
"Yes," he finally whispered. "It means… dinner with her family. It means weekends at Wiltshire. It means being seen together. It means aligning our futures — politically, socially, magically. It means a potential betrothal. And eventually, a marriage. Children."
There was a waver in his voice that had never been there before when he'd spoken about the future he knew he was meant to have. He stirred once, twice, counter-clockwise.
A silence fell, the low hum of bubbling cauldrons filling the void he left behind. Even Theo didn't make a joke.
Pansy stared at him, mouth slightly open, as if trying to read something deeper behind the clinical way he listed those steps. Like he was describing a chess strategy rather than a life.
Daphne snorted, disgusted. "You don't even like her."
"That's not the point," Draco said tightly. "She's acceptable." He didn't say the worst part out loud — that at least she wanted him, when the girl he wanted didn't.
Pansy leaned back. "You sound like your father."
He tried not to flinch at that. "Well, my father is in Azkaban because of Granger and her friends. My mother is one wrong move on my part away from being murdered by her own sister." He was just talking now, everything spilling out. "Courting means intent. It's not just dinner dates and snogging behind the Owlery like you're all so fond of. It means formalities. Introductions. Traditions. It means I owl her parents after every outing. It means I wear her family colours to Ministry events. It means, if things go well, by next winter I propose, and by the following spring, we're wed."
Blaise narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean about your mother?" he asked carefully.
Draco's stirring stopped as he stared into his cauldron. Damn. He'd gone and done it. He'd spoken too much — let everything spill out to avoid talking about Hermione. His arm, where the Dark Mark burned beneath his sleeve, ached, though he was fairly sure he was only imagining it. The reminder of the secret he was carrying. Of his mission.
He could feel their eyes on him — Theo, Blaise, Pansy, Daphne. They weren't used to seeing him like this. Fractured. Vulnerable. Angry in a way that didn't burn, but corroded.
"Nothing. I — Bellatrix has been spending more time at the Manor. She… she just frightens the life out of me."
"Reasonable," Theo agreed. "But what do you mean that you're one wrong move away from her doing something to your mother?"
Draco didn't answer at first.
He was still staring into his cauldron, as if he could will the conversation away, sink himself into the swirl of his potion and disappear. But the longer he said nothing, the more unbearable the silence became, and the more he could feel the weight of his friends watching him. Waiting.
"Draco," Blaise said, quieter now. "Mate."
He closed his eyes for a moment, jaw working.
"I… can't… fail." He was speaking slowly, deliberately — thinking through every word as it left his mouth. How much could he say without putting everyone else in danger? Without jeopardising his mission?
He didn't look up at any of them. "If I fail… He fails. And my mother will be disposed of for it."
Blaise let out a slow breath — the kind someone makes when they've just realised they've been dropped into something far deeper than they'd thought.
No one spoke for a moment.
Even Pansy, who was usually first to fill silence with sarcasm, was simply staring at Draco, lips parted slightly, as though she were trying to form a response and kept coming up short.
Theo, for once, wasn't smirking. He leaned back in his chair, blinking slowly, as if absorbing what Draco wasn't saying.
Daphne slipped back into her seat, eyes cast down.
They weren't talking about Astoria anymore. They weren't even talking about Hermione. They all knew who He was. Even when they tried not to speak of it, Voldemort's war was drawing closer and closer.
The tension around their table was suffocating, the bubbling of their cauldrons the only sound left to fill the space.
Draco didn't move. Didn't speak.
"Does this have to do with the Vanishing Cabinet?" Pansy finally asked.
Draco's head snapped up.
His eyes locked onto Pansy's — sharp, startled — and for the briefest second, fear.
It was gone as quickly as it came.
"She told you?" The words left him like he'd been winded.
She had, in a sense. Pansy had read the letter, handed it back to Hermione, and promised not to say a word to him. Because she'd already known, partly — from Snape, from running alongside Potter. Even before she'd known about the cabinet specifically, she'd known Draco was in too deep. That was part of why she'd befriended Hermione in the first place, wasn't it?
"No," she said finally, her own expression clouded with something like grief as she moved toward him. "Gods no, Draco. She wouldn't betray you like that."
He didn't need to know the truth. It didn't matter, not in the long run.
"Who is she?!" Daphne finally snapped. "Because I swear to Merlin, Draco, if it's my sister —"
Theo shot her a look. "Are you dense?" he whispered, flicking his gaze pointedly toward Hermione — the obvious she in question.
Daphne followed his gaze and quickly fell silent.
"How do you know, then?" Draco shook his head. He'd been careful. Careless when it came to Hermione, but careful with everyone else.
"You think we haven't noticed you disappearing?" Blaise muttered. "At some point, we just assumed it was to go see Hermione. We didn't think…"
"You're not very subtle," Theo agreed. "It did help that Hermione was sneaking off with you, though."
