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Chapter Text

Cover art by Talitasami

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Hello! ☺️

Before you dive in, I'd like to give you a couple heads-up about this fanfiction, so you can decide if it's the right fit for you.

Draco is portrayed as intensely possessive in this story, reaching a level that is undeniably toxic. While this dynamic works within the context of fiction (at least for me), it's important to recognize that it wouldn't be considered healthy in reality. Both Hermione and Draco are depicted as flawed characters, each grappling with their own trauma, and they find solace in one another.

This isn’t an enemies-to-lovers story. While they may dislike each other initially, they aren’t true enemies as they don’t harbor deep hatred. An important event early on shifts their dynamic, setting the stage for their relationship to grow. 

If you think this suits your taste, I hope you enjoy it. Have fun reading, and if you can, please leave a comment to share your thoughts! 💗

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Hermione

“Stupefy!”

Sweat clung to the small of her back, hot and sticky, her black shirt plastered to her skin under a denim jacket that did nothing but slow her down. She twisted, barely dodging the streak of light flashing past her. Green. So close, she felt the heat of it.

Hermione pivoted instantly, boots scraping against stone as she nearly lost her footing. “Depulso!”

Her lungs burned when she tried to draw in air, her chest heaving with the effort. Every breath felt too shallow, too empty, her heart pounding against her ribs like a drumbeat of panic. There wasn’t a second to stop. To think. Her mind raced, and her voice strained as she shouted spell after spell—defensive, offensive—emptying her vast armoury of magic in a matter of minutes.

But no matter how many spells she cast, no matter how fast she moved, it never seemed like enough.

Not against enemies who hurled unforgivables with the same ease one casts a simple stinging hex. Spells so dark required intent, killing intent, and they had it in abundance. Their magic thrummed with the singular purpose of destruction, while the Order fought as if rules still mattered, clinging to their ideals and to the fragile hope that every life was worth saving.

They disarmed when they should have struck. They shielded when they should have attacked.

They hesitated when their enemies did not.

And it showed.

For every Death Eater who fell, twice as many of their own lay crumpled in the dirt, their wands slipping from lifeless hands.

It wasn’t fair.

But fairness didn’t matter here.

She knew that.

It felt so lonely to know it.

“Aghrr!” A shot of magic slashed across her arm, tearing through her skin and drawing a crimson line of blood. The wound throbbed, but she barely felt it. It was nothing. Nothing compared to the rest. The ache in her bones from hours of fighting, the exhaustion burning at every inch of her, the faces she’d seen fall, one after another, until her mind was nothing but a tangle of screams and curses.

She raised her wand with a hand that trembled, not from pain, but from fury. Fury fed by everything: the hopelessness, the fear, the constant feeling that they were losing ground no matter how hard they fought. It surged through her, hot and blinding, mingling with the bitterness that had been drowning her from the inside out.

And suddenly, the spell was on her lips, slipping out faster than reason could catch it.

“AVADA K—”

The sound broke abruptly, her voice dying in her throat as shock tore through her senses, the feel of dark magic flooding her body—the darkest kind. She’d expected it to taste like poison, like death.

But it tasted like…life.

And the sheer wrongness of it, of the way it filled her with warmth instead of cold, jolted her back into herself enough that she wrenched the unfinished spell away, forcing her wand to shift into the arc of a different spell.

“—Confringo!”

The blasting curse became a burst of fiery light that hit the Death Eater squarely in the chest, the force sending them flying backward until their body slammed to the ground.

Smoke and flames licked at their robes as they lay there, motionless.

Down.

But alive.

Her wand arm fell, her grip slackening dangerously as her stomach lurched.

Had anyone seen? Had anyone heard her almost—

She spun, her gaze darting across the courtyard. Chaos blurred around her, blending into something so overwhelming and dizzying she had to adjust her feet to keep her balance.

But no one was looking. No one had seen.

They were too busy fighting. Dying.

Harry wasn’t even there. He hadn’t been for some time.

Harry.

Her friend, who, in the midst of this unending nightmare, after all the pain life had dealt him, still clung to hope. Still believed that good could triumph simply because it should.

Why couldn’t she? When had hope abandoned her? Or had she abandoned it?

Another flash of green lit up the air, and a body hit the ground. Was it someone she’d spoken to that morning? Was it a professor? A classmate? A friend?

The questions cost her.

A spell slammed into her chest, knocking the air from her lungs.

It wasn’t green, she wasn’t dying, but the pain that followed was so familiarily visceral, she wished she were. Hermione screamed while agony shredded through her, dragging her mind backwards in time. Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix leaning close, her breath hot against her ear. A blade cutting into her arm. Blood, pain, fire, too much to endure, too much to escape.

She felt herself falling, the ground tilting beneath her.

Then, suddenly, it stopped.

Her head snapped up, her chest rising and falling in bursts as her senses rushed back. She couldn’t tell who’d saved her, just as she hadn’t seen who’d struck her in the first place.

She’d been foolish.

Distractions were deadly in this place. She was lucky to be alive.

Lucky?

Hermione straightened, blinking back tears that threatened to distort her vision as her eyes darted around the battlefield once more, searching for other threats, when something stole all the air from her lungs again.

Ginny.

She was a few paces ahead, unaware of the Death Eater behind her, who had his wand raised and the deadly green glow of Avada Kedavra already forming. No, no, no, no.

“Ginny!” The scream tore from her throat, panicked and loud, but it was lost among other screams. Each one just as desperate, just as scared.

Her mind raced, forcing a solution, and without fully letting the idea form, Hermione pointed her wand at the body of a fallen fighter. The gaping wound in his chest was so horrific it left no doubt he was dead. Irreversibly so. With a wave of her wand, the corpse jerked upright, landing between Ginny and the oncoming curse just as the flash of green light erupted, striking it instead.

Ginny finally turned as the body crumpled again, no more lifeless than before.

Hermione didn’t dare look at the face. She couldn’t. Her stomach revolted at the thought, twisting with a sickening guilt she had no time to process. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Ginny didn’t look either.

Instead, she disarmed the Death Eater quickly, their wand hitting the ground, broken and useless.

For a moment, Hermione and Ginny’s eyes met. The other girl’s chest rose and fell with laboured breaths, blood dulling to a rust-like hue in her matted red hair, her gaze filled with something neither of them could afford to name.

Hermione gave a quick, firm nod, willing every unsaid word into that small gesture.

Please don’t die.

Ginny nodded back, the understanding passing silently between them.

And then the moment was gone.

They both turned back to the fight, their wands raised. There was no time to stop. No time to linger on the horror of what they were being forced to do.

Maybe later, they could mourn. Maybe later, they could cry.

If there was a later.

For now, they fought.

“Hermione, help!”

Hermione's head snapped towards the sound of her name. A desperate, high-pitched shriek that echoed through the courtyard.

What she saw made her pulse stutter, then bolt.

Laura Woodbead, a sweet fifth-year girl she used to tutor, was crouched in a corner, her tall frame barely concealed behind the remains of a boulder. And closing in on her, with a cruel grin that sent chills down Hermione’s spine, was Fenrir Greyback. One of the most depraved wizards Hermione had ever encountered.

Instinctively, her eyes moved to the sky.

The sun bled low across the horizon, casting a fading light over the jagged stretch of rock and forest surrounding the castle. But it wasn’t the dying sunlight that sent a wave of dread rolling through her. It was the pale, gleaming orb rising on the other side of the sky as she turned.

Full.

Hermione’s mouth went dry, and the muscles in her legs tightened as she launched into motion, dodging stray curses and vaulting over debris. She barely registered the sting of a stray rock scraping her shin or the burn in her shoulder from holding her wand steady.

All she could think of was how tonight, Greyback wouldn’t just be a vicious man anymore. 

He would become a monster.

“H-Help!” Laura’s voice cracked, making Hermione’s ears ring.

The younger girl wasn’t even moving, her arms gone slack, her body frozen like she’d been petrified.

Hermione tried to run faster, the soles of her feet slamming against the ground as a flick of Greyback’s wand sent the boulder shielding Laura splintering into shards. The girl flinched, her hands finally moving, shooting up to shield her face from the flying debris.

“Ahh!”

Greyback smiled. “Avada k—”

Hermione got there at the last possible moment."Expelliarmus!" The desperate, blunt force she poured into the spell not only stopped the killing curse mid-incantation but also sent Greyback crashing to the ground with a violent thud. He lay sprawled in the dirt, unmoving. But she didn’t dare take the time to check if he was unconscious.

She crouched beside Laura, gripping her arm and hauling her upright. “C’mon.”

The girl’s body felt limp, like she was barely aware of what was happening.

“Laura!” Hermione called, giving her arm a rough shake. “We have to move.”

She tried pulling Laura forward, hoping the motion would jar her into action, but she stayed rooted, her eyes wide and unfocused, staring at nothing.

Hermione gritted her teeth.

“You’ll pay for that, little Mudblood.” Greyback’s raspy voice suddenly crawled through the air.

Hermione’s gaze whipped around, her wand prepared, and landed on the sight of him straightening, dirt smudging his robes, his eyes flashing with a feral glint.

She waved her hand in a rush, summoning a shield between them, the barrier shimmering faintly. It wasn’t strong enough, and she knew it.

But she didn’t have time to make it stronger.

Turning back to Laura, Hermione gripped her by both arms. “Laura,” she hissed. “I can’t drag you, and I can’t fight him and protect you at the same time. Let’s go. Please.”

She could see Greyback’s hulking frame closing in.

The only thing keeping him from reaching them already was the smouldering patch of earth left by a stray Incendio. But he’d be on them in seconds, and her shield might block his spells, but it wouldn’t stop him. Nothing could stop him once he got close enough.

She shook Laura again. “If you don’t move, we’re going to die!”

The girl’s blue eyes were drenched with pain. “He k-killed her—my friend. She’s d-d-dead. She protected me, and now she’s gone.”

Hermione locked her jaw to keep the emotion at bay. “No. Not now. Grieve later.”

Laura’s face crumpled. “W-What?”

The next blast against Hermione’s shield was so strong it sent vibrations up her arm. She let out a pained gasp, her knees almost buckling.

Hermione grabbed Laura’s wrist. “Fight! Fight for her! Don’t make her sacrifice meaningless by dying as well!”

Tears fell down her face, but Laura finally moved.

They ran with their hands locked together as Hermione focused on keeping them running, while Laura, released from her daze, fumbled for her wand and started casting protection spells behind them.

But Greyback wasn’t slowing.

Hermione didn’t need to look to know he was there, his presence looming, his growls inhuman. He wasn’t just chasing them.

He was hunting.

Her shoulders tensed as she stole a quick glance back. He was close. Too close.

“Damn it,” Hermione muttered under her breath, yanking Laura forward harder before spinning on her heel and aiming her own wand straight at his feet.

“Deprimo!”

The ground shattered with a thundering crack, a wide hole ripping open directly in Greyback’s path. He skidded to a halt just in time, his balance wavering dangerously at the edge, and a snarl erupted from his throat, deep and angry, his eyes blazing as they met Hermione’s.

She paused, her chest heaving, then smirked, just barely, before turning away with Laura in tow.

They didn’t stop until they were inside the castle, the heavy stone walls closing around them like a lifeline, and Hermione stumbled to the floor, lungs on fire as she fought to catch her breath.

Her legs ached, her hands felt numb, and the weight of everything was balancing precariously inside her, ready to swallow her whole.

But she was alive.

Laura was alive.

“Mione?” The familiar voice coated her in warmth. “Where the bloody hell were you?”

Rough hands cupped her chin as she rose, tilting her face up so Ron could study her, his worry plain as day.

“I’m fine,” she said, stepping back just enough to pull away from his grip.

“Hermione saved my life,” a small voice said.

Ron’s head swivelled towards Laura, his lips lifting into a weary smile. “She does that.”

Boom!

The world erupted, a deafening roar tearing through the air, and the ground lurched violently beneath their feet, sending Hermione stumbling into Ron, her fingers gripping him as Laura clung to her side.

The three of them swayed together, barely keeping each other upright.

“Protego!” Ron managed to shout, one arm around Hermione while his other jerked upward.

She didn’t know how long it lasted—the walls trembling while chunks of ceiling broke free and crashed to the floor around them, cracks splintering through the stone like spiderwebs. But at least a few minutes must have passed before the tremors finally slowed, then ceased completely.

Hermione coughed, blinking against the gritty haze filling the air. Yet when her vision cleared, all she wanted was to close her eyes again and block out the image in front of her.

The same corridors she’d walked countless times before were now a crumbled mess, weak orange light streaming through gaping holes in the walls. More and more, the familiar outlines of Hogwarts were gone, replaced by scenes of devastation and loss.

She swallowed hard against the emotion rising in her throat, memories of the school flooding her mind—moments of growing up, of learning, of friendship.

And through the veil of grief and memory, one face surged to the forefront: the face of a boy who’d fought a troll for her in their first year at Hogwarts, and who’d been her friend ever since.

“Ron,” she gasped. “We need to find Harry.”

She hadn’t seen him since the battle erupted, since the moment she thought he was dead, the pain cleaving through her like a blade. And then he was alive, and her heart was thrust back together, hastily patched and bleeding at the seams.

Ron gave a sharp nod, brushing soot from his hair and shoulders. “Let’s go.”

Hermione turned to Laura. “Find an Auror, and don’t lower your wand for anyone,” she instructed, then pulled the younger girl into a hug. “Be safe. Hide if you have to.”

Survive.

Laura hugged her back tightly. “You too. And thank you—for saving my life.”

Hermione stepped away, blinking fast. “Of course.”

Laura let out a shaky smile. “We’re going to win this, right?”

Hermione took a breath. “Yes.”

Inside, the word rang hollow. 

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Ron and Hermione walked through the main entrance of the school, making their way to the large courtyard where they’d last seen Harry.

The battle still raged, though its energy had waned, dulled by exhaustion and the terrible void left by those who’d fallen. Outside, where the air should’ve been clean and fresh, all she could smell was the pungent, acrid scent of death and blood. All she could hear was the clash of spells and the raw, anguished cries of the grieving.

“I don’t see him,” Hermione choked out as they moved past the courtyard, heading towards a more desolate stretch of the grounds.

Harry wasn’t here. He wasn’t fighting, and he wasn’t one of the dead.

At least, not here.

"Where do you think he could be?" Ron asked, eyebrows deeply scrunched above glassy blue eyes, as he took in the same sight as her.

"Maybe he's not in the school,” she suggested. “Voldemort took Harry to the forbidden forest before. He could have done it again."

"Could be," Ron agreed, releasing a heavy breath. "Then again, Harry could be in a lot of places by now."

"Well, we have to look somewhere," she insisted. “And I think this is our best guess.”

Ron’s mouth thinned as he looked at her. “Maybe, but Hermione…my family’s here.”

The words shook her, igniting guilt in all the places the Weasleys had made their home in her heart. She bit the inside of her cheek, tasting blood. “I-I forgot. I mean, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll go. You stay and I’ll go.”

It’s what made the most sense.

“What?” Horror twisted his features. “No!”

Her brows knitted together. “Ron, we can’t abandon Har—”

“I’m not abandoning him!” he burst out, his voice strained. “He’s my best friend. Just because I don’t want to leave my family doesn’t mean I—I-I just don’t know what to do—” He broke off, turning away and muffling an agonised scream into his arm. “Fuck!”