"You lot need to stop digging into things that don't concern you," Draco muttered — but it came out tired, utterly without threat.
"They concern us if they concern you," Daphne said quietly.
Pansy knew he was waiting for an explanation. How she could know about the cabinet if they'd all assumed he was just sneaking off to see Hermione. "Potter and I overheard you and Snape talking about it," she sighed.
"Time's… UP!" Slughorn called, just as Draco threw his things down, stepping back from his potion and raking a hand through his hair.
"What do you mean Potter knows?!" he hissed at Pansy as Slughorn began making his rounds to check their work. "What were you doing with Potter in the first place?!"
She could hardly say shagging, could she?
"We were leaving Slughorn's Christmas party when we heard you both," she explained.
Draco's fists clenched against the edge of his desk, his knuckles whitening. He couldn't believe it — Potter had overheard him. The thought made his stomach turn. The last thing he needed right now was for Harry to start piecing together what Draco was truly up to.
"Brilliant," he muttered under his breath. "Absolutely brilliant."
Blaise eyed Pansy with curiosity, making a mental note to come back to that later. "Sorry — we still don't actually know anything about this cabinet. Any chance of a briefing?"
"No!" Draco snapped. "Nobody gets any information, because I've already made a complete mess of it by pulling Gryffindor's Golden Girl into it to help me, and now I find out the Boy Who Lived to Destroy My Life overheard everything, as did my best friend. It's a bloody miracle my mother isn't dead already."
"Mate, calm down," Blaise said quietly, his tone surprisingly level, though his eyes flickered with concern.
"Right," Draco sneered, trying to mask the churning unease in his gut. "Let's just pretend I haven't put everyone I care about in danger, shall we? Let's pretend Potter and the rest of the Gryffindors aren't sniffing around my business. Brilliant idea."
Pansy opened her mouth to argue, but stopped herself, opting instead to simply watch him. He wasn't entirely wrong, and they both knew it.
"You should have told us. We would've helped," Theo said.
"I didn't want help!"
"You asked her for help," Daphne pointed out.
Draco narrowed his eyes. "Theo got into my head. He convinced me I needed to translate those runes. I couldn't work it out myself! And then I was an idiot and told her I'd show her what I was working on."
Theo leaned back, hands raised in mock surrender. "All right, I'll take the blame for that one. But let's be honest — you were looking for a reason. I just gave you one."
"I wasn't —" Draco started, but the look on Theo's face cut him off. No smirk, no sarcasm. Just quiet, tired understanding. Like he knew Draco far too well to buy the lie.
Draco gritted his teeth. Potter had done precisely nothing — just told Slughorn to shove a Bezoar down someone's throat if they were poisoned — and had somehow earned the highest mark in the class, along with ten points to Gryffindor.
"Well, we're in it now," Theo said as he stood, clearing his station. "You might as well tell us what you need."
Draco blinked at him. "What?"
Theo looked around at the others, then back at Draco. "We're not idiots. We can't stop what's coming. But we can make sure you don't go through it alone. I mean — look at us. We're all caught up in this war, whether we like it or not."
Blaise nodded once. "You dragged Hermione into this. You owe it to her to find a way to get her back out. Even if you've decided to move on."
Friday night, the Head Boy and Head Girl had called the prefects in for a new-term meeting.
Hermione was already there when the others arrived, seated at the long table in the unused Charms classroom they used for meetings, parchment spread in front of her, quill tapping lightly against the wood. Her posture was stiff, chin lifted just slightly too high — as if she weren't exhausted. As if she hadn't spent the week actively pretending Draco Malfoy didn't exist.
He arrived late.
Of course he did.
He slipped in five minutes after they'd started, muttering something half-hearted about Peeves blocking the fifth-floor corridor, and took a seat at the far end of the table from her without so much as a glance in her direction.
Hermione didn't look up. Didn't blink. Just adjusted her parchment as though she hadn't noticed.
But she had. Her hand tensed around her quill, knuckles whitening slightly before she forced herself to relax.
"We'll be assigning additional patrol rounds this term," the Head Girl, Celia, explained. "Unfortunately, it seems Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes products have been sneaking onto school grounds and it's getting quite out of hand."
A collective groan rose from the prefects.
Celia didn't look impressed. "It has also come to our attention that some of you have been neglecting your prefect duties. If you are assigned an evening, you will need to check in with either myself or Vexley before you begin and once you've finished."
Ron leaned over to Hermione. "Who d'you reckon it is?" he whispered.
Hermione shot him a look to quiet him, but swallowed thickly. She might not have known everyone who'd been skiving off, but she had to admit she'd been guilty of it herself more than once — every time she'd slipped away to the Room of Requirement to help Draco with the cabinet.
Not that any of that mattered now.
"We'll also have increased patrols on Valentine's Day," Celia continued. "More prefects on the corridors than usual." She looked over at Vexley, the Head Boy, as if waiting for him to take over and deliver the next item from their pre-prepared script.
Vexley — who always looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else — cleared his throat and straightened the badge pinned to his chest. "Right, yeah. Valentine's Day tends to… escalate. Lots of rule-breaking. You know the drill."
Someone at the far end of the table snorted.
"Escalate is one word for it," Padma muttered.
Vexley shot her a look. "There were a few… incidents last year. Too many unsupervised broom cupboards. So we'll be doubling up on patrols and assigning additional rounds, particularly near the Astronomy Tower, the library, and the fourth-floor corridor."
Draco was tapping his quill against the table rhythmically. Hermione glanced at him for a moment.
"If anyone has any conflicts, let us know by Sunday, as we're beginning to put together the schedule for the day," Celia added cheerfully.
She looked back at Vexley, clearing her throat for him to continue.
He sighed as though this were the last thing he wanted to announce.
To anyone not paying close attention, nothing would have seemed amiss — but to those like Hermione who were listening carefully, it was plain that whatever Vexley was about to say was going to be deeply awkward.
"Er — right." Vexley started. "Some of the portraits have heard from the mermaids in the prefects' bathroom that, uh…"
"Merlin's pants, you cannot be shagging in the prefects' bathroom!" Celia finished for him, her face going crimson.
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Then a cough. A muffled snort.
And finally, a voice — sweet, innocent, and far too delighted.
"Did they say who?" piped up Hollis, the new fourth-year Hufflepuff prefect, all wide-eyed curiosity and faux innocence.
A few people sniggered. Someone elbowed someone else. Celia looked as though she might combust.
But as Hermione glanced around the room, she caught the way Pansy had suddenly become very attentive, her eyes just slightly wider than usual.
Celia cleared her throat, clearly trying to drag the meeting back toward something resembling decorum. "It's not funny. If anyone is caught using the prefects' bathroom for anything other than its intended purpose, they will be reported to their Head of House. And you will forfeit your privileges."
"Oh, come on," Padma said dryly. "Let them get on with it. At least someone's having a decent time this term."
That earned a louder laugh from the Gryffindor seventh-years. Even Ron snorted. Hermione did not laugh. She watched Pansy, who was trying very hard to look unbothered.
"Madam Hooch will also be speaking with the Quidditch Captains, as we know you're not the only ones who have access to the room," Vexley added.
"Bet it's Potter," one of the fifth-year Slytherins whispered to a fellow prefect.
Ron stifled a laugh.
"On the subject — sixth years, please be aware you'll be required to attend a sexual wellness session led by Madam Pomfrey around Valentine's Day." Celia said it so quickly that Hermione wasn't sure she'd heard her correctly. "As for some better news — you'll now be permitted to award and deduct house points from houses other than your own, in preparation for your seventh-year duties!"
There was another stunned pause.
This time, not even Hollis could muster a cheeky remark. The mention of Madam Pomfrey leading anything remotely related to 'sexual wellness' was enough to stun half the room into silence and send the other half into barely repressed giggles.
Ron leaned in again, speaking out of the side of his mouth, "What d'you reckon that means? Pomfrey passing out pamphlets on contraceptive charms and the like?"
Hermione was trying not to completely unravel. She couldn't decide what was more ridiculous — the prefects shagging in the bathroom, the mermaids gossiping about it, the additional Valentine's duties, or the sexual wellness session Madam Pomfrey would be running. She reached up to massage her temples, and as her eyes closed, the image of Draco sitting there, smirking to himself throughout the meeting, surfaced in her mind. Her eyes snapped back open.
At the opposite end of the table, Draco's lips were twitching — as though he were trying not to smile. It was that same insufferable smirk he'd wear when he'd say something he knew would make her blush, back when they were still in their own private world.
The worst part was that he wasn't even looking at her. Which meant the smirk wasn't for show. It was genuine. Private. Like he was thinking about something.
'Merlin, what was he thinking about?' She wondered, despite herself.
"Right!" Celia clapped her hands, jolting a few people out of their giggles. "I think that wraps everything up. Please remember to check in with us for your rounds — especially on Valentine's Day. Dismissed."
Chairs scraped. Chatter broke out at once.
Hermione moved quickly, gathering her parchment as if it might shield her from the room. She was not going to look at Draco again. She wasn't.
As she walked out of the classroom, she made her way over to Pansy, glancing once at Draco — who stood just beside her — before taking Pansy by the arm and pulling her away without a word to him.
Pansy didn't resist. In fact, she raised an eyebrow, barely keeping pace with Hermione as they slipped down the corridor outside the Charms classroom. Her heels clicked softly on the stone floor as she asked, "Is this about the sex ed classes, or —?"
Hermione turned the corner, pulling her into an empty classroom. "Who did you shag?"
Pansy raised an eyebrow. "Who says I shagged anyone?"