Hermione rushed forward, grabbing Ron’s arm to pull him upright before wrapping him in a fierce hug. “I know,” she whispered urgently. “I’m so sorry. I know.”

His head dropped onto her shoulder, and she felt his tears soaking into her neck and clothes.

She let her hand drift over his back, tracing circles in an attempt to ease his anguish, even as the voice inside her screamed that there was no time for this. She knew what had to come next. Ron would stay with his family—with the people who needed him most. And she would go, no matter how he felt about it.

Because Harry was family, too.

And though it wasn’t something she wanted to witness, an opportunity to leave without having to fight Ron about it appeared right in front of her.

“Ron, look!” She pointed to a distant figure, a flash of red hair locked in a duel with two Death Eaters. Arthur Weasley. He was holding his own, but the fight was uneven, two against one.

Ron’s gaze snapped up, seeing his father, and panic flooded his eyes.

“Go!” Hermione yelled, giving him a firm shove between his shoulder blades. “I’ll be right behind you.”

She watched as Ron hesitated only for a moment before running towards his father, leaving her standing there alone. Exhaling, she turned her face towards the forest and set off, knowing that this was her path to take—whatever may come of it.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

The Forbidden Forest always felt wrong, its stillness unnerving, as though it were alive and watching. And as Hermione moved carefully through the dense trees, her gaze darting to the shadows, desperately searching for any trace of Harry, every step she took felt too loud, the crunch of leaves underfoot amplifying the gnawing unease that crawled beneath her skin.

It didn’t take long for the last remnants of daylight to vanish as she walked, and soon the full moon hung stark and cold in the darkened sky, its pale light only faintly outlining the gnarled roots that snaked across the forest floor.

She stumbled repeatedly, her shoes catching on hidden obstacles, each misstep dragging a curse from her lips and making her itch to summon a guiding light.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Because while it might help her see, it would also allow her to be seen in a place she’d very much rather remain hidden.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Hermione had been walking for what felt like forever, her legs dragging through the undergrowth, each step heavier than the last. The silence pressed against her like a hand around her throat, and her pulse climbed steadily higher—until a sound sliced through the night, terrifying enough to still her heart.

A howl.

Loud.

Close.

It all came rushing back, pulled from her past. The sensation of being hunted by a beast, of running with death at her back. She had been here before, and the fear from memory bled into the fear of now, until she could no longer tell them apart.

Her blood curled cold in her veins, her lungs squeezing until every breath felt stolen.

She needed to run. Just like last time.

She needed to run if she wanted to live.

But her feet refused to move, the mud gripping her boots like hands pulling her down. And for a few dangerous seconds, she let herself imagine what it might feel like to give in. To fall to her knees, press her cheek to the dirt, and let the earth take her. To stop fighting, stop thinking, stop hurting.

Another howl rang out, threading through the trees like a needle stitching her back to reality.

Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sob. No.

She hadn’t found Harry.

She couldn’t stop until she did.

Hermione owed him that much.

Grinding her teeth and drawing on the last threads of her strength, the ones buried beneath her marrow-deep exhaustion, she wrenched herself forward and ran.

Fast.

As fast as she could in the dark.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Her first stumble sent her crashing to her knees, the sharp edge of a rock slicing through her trousers and into her skin. It stung, but pain like this registered on a different scale after what Bellatrix had done to her, slashing her arm open with a cursed blade and torturing her to the point her hands trembled for weeks.

Even now, it sometimes took conscious effort to still her fingers.

When the second fall came, not long after, it was marginally worse. Her left shoulder slammed hard against a tree, the bark jarring bone and muscle alike, sending pain radiating down her arm as the impact knocked her off balance.

She stayed down for a second, tears swimming in her eyes, before she forced her legs to move again.

Harry needed her.

She couldn’t give up.

She couldn’t stop.

But, as fate would have it, the third fall stopped her cold.

Her body slammed into something solid, the force sending her flying backward until she ended up on the ground, stunned and gasping.

Whatever she’d crashed into wasn’t still. It wasn’t rooted to the ground like a tree—it had been moving. Fast.

She tried to sit up, her brain firing off a frantic list of possibilities. Animal, person, werewo—

Then came the groan. Low, masculine, human.

Heart slamming against her ribs, her fingers flexed around her wand (miraculously still in her hand) and raised it blindly towards the sound. "Expelliarmus!"

Whatever reaction she was expecting when her spell disarmed her opponent, it wasn't the one she got.

A low, rasping laugh. Followed by, "If you're going to kill me, at least show me your face."

The voice was hoarse, but it still carried a trace of arrogance, like defiance was the only armour it had left. More importantly, she knew it.

She knew that bloody voice.

“Lumos.” A small, deliberately weak sphere of light spilled into the clearing, chasing a few of the shadows away.

And there he was.

Hair so pale it bordered on white, at least when it was clean. Cold grey eyes. A familiar sneer, suddenly replaced by a look of surprise.

"Malfoy.”

A moment stretched between them before he answered.

"Granger."

They were both still on the ground, staring at each other across the uneven forest floor.

"So…" he started, the light from her wand illuminating the pallor of his skin, the sheen of sweat on his brow, the line of blood tracing a path down the side of his face. "Are you going to kill me? Finally get your revenge after all these years?"

She let his question hang in the air, turning it over in her mind, until a quiet, misplaced giggle rose in her throat, bubbling up until it escaped.

Malfoy brows lifted.

"Kill you for what?" she asked, laughter still in her voice. "Being a bully?"

His eyes darkened. “Don’t act like you’ve never imagined it. Me at your mercy. Wand at my throat. Go on, Granger, make your dreams come true.”

Her amusement faded.

“Malfoy,” she exhaled, lowering her wand slightly, “do you actually believe I’ve been clinging to your pathetic little schoolyard cruelty so tightly that I’d want you dead for it?” She shook her head. “Don’t you get it?”

She looked at him—him, someone who’d made her cry more times than she could count—waiting for anger. But all she felt was— “Nothing,” she murmured. “You’re nothing.”

What was a boy like him compared to everything else?

Compared to Voldemort. Compared to the wizards who were killing the people she loved.

Compared to this war, whose destruction never seemed to end. That took and took even when she had nothing left to give.

She’d hated him once. Malfoy. He’d given her every reason. But then she learned what hate was—real hate. And he didn't wear its face.

Only its mark.

His lips parted. “Granger–“

“I’m not going to kill you,” she interrupted. “You don’t deserve to die. And honestly? I don't have the time.”

She needed to go.

To find Harry.

To help him, so he could help everyone else.

Not wanting to waste another second, Hermione forced herself to her feet, gritting her teeth through the pain, and crossed the short distance between them, bending down to retrieve his fallen wand as she went. “Here,” she said when she reached him, holding it out.

But he wasn’t looking at the wand. He was still looking at her.

She cocked a brow. “Malfoy. Do you not want it?” 

That snapped him out of it, his fingers stretching towards the wand before finally gripping it. The second he had it, she turned and walked away, each step like she was moving through wet sand.

She was just about to let her Lumos spell fade when the faint glow from her wand showed her the last thing she wanted to see.

All air turned to ice in her lungs.

Fenrir Greyback.

Even in his werewolf form, she recognised him instantly, the grotesque figure she had seen once before. His beastly body loomed large, muscles rippling under his mangy fur as he lunged towards her.

Maybe she tried to move.

Maybe she didn’t.

Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered.

There was no pain as she hit the ground, and for a moment, she thought it might be over, that peace had finally claimed her. But that illusion shattered as she felt it, the weight of something heavy pressing her into the earth.

She opened her eyes, ready to face death.

Instead, she was met with deep pools of ash, blazing with ferocity, and something else she couldn’t name.

Then he screamed.

A terrifying, agony-filled scream.

Chapter Text

Draco

When he was young, Draco found pain in the smallest of things.

Ram his elbow against a doorframe, and he’d clutch it like the world was ending. Stub his toe on the corner of the bed, and tears would spring to his eyes. Catch a splinter in his palm, and he’d huff and puff, convinced someone had it out for him.

As he got older, he’d had to face bigger pains.

Hexes in duelling class. A broken arm from a Hippogriff. The slap of a girl that left his face red for reasons that went well beyond the sting of her hand.

Still, back then, pain was simple. Sharp, fleeting, easy to cry over.

Then came the past year of his life.

In theory, he knew it must have happened gradually, stretched across the long months following the night everything changed. But whenever he searched his memories and tried to recall the boy he’d been before, it never felt like a slow descent. It felt like a string snapping. A sudden break. A single moment where pain became something else—no longer a passing inconvenience, no longer something that dulled with time, distractions, or a few mumbled spells.

No longer something he could escape.

It slipped through the doors of Malfoy Manor as an honoured guest, gliding past the large threshold with a welcome bow from its loyal servant, who kept a firm hand on Draco’s neck, pushing his head down, too.

There was no longer space for the boy he’d been. Not there. Not in the house that had once been his home. Softness was unwelcome. Weakness, intolerable.

And so, he was introduced to a pain unlike any he’d known before.

It moved through him like a sculptor’s blade, a chisel, wielded by hands that shared his blood, hands steeped in cruelty, drenched in madness, shaping his suffering into something to be played with, something to savour. 

At first, he’d still flinched, still sobbed when it hurt too much. Still pleaded, waiting for someone, anyone, to put an end to it. But no one did. Only the pain came for him. Again and again, stripping him of everything he was, everything he knew. Until, one day, he stopped fighting.

He stopped resisting.

He learned to bear it.

To know it.

To use it.

And by the end, he was no longer the boy who cried when he hurt. He hadn't been for a long time.

Not until the wretched scream that ripped from his throat as he stared down at Hermione Granger.

She stared back, eyes wide and startled, framed by wild curls falling loose around her face. Then she blinked, her gaze darting past him, over his shoulder, to where Draco was certain a werewolf was trying to eat him alive.

Her face twisted in horror, just as the creature’s teeth sank even deeper.

They tore through skin and muscle, grinding down with such force they scraped against the bone of his left leg. Agony exploded through him, blinding him for a moment and leaving his body wracked with tremors, teeth slamming together to keep the next scream from escaping.

The pain was so vast he didn’t notice the wetness tracing down the bridge of his nose before it slipped free, following the pull of gravity as it fell—down, down—until it landed on her face.

A single glistening drop against her skin.

He’d expected red. Expected blood, leaking from a wound on his temple.

But the liquid was clear. Transparent. Sheer enough he could see the faint freckles beneath it.

And that was when he realised—

He was fucking crying on her.

The indignity of it burned just as fiercely as the fire searing through his leg when the beast wrenched its massive head, hurling him off Granger with brutal force. Yet even as pain consumed him entirely, one absurd thought cut through the haze.

Good timing, you bastard.

The impact with the ground sent a shockwave through his skull, his vision flashing black again before the world swam back into focus.

The werewolf was already closing in, its maw slick with blood. His blood.

Draco’s stomach churned with bitterness. So this was how it would end. Beneath the snapping jaws of some rabid, flea-ridden monster.

Fuck, even Granger would’ve been a better option—if only she’d been up to it.

But she hadn’t.

Hadn’t even considered it.

Had barely acknowledged him before dismissing him entirely.

A humourless smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Maybe I’ll haunt her.

Simply out of pettiness.

The beast’s fangs loomed, breath thick and putrid.

He shut his eyes.

Bracing.

"Get away from him!"

The voice rang through the dark, shrill, feminine, laced with that reckless defiance Gryffindors liked to romanticize as bravery, even as it reeked of martyrdom.

His eyes snapped open again, half-hoping he’d imagined it.

But no.

There she was, a streak of shadow and curls, her small frame tense as she levelled her wand at the beast. The same one that had just turned its full attention to her, a savage growl rumbling from its throat.

Draco groaned as he clenched his entire abdominal wall, forcing himself upright more abruptly than his battered state wanted to allow.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted, his voice coming out hoarse. “Run!”

Her eyes barely flicked to him.

Rage ignited in his chest. Wasn’t she supposed to be the smart one? The brightest witch of her age, or whatever nonsense they called her?

"Confringo!"

A burst of magic shot from her wand, hitting the beast. It barely flinched. If anything, the attack only served to piss it off, its hulking shoulders rising as its paws dug deeper into the earth, readying to spring.

“Granger!” he barked. “Bloody run!”

“Depulso!”

Her next spell shoved the beast back for a heartbeat—just long enough for it to shake off the magic and refocus on her.

She was asking for death. Begging for it. And right after he had just saved her, no less.

Draco’s fingers quickly scrambled for his wand, shaking from pain, from exhaustion, from the sheer fucking idiocy of the girl in front of him. The fog eating at his vision grew hungrier, but he blinked rapidly, forcing himself to focus.

Standing was impossible—his leg was too mangled, too ruined to hold him—so he’d have to make do from the ground. Hardly ideal, but the alternative was letting Granger become an evening snack for the mindless beast. And while that wasn’t technically his problem, he’d already saved her once tonight. Might as well see it through.

His arm weighed thrice what it should, but he still managed to lift it, aiming his wand at the werewolf’s back while he whispered the curse.

“Crucio.”

It came all at once, the familiar pull that accompanied dark magic. It was different from ordinary spells, richer, heavier, sending a jolt through his body, like a live current sparking under his skin.

It drained him, but it fed him, too.

The werewolf collapsed, its body writhing in harsh spasms, claws raking helplessly at the ground while whines of agony fractured the air.

Draco allowed himself a brief, satisfied smirk.

"Malfoy."

His gaze snapped up. She had moved closer without him noticing, her face illuminated by the sickly yellow glow of the Cruciatus still pouring from his wand.

“You shouldn’t be using that spell,” she murmured, looking down at him. 

His head jerked back slightly, certain he’d misheard. Surely, she meant something else. Something like, Oh, Draco, you’re brilliant. Thank you for saving my life.

Twice.

He gave her another chance. “Sorry—what?”

She crouched beside him, mouth twisted in disapproval. "You’re in no condition to cast anything, let alone that."

Draco’s wrecked body and increasing weakness weren’t enough to stop the biting sarcasm from pouring out of his words. "Would you rather I let it eat you?” He cocked a brow. “There’s still time."

"I had it under control.”

Oh, the obnoxious little—

"Don’t fucking delude yourself.” His focus wavered between her and the effort of holding the spell. “This is war, and I just watched you fight like you were still in a bloody classroom.”

Her eyes flashed, a shadow crossing over her face.

“You know, maybe it’s not so easy for the rest of us,” she sneered defensively. “Becoming what we’re fighting against just to survive."

He hated the judgment in her voice, the way it scraped at him.

“Do you really think that makes you better?” He snarled. “Would you even be alive if I were like you?

She shrugged. "Then maybe I was meant to die."

For a second, her answer stalled him.

Then a dry, humourless laugh escaped him. “And that, Granger, is exactly why you’re losing. Why all of you are.”

His fingers curled tighter around his wand, his vision swimming at the edges. “When this is over, if Voldemort wins, it won’t be because he had the better army or stronger magic. It’ll be because you—" his gaze burned into hers, something bitter and tired laced in his words,"—weren’t willing to do what needed to be done.”

Their eyes remained locked together, a charged current passing between them. Then she exhaled, her breath uneven, and her gaze dropped to his arm.

“You’re shaking.”

“Don’t change the subject,” he bit out.

She glanced at the werewolf, still pinned beneath his magic, then back to him. “Don’t you think we have more pressing matters?” Her brows scrunched. “You won’t be able to hold the spell much longer.”