"Come off it, Pans." She whispered. "You've been on my case all year about my love life. Who did you shag?!"
Pansy laughed. "You're a gossip, Granger!" she said, clearly taken aback.
"Only when it comes to my friends. Come on — it's not as though I'll tell anyone." She was nearly whining. "I need to think about someone other than myself for five minutes. You were far too interested when Miss Cheerful Head Girl over there brought it up, which means it was either you or Daphne. And Daphne won't stop going on about what an idiot Theo is, so I know it isn't them."
Pansy leaned back against a desk, a slow and thoroughly smug smile pulling at her lips. "You're insufferable when you apply that brain of yours to things outside of schoolwork."
Hermione didn't move.
There was a beat of silence, then: "You'll scream if I tell you."
"Try me." Hermione was grinning.
Pansy watched her, as if trying to decide. "It didn't mean anything."
"All the more reason to tell me."
"Daphne doesn't even know yet."
"Daphne is a gossip."
"It was just before the holidays."
"If it didn't mean anything, you wouldn't be this defensive."
"I'm preemptively defensive. I already know how everyone's going to react."
"So it was a Gryffindor."
Pansy blinked. "I didn't say that."
"It's either a Gryffindor or someone you'd claim you'd never touch but did anyway." Hermione paused. Her stomach dropped. "It wasn't Draco, was it?"
"You think I'd shag your bloke?"
"He's not mine."
Pansy gave her a look — the kind that usually meant don't be stupid — and let out a long-suffering sigh. "Please. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't risk the wrath of your confused, bookish heart. Or his." She crossed her arms, tilting her head. "Besides, I said it wasn't serious. Fun. Lots of fun."
"Fun? Pansy, you're not giving me anything worth hearing!"
"It was just one of those stupid, firewhisky-soaked, hormones-over-logic kinds of things. You know. A lapse in taste. A warm-bodied, decent-kisser, not-my-type mistake."
"Not your type?"
"Too noble. Too emotionally constipated. A bit of a hero complex."
Hermione blinked.
Pansy watched her, smug and expectant, like she was waiting for Hermione's brain to catch up.
Hermione's eyes went wide, and she shot upright, grabbing Pansy by both arms. "You're kidding," she whispered.
Pansy beamed. Absolutely beamed. That slow, infuriating Slytherin smirk that Hermione had come to associate with secrets and self-satisfaction.
"Don't be dramatic," Pansy said, brushing Hermione's hands away and smoothing her sleeves, clearly enjoying every second. "And don't make it weird."
"Tell me I'm wrong and it's not Harry. You hate Harry. Of course I'm wrong."
"I do hate Potter," Pansy agreed — as if agreeing she was wrong. "But Salazar help me, the man is a good — well. You know."
Hermione staggered back and sank into a chair, jaw hanging.
"It really isn't a thing. It actually happened because of you!" Pansy added.
Hermione stared at her as if she'd grown a second head. "Because of me? What do you mean it happened because of me?"
Pansy leaned her hip against the desk, arms crossed again. "Well, we were arguing after Slughorn's Christmas party — about whether or not you knew what Draco was doing with the Vanishing Cabinet — and the next thing I knew we were snogging and then I was on top of him in his bed."
She sighed. "How did the mermaids in the prefects' bathroom find out?"
"That was when we got back from the holidays. You were involved that time as well."
Hermione threw her hands up. "Pansy!"
"Hey, the time on the train had nothing to do with you!"
"You slept with him three times?!" she yelled.
Pansy shushed her. "It's not as if I'm proud of it! I haven't told anyone! And it's not going anywhere. Think of it as… sparring. Horizontally."
"Oh my god."
"He's insufferable. Like… a golden retriever. But he's fit. And angry."
"Angry?" Hermione repeated.
Pansy gave her a meaningful look. "The best kind of angry."
Hermione covered her face with both hands, the horrid image of Harry tangled up with Pansy flashing through her mind. "I need you to stop talking."
Pansy laughed, delighted. "Don't act like you're above this. You asked. You practically begged."
"I didn't beg!"
"You dragged me into an empty classroom like a woman possessed."
Hermione groaned behind her hands. "I thought you'd say someone like… I don't know. Zabini. Not my best mate!"
Pansy watched Hermione's horrified expression with pure, glittering delight, as if she were savouring every last moment. It was about time she got some payback for all the emotional distress she and Draco had been putting her through.
"You should see him when he's in a mood." She whispered. "He likes to throw his weight around to prove a point."
"Please stop — that's my best friend you're talking about." Hermione shook her head. "Besides, that doesn't even sound like your thing. You're too… you, to let him be him."
"That's exactly what makes it so much fun! I knock him down a few pegs, boss him about!"
Hermione couldn't decide whether to laugh or scream. "I hate you."
"Because I slept with Potter? Oh, come on! He's got that energy about him. The kind that says 'I'm going to save the world and also make you forget your own name.'"