His jaw tightened, teeth grinding against the truth of it. “I’ve got it,” he snapped, the lie sour on his tongue.

“If you drop it, he’ll come for me.”

He let out a breathless scoff. “Then go already, Granger. Let me die in peace.”

“No, Malfoy.” Her hand rose, sliding beneath his arm, helping to steady it. “That’s not what I meant.” A pause. “Drop it, and I’ll run. It’ll buy you time. I don’t know how far I can get, but… it’ll give you a better chance.”

Draco didn’t know how to react.

Sweat soaked into his hair, dripping from his temple as he stared at her, bewildered.

“What the hell are you even saying?”

She couldn’t actually think he’d let her draw the beast away—so he could what?

Drag himself to safety?

Hop through the forest like a fucking one-legged rabbit?

Her hand slipped away. “It’s my turn,” she said simply. “You saved me, didn’t you?”

She didn’t sound the least bit grateful.

Draco went to shake his head, but the motion made his vision tilt so wildly he almost lost his hold on the curse. Fuck. He swallowed hard. “Shut up, Granger. Go save yourself. I don’t want what comes after this, anyway.”

“What—" Realisation dawned in her expression, washing over her features like a cold tide as her gaze flickered to his wound. “Y-You were bitten,” she whispered. “On a full moon.”

Then, softer— “You’ll probably…”

“Yes.”

Turn.

Become a monster himself.

His arm shook harder.

“Malf—"

“Ughrr!” The strangled sound tore from his throat, his wand nearly slipping from his grasp again as the last of his strength bled out of him. He forced his gaze back to hers, his breath shallow, his pulse hammering against his ribs.

“Go,” he rasped. “You don’t owe me, alright? Consider it payment for… everything.”

There was no need to specify.

“I—” Her brows pulled together. “No. I won’t just leave you to die.”

Bloody Gryffindors and their asinine need to always play the hero.

“Will you die with me, then?” he asked, forcing both the words and the irony past his tightening throat. “Don’t be stupid.”

That’s when his body finally failed.

His curse sputtered at the tip of his wand before giving out completely, darkness rushing in to swallow them whole.

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the ragged sound of his breathing, each inhale a battle, each exhale a defeat.

"Lumos."

A soft glow bloomed from her wand, pushing back the shadows. Their heads snapped in unison to where the beast lay crumpled on the ground, its massive form eerily still. It was no longer howling in agony, no longer writhing, but its limbs twitched faintly—an aftershock of the curse. Its head lolled to the side, jaw slack.

“I don’t think it’ll stay down for more than a minute,” he urged her weakly. “Get away from here.”

Her eyes remained fixed on the werewolf.

"Leave!" he roared. Or tried to. The sound fell from him in something barely more than a rasp.

She turned back to him with a scowl. "Be quiet and let me think!”

His blood boiled.

Fuck this. Perhaps he’d still kill her himself.

A low, shuddering groan split through the night.

Draco’s eyes swivelled back to the beast.

It was stirring, its muscles flexing differently now, claws scraping against the earth in slow, testing movements.

Draco’s mind raced. Could he still summon the strength for the Killing Curse?

Earlier, he’d reached for Crucio, not out of hesitation, but because it was easier, more certain in a moment of pressure. Now he had a little more time. Seconds more.

But could he make it work in his current state?

He tightened his grip on his wand, and even that small action sent a fresh wave of weakness crashing over him, his limbs sluggish, his magic absent.

Frustration burned in his chest, but he was distracted by Granger’s wand swiping upward, sending a sphere of light soaring into the air. The sudden brightness made his eyes water even as his focus stayed on her.

His gaze followed her next movements—and he froze.

His breath stilled.

That pattern.

Was she really—? 

Green erupted at the end of her wand. 

She was. 

“Avada Kedavra!”

Or at least, she tried.

But instead of releasing, the green light quivered weakly at her wand’s tip before collapsing in on itself, vanishing like a breath extinguished in the wind, dying before it could kill.

Draco heard her gasp. Then saw her knees strike the dirt hard.

Bloody hell.

She couldn’t do it.

She hadn’t had enough intent—enough will—to cast it.

How was that possible? How could she rather die than kill?

The werewolf’s growls deepened, rolling through the night like distant thunder, and Draco struggled to see clearly as the blood loss stole more of him.

But the image before him was hard to miss, the beast heaving itself from the ground, inch by inch, huffing with the effort. 

“What about Crucio?” Draco pressed behind her. “Or Imperio? Bombarda?”

If Avada Kedavra was too much, then something—anything—else would do.

But she didn’t move.

Didn’t even react to his words.

”Granger!”

Nothing. 

And in that nothingness, in her stillness, a cold truth dawned on him. As ruined as he was by this war, she might be just as lost to it. 

Because this wasn’t hesitation.

She wasn’t unwilling.

She was giving up.

Right in front of him.

Maybe for the second time.

Another growl, and a yellow gaze fixed on them, tall and overflowing with rage—ready to kill. Lungs filling, Draco pushed past the dizziness to say the one thing he hoped would snap her out of it, because for some bloody reason, the thought of her dying here irked him.

“Mudblood!”

Her head whipped towards him, lips parting like she couldn’t believe he’d just said that.

Beyond her, the beast let out one more bone-rattling snarl and lunged.

“Fight, Granger!” Draco demanded, forcing as much strength into his words as he could. “For them!” 

If not for yourself. 

Something came alive in her eyes, and the, finally, she moved, spinning so fast the wind from her hair actually hit his face, which, under normal circumstances, he would’ve complained about.

“Bombarda!”

Her spell exploded on impact, propelling the werewolf backward in a vicious, uncontrolled spiral that almost made Draco feel proud. But she didn’t go after it. Instead, she rushed back to his side.

“What are you—”

“The wards,” she cut in, urgency sharpening her voice. “They’re broken—we can—”

She didn’t even finish.

Before he could process what was happening, she threw herself at him, and the instant she landed against his chest, the world around him vanished.

It wasn’t just disorienting, it was obliterating.

His entire body caved under an unbearable pressure, as if he were being compressed from all sides, squeezed into something impossibly small. It tightened and tightened until he was sure he might splinter into a thousand pieces—then it just stopped.  

The crushing force lifted. The world returned.

Cold stone met his back as he dropped onto solid ground.

But before he could get his bearings, two things happened in quick succession:

Granger collapsed into his arms again, and a violent wave of nausea surged through him.

There was no chance to warn her.

He barely had time to turn his head before his stomach lurched violently, and he emptied its contents onto the floor beside them.

Death might have been preferable to this.

Granger carefully shifted out of his arms, her hand landing on his back in an awkward attempt at comfort as he continued to heave until there was nothing left but bile.

“It’s okay, it’s normal. Just let it all out.”

If he’d been capable of speech, he’d have told her if this was her idea of normal, maybe she fancied a turn.

When he finally stopped, she waved her wand. “Evanesco.”

Draco coughed, swallowing against the raw burn in his throat. “We Apparated,” he rasped, piecing it together through the haze of nausea. That was what she’d meant before. Voldemort had destroyed the wards, making Apparition possible at Hogwarts.

“It was risky, considering how much concentration it takes and the state of, well… you.”

He shot her a glare.

“But I’ve practiced a lot these past few months, and it’s not like we had many other options.”

Draco opened his mouth to retort—only for his stomach to betray him once again, sending him into another humiliating round of retching.

Granger grimaced before quickly vanishing it again.

It was only when his insides somewhat settled that he felt safe enough to glance around, instantly recognising the room. “We’re in the Potions classroom?”

She nodded as she got up. “We need silver. And dittany.” She looked down at his leg. “And an obscene amount of blood-replenishing potion.”

Draco refused to follow her gaze, afraid the sight alone might bring the nausea flooding back.

Instead, he focused on the witch as she began moving purposefully through the room, clearly knowing where to search. 

The sounds of battle were still echoing through the castle, though they seemed quieter now. Probably because more people were dead, he guessed, forcing himself to ignore the heavy emptiness that thought left behind.

He’d always viewed Hogwarts as nothing more than a school—a social circle where, as in most places, he held the advantage. He’d been taught that, as a Malfoy, a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, people would bend over backwards to gain his favour.

And usually, that proved true.

So, imagine the surprise of eleven-year-old Draco when the famous Harry Potter chose to befriend a Weasley and a Muggle-born dork instead.

He spent the next several years ridiculing the little trio, determined to make them understand how far beneath him they were.

How terribly misguided he’d been. 

How ignorant, to believe himself entitled to their subservience.

But it wasn’t until he witnessed his father kneel before a wizard who deemed himself above all others that Draco finally understood the truth.

Lucius Malfoy, the man who had once stood so tall, had allowed his wife to be raped in his own home. Draco had been forced to watch as his mother was dragged out by the hair and punished for his father’s failures.

In that moment, the name Malfoy, the privilege of being a pure-blood, meant nothing. And it was then that Draco finally understood the truth of the world.

Power was all that mattered. Nothing else.

And without it, the world would devour you whole.

He had stood by while his mother screamed through the walls, too powerless to intervene.

He had stood by as Hermione Granger was tortured at the hands of his own aunt.

He had stood by in the face of unfathomable evil while Harry Potter and his friends risked everything to fight against it.

And Granger’s words—"You’re nothing"—had felt so much like the confirmation of everything he’d come to understand that it moved him to jump in front of a werewolf to, at last, do something.

Save someone.

Save her.

The girl he had tormented for years, for no reason other than his warped belief that he was somehow better than her.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Hermione cradled all the potions she could find in the crook of her arms. Regrettably, the dittany supply was nearly gone, with only a pitiful amount clinging stubbornly to the base of a tiny glass vial. Most of the stock had already been whisked away to the school’s infirmary, just as soon as everyone realised the inevitability of the battle coming for them.

With Malfoy’s wound as nasty as it was, she doubted it would be enough.

There was, however, a decent amount of silver and blood-replenishing potion—the first to tackle the werewolf venom and the second to address the worrying amount of blood he seemed to have lost. Even without casting a diagnostic spell, she could tell from his deathly pallor that he was hanging on by sheer stubbornness. Frankly, she had no idea how he hadn’t collapsed already, considering his face was so drained of colour that Moaning Myrtle and Nearly Headless Nick might have mistaken him for one of their own.

As she checked the small white tags on each potion, she could feel his gaze on her—intense—far more than should have been possible for someone in his condition. It sent a shiver across her skin, raising the hairs on the back of her neck like a silent warning.

Then again, Malfoy himself seemed far more intense these days. Different. His arrogance hadn’t gone anywhere, of course—some things were as immutable as gravity—but what he did tonight, how he acted… she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

War changes people, she reminded herself. It didn’t care which side you were on; its destruction was equal opportunity. And who knew what her childhood bully had endured on the other side of all this, standing so close to the depraved darkness of Lord Voldemort?

“Malfoy,” she called, crouching down at his side, the vial of silver clenched in her hand. “This is going to burn like hell. Do you want me to knock you out first?”

His head lolled back against the wall behind him. “Brilliant.”

“I’m serious. You’ll want me to do it.”

He lifted his head with visible effort, still slumped against the wall. “Sure, Granger. Be my guest.”

Hermione nodded and reached for her wand, only to feel his hand suddenly clamp around her wrist. “What?” she asked, startled.

“My mother. If I die… could you… could you be the one to tell her?”

“You won’t die, Malfoy.”

She didn’t know why she sounded so sure, considering where they were, never mind the severity of his injury.

“Just bloody say yes or no, will you?” he snapped, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes.”

Malfoy’s eyes lingered on hers, pale grey against the dark frame of his lashes, searching for something. Whatever he saw must have been enough, because he gave a faint nod, his eyes slipping shut. “Lights out, then.”

He sounded so weak she thought they could wait a few more moments and the need for a spell would resolve itself. But alas, there was no time to spare in the throes of war.

“Stupefy!”

Hermione watched as his body slumped, no longer awake to hold itself upright. Only at the very last moment did she move, her hands darting out to catch his head, saving it from striking the hard floor.

Something wet seeped under her knees, warm and sticky, and when she looked down, she saw blood—his blood—spreading around her. She knew she should feel something, anything, at the fact that he was dying. They weren’t friends, not even close, but he was still a person. She’d known him for years.

But she… didn’t.

After everything she’d seen, after so much death, she just felt numb.

Her body moved regardless, working to save him, but her mind couldn’t help but wander as she did.

She thought about how even if Malfoy survived this, his life would never be the same. She’d seen what being a werewolf did to people. She’d seen it in Remus Lupin—the tired eyes, the scars that seemed to tell their own stories, the way it strained everything, even his love for Tonks.

Beyond that, she knew what awaited Malfoy outside of this room. The world didn’t see werewolves as people. Remus had told her how hard it was to find work, how no one trusted him, how people looked at him like he was already dangerous just by existing.

Could Draco Malfoy—spoiled, arrogant, and so sure of his place in the world—survive that kind of life? Could he handle the world turning its back on him, treating him as a monster before anything else?

Perhaps he wouldn’t have to. Perhaps he could hide it.

He certainly had the money to help.

The silver hissed and bubbled as she poured it into the wound, the venom reacting violently and sending up a smell that turned her stomach.

Moving on to the blood replenishing potion, she forced Malfoy’s mouth open and used magic to help him swallow a generous amount of it.

“Degluteo.” 

For a few tense minutes, his skin remained unnervingly white, so pale it didn’t even look real. But then, slowly, the colour began to return—still pale, but not the kind that looked like death was just around the corner.

Boom!

The ground shook beneath her, and the walls trembled, dust and debris threatening to come crashing down. Hermione’s immediately instincts kicked in, and she hastily cast a shield charm above herself and her hapless patient, while her mind dragged her down the rabbit hole she’d been trying so hard to avoid.

What was happening out there? Who was still fighting?

Who wasn’t coming back?

Against all odds, she was still alive—a fact owed to the unconscious Slytherin lying before her.

Was there a reason for it?

Something she was still supposed to do?

The thought pressed down on her, exhaustion sinking deeper into her bones, making it harder to breathe. So she looked down at Malfoy again, desperate for a distraction.

His breathing was more even now that the blood replenishers were taking effect, but there were a few more crucial spells she needed to perform if she wanted to guarantee his survival.

Her eyes traced his face, lingering on the details that now seemed oddly unfamiliar in his knocked out state. His hair looked a mess. The white-blond strands were darkened with soot and with blood, sticking out in every direction like they had a mind of their own. She was used to seeing it slicked back or neatly parted, never this wild. Then again, her own hair was probably worse. Her braid had long since come undone, and she didn’t even want to think about what state that left her curls in.

Her gaze moved lower, brushing over his closed eyes and landing on his lips. Without the sneer she was so used to, they looked different—softer, fuller. A perfect cupid’s bow marked the middle, giving them a shape that struck her as surprisingly delicate.

Almost feminine.

But whatever softness there was in his lips was balanced out by the chiselled lines of his jaw and the imposing height he’d somehow acquired around their fourth or fifth year. At the time, she could only remember how much it added to his ability to look down on her, the distance between them feeling impossibly vast, both literally and figuratively.

Now, though, he looked small. Vulnerable.

Completely at her mercy.

If she wanted to, she could leave him there. She could walk away and help the people she actually cared about.

Keeping Draco Malfoy alive was costing her precious time in a place that didn’t forgive seconds wasted.

It made her wonder, with her heart twisting inside her, which thought made her the worse person: that she was even considering abandoning the wizard who saved her, leaving him to die? Or that, deep down, she didn’t really want to return to the fight, that she’d rather stay here with him than go back to the screams, the chaos, and the deaths she couldn’t stop.

With her breath coming in trembling gulps, Hermione uncorked the vial of dittany and carefully poured its contents over Malfoy’s torn flesh. She tipped the bottle until it was almost upside down, shaking it harder until only one stubborn bead clung to the bottom. Even then, she refused to waste it, using her wand to extract the last trace of the essence and guide it into the wound, knowing that every precious drop could determine just how well his leg would heal—or if it could heal at all.

Then, rifling through her above-average knowledge of healing magic, Hermione began casting every mending spell she could think of that might help.

She was halfway through one when the wooden door of the Potions classroom blew apart, splinters flying everywhere and a Death Eater falling through the frame. Hermione barely had time to push herself to her feet and fall into a fighting stance.

A hex hovered on the tip of her tongue, ready to fire, when the Death Eater suddenly stopped moving. Not a twitch. Not a breath. Every part of him frozen in place, like someone had hit pause on his body.

Hermione’s brows knitted together, her wand still raised as she cautiously stepped forward.

And then, out of nowhere, a head of bright ginger hair burst into the room.Tall. Lean. Both ears intact. Her lungs hurt as they filled with air, as though she’d been underwater too long.

At the same time, light blue eyes searched the room, sharp and focused, but the moment they landed on her, they widened, and a gasp broke from his lips. “Hermione?”

“Fred.”

“We’ve been looking for you,” he said, ignoring the frozen Death Eater as he strode forward and wrapped her in a strong—maybe too strong—hug. It felt like the sun rising on a frigid morning. “We were all scared. Ron and Harry—Merlin, they were beside themselves.”

She shoved him back a little so she could stare at his face, his words jolting through her. “They’re both okay?”

Her heart pounded in her chest, every beat fuelled by fear and hope crashing together.

Fred’s face softened. “Ragged, but perfectly alive.”

A wave of relief hit her so powerfully she wondered if she might drown in it. She wanted to speak, to say something, but her throat tightened to the point where nothing could escape. All she could do was nod, her eyes stinging.

Fred placed his hands on her shoulders, a smile curling at the edges of his lips. “It’s over, Hermione. We won.”

She froze. “What?”

“Wait—is that bloody Malfoy?” His gaze had wandered over her shoulder.

Hermione yanked at the sleeves of his robe, forcing his attention back. “Fred. Did you just say it’s… over?”

His eyes shone with triumph. “Harry did it! He killed that snake-faced bastard!” He gestured to the Death Eater beside her. “There’s only a handful of those idiots left. The rest fled when the Dark Lord fell.”

Those were the words she had yearned to hear since their first encounter with Lord Voldemort. Her most profound wish come true.

Maybe that’s why it felt so unbelievable.

After so many months of restless fighting, of living in a tent in the middle of nowhere, of searching endlessly for a way to end this nightmare... the end was finally here. But it couldn’t be real. It didn’t feel real, so how could it be?

She remained silent, lost in doubt, the numbness she’d relied on to keep herself intact—what little remained of her—clinging to her like a lifeline. It was all that held her together, yet it felt as if it might also tear her apart.

Fred noticed her lack of reaction and gently squeezed her shoulders with his large hands, his fingers so long they almost reached the middle of her back. “I promise he’s really dead, Hermione. We won. The Order won.”

She tried repeating his words, hoping it might help her process them. “We won. The Order won.”

Somewhere along the way, she had stopped believing. Maybe it was when Sirius fell through the veil, or when Dumbledore’s lifeless body struck the ground. Maybe it was when she had to send her parents away at the risk of their own memory. Maybe it was when Bellatrix’s blade sliced through her skin, or when Dobby’s small body went still in their arms. Maybe it was when they thought Harry was dead, or when she watched their friends fall, one by one, as Hogwarts crumbled around them.

No matter when it happened, belief had been completely lost to her, crushed under the pain.

And now, standing here, it was proving almost impossible to find it again.

“Yes.” Fred urged her to accept. “We did it, Hermione. You did it.”

The red of his hair was so vibrant, so alive, such a stark contrast to the pale blond she had been staring at only minutes ago. Fred felt warm. He felt like family.

A great tremor overtook her.

It’s over.

Her chest quivered, and tears burned in her eyes, spilling over in hot streams that came faster and faster until they poured unchecked down her face. Hermione swiped at them with her sleeve, scrubbing hard. “Shit.”

Fred chuckled softly, pulling her to him and wrapping her tightly in his arms. He didn’t let go for a long moment, giving her time to collect herself, before finally stepping back and nodding towards the gaping hole in the room where the door used to be. “Come on, let’s go tell Ron and Harry you’re okay.”

Hermione shook her head, tears still falling. “Tell them for me, please. There’s something I need to finish.” She turned back to Malfoy, her eyes finding his still figure on the floor, stable but unconscious.

Fred’s gaze followed hers, and his brow furrowed. “Why waste time on him?”

A faint, tired smile formed on her lips. “It’s a long story... but I’ll be quick, Fred. I promise.”

“I’ll stay with you, then.”

“No—you should let them know I’m okay.”

He hesitated, clearly torn, before letting out a sigh. “Alright. Just don’t take too long, Mione. They’re worried sick. And besides,” he added, his signature smirk breaking through, “we’ve got a victory to celebrate.”

Hermione smiled but couldn’t stop the way her stomach clenched.

Could they really celebrate when so much had still been lost?

She waited until Fred left the room, the frozen Death Eater floating behind him, then turned back towards Malfoy, wiping her face again. A few quick steps brought her to his side, and she knelt down, bending over to recheck his injury.

It looked better than before, far less perilous to his life, but not enough for her to promise a full recovery of his leg.

He would already face an arduous enough challenge with a lifetime of transformation under the full moon, his body breaking and remaking itself every month. Even with the luxury of Wolfsbane, which his wealth would undoubtedly secure, the adjustment would still be… gruelling.

She should really try to save his leg.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the faint fluttering of his eyelids.

“Malfoy,” she called, leaning closer to him.

His eyelids twitched again in response.

“Can you hear me?”

Slowly, one steel-grey eye opened, followed by the other, heavy and sluggish, clearly taking more energy than he had to spare. He blinked a few times, struggling to keep them open, but his stubbornness won out in the end, and his gaze finally locked onto hers, a small crease forming between his eyebrows.

“What?” she asked.  “Surprised you’re alive?”

A breath of air escaped him, dangerously close to a laugh. “A bit.”

She nodded, appreciating the honesty, then watched as he tried to push himself into a sitting position, bracing against the wall for support.

He failed.

“Bloody hell,” he grunted, slumping back onto the floor.

She didn’t move to help him, and he didn’t ask. They both understood that, despite the strange trauma-bond forged between them tonight, their relationship didn’t allow for such gestures.

On his second attempt, Malfoy managed to stay upright, though a few shades of colour drained from his already pale face.

“The silver dealt with the werewolf venom,” she informed him. “It won’t kill you… but you’ll need more dittany. Otherwise, that leg will be close to useless.”

He peered down at himself, inspecting the wound with his own eyes. “It looks bad.”

It really did.

“It hurts worse than it looks,” he added.

“Oh.”

“But at least I’m alive, right?”

Hermione took in the stiff, sarcastic smile stretched across his face, feeling a little stunned. He had to be in incredible pain right now, and yet he was keeping an astonishing level of composure.

Where was the cowardly boy who used to cry over a scratch?

Had the war taken that from him too?

The thought coaxed the words from her mouth. “It’s over, Malfoy. Harry killed Voldemort… the Order won.”

She caught only a brief flash of reaction in his gaze before his lids lowered, cutting her off. But his face still bore the aftershocks, shifting rapidly through a labyrinth of emotions—anger, grief, bitterness, relief—all of it colliding beneath the surface.

When he opened his eyes again, they looked like the remnants of a storm, chaos still lingering in their depths.

“Good,” he said at last.

It was strange how heavy a single word could sound.

Hermione studied him more closely. He just seemed so different from the boy she once knew… Could the bite already be affecting him?

“Are you okay, Malfoy?”

She didn’t particularly care, but he had saved her life, and asking felt like the polite thing to do.

His lips curled, arrogance clicking back into place like a reflex. “Worried about me?”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. “What? No!”

She shot to her feet, brushing off her robes with quick, frustrated movements as she started towards the door.

Her heart lurched, guilt searing through her as the truth sat like agony in her chest.

Maybe she didn’t deserve to be a Gryffindor anymore.

Before she could find a response, his gaze drifted past her, his brows lifting.

“And what the bloody hell happened there?”

Hermione followed his line of sight to the shattered doorway but dismissed it with a wave.

“Nothing much,” she said, forcing nonchalance into her voice. “I need to find you some dittany.” She let out a slow breath. “If there’s any left.”

Who knew how many others had already needed it? How many still did?

"Guess I’ll just sit tight." His shoulders sagged as he shifted his weight. "Not like I have much of a choice, anyway." He sounded drained—more than just exhausted.

Worn down in a way she understood all too well.

"I’ll try to be fast," she promised, then turned and crossed the room, stepping through the gap where the door used to be.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

As she made her way through Hogwarts, Hermione tried to ignore the chunks of stone littering the floor, the bodies draped in cloth, and the sounds of muffled sobs echoing through the corridors. But her steps still quickened, her soul urging her to run. Run from it all.

“Hermione!”

That voice.

She spun around so hurriedly she nearly stumbled. “Harry!”

Now she did run, but not away. She ran as fast as she could to him, until she could throw herself into her friend’s arms.

They clung to each other fiercely, holding on as though the world might tear them apart at any moment.

After a moment, she whispered against his shoulder. “Where’s Ron?”

Harry tensed, his body stiffening before he pulled back slowly. “He’s over there.”

Hermione followed his gaze with her eyes, and she saw them. The Weasleys stood in a tight circle with their backs turned to her, Ron’s shoulders hunched and visibly shaking.

She shifted back to Harry, dread swallowing her whole.

She should ask.

Why couldn’t she ask?

Her eyes returned to the family as words failed her, and this time, she counted.

Molly.

Arthur.

Ginny.

Ron.

Bill.

Charlie.

Fr—one ear.

George.

Hermione tasted blood in her mouth, her teeth piercing the inside of her cheek.

“H-Harry,” she forced herself to say, her voice trembling. “Where’s Fred?”

Even though her question was barely audible, Ron must have somehow felt her, because he turned, and when his red-rimmed eyes met hers, she saw in them the answer she didn’t want to accept. He immediately rushed towards her, wrapping her in his arms with a desperation that left her breathless. His head fell against her shoulder, his sobs muffled but shaking them both.

The gap Ron left gave her a clear view of what—who—they were huddled around.

A body.

Uncovered.

Hermione’s knees almost buckled as her eyes landed on the still, pale face.

It’s over, Hermione. We won.

But for Fred, it wasn’t just the battle that was over, it was everything. His laughter, his pranks, his joyful spark of life… all of it gone.

They won.

But they lost so much more.

Chapter Text

Draco

Only a few minutes remained before one of the first trials of the Second Wizarding War—his own—and Draco sat on the cold, grimy floor of a Ministry cell, his left leg throbbing relentlessly.

It had been one month and three days since his fateful run-in with the beast that sentenced him to a life unrecognisable from the one he once knew, much like the Dark Lord’s grand return did the year prior. The name could not have better fit the villain, really, considering Draco’s life had only grown darker and darker ever since the war began.

This month, however, had plunged it into pitch black.

The dreadful side effects rolled in fast, bringing with them a parade of sensations he neither recognised nor welcomed.

An insatiable appetite, primarily for red meat.

Sudden and intense flashes of rage at the smallest provocations.

A steadily climbing body temperature, punctuated by sudden, unrelenting fevers.

Increased strength and muscle mass.

A tendency for logic to be overtaken by what he could only describe as animalistic instincts.

And the most appalling and horrifying of them all—one he neither understood nor had ever encountered in his study of werewolves—obsessive thoughts.

That had, in fact, been the first symptom to emerge.

It was something he could only recognise now, in hindsight, how the sheer force of his reaction when she hadn’t come back for him had been nothing short of unhinged.

Wildly out of proportion.

A hunger that had nothing to do with appetite and everything to do with her.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

As he watched her leave to get more dittany, her curls tumbling messily down her back, Draco tried to focus on anything but the pain in his leg. He bit down against the steady ache, his pulse hammering in time with it, and latched onto the news she had given him, desperate for any distraction.

What would life look like after the war?

Would he be condemned to Azkaban along with the rest of his family, his name inked onto the pages of history as yet another Malfoy who had chosen the wrong side?

Would this wound on his leg signify changes that not even his post-Voldemort self could withstand?  

Would his mother be able to heal?

Would he ever forgive his father?

Himself?

Draco ruminated over everything he’d gone through since the moment Voldemort first stepped into the Manor, thoughts unravelling into deeper, darker corners as he waited. There was no shortage of things to reflect on, no end to the memories that clawed their way to the surface of his mind.

The war had not simply been a battlefield of wands and curses. It had been a bloody dismantling of the self, carving away until there was little left untouched and leaving behind only what it demanded of him.

Draco had learnt things no seventeen-year-old should learn. Spells designed to maim, to kill, to extract secrets from unwilling tongues. He had carried out orders that still lingered beneath his fingernails, the ghosts of what he had been forced to do never fully washing away.

He had endured Bellatrix’s training—if one could even call it that—weathering her particular brand of affection, sharpened by cruelty and laced with a fervour that fed on her madness. She had broken him in ways that went far beyond physical pain, forcing him to prove himself, to harden, to survive. And for what?

To watch his mother suffer in silence, to see the light in her eyes dim with every passing day as she bartered away the last of her dignity to keep him breathing?

The thoughts gnawed at him, coiling deep in his gut until nausea threatened to rise. He forced them back before they dragged him under, unwilling to risk retching again, and shifted his focus to the more immediate pain of his leg. Somehow, it was the lesser of the two.

He waited, mind blank, concentrating only on his ragged breathing.

On the distant murmurs of voices.

On the pale morning light creeping through the cracks of the castle.

He waited.

 But then he kept waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

And she wasn’t back.

Time had slowed to a crawl, stretching unnaturally, each moment dragging out as though the universe itself had decided to test his patience. At first, it only irritated him—the waiting, the stillness. But then the irritation curdled into something worse. Restlessness crept into his limbs, urging him to move, to go somewhere, anywhere.

The weakness pinning him down should have been enough to keep him there, half-sitting, half-lying on the floor of the potions classroom, the stone floor still slick with his blood.

But it… wasn’t.

Not when the restlessness grew into something unbearable, something that felt an awful lot like panic.

It swallowed him whole, a weight in his chest so crushing it left no room for reason. His mind spiralled, each thought worse than the last.

Where was she? What if someone hurt her?

The possibility was so terrifying that it forced him upright, tearing him from the ground through sheer will. His body screamed in protest, his magic all but drained, but he didn’t care. He scraped together what little he had left, wrenching it from the dregs of his strength, and forced the leg of a broken chair to turn into a makeshift walking stick.

A pathetic sight, really. Draco Malfoy—coated in dirt and blood—dragging himself through the wreckage of what had been a school, leaning on a battered piece of wood like some half-dead relic from a war that had been determined to end him before it ended.