"Pansy!" She did laugh then. "How on earth did you shag Harry before I'd so much as managed to kiss Draco?"
Pansy's laughter filled the classroom. "You two and your ridiculous brooding and tension-filled stares and secret glances, walking around like you're both heartbroken — I don't know what happened over the holidays, but Merlin, are you both a mess."
Hermione went quiet, chewing her bottom lip.
Pansy tilted her head, sighing softly. "All right, I won't push. Though you do owe me gossip now. When you two finally get over your emotional baggage and —"
"Draco Malfoy and I won't be snogging, let alone anything else, anytime soon."
Not long after the prefects' meeting, Hermione sat with Harry in the library.
"I just think if I can really get on his good side, he'll tell me," Harry said, his voice hushed but animated. He was talking about Slughorn again — still frustrated by the man's evasiveness over the matter of Horcruxes. "You haven't found anything?"
Hermione blinked, looking back at him. "Sorry?" She'd been having some difficulty looking at Harry while he caught her up, ever since Pansy's confession.
"You all right?" Harry frowned.
She nodded. "Yes, sorry — just distracted."
"Malfoy?"
That was the thing bothering her most, if she were honest. Harry and Ron had been on her case since the beginning of the year about her new friendships with the Slytherins — and now Harry was convinced she was having some secret romantic entanglement with Draco — which, to be fair, she was — while all along Harry himself had been shagging Pansy.
She gave him a strained smile. "No, Harry. NEWTs. Remember those?"
She didn't say the rest out loud.
Harry rolled his eyes, leaning back and closing his. "For someone who doesn't fancy Malfoy, you get awfully twitchy and miserable whenever I mention him."
Hermione sighed, pulling a book from the shelf. "And for someone who's been shagging Pansy Parkinson, you're rather judgemental."
Harry's eyes snapped open as his chair tipped back. He scrambled to his feet, staring at Hermione as though she'd just told him she was in Voldemort's employ. "What?" he whispered.
Hermione didn't look at him. She set the book on the table with a dull thud and began flipping through it as though she were actually looking for something.
"I said," she repeated coolly, "you're awfully judgemental for someone who's sleeping with Pansy Parkinson."
Harry sat back down. "How do you know that?"
Hermione looked at him through her lashes. "You're not even going to deny it?"
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but his voice fell short. He could hardly deny it after what he'd just asked. "Did Ginny tell you?"
"Ginny knows?!"
He shushed her. "Yes. She was telling me about Dean, and I told her about Parkinson. You look as though you want to murder me."
"I do want to murder you!" Hermione hissed. "You've been on my case for months about spending time with the Slytherins — about Draco!"
"That's different!" Harry argued. "He's up to something. He's been shifty all year!"
"Just because you think that doesn't make it true! So Draco's being secretive and you disapprove — but so are you!"
"You can't call me a hypocrite, Hermione, unless you're ready to admit you're doing the same thing with him!"
Hermione ran her hands through her hair. "I am not shagging Draco bloody Malfoy!" she snapped.
The library fell absolutely silent. Madam Pince looked up from her desk, murder in her eyes. Several fourth-years at a nearby table froze mid-essay. A second-year dropped his quill. A seventh-year Ravenclaw actually clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.
Hermione could feel her face burning as she sank into her chair, wishing the floor would swallow her whole.
"I wish I had a camera," Harry said, grinning.
"Shut up," she hissed.
"You're the one who just shouted about shagging Malfoy."
"Not shagging Malfoy," she corrected.
"You still shouted."
Hermione groaned, covering her face with both hands. She was going to kill Harry. And Pansy. Slowly. If this got back to Draco, he'd probably want to kill her too — which meant she'd have to move fast.
"Look, Harry — half the time I want to hex Draco into next week," she whispered.
"And the other half?" Harry pressed.
She glared at him. "We are no longer speaking, so it hardly matters."
"Bloody hell, Hermione." He hissed. "He's —"
"An arse. A prat. An absolute nightmare, even. But if you say Death Eater, Harry, I'm telling Ron about Pansy."
Harry sighed. "Fine. Fine! I won't mention Malfoy again. Horcruxes."
Hermione rubbed her face, willing the lingering flush to fade. "I haven't found a single explanation in any of these books. I even checked the Restricted Section. Magick Moste Evile mentioned 'wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction' — but that was all."
Harry didn't look pleased.
Hermione pressed her lips together. "You could ask Pansy."
Harry looked at her, an awkward smile flickering across his face. "It's… not exactly like that…" he said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Hermione groaned. "Stop. Please. Pansy has already given me far too much information."
The next several days passed in a blur. Hermione would leave class the moment the bell rang, bury herself in the library during her free periods, or spend her time with her Gryffindor friends rather than the Slytherins.
Draco, meanwhile, had been spending the bulk of his time in the Room of Requirement working on the Vanishing Cabinet. It was strange, being there without Hermione. Stranger still that his friends were now clamouring to help him.