But none of that mattered.

There was only one thought, one purpose, one thing that mattered to him as he slowly limped through the corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Finding her.

Why he was willing to drag himself through this agony for the sake of a self-righteous, know-it-all, insufferable Gryffindor witch, he couldn’t say.

Just as he couldn’t explain the violent rush of emotion that crashed over him the moment he finally saw her.

She was crying. Wrapped in Weasley’s arms.

Relief struck him so hard it nearly brought him to his knees.

But that wasn’t all.

There was a hole forming in his chest, her tears burning through him like acid.

And Weasley’s arms around her?

Fuck.

He couldn’t even begin to name the emotion that sent a violent, sickening twist through his gut.

Insane, murderous jealousy?

Yeah, if anything, that was it.

Draco stayed hidden in the curve of the corridor, one hand bracing against the wall to help keep himself upright, the other tightening around the bloody stick that was the only other thing keeping him standing.

And still, he warred with himself, trying to summon the strength to walk over and rip her away from Weasley.

There was no sense to it. No logic.

But the longer he watched, the worse it got, something dark and possessive rooting itself somewhere within him and expanding with every second he stood there.

He—he had to leave. Had to get away from this, from her, before he lost the last scrap of restraint he had left.

His makeshift cane scraped against the stone as he forced himself to turn away and start limping. It wasn’t quick—hell, it was embarrassingly slow—but it was all he could do to put distance between himself and the scene searing itself into his mind.

Still, every step away from her hurt, and not just in the way his mangled leg protested the movement. This pain ran deeper,  reaching into places untouched by flesh or bone.

It was like… like something vital was being severed.

It took every ounce of Malfoy stubbornness to keep moving.

But had Draco known what the next month would bring, perhaps he would have given in right there and then.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

One month and three days ago, the final battle had been fought.

The war had ended.

But Draco scarcely cared to remember the significance of that.

For him, it had been one month and three days since it began—the merciless yearning to see, to touch, to feel. It taunted him day and night, unrelenting. There was no escaping it. No silencing the obsession that had latched onto him like a curse of its own.

He had spent every waking hour before his impending arrest buried in the Malfoy library, tearing through every book, every brittle scrap of parchment that even hinted at the werewolf curse. He had read until his vision blurred, until the words lost meaning—but not a single page had given him the answers he needed. Nothing explained what was happening to him.

Nothing helped.

Not even sleep.

His fixation had rooted itself so deeply into his miserable existence that even when exhaustion finally overtook him, dragging his body into unconsciousness, there was no relief.

Soft brown curls spilling over bare shoulders. The scent of ripe peaches. A voice like silk, wickedly clever, taunting him through the night, haunting him in his dreams.

At first, he fought it.

He lay still, refusing to answer the siren’s call, stubbornly rejecting the way she had infiltrated his every thought. But the need only grew, coiling hot and insistent in his gut, tightening with each night that passed.

By the time he gave in, it was no longer a choice.

His right hand wrapped around his stone-hard cock, coating each stroke with the warm spill pooling at the tip, his grip firm as his fingers worked the length in violent, desperate motions. Every ragged breath broke into a choked moan as he pushed himself closer, hips lifting off the mattress in a frantic chase for relief.

Images flashed through his mind, wild hair, parted lips, eyes that always saw too much, and suddenly he found himself rutting against the pillow like some feral animal, fingers fisting the sheets as if they were a person. 

The shame burned hot, but the need was worse, so much worse.

He hated this. Hated her for it.

But that never stopped him.

His hand only moved faster, his moans slipping free no matter how much he wanted to bite them back, and soon white streaks of cum coated his bed, his abdomen, his thighs.

Some nights, he dreamed of leaving his mark on her instead—of it trailing down smooth skin and collecting at the base of her throat, shining like a string of pearls he had no right to place there.

The fantasy lingered long after sleep had faded, and with each passing day, he felt more and more like the most damned man alive, seeing as there wasn’t a chance in hell prissy, holier-than-thou Granger would ever let him use her like that.

Never mind that he needed to.

That every second without her felt like his body was eating itself alive, like he’d drop dead if he didn’t have her.

She wouldn’t care.

She’d probably laugh at his funeral. If she even went.

But fuck if he wasn’t going to make her fix this—rip this godforsaken curse out of him before it killed him.

When his first full moon came, it felt like the culmination of all his symptoms. The days before had been a blur of fatigue, short tempers, and an appetite so ravenous he could’ve cleared an entire butcher’s shop. Then came the fever, its burn sinking into his bones the night before and refusing to let go until the change began.

He had lain sprawled on the freezing stone floor of the Malfoy Manor dungeons, the door bolted from the inside and a silencing spell cast to keep his mother out, waiting for the inevitable to tear him apart. And as the transformation began, his body breaking and reshaping itself in a storm of endless agony and stolen screams, he almost regretted the wolfsbane in his system that allowed him to keep his mind.

Maybe if he hadn’t sent his ever-loyal house-elf, Winky, to procure it, accepting the risk of her discovering exactly what he had become, he might have been granted one small mercy.

He could have finally been free of her.

If only for a single night.

As it was, she had remained, along with the consequences the change had on his body. Four days had passed, and Draco was still struggling to recover, every muscle aching, his left leg pulsing with pain from a wound that had never fully healed.

It didn’t help that the arrest came only two nights after the first change, leaving him to recover on the hard, wet floor of a Ministry cell, thrown in there like some common criminal.

Despite that, the timing could not have been more brilliant.

Lucious Malfoy should be applauded for his efforts at evading the ministry’s forces.

He truly gave it his all; taking advantage of the family’s vast riches to hide in a small village in the south of Portugal, where magic was all but extinct. If Narcissa and Draco had been immediately arrested, there would have been absolutely no prospect of keeping his secret.

But with his father’s well-timed flight, Draco had been granted something invaluable: time.

Time to think. Time to plan.

And so, after a month in which they had been permitted to remain at the Manor while awaiting his father’s capture—Mother’s fragile mental state the only reason behind that mercy—Draco and Narcissa had been escorted to the delightful accommodations of the Ministry’s dungeons.

Of course, he shouldn’t be too ungrateful. Anything was better than being thrown straight into Azkaban like so many others.

Unfortunately, that hadn’t been the case for his aunt, who more than deserved it, but had somehow proven even more adept than his father at escaping—vanishing along with a handful of Death Eaters who had fled the final battle.

Still, the thought of his mother trapped in a place like this made Draco want to tear out the throat of the next guard who came near his cell—with his teeth—full moon or not.

She had to win her trial. Draco would allow nothing else.

And neither could he afford to lose his own.

It wasn’t just that he had no interest in spending his days snogging dementors in the most nightmarish prison ever conceived.

It was that if he got sentenced, there would be no chance of uncovering what the bloody hell was happening to his body, his mind.

Because this was much more than a clear-cut werewolf curse.

Of that, he was certain.

"Draco Malfoy," a crisp voice called out, drifting down the narrow corridor that led to the cells. "It’s time for your trial."

Finally.

Draco grimaced, forcing himself to get up, his muscles hurting like he'd been trampled by a herd of rampaging hippogriffs. His left leg, as always, was slow to respond—had been ever since that night.

In the corner of the damp, shabby cell rested his latest humiliation: a long, polished cane, its curved top carved into the head of a dragon. He glared at it before snatching it up, then stood motionless, waiting for the magical lock to release.

When a sharp click echoed through the silence and the door swung open, Draco stepped out, leaning into the cane, and slowly made his way down the long corridor lined with mostly empty cells.

Each of his steps rang out against the stone, punctuated by the metallic clack of his cane striking the floor.

“Hurry, now,” the same voice called, making Draco narrow his eyes at the still-distant figure of the long-bearded wizard standing at the entrance of the familiar Ministry lift.

A hex hovered on Draco’s tongue, itching to be unleashed, but he clamped his jaw shut, grinding his teeth so hard it was a wonder they didn’t crack. He couldn’t afford to let his temper slip—not when his future depended on playing a part.

Draco needed them to see a misguided boy, not a dark wizard in the making.

He didn’t quicken his pace, though.

That would only make his limp more obvious.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Listening to Potter defend him felt bizarre.

And judging by the tense set of Potter’s shoulders and the confused frown he had worn the entire time, it must have felt just as surreal to him.

Yet, despite it all, Potter spoke with utter conviction, recounting every moment Draco had chosen right instead of wrong to the panel of witches and wizards presiding over the trial.

Harry Potter, standing as a character witness for Draco Malfoy.

A reality so absurd it would have made him laugh under different circumstances.

But strange though it felt, Draco knew exactly how much it mattered—having the greatest war hero of the century vouch for him.

Shit, Potter’s presence might just be the thing that saved him.

“Thank you, Harry. We will take this into consideration,” Kingsley Shacklebolt said, the purple in his robes made brighter by the lights in the room. “I’ll ask that you call in the next witness on your way out.”

As Potter turned to leave, he hesitated for the briefest moment, his gaze flickering to Draco, then to his cane, before offering an awkward nod in his direction.

Draco, who stood caged like some exotic beast at the centre of the room, stiffly nodded back. His height made the already narrow space even more uncomfortable, and he hadn’t even been offered a chair that might have helped relieve the pain in his leg. It kept worsening with each passing minute, no matter how much he leaned his weight to the right.

He glanced at the panel as Potter walked away, searching their faces for any indication of his chances at freedom. Most of them didn’t even bother to hide their disdain, their eyes dragging over him with thinly veiled contempt, lingering—predictably—on his right arm.

As if they could see it through the fabric.

As if they needed a reminder of what lay beneath.

Proving his innocence—what little of it there was—became a far greater challenge with that stain branded into his skin. If only they knew how deeply his hatred ran for the one who had put it there.

How it had only festered, growing stronger, even after—

His nostrils flared.

Peach.

The scent consumed him, threading through every nerve, every cell, until it was all he could register. His right hand tightened around his cane, while the other clenched around one of the cold metal bars of his cage, his grip keeping him upright as a lightning-like jolt of awareness tore through him.

It made his blood feel electric, charged until it was amplifying his every sense to the highest degree possible, only so he could fully take it in.

Take her in.

Because Granger had just walked into the small auditorium where his trial was being held, and he drank in the sight of her like a parched man in a wasteland, desperate and unashamed, as if she were the last sip of water left in the world.

Petite, freckled face. Full, inviting lips. Eyes the colour of caramel. Wild curls, hastily braided to one side—a futile attempt to tame their exuberance.

Draco released a slow, strangled breath.

The war had changed Hermione Granger in more ways than one. Or perhaps it was simply time, carving its inevitable mark. But who could have predicted that the dorky, buck-toothed girl he used to enjoy bullying would become… this? Overwhelmingly womanly. Slender, but not to the point of frailty.

Beautiful in the most classical, effortless way.

And suddenly, unable to help himself, he was picturing that braid wrapped around his fist, those lips welcoming the length of his cock, those big eyes locked onto him as he ruined her.

Fuck.

He let go of the metal bar, shifting his cane to the centre and resting both hands on the dragon’s head, one atop the other.

The last thing he needed was a fucking erection in the middle of his trial.

“Hello, Malfoy.”

When she spoke, their gazes met, and his world erupted—a torrent of feelings roaring through him, a private inferno shielded from all but himself.

Sweat pooled at his temple.

“Granger.”

It took everything in him to keep his voice level.

“How have you been?”

She sounded so calm. So unaffected.

It infuriated him. Whatever the hell was happening to him, whatever was making him feel this way—it had to be her fault.

And yet, there she was, her gaze sweeping over him in an almost clinical way.

“Splendid,” he said bitterly.

He wanted out of this cage.

He wanted his hands around her throat, wanted to feel her pulse quicken beneath his fingers just to prove that she wasn’t as unaffected as she looked.

And then, he wanted to strangle her.

Granger must have caught the intent in his gaze, sensed the violence coiling beneath his skin, because she turned away without another word, shifting her attention to Shacklebolt and the others.

The ones gathered there to decide his fate.

He didn’t want to dwell on the way it hollowed him out, the sudden loss of her attention.

At least it gave him a moment to glance down at his hands and finally discover what the hell had been biting into his palms since the moment she stepped into the room.

The sight, however, sent his heart hammering in icy dread.

It shouldn’t have been possible.

Not this far from a full moon.

And yet, it was happening. 

His nails were no longer human in shape or length.

They had darkened, grey bleeding into black, stretching into something that could tear through flesh with ease.

Claws.

Werewolf claws.

His mind spun, racing to make sense of it—until the answer surfaced, cold and clear.

It was her.

There could be no other explanation.

Granger awakened something in him, something feral and ravenous, and she was going to fucking pay for it. Just as soon as he made her fix him.

First, however, he needed to win his trial.

Draco focused on taking slow, measured breaths, curling his fingers tighter to hide the grotesque transformation overtaking them, while forcing himself not to look at her again. 

Who knew what could happen if he did?

Maybe he’d sprout a bloody tail next and start wagging it like a good little monster.

He really shouldn’t have been surprised when the decision to ignore her sent white-hot pain drilling through his skull, so sharp it made his stomach churn and his vision pulse at the edges. It was as if the thing inside him refused the distance, some primal force pushing at his ribs, clawing at his insides, demanding he look at her.

But Draco kept his gaze on the ground, his body locked in place through the pain, and didn’t look back up until the smell of peaches left the room. 

He had no idea what she told the judging members, hadn’t even been able to listen. Keeping himself under control had taken every ounce of focus he had.

A few days later, the verdict came.

A mandatory eighth year at Hogwarts. A tracking spell locked onto him at all times. Constant supervision. Regular wand screenings.

But no Azkaban.

Granger, I’m coming for you.

Chapter Text

Hermione

“No.”

“No?” The older witch arched an eyebrow, offering Hermione a look that was all too familiar. It bore a striking resemblance to the one she had received—along with Ron and Harry—when the trio had barely survived their encounter with a troll during their first year at Hogwarts.

At the time, Hermione had been terrified to receive such a look from any professor, most of all Professor McGonagall. But now, years later, after everything, after a lifetime’s worth of trauma crammed into far too little time, standing within the office of a hastily reconstructed school, she felt… nothing.

“I’m sorry, Prof—Headmistress. But I truly have no wish to become Head Girl.”

She didn’t want to be responsible for anyone. There was no strength left in her, no energy. It was like the exhaustion she had felt at the war’s end had latched on, refusing to leave.

Once, Hermione had truly believed that when the war ended, everything would be alright again.

What a foolish girl.

Wars didn’t simply end.

The battles ceased, the bloodshed stopped, but the war? It lingered. It wove itself into the bones of those who had lived through it, settling into their memories, their scars, their grief. It thrived in the silence left behind, in the weight of everything lost, in the consequences that no passage of time could undo.

Nothing was alright.

Her parents barely remembered her.

Ron was angry.

Harry was sad.

Fred was dead.

“You were by far our best choice, Miss Granger. Are you certain this is what you want?”

“I’m sure.”

McGonagall sighed. “Alright, then. I suppose I will just have to ask someone else.”

Hermione only nodded, her eyes drifting across an office that felt too much like a time capsule, the shelves still lined with all of Dumbledore’s strange treasures. The same portraits, the same rare trinkets he’d gathered over the years.

But it felt less like a tribute and more like a pause, as if the room was waiting for him to come back.

Neither Snape nor McGonagall had dared touch a thing, and Hermione wondered if they, too, were still struggling to make sense of a world without Albus Dumbledore. For all the faults she could never quite forgive him, there was no denying the breadth of his legacy—or the mark he had left on so many.

Her eyes then landed on the small wooden stand where Fawkes had once perched, his gaze always knowing, always kind. Would anyone ever see him again?

“Go along now,” McGonagall said, pulling Hermione from her own mind. “I still have much to do before the year begins.”

“Thank you, Headmistress.”

She’d barely reached the door when her name stopped her in her tracks.

“Hermione?”

She turned.

“Yes?”

McGonagall studied her, concern laid bare in her expression—a rare sight from the usually straight-faced professor. No—Headmistress.

“Are you alright?”

Hermione let the silence stretch for too long, finding herself stuck between the comfort of a lie and the weight of the truth. In the end, she settled somewhere in between.

“I’m working on it.”

McGonagall nodded, a sad look in her eyes.

“Me too, child.”

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“Where are the boys?” Ginny Weasley asked, watching Hermione fold clothes over the bed. The sheets were the usual shade of Gryffindor red, almost a perfect match for her friend’s hair.

“No idea. I got called to the Headmistress’s office.”

It had been four months since the war ended, and despite everyone’s tireless efforts to rebuild Hogwarts before the new school year, the school felt different in a way that had nothing to do with crumbling corridors or broken walls.

It was them.

The ones who had returned.

The ones who hadn’t.

“She asked about Head Girl?” Ginny guessed.

“Yes.”

“Still don’t want to?”

Hermione dropped the last of her sweaters onto the bed and looked at her friend. “No… I still don’t want to.”

Ginny nodded, her expression soft with understanding.

Of all of them, she was perhaps the most level-headed. Hermione could see why Harry had fallen for Ginny, even if they were no longer together. She was strong, but not harsh. Intelligent, in more ways than one. She was precisely who he had needed by his side as he faced the years-long terror that had been tailored to him from the start.

“Mione!”

Speak of the devil.

Harry burst into the room, his dark hair a mess, his glasses slightly crooked—she really ought to fix that—but stopped short the moment he saw who was standing beside her.

“Oh. H-Hi, Ginny.”

Ginny smiled. “Hello, Harry.”

The awkwardness hung heavy in the air as Hermione shifted her gaze between them. They were still caught in that uncertain place after a breakup, no longer together, yet not quite friends. Strangers in the space where familiarity used to be.

Unlike Hermione and Ron.

But that was easier, since there had never been anything real to miss.

They kissed once.

It felt wrong.

Hermione cleared her throat. “What do you need, Harry?”

Before he could answer, Ginny spoke. “I-I’m going to go.” She looked at Hermione. “I’ll see you later.”

“Of course, Gin.”

Then, just before leaving, Ginny glanced at Harry again.

He lifted a hand in a half wave.

She didn’t return it.

She simply walked out, closing the door softly behind her.

Hermione turned to Harry as soon as she was gone, catching his hand before it could fall back to his side. “A wave? Really?”

Harry groaned, pulling his hand away. “I never know what to do around her now. It’s—weird.”

Hermione sat on her bed and patted the empty space beside her, watching as Harry languidly made his way over to occupy it.

“Why did you two break up?”

Ginny had shared her version with Hermione.

But Harry’s might be different.

Even with her limited experience in love, Hermione understood how the world worked well enough. People carried their own versions of events, shaped by their own personal truths. But the actual truth? That was usually found somewhere in between.

“She said I need to figure out who I am outside of being The Boy Who Lived, now that Voldemort is dead.”

Hermione nodded. That was what Ginny had told her, too. “And what do you think?”

Harry sighed, pressing his lips against each other. “I think we could do that together.”

“Maybe she thinks that’s something you have to do alone.”

At that, he looked at her—really looked at her—exhaustion etched deep into his face. Not just from sleepless nights, but from everything. The kind of exhaustion that came from living through too much, too soon. It reminded her of a different time, when they had danced in a tent, in the middle of nowhere, trying to fill the silence with something that wasn’t grief.

“I don’t want to be alone,” he admitted.

Hermione offered him a sad smile. “Maybe that’s why you have to be.” She hesitated, then added softly, “And maybe… maybe she needs it too.”

Harry shook his head. “I thought we were it. Forever. That’s how I felt.”

Hermione exhaled, reaching out to place her hand over his, resting against his leg.

“You were—are—both so young, Harry,” she murmured, squeezing gently. “And you’ve been through hell.”

She gave him a moment before continuing.

“I think Ginny just wants to remember who she is when she’s not fighting to survive. And you… maybe your task is even harder. You have to figure out who you are when you’re not carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.” Hermione paused. “And then, maybe, you can see if those versions of yourselves still belong together.”

Harry stared down at their hands, his jaw tight.

“It’s not fair, Mione,” he whispered.

She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close, offering what little comfort she could. “I know, Harry.”

They stayed like that for a while, two souls bound not only by friendship but by shared wounds, by everything they had lost and everything they had survived.

Then, without warning, he pulled away.

“I need you to come with me.”

Hermione frowned. “Where?”

“You’ll see.”

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

As they walked through the corridors of Hogwarts, the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, countless eyes followed them. It was unsettling how quickly word spread.

Harry, already famous, had ascended to an entirely different level of interest. He was no longer just The Boy Who Lived—he was Harry Potter, the boy who survived the darkest wizard of all time and lived to defeat him. The one who saved the world. A figure of history in his own lifetime.

People called Hermione and the boys The Golden Trio.

She hated it.

The attention. The endless expectations. The way they looked at her, as if she were some shining symbol of victory, as if she had conquered rather than endured.

They didn’t see the exhaustion weighing on her lids, the way she scratched at her arm when she thought no one was looking.

They didn’t hear the nights when sleep abandoned her, when the darkness felt too loud, when she pressed her hands over her mouth to stifle the sobs that never seemed to end.

They didn’t know that most days, all she wanted was to disappear into a quiet corner, to curl up, to cry. To scream.

They had won the war.

But they had lived it, too.

Sometimes, she wondered if people forgot that.

Harry finally stopped in front of a stone wall, his eyes darting around to make sure they were alone. The deeper they had moved into the most devastated sections of Hogwarts, the fewer people they encountered. Most avoided coming here, unwilling to face the ruins, to be reminded of the horrors that had unfolded within these walls.

Even with the help of many students, including herself, fully restoring the school in time for the new year had been impossible.

“What are we doing here, Harry?”

He smiled.

“Wait for it.”

Hermione blew out a breath. Patience had never been one of her strong suits.

But she didn’t have to wait long.

Before her eyes, the stones began shifting, rearranging themselves, forming an entryway where there had been none. And standing just beyond it, grinning shamelessly, was Ron.

Hermione gasped, lifting her hands to her mouth. “Is this what I think it is?”

Harry nodded beside her, offering his arm. “Welcome back to the Room of Requirement, Mione.”

Still marvelling, she laid her hand on Harry’s bent arm, allowing him to lead her inside, her eyes darting all around the space.

The Room of Requirement only ever appeared when someone truly needed it, shaping itself in any way necessary to match that need. She had always been fascinated by it—how it listened, how it understood.

After what happened during the war, she thought it lost forever, devoured by flames and buried in ruin.

But with magic, especially magic this ancient, she supposed one could never be too sure.

However it had returned, Hermione was simply glad it had. And more than anything, she was curious to see what it believed they needed now.

Her gaze landed first on the large, grey couches scattered throughout the room—at least five of them, plush and inviting, as if they were meant to swallow anyone who sat down. In the centre, a cluster of desks sat surrounded by chairs, their wooden surfaces cluttered with bottles of ink, waiting to be used. And against one of the far walls, bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, lined with endless rows of books.

“It’s like a common room mixed with a library,” she whispered, taking it all in.

Except there were no house colours, no banners or emblems of allegiance. Only muted tones of white and grey.

“It has rooms too,” Ron added. “With beds and everything.”

Of course, that part seemed to please him most.

“What do you think it means?” Harry asked, looking at her expectantly.

She had her suspicions.

But saying them aloud wasn’t worth the look Ron would give her, so she only shrugged.

When someone had needed a place to hide, the room had provided shelter. When they had needed to prepare for war, it had become a battleground.

And now?

Now, it had given them a neutral common room. Completely stripped of any marks of division.

The meaning was obvious.

And yet, it felt too soon.

The fractures of war couldn’t be healed overnight. People didn’t just let go of their hatred, their grief, their bitterness, their fear—because someone told them it was over. That it was time to move on.

The room thought they needed unity. Hermione thought they needed time.

Could one exist without the other?

“I don’t care what it means,” Ron announced, throwing himself onto one of the couches with a contended sigh. “I’m bloody well using it.”

Hermione shook her head as Harry laughed.

They stayed for a while, talking, resting—just being. And during that time, they weren’t war heroes. They weren’t war victims.

They were just students again, back for their final school year.

Eventually, Hermione glanced around, realising how much darker the room had grown. “We have to go,” she announced. “It must be time for the welcome feast.”

Ron groaned, pushing himself up.

“The food better be worth it.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips.

At least some things never changed.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Everyone had taken their seats, the first years already sorted, listening as Headmistress McGonagall delivered the welcome speech. Her words were softer than the ones they once heard from Dumbledore, but her tone carried a firmness his never had.

Hermione glanced around, unable to stop herself from searching for the faces that were missing. Where were Colin, Padma and Lavender?

The last table she looked at was, inevitably, Slytherin’s. It was perhaps the emptiest one in the room. They’d suffered the most losses during the war, a consequence of how heavily split they were between both sides of it.

But it wasn’t just the empty seats that caught her attention.

There was one absence in particular she couldn’t ignore.

One Slytherin she knew was very much alive.

One who had been occupying far too much space in her thoughts, more than what was reasonable, and certainly more than what was normal. Even after everything that had happened between them. To them.

The last time she had seen him, he had the nerve to all but ignore her. As if it were a casual, everyday occurrence for someone to stand before the Wizengamot and argue for his freedom. As if she hadn’t spent hours crafting a defence that had ultimately led to his exoneration. (Though, fine, Harry’s testimony may have done most of the heavy lifting.)

But it wasn’t like she could have told them the real reason she had fought for him—that he’d taken a werewolf’s bite for her. And she had been the one who convinced Harry to go.

Merlin, it shouldn’t bother her. Nothing about Draco bloody Malfoy should be a disappointment to her.

Yet, with no justification for it, it vexed her beyond words that the arrogant, pale-faced arsehole hadn’t even looked at her afterward. Not once.

With the exception of the short two or three words they had exchanged at the start of the hearing, he’d gone completely mute, offering not the slightest hint of gratitude.

Typical.

Still, the questions wouldn’t stop swimming around in her head. 

When she had seen him, he had looked exhausted, standing in the cage at the centre of the Ministry’s auditorium. But he had also looked… different. Bigger. Not just in height, but in presence. Broader, somehow.

He’d also been clearly uncomfortable, confined within a space too small for his frame, his posture subtly favouring his right side, his left hand gripping the head of a cane that was shaped like a dragon.

It hadn’t taken her long to guess the reason why he needed it.

His leg.

A pang of guilt twisted inside her at the thought. She had meant to go back with the dittany for his wound, but seeing Fred’s body… Her stomach rolled immediately, her mind refusing to go there, and she gently dropped her silverware on the table, done with her food.

Hermione hadn’t even remembered her abandoned task until she saw Malfoy at his trial. But after that—after seeing him again—he had unexplainably settled into her mind, uninvited yet refusing to leave.

Even her dreams had begun to suffer—

BAM!

A loud bang echoed through the Great Hall, cutting through her spiralling thoughts.

Hermione, along with the rest of Hogwarts—students, professors, ghosts—snapped their heads towards the door.

She felt her lips part, her pulse kicking up.

But her eyes remained stuck.

Because, as if the universe itself had broken into her mind and plucked out the misplaced content for everyone to see, there he suddenly was.

Draco Malfoy.

Back at Hogwarts for their eighth year.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

He was dressed in all black, not yet wearing his Slytherin uniform, and his clothes practically screamed wealth, from the designer shoes to the flawlessly tailored jacket that fit like it had been made for him. Which, she knew, it probably had.

The cane was still there too, dark wood gleaming under the Great Hall’s candlelight, its dragon-shaped handle visible beneath his grip.

And Merlin, he was big.

Even more so than a few months ago when she last saw him.

He didn’t just stand in the doorway—he filled it. Like some kind of dark, brooding structure rather than an actual human being. The effect was magnified by the way he held himself, shoulders squared and posture irritatingly straight, while his attention swept over the room without the slightest hint of concern for the fact that every single person was staring at him.

But then, his gaze snagged on something—no, someone.

More precisely, her.

Hermione kept still as his grey eyes narrowed, twin blades slicing through the space between them, the intensity in his stare pressing against her as if daring her to flinch.

She didn’t.

Her fingers curled at her sides, nails biting into her palms as she lifted her chin and glared right back, meeting his gaze with every ounce of defiance in her bones.

Malfoy was not going to intimidate her. Not today. Not ever.

Even if he looked more dangerous now than he ever had before. Like he’d been forged in fire and came out steel.

She held his eyes, steady and unyielding, even as a slow curl of his mouth crept in at one corner, as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. It lingered for a second before he wiped it away, tearing his gaze from hers, and finally made his way into the Great Hall—a faint limp threading through his steps.

If it pained him, he didn’t let it show.

But it had to hurt.

Didn’t it?

“That’s a wicked cane,” Neville commented, snapping her back to reality. Only then did Hermione register the hum of voices around her again, the clatter of cutlery, the shifting bodies filling the Great Hall. It was as if she’d been caught in something—held, trapped, ensnared in a web she hadn’t even noticed until it broke.

What the hell? Had Malfoy done something to her? A spell?

Her gaze flicked back to him. He had already taken his place at the Slytherin table, where his housemates welcomed him with eager grins and hearty claps on the back, clearly thrilled to have the Malfoy heir returned to them.

“Is it me, or does the tosser look taller?” Ron muttered angrily.

“Taller? He looks like he’s been chugging Strengthening Solution for breakfast,” Ginny said. “Does ‘ferret’ even fit anymore?”

“Wouldn’t that have terrible side-effects?” Neville asked.

“More than terrible,” Hermione said vaguely, her focus already drifting.

Malfoy was now talking with his friends, and her eyes were drawn to his arm as he slowly reached for his goblet. When he lifted it to his lips, she caught the shift of muscle beneath his sleeve. Not in an exaggerated, hulking way, but enough that the layers of his clothes couldn’t quite conceal the change.

His hair was longer too, a little messier, like he’d stopped caring whether every strand was in place.

All in all, he looked… wilder.

And, to her horror, she realised she was probably the only person in the entire school who knew why.

It had happened right in front of her.

Because of her.

Draco Malfoy was a werewolf now. Every full moon, he turned into something dangerous. And he would keep turning.

Forever.

A knot tightened in her chest, resentment curling at the edges of it—unfair, irrational, but there all the same. Because if she was the only one who knew, then it wasn’t just his problem. It was hers, too.

A responsibility she wanted nothing to do with.

Not anymore.

She had already said no to the Head Girl badge. Had already decided she was done with carrying the weight of making sure everything was fine. Done with preparing, planning, doing whatever it took to keep everyone alive.

She was exhausted.

Done.

Except… the only reason Malfoy was suffering through this was that he had done something completely unfathomable. Something that still didn’t make sense.