Blaise usually stationed himself a couple of corridors away, keeping watch. Now that Draco knew Harry had overheard him talking about the cabinet, he needed to be more careful. So while he hadn't wanted to involve his friends, he wasn't about to turn away their offer to stand guard. Pansy had volunteered to keep Harry occupied, though Draco suspected that would involve a great deal of hexes and detentions on her part.
Daphne had been the biggest surprise. She'd slip in quietly while he worked, bringing him food — afraid he'd starve if someone wasn't watching out for him. She never said anything when she'd walk in and find him simply sitting on the couch or the bed, staring at nothing.
She didn't offer commentary or suggestions. She didn't ask questions.
Every few hours of work, he'd hear Hermione's voice in his head, telling him he needed to take a break or he'd burn himself out — and, as if she were actually there saying it, he'd listen. He'd started bringing his book along for those moments.
He missed the sound of her talking. Her ranting. The way a small crease would form between her brows when she was concentrating. He missed the comfort of simply being near her.
He hated how badly he wanted to see her.
And yet she hadn't come. Not once.
He could hardly have expected anything different, could he? He had practically told her to get out of his life.
The door to the room opened, and Daphne walked in carrying a plate of dinner. She set it down on a table, then tilted her head, eyes landing on the cover of the book in his hands.
"That's Muggle," she commented.
"Mm," he said vaguely, as if that were answer enough.
"Hermione?"
He looked up. "I'm just taking a break so I don't collapse."
She nodded, glancing at the quill lying nearby. "Annotating?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I like it better when you don't say anything and just bring me my food like a house-elf," Draco sneered.
Daphne didn't flinch. She simply raised one perfectly arched brow, folding her arms across her chest.
"If I were a house-elf," she said calmly, "I'd poison your food. Do you like it?"
"The food?" he asked, turning another page.
"The book."
Draco didn't answer right away, staring down at the page in front of him — blank of annotations, unlike the dozens of pages he'd already passed, now covered in his handwriting. His thumb rested against the spine.
"Yeah," he said quietly.
Daphne nodded. "It's not the sort of thing you'd normally read."
"That's why I like it."
The silence stretched between them, Draco trying and failing to actually take in the words on the page. "She hasn't come by," he said at last.
Daphne huffed. "If it makes you feel any better, she's avoiding all of us as well. As though we've got dragon pox."
Draco laughed — a small, genuine sound — and closed the book. "That might be my fault."
"No shit, Malfoy." She laughed. "Well. Try not to starve or die of heartbreak before you finish repairing the cabinet. He won't be pleased." She whispered, handing him the plate.
Draco sighed as he took the sandwich. "My date with your sister went well," he said, just before taking a bite.
Daphne narrowed her eyes with that particular practised poise she had. "You're insufferable."
"She said I have nice cheekbones."
Daphne let out a long, slow breath through her nose. "Of course she did," she said flatly, her voice dripping with disdain. "I'm sure she also complimented your sparkling personality and your boundless humility."
"She did, actually. She's waiting for me to owl her parents and formally declare my intentions. I can tell from the way she keeps watching me."
"She's desperate," Daphne muttered.
"It's sweet," Draco corrected, with a small smile.
Daphne frowned, her eyes softening on him. "Sweet?" she repeated.
He nodded. "I think I could have really liked her, if I'm honest."
"Could have?"
Draco paused, chewing thoughtfully, his gaze distant as he stared at the sandwich in his hand. "Could have," he repeated softly, as if testing the words on his tongue.
Daphne sighed, squeezing his shoulder. "You should talk to Hermione. Before one of you implodes, or hexes Potter, or shouts something dramatic in the library."
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Did something happen in the library?"
Daphne smiled, all mischief. "Let's just say her public denial of shagging you has made you very popular with the seventh-year Ravenclaws."
He stared at her, shaking his head. "Brilliant. Truly. I managed to make the girl I'm not shagging scream my name. That does explain why Charvell keeps trying to talk to me."
"Not that I'm stalking you," Ginny's voice carried through the corridor as she pushed off a stone pillar and walked over to Blaise, who was sitting by a window working on a Charms essay. "But you've been sitting there for hours."
Blaise didn't look up. His quill continued to glide across the parchment in smooth, practised strokes, his handwriting infuriatingly neat. "I'd say that sounds exactly like something a stalker would say," he replied mildly.
Ginny rolled her eyes and dropped into the seat across from him. "I enjoyed your letters over the holidays. Kept me thoroughly entertained."
Blaise smirked, though his focus remained on the essay. "Glad to hear it. Yours saved me from some dreadfully dull parties."
She laughed. "Matching dress robes, I take it?"
"Pureblood girls laughing like banshees."
"You poor thing."
Blaise set his quill down. "If you're offering sympathy, I'll take it in the form of a Butterbeer next Hogsmeade weekend."