He had saved her life.

And now, that left her with three things she wanted no part of.

The duty to protect the ones who didn’t know.

A secret to keep.

And a life she wasn’t sure—

“I have a terrible headache,” Hermione groaned, pressing her fingers to her temple. “I think I’ll stop by the library and then head back to the dorms.”

Harry shot her a fond look. “Of course you’re going to the library first.”

Ron chuckled. “Once a swot, always a swot, eh?”

Her blood ran cold.

It was just a joke. Just Ron being Ron.

“I guess so,” she said lightly, pushing back from the table.

The way I am is the reason we’re alive.

The words burned at the back of her throat.

She wanted to turn around and scream it at him.

But she didn’t.

She just swallowed it down, ignored the way her arm itched, the way she desperately wanted to scratch at it.

Later. She’d do it later. When she was alone.

As Hermione walked out of the Great Hall, a prickle of awareness skated down her spine, the feeling of being watched creeping into her senses.

But she didn’t turn to see who it was.

She already knew.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Hermione still remembered the essay Professor Snape had forced them to write when Remus Lupin had taken over Defence Against the Dark Arts in their third year.

She had earned the highest grade, of course. Her research had been thorough—more than usual, even—because it hadn’t taken her long to realise why Snape had set the assignment. And if their new professor was a werewolf, then fine. She would make sure she and her friends were prepared for the worst.

Because that was what she did.

Who she was.

Which was why she had to keep reading, even though just thinking about Remus made her feel as though there wasn’t enough air in the room. Logically, there had to be. But no matter how deeply she tried to breathe, it simply wasn’t making its way in.

After an hour of intense research, hidden within the towering walls of the library—just as she so often had in the past—Hermione reached an important conclusion.

The Shrieking Shack.

That’s where Malfoy would have to transform, just as Professor Lupin had before him.

It was close, but not too close. Far enough to minimise any risks.

And, conveniently, it was a place most people avoided, its reputation as the most haunted building in Britain ensuring that it remained largely undisturbed.

The passage leading from Hogwarts to the Shack was well guarded by the Whomping Willow, its lethal branches ready to crush anything that ventured too close. But after she had narrowly escaped becoming one of its victims once, she had been quick to seek out Dumbledore and uncover—more like demand—the secret to stopping it. It was one of the few secrets the late Headmaster had actually chosen to share, a small glimpse of knowledge in a sea of mysteries he had kept to himself.

Perhaps, if he’d revealed more, things might have turned out quite differently.

"The trick is to poke a knot in the trunk, which paralyses the tree."

Even now, it still amazed her how many things in Hogwarts could kill you if you weren’t careful.

Sighing, she gathered up the books that were scattered across the table, neatly stacking them before slipping them into her bag. The last thing she needed was for someone to notice her reading Creatures of the Dark or The Metamorphosis of Lycanthropy and start asking questions.

This corner of the library was dim, far enough from the main shelves that the only source of light was the flickering candle beside her. It had cast just enough of a glow for her to read, leaving long, soft shadows stretching over the table. Once she had everything packed away, she leaned forward and blew out a quiet breath, extinguishing the flame.

Darkness swallowed her whole, draping the world in black. She had only just begun to move away from her desk when a sudden noise made her pause. Her head tilted, eyes narrowing. "Who’s there?"

Her fingers instinctively closed around her wand, hidden inside the wide sleeve of her Gryffindor robes.

Silence.

Her annoyance flared.

Then, in an instant, a large hand clamped over her mouth, an arm coiling tightly around her waist, yanking her back against something—someone.

A distinctly masculine frame. Warm. Tall.

Strong.

She barely had time to react before she felt him lower his head, then inhale.

Her breath caught.

Did he just… smell her?

A bolt of panic shot through her, and she swung her foot forward, driving it back into what she guessed was a leg.

"Fuck!" A deep voice groaned, rough with pain, but the grip on her didn’t loosen.

Hermione’s pulse pounded against her ribs. She thrashed, twisting violently, but it was useless. He was much stronger, and his hold on her felt more than solid.

Out of desperation, she jerked forward and sank her teeth into the palm covering her mouth, biting down hard. He hissed, his grip finally faltering, and she tore her mouth free, sucking in a breath with a spell already forming on her lips. Wandless magic had never been her strongest skill, but she could manage.

"Confri—"

"You could’ve just asked if you wanted a taste, Granger."

She went rigid.

That voice. That smug, insufferable drawl.

She knew it instantly.

He’d always had a very particular way of saying her last name, like it was a weapon to use against her.

"Malfoy."

The arms around her loosened, and she stepped back at once, spinning around to face him.

A muttered “Lumos” broke the darkness, the glow of his wand illuminating sculpted features and platinum hair. He was already dressed in his Slytherin robes, the deep green catching in the light, his cane resting against a bookshelf.

He snatched it up while his gaze moved to hers, irritation pulling on every line on his face. "Did you have to aim for the fucking leg?"

Her eyes dropped before she could stop herself, settling on his left leg. The one she had kicked.

The injured one.

Hermione crossed her arms, refusing to feel guilty. "Maybe don’t lurk around the library grabbing girls from behind."

His mouth curved, but there was no humour in it. "Not just any girl, Granger. I’m here for you."

Her shoulders squared. “What do you want?”

He stepped closer, moving until she had to tilt her chin up to keep meeting his gaze, his cane lightly hitting the wooden floor. "Don’t you dare pretend you don’t know, you wicked witch."

There was something about the way he said it—venom curling around each syllable—that sent a shiver down her spine.

“Fine,” she blurted, breaking eye contact under the pretence of retrieving a book from her bag. She placed it open on the table, flipping to the page she had marked earlier. “Here.”

Hermione pointed at the highlighted passage, waiting as he rested his cane against a chair and followed her finger down the page. She took the chance to cast a silencing spell under her tongue, knowing no one should overhear them, while the light from his wand travelled to hover over the book.

Even outside the full moon, a werewolf remains dangerous. Though the physical transformation is bound to the lunar cycle, the instincts never fully fade. Their senses are sharper than a human’s, their reactions quicker, their strength lingering beneath the surface.

In the days before and after a transformation, heightened aggression, impatience, and territorial behaviour are common. While they retain their human mind, their control is not absolute. The wolf’s instincts do not completely disappear with the moon.

She didn’t realise she was holding her breath until he looked up.

"Why are you showing me this?" He snatched the book off the desk, slamming it shut.

She frowned. "Because you’re a… you know."

Malfoy’s fingers curled so tightly around the book’s spine that his knuckles went white before he tossed it back onto the desk with a heavy thud that echoed between them. He shook his head, a cruel glint in his eyes.

"See, I understand you’re used to compensating for the intellectual shortcomings of those around you.” He leaned in, his hands pressing flat against the table. “But don’t expect me to sit around waiting for Hermione Granger to do my homework. I do my own."

His gaze seared into her, nostrils flaring, his entire body tense as his chest worked too quickly. Maybe that was why she couldn’t breathe, because he was taking up all the air, pulling it into his lungs like it belonged to him alone.

“I doubt there’s anyone alive these days who knows more about this miserable curse than I do. Even you, Granger—hard as that may be for you to accept.”

Her pulse stuttered, her mind yanking her towards a memory.

“Well done, Miss Granger, first in your year again,” Professor McGonagall had praised, a rare smile touching her lips.

"Thank you, Professor," Hermione had responded, pride swelling in her chest, filling every corner of her being. She had worked for this. Earned it.

"I was worried for a bit there," McGonagall continued. "He came very close to stealing number one from you this term. But, as always, you came through."

Hermione had fought to keep her expression neutral, but the slight twitch in her lips had betrayed her irritation.

"Who, Professor?"

"Mr Malfoy."

Hermione shook away the past.

"Then why are you here?" she snapped. "I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about." She pointed at his leg. "I remember how—why—it happened, alright?"

He had saved her.

"Then why the hell did you do this to me?"

She blinked. "I—what?"

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Was it revenge? For before? For everything I ever did to you? Is this what you think I deserve?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but he was already moving, stalking around the table and closing the distance between them with a small limp in his left leg. "You could have let me die, Granger," he seethed, so close she could smell his breath. Minty. "But you didn’t. Instead, you did this."

He took one last step, teeth bared. “And now you’re going to fix it.”

Her back hit the bookcase, knocking against the shelves as she tried to gain distance from him. But there was nowhere to go.

Malfoy was right there, hands braced on either side of her, caging her in.

“I won’t live like this for one more second,” he gritted out, and she heard him inhale sharply, then exhale just as hard, a strangled groan tearing from his throat and ghosting over her neck.

Suddenly, she became painfully aware of how big he felt in her space. How the heat rolling off him made her lightheaded. How her heart was pounding so violently it felt like it might burst through her chest.

She wasn’t just thrown off by his words. She was thrown off by the way her body reacted to him.

“The werewolf curse has no cure, Malfoy,” she said, forcing her voice to stay steady. “You know that.”

He scoffed bitterly. “I don’t need a cure for the werewolf curse.” Before she could react, his right hand lifted, fingers curling around her throat. “I need you to get rid of whatever else you’ve fucking done to me!”

Her breath hitched. Not from fear—but from shock.

Then he squeezed, just barely, and instinct took over.

Suddenly, her wand was at his chest.

“Get your bloody hand off me,” she warned, pressing the tip harder against him, “Unless you want to leave this library through a wall.”

For a second, he didn’t move.

Then, as if something finally registered, his gaze flicked down—to her wand, then to his own hand, still wrapped around her throat. His whole body jerked back, stumbling away from her like he’d only just realised what he had done.

For the first time since he’d cornered her, he looked just as startled as she felt.

Hermione stayed silent as his fingers twitched at his sides, his whole body recoiled in a way that felt unnatural for someone his size, as though he were folding in on himself. His eyes, wide and wild on her a second ago, dived to the floor instead.

She didn’t understand.

She had seen Malfoy furious. She had seen him cruel. She had seen him scared. But this—this strange, disoriented mess—was something else entirely.

Her brows furrowed, her grip still firm around her wand.

“Malfoy…” she finally said. “What’s going on with you?”

He didn’t answer.

He just stood there, breathing hard, like he was coming down from something she couldn’t see.

Annoyance prickled beneath her confusion, and before she knew it, she had taken a step closer.

“Stay there,” Malfoy immediately growled.

She stilled, the intensity of his tone catching her off guard. Her lips pressed together. “If this isn’t about the werewolf curse, then what could it be about?”

His head snapped up.

His eyes, almost silver in the light, searched hers, and she could tell he was hunting for something in her face, trying to figure out a puzzle that should make sense but… didn’t. Then both of his hands flew to his head, fingers yanking through his hair and pulling hard, frustration radiating from every inch of him.

“Fuck, fuck. Fuck this!”

Whatever answer he’d been looking for, he didn’t seem to have found it.

Hermione watched him unravel before her, her teeth digging into the inside of her cheek before she forced herself to speak. “Seriously, what the bloody hell is going on?”

He looked both furious and lost, the dim glow of his wand throwing jagged shadows across his face. And it was in that fractured light that she saw it, the manic energy in his gaze—like a storm pressed behind glass, straining for release.

"Something far worse than turning into a disgusting beast every full moon," Malfoy hissed. "Lycanthropy is wretched, agonising, and demeaning—this… this is unendurable."

She swallowed, tension winding through her as the question slipped free.

“What is?”

What could be worse than the werewolf curse?

His jaw clenched, his throat working like he was fighting the words. For a moment, she thought he might not answer at all.

But he did.

"You."

Chapter Text

Draco

Being this close to her was torture.

He had spent the last few days before returning to Hogwarts bracing himself for how it would feel to be in the same place as her. But nothing could have prepared him for this. For the way his body reacted the second he saw her, the second he came near her.

And the worst part?

She had no idea.

It was written all over her face. She was either the world’s greatest actress, or she truly didn’t know what she’d done to him. Which meant she also had no clue how to undo it.

"That makes no sense. What could I possibly have to do with whatever is going on with you?" she pressed. "Is it because you saved me? You regret it, so now you’re blaming me for the curse?"

A cold, bitter laugh bubbled up in his chest. "Get over yourself, Granger."

"You’re the one hurling accusations when I don’t even know what I’m supposed to have done!" she shot back angrily. "What’s happening to you, and what does it have to do with me?"

"Everything!" he roared, his pulse hammering against his skin as her honey-coloured eyes widened before him. He’d never realised how they were much more than just brown; he used to think everything about her was the colour of mud, even her blood.

He’d missed the golden hues hidden in her irises, the lighter strands of curls framing her small face. He’d never even noticed the freckles, so many of them, scattered across her cheeks and nose.

And that was precisely the problem.

The fact that he was seeing them now, catching all those tiny details, only proved how sick he was.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he continued through gritted teeth. “All I know is that it’s your fault!”

Draco inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself, but it didn’t help. Every breath was filled with her, flooding his senses, clouding his mind.

She took a step forward, voice clipped. “How?”

“Because you’re all I fucking think about!” It came flying out, the undeniable truth that’s been eating away at his sanity. “You’ve invaded my mind like a parasite, an intrusive curse that warps every thought, every instinct, until you are the centre of everything.”

Granger’s brows pinched together, a small crease forming between them, right in the middle of her forehead, and his fingers twitched with the ridiculous urge to smooth it out. To ease the tension he’d just caused.

Then her mouth parted, before closing again, like she couldn’t decide whether to scream or laugh. She was looking at him like he’d completely lost his mind.

If only she knew how far gone he really was.

“Is this supposed to be a joke? Some new, pathetic attempt to torment me?” she said at last, her tone steeped in disbelief. “Did you get bored of your shiny new title as Death Eater and decide you’d rather go back to being just a bully?”

A searing heat radiated from Draco’s forearm, burning beneath his sleeve as anger boiled inside him. It felt like being branded all over again.

“You really think I spent the past year in hell just so I could come back and make your life miserable?” he snarled. “That I can simply decide to let go of what I’ve become?”

She couldn’t possibly understand. The things he had seen. The things he had done. The way he had to empty himself out, throw away every last shred of softness to survive.

There was no going back.

The old version of him wasn’t waiting. It was dead.

He killed it.

Heat prickled at the back of his neck, crawling beneath his collar. “You may have fought Death Eaters, Granger, but you have no idea what it means to wake up every morning and be one. To have no way out. To carry his mark on your skin and feel it own you.”

He stepped forward and yanked up his sleeve.

“If I have this,” he said, voice shaking with fury, “it’s because I was never given a fucking choice.”

"It will be an honour to have you here, my Lord."

His father’s voice was smooth, but sixteen-year-old Draco could feel the tension in the fingers gripping his shoulder—warning him, holding him in place. His mother knelt beside them, motionless, her breath barely audible.

Voldemort stepped forward, his presence sucking the air from the room. His gaze swept over the grand hall, appraising his new home, before settling on Draco.

The weight of it sent ice through his veins.

"Still at Hogwarts, aren’t you, young Malfoy?" Voldemort murmured, tapping a single finger against his wand.

Draco’s mouth felt dry. "Y-Yes."

A slow, satisfied nod. “You will serve me well. Won’t you?"

His pulse pounded against his skull, but he forced himself to stand straighter. "Of course, my Lord.”

"Good." Voldemort paused. “You wouldn’t want to find out what happens when people disappoint me.” He glanced at the older Malfoy. “Would he, Lucius?"