"Is that your way of asking me on a date?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No," he answered smoothly. "You're jumping to conclusions."
Ginny hummed. "You're very confident for someone who's definitely not asking me out."
"And you're very curious for a girl who still has a boyfriend," he murmured. "What was it you wrote in that letter? Your brother walked in on you and Dean mid-snog in his room on New Year's?"
Ginny groaned. "Don't remind me. Charlie's still threatening to feed me to the dragons."
Blaise leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head with a smirk. "Well, you could have been in your own room."
"I wish. Fleur — you remember her, don't you? She was here for the Triwizard Tournament — well, she's marrying my brother Bill and has been staying in my room."
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying Fleur Delacour is the reason you were caught with your boyfriend in your brother's room?"
"I'm saying Fleur Delacour-Weasley," Ginny emphasised the last part with exaggerated drama, "snores like a Hungarian Horntail and spends forty-five minutes in the bathroom every morning. I was left with limited options."
Blaise laughed. "Does she now?"
"Merlin, yes."
"Bet she spends more time on her hair than Malfoy does."
"Impossible."
Ginny grinned at his quick response. "I might take you up on the Butterbeer. Dean will just have to deal with it." She said as she stood. "I've got Quidditch practice. Don't still be here when I get back. It's getting weird."
Blaise watched her go, her long ponytail swaying as she strode down the corridor with that effortless confidence she always seemed to carry.
It was late — far later than she should have been there — but she had pleaded with Madam Pince for just one more hour. The librarian, grumbling about "precocious Gryffindors" and "ruining my schedule," had finally relented with a dramatic sigh and an ominous "Don't touch anything out of order."
Hermione hadn't intended to stay so long. But after days of avoiding the Slytherins — and especially him — she needed the comfort of solitude and structure, something that only rows of books and parchment could provide. She sat curled at the farthest corner table, a small lamp casting golden light across the wood and catching in the soft flyaways of her hair. A half-empty mug of tea sat cooling at her elbow, long forgotten.
Madam Pince had left the library, trusting Hermione with the key and issuing a threatening reminder that if she didn't return it in the morning — or if Madam Pince arrived to find the place unlocked — she'd ban Hermione for life.
It was now well past the extra hour she'd begged for, but Hermione was in no rush to leave. She turned the page of her book — The Flap of the Cape by Abigail R. Cankus — the other gift Draco had given her for Christmas. She had completely forgotten about it until she came across it in her bag while hiding Ferret. She didn't need anyone else finding the stuffed dragon.
She hadn't expected to actually enjoy the book — at least not as much as she did. She'd cracked it open out of guilt, telling herself she'd skim a few pages and then put it away. But now, two chapters in, she was properly hooked. It was witty and strange and full of sharp little metaphors that made her smirk or pause in thought.
It was also unmistakably him. Not the Draco she'd grown up despising, but the one she'd come to know over the holidays — the sarcastic, brooding, maddening boy who bought her thoughtful gifts and made her heart pound for entirely stupid reasons.
It was a children's book, that much was certain. She wondered if his mother had read it to him when he was small. She was fairly sure it hadn't been his father. Lucius Malfoy didn't strike her as particularly paternal.
She heard the creak of the door opening and looked up with a sigh. Madam Pince had probably charmed a portrait to watch the door and had come to chase her out.
Closing the book, she began packing her bag.
But it wasn't Madam Pince. Draco came around the shelves, his wand out as a light source. He stopped when he saw her.
Hermione's eyes widened, and she quickly shoved the book into her bag. She wouldn't crack. She wouldn't be the first one to speak.
Draco froze for a moment, as if the sight of her — alone, quiet, golden in lamplight — had quite literally stolen the breath from his lungs.
He hadn't come looking for her. He had prefect duty tonight and had no desire to be lectured by the Head Boy about shirking responsibilities. He was simply checking to make sure the library was empty.
But now that he was here, and she was sitting there — so different from the whirlwind of her usual presence in their shared classes — it was difficult to imagine leaving without saying something.
"Malfoy!" A girl's voice called from somewhere among the shelves, and Hermione looked toward the sound. A seventh-year Ravenclaw was coming down the aisle toward him.
Draco's eyes flicked toward her. "What?" he said flatly.
"I've finished my half of the library. It's empty. What about yours?" She looked around before her gaze landed on Hermione. "Oh."
Draco said nothing. He turned and walked out of the library. The Ravenclaw could sort it out.
Hermione tried not to let it sting — the way he turned and left without a word. It was only fair. She had done the same thing to him, just after New Year's.
"I was just leaving," Hermione said to the Ravenclaw.
It was a Friday in Potions, and Hermione was trying to stay focused. The smell of valerian root and dragon liver was sharp enough to sting her nose, the warm, murky air of the dungeon making her already frayed nerves feel ten times more sensitive. It was the last class of the day — thank Merlin — and the only thing keeping her from snapping at Ron for chopping his dittany wrong was the knowledge that the weekend was just one period away.
As soon as the weekend arrived, she could retreat to her room and stay there until Monday, when she'd have to be functional again.
But as she worked on the potion, she was beginning to think she might be going mad.
She had poured her dry ingredients into the cauldron and set down her stirring rod to check the book for the next instruction.
'You can't just put it in dry, Granger.'
She blinked down at the page, pulling the stirring rod out. Draco's voice from their study sessions was echoing in her head.
The whole point of those sessions had been to help her improve at Potions. Not to have Draco Malfoy commentating on her every move from inside her own skull.
She shook her head and glanced sideways at him — not because she was looking at him, just checking. Making sure he hadn't noticed her error. But he was focused on his own cauldron, stirring with a steady, controlled hand — clockwise, then counter-clockwise — with the kind of confidence that Slughorn fawned over.
She reached for the valerian roots and her knife and began cutting them in half.
'Press harder,' came the voice again. His voice. In her head.
She pressed down harder, gasped as the root split open with a burst. "Damn!"
Ron looked up. "You all right?"
"Fine," she muttered, grabbing a cloth to wrap her hand before making her way to where Slughorn kept the spare ingredients, needing more valerian roots.
As she reached up for the jar, her hand brushed against someone else's. She yanked it back.
Draco's hand was still hovering near the jar when Hermione pulled away, and for a moment, neither of them moved. His fingers twitched slightly, but he said nothing.
"Never mind," she muttered, hurrying back to her desk. She grabbed her things and turned off her cauldron. She said nothing to Harry or Ron as she left the classroom.
As she made her way through the dungeons — dark, gloomy, and damp — it was strange to think how much time she had spent down here. She found herself in a small alcove, sinking to the floor, pulling her knees up to her chest, her forehead resting against them and her eyes closing. She wasn't crying, not really, but her ears were buzzing and her throat felt dry, a dense, sickly feeling lodged in her chest.
"Mind if I sit?"
Hermione didn't lift her head. "Free corridor, isn't it?"
There was a pause — long enough that she almost thought he'd gone. But then she heard the soft rustle of robes as someone slid down the wall across from her, stretching long legs out in front of him.
The silence stretched.
She didn't look at him. If she did, she might crack. And if she cracked, she might actually cry, and that would be the last straw. She'd barely held herself together all month; she just had to get through ten more days — through Arithmancy and the library and the way Draco wouldn't look at her in class, or would only look when he thought she wasn't paying attention. Through the fact that she hadn't slept properly in nights and had read the same sentence in that ridiculous book he gave her ten times over and still couldn't tell you what it meant. Through the fact that she'd heard about him and Astoria.
Hermione curled tighter. She didn't move, didn't breathe too loudly. She simply allowed the presence across from her to fill the space — unspoken and strange. It wasn't like the quiet she shared with Harry or the noisy silence Ron made when he was sulking. This was different. This quiet understood her without asking questions or feeling the need to fill the space.
"He's in my head," she whispered, voice raw.
The silence stretched again, but it didn't feel awkward. Just… suspended. As if the words were still circling the space between them, looking for somewhere to land.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose. "He seems to know how to do that."
Hermione let out a breath that might have been a laugh if it weren't so bitter. Her head stayed down. She kept her face hidden in the curve of her arms, but her voice was low, steady, certain. "I know it's you, Theo."
He hummed. Not surprised. Not denying it. "Didn't think I'd fooled you."
"You walk differently." A pause. "And your voice is warmer."
That earned a small chuckle from him. "Don't tell him that. He'll be furious."
"Not my fault he struts about like he owns the castle."
Theo leaned back against the stone wall, sighing softly. "So. He's in your head."
Hermione nodded slightly, forehead still resting on her knees. "I think I have a brain tumour and simply don't know it. It would explain everything, honestly."
"I'm serious," she mumbled into her knees. "The constant second-guessing, forgetting where I put things, near panic attacks in Potions — tumour is the only reasonable explanation."
"Or," Theo said slowly, "you're losing your mind over a boy."
"I prefer the tumour."
Theo laughed, the sound echoing in the stone alcove.
Hermione looked up at last, red-rimmed eyes narrowing slightly. "You can go, Theo."
"I could," he agreed, and didn't move.
Hermione stared at him. "You're terrible at taking hints."
Theo shrugged, utterly unbothered. "Or I'm just stubborn. Learned it from you."
She huffed, picking at the lint on her cloak. "How is he?"
Theo blinked. "You know how he is."
"Do I?"
He sighed. "Quieter than usual. Broody. Mopey. Reading. He's almost like the old Malfoy — but not quite."
Almost old Malfoy, but not. She didn't know why that hurt as much as it did.
"How do I go back to being the old Hermione?" she whispered.