Draco’s stomach turned.

Father’s hand clenched harder on his shoulder, while mother’s rapid breathing suddenly became loud.

Sweat pooled at Draco’s temple as he forced the memory down, his left leg threatening to give out. Maybe his whole body. He hadn’t slept well in months, years even.

But the exhaustion pressing down on him wasn’t just from lack of sleep, something easily fixed by a brief nap. It was soul-deep, the kind of tiredness that settled in a person and never really left.

Granger’s eyes stayed on the mark, but she didn’t recoil like he’d predicted.

She simply looked at it.

Not with pity. Not with judgment. Just… thinking?

Then she spoke. “I won’t pretend to know what it was like on the other side, Malfoy. But—”

“But what?” he interrupted sharply.

He was expecting the usual Gryffindor righteousness. Some idealistic speech about how there's always a choice. How he should have done better. How he was just as guilty as the rest of them.

But that wasn’t what she said.

Not at all.

“But you did choose in the end. No matter what came before, when it mattered most, you got it right." She held his gaze. "You chose well."

The words struck him like a blow.

His chest seized, his ribs aching from the force of it.

She had no idea what she’d just done to him, saying that.

It felt like freefall. Every bit of control he’d struggled to keep since he cornered her slipping from him, shaken by her words, by how close she was, by how good she fucking smelled. He couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. Her throat. The pulse in her neck.

He wanted to grab her, shove her against the wall, bury his face in that soft curve where her neck met her shoulder and breathe. Just breathe her in until everything else disappeared.

“Granger,” he choked out, panting. “G-Get away from me. Now.”

His right knee slammed into the ground, the other following a second later. Pain shot up his injured leg, but it barely registered. He could be on fire, and it wouldn’t matter.

Not with this thing inside him pulling him towards her like gravity, like gravity if it had teeth.

His palms hit the ground, fingers splaying, gripping the floor in an attempt to anchor himself, while every instinct screamed at him to close the distance. 

To reach out, to touch.

To crawl to her if that's what it took.

Then he heard it—a step. Closer.

Panic twisted in his gut, and his head snapped up, eyes locking on her. “Are you deaf or just fucking stupid? I said stay back.”

A strained, irritated noise burst from her. “You just collapsed in front of me, Malfoy! Forgive me for trying to figure out whether you’re hurt, sick, or having some sort of bloody breakdown!”

"I'm fine," he ground out, the words tasting like ash.

“Well, you don’t look fine. You look like shit.”

He might’ve laughed—truly laughed—if he wasn’t so busy holding himself together while hunger and need ravaged him from the inside out.

“Will you just tell me what’s going on, you insufferable arsehole?” she hissed.

I want to rip off those ghastly Gryffindor robes, press you against this table and hear what you sound like when you’re too breathless to fight me, he wanted to scream. I want you, and I hate that I do.

But instead, he locked his jaw so tightly it sent pain blooming through his temples, and spat, “Can you just shut up and wait?”

He wanted it to sound angry. But what came out was closer to pleading.

There was a pause. Her weight shifted, and though she didn’t speak again, he knew the silence she offered wasn’t one of surrender.

Draco took what she gave regardless, using the silence like a shield while he struggled to gather himself back into something that resembled control.

He couldn’t go to her. Didn’t want to.

He just needed to. More than anything in the world.

The minutes dragged, slow and suffocating, their breath the only sign that either of them still existed in the echoing dark of the library. He stayed perfectly still, fighting the pull in his chest, the burning desire to yank her into his arms and take what she would never be willing to give, until, eventually, he felt steady enough to force himself upright.

Granger was watching him, her wand facing down as he rose until he towered over her again despite the space between them. His left leg throbbed as it unbent, and he grimaced, unable to stop it.

“Want your cane?” she asked, tone light, like she was trying to make it sound like nothing.

He exhaled through his nose and gave a small, reluctant nod, loathing that he had to.

She turned without hesitation, retrieving it from where it rested against a chair. But as she stepped towards him, he instinctively lifted a hand—stop.

Her brows pinched again, but she simply stretched her arm, offering him the end tip while staying in place. He stared at it with quiet resentment, fingers curling at his sides before he finally reached out and took it. His hand closed around the cold metal, and he leaned into it with a quiet hiss of breath.

“So?” she said. “Are you going to actually explain now?”

His jaw clenched. “It started the day Greyback almost tore my leg off,” he muttered bitterly. “The moment the werewolf curse took hold, so did this.”

He studied her face, the furrow between her brows, the way her mouth was drawn taut, and how her big, golden eyes gave nothing away. Just that familiar focus she had when she was trying to figure something out with that overdeveloped brain of hers, ready to dissect the truth before he’d even finished speaking it.

“Ever since then, it’s like every instinct I have is attuned to you,” he went on. “Every goddamn part of me reacts to you in ways I can’t control. Even when you’re not there, it feels like you are. I can’t get rid of you, Granger.”

He pressed the heel of his palm hard against his eye, as if he could scrub her out of his head by force—then let his hand fall uselessly at his side.

“You’re in my mind. In my body. Under my fucking skin. And it’s driving me bloody insane!”

His head dropped, chin brushing his chest as it rose unevenly, before he dragged his gaze back to her, glaring.

“I don’t know if it’s because you were with me that day and someone cast some dark spell while we weren’t looking, or laid a curse we never felt. But now there’s a literal force inside me that's pushing me—very unwillingly—to you.”

Granger was staring at him like his words didn’t belong in this world.

He could see her trying to make sense of it. Trying to fit what he’d just said into the rigid framework of logic she clung to like a lifeline. But there was nothing rational about this. Nothing that could be easily explained.

Nothing, he feared, that would be easy to fix.

When she just kept staring, his patience ran out.

“Fucking say something, Granger."

She blinked, lips parting like she was about to speak, then snapping closed again.

Draco stepped forward—just half a step—then caught himself. His hand lifted, pointing at her. "If you think this is my problem alone, you’re wrong. You will help me figure out what’s happening to me, or I swear to Merlin—I’ll stop fighting it. And who knows what this thing will make me do to you then?"

The words felt like a threat, but even he didn’t know how far it reached.

Would he be able to hurt her, when every instinct in his body screamed to protect her?

Or would the pull—this thing buried in his bones—drag him into something worse?

Granger clearly didn’t want to find out. She climbed out of her daze, shaking her head as if to force the fog from her brain, and her chin lifted.

"Give me a moment, you prat. Of all the things you might’ve said, I wasn’t exactly expecting that."

“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect any of this either,” he shot back. “But here we fucking are.”

Her throat bobbed with a hard swallow.

“You said you… t-think about me?”

It was probably wrong—definitely wrong—how much he liked the sight of colour blooming up her neck. But he did. He wanted to follow the heat of it with his mouth.

“I do,” he said, without hesitation.

“All the time?”

Yes.

“Unfortunately.”

The look she gave him was almost comical, something between disgust and absolute confusion.

She spun away and started pacing in their corner of the library, muttering furiously under her breath. Then, just as suddenly, she twisted back around to face him, eyes wide. "What do you think about when you think of me?"

Her scent spiked, the sweetness soured by nerves, and he could almost taste her alarm in the back of his throat.

He smiled. "Oh, I don’t think you want to know, Granger."

Filthy, depraved things. Things that would make you beg.

Or cry.

Her lips parted in horror, but she pulled herself together impressively fast.

"It’s irrelevant anyway,” she said stiffly. “You must stop. I don’t want myself anywhere near your menacing, perturbing mind."

“Brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that? Just stop.” He scoffed. “Is that really the best the brightest witch of her age can come up with?”

She glared. Hard. Like she could set him on fire with her eyes.

He met it with equal force.

A beat passed, loaded with tension that rippled between them, until she finally released a sigh, her frame rising and falling, and her voice turned softer—more calculating. 

“You think it started at the same time the lycanthropy infected you?”

"Almost simultaneously."

Her gaze went slightly unfocused, not really looking at him anymore, and he could tell she was pulling inward into her own thoughts. When she spoke again, her expression had tightened. "There was no one else in that forest, Malfoy. At least not anywhere near us."

He gave a short nod. “I know.”

“Then it can’t have been a stray spell or a secondary curse.”

He nodded again, slower this time.

Granger’s eyes searched his face carefully.

“There’s only one plausible conclusion left,” she said quietly. “And you’re denying it.”

“Why am I denying it?” he coaxed with a hint of defiance, daring her to say what he already knew but didn’t want to hear.

She hesitated—just for a moment.

"Because… if it wasn’t a separate attack, if it wasn’t something entirely unrelated to the werewolf curse… then that means it’s a consequence of it. An unknown byproduct of lycanthropy."

Touché.

He tilted his head, eyes still locked with hers.

“And what does that mean?”

It was almost thrilling, watching her mind race to keep up with itself, every thought stitched together in real time.

It only took an instant. Then she went still.

"The werewolf curse has no cure," she whispered. "So, if this is part of it…"

Panic washed over her features.

Draco smiled, joyless.

"Don’t worry, Granger. There has to be a way out—we’ll make sure of it."

The world could not be cruel enough to force them together like this.

Chapter Text

Hermione

It was an incredibly odd feeling to be sitting in a Hogwarts classroom with her friends and schoolmates, quill and ink on her desk, preparing for a class of Defence Against the Dark Arts.

As if the last two years hadn’t happened.

As if they hadn’t already acquired enough knowledge in this area to last them a lifetime.

As if she didn’t have the word mudblood carved into her skin by Bellatrix Lestrange, the most dangerous witch in Voldemort’s army—who was still somewhere out there, free.

And as if someone in this room, a student just like her, didn’t have a Dark Mark forced on him, hiding underneath a black and green sleeve.

Hermione kept her eyes trained on the front of the class, refusing to look his way, to acknowledge him. Yet even as she did her best to ignore him, she could feel him there, as if her body had learned the shape of his presence without her permission. She was still attempting to process last night’s revelations and what they meant. If Malfoy’s… affliction… was somehow connected to her, then maybe this weird, unwelcome awareness of him wasn’t just in her head.

Which only makes it that much worse.

“Maybe you could teach this class, Harry,” Ron suddenly pointed out as they waited to find out who would be their new professor for DADA. “Can’t imagine them finding someone who knows more about defeating the dark arts than you.”

Harry, who sat on Hermione’s other side, shook his head. “Nah, Ron… I’m much happier being just another student.”

Seamus Finnigan, who was slouched in the row ahead, twisted around with a scoff. “When have you ever been just another student?”

Ron let out a laugh. “He’s got you there, mate.”

“Does anyone actually know who’s teaching this class?” Parvati Patil asked. “McGonagall hasn’t said a word, and the professor’s seat was empty at the feast.”

Parvati used to be a twin.

Just like George.

The thought drained any semblance of ease from Hermione, and her fingers twitched where they rested on the desk while a few expectant glances turned her way, hoping she’d have an answer to give.

Was it fair to resent them for it when she’d spent years conditioning them to do it? Once upon a time, she’d even liked it.

“Probably an Auror,” Hermione said, considering it logically. “Someone McGonagall trusts.”

Aurors were the magical world’s version of elite law enforcement, highly trained, ridiculously skilled, and terrifyingly competent. Their training was brutal, designed to weed out all but the best, which was probably why there were so few of them. If someone was hunting dark wizards for a living, they needed to be good at staying alive.

It’s what Harry and Ron wanted to do after Hogwarts. Not Hermione, though. She had no interest in chasing criminals with a wand. Whatever she ended up doing, it would involve more thinking and less dodging hexes in shadowed alleys.

“It’s Aarav Burns.”

Her eyes betrayed her, snapping to pale grey ones that were already on her. The morning light accentuated the boredom in his expression, but it didn’t quite cover the disquiet in his gaze.

"And how would you know?" Ron questioned Malfoy, his distaste unmistakable.

“He informed me after my trial concluded."

If Hermione’s memory served her right, the Auror in question was the very one who had arrested Malfoy’s father. Curiously, Malfoy’s tone betrayed no resentment.

"Isn’t he leading the capture mission against what’s left of Voldemort’s army?" Theodore Nott, sitting beside Malfoy, asked.

Despite being another heir of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Theodore had never quite flaunted it the way the others did. The way Malfoy did. He’d always seemed… quieter. Less arrogant.

There’d been whispers he’d fled the country before the war even began.

Good for him.

"He is," Harry confirmed, his eyes only briefly lifting from the stack of papers spread across the table before him.

Hermione had watched him pore over the news each day, devouring every detail of the ongoing search efforts. She knew, without needing to ask, how badly he wanted to be out there, tracking down the last of the Death Eaters himself.

"Why the hell would he give that up to come here?" Seamus wondered aloud, leaning back in his chair.

"I know what I’d choose between being a badass Auror or a boring, lousy professor…" Ron said, twirling his quill between his fingers.

The scratch of parchment and the occasional cough filled the room, but Hermione barely registered any of it. Her pulse was skyrocketing, nerves winding tight in her chest.

She turned to Malfoy. "A-Are you sure about it?"

He shifted forward at her question, his body angling like he might stand. But he didn’t. And she was probably the only one who noticed the way his fingers pressed against the desk’s surface, white-knuckled. He cleared his throat. "I suppose we’ll find out soon enough."

“Yes… I suppose.”

Their eyes held for a beat before she turned away.

"Harry,” she called quietly.

He didn’t respond, still scanning the papers in front of him, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Harry.”

This time, his head jerked up. "What?"

She hesitated for half a second, then said, "No one would give up being Lead Auror."

A shadow crossed his face.

From the other side of Hermione, Ron leaned in as she and Harry whispered, his face stopping mere inches from hers.

A sudden, loud clatter cut through the classroom, making her jolt. Heads turned towards Malfoy and Nott’s desk, drawn by the sound, and she saw Malfoy’s cane lying on the floor beside them.

He hadn’t moved to pick it up yet.

“Oi! Be careful with that thing, cripple,” Ron bit out sharply.

Hermione’s stomach twisted. “Ronald!”

“What?” He shot her a look. “Are you seriously going to defend a Death Eater, Mione?”

Hushed whispers fill the classroom, the tension becoming palpable.

“Ron, c’mon…” Harry said, trying for reason.

But Ron shook his head. “No, Harry. My brother’s dead because of scumbags like him.” Grief was a powerful thing. It twisted inside you, left you reaching for someone to blame, something to fight.

“You know it’s not the same,” Hermione said firmly, putting her hand on his shoulder and squeezing. “Don’t compare it.”

His shoulders sagged under her touch, some of the fight draining from him, but he didn’t say anything else. Didn’t apologise. He just crossed his arms on the desk and dropped his head onto them, shutting the world out. Sulking.

Hermione let out a slow breath and glanced at Malfoy. He hadn’t reacted, hadn’t thrown a single insult back, but she didn’t miss the tension in his jaw or the way a vein stood out in his neck.

It was strange to see him hold back. It hinted at a level of maturity she wasn’t sure what to make of.

The classroom settled into an uneasy silence, the weight of Ron’s outburst lingering in the air. As much as they all tried to cling to normalcy, sitting in the same old Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, the last two years refused to be forgotten.

Nothing was the same.

They were all different people from their pre-war selves. And the world around them had changed, too. The halls of Hogwarts carried the echoes of those who’d lost their lives here. Fred, Padma, Lavender, Colin, Cedric, Snape, Nymphadora, Remus, Dumbled—

The double doors at the entrance burst open, commanding the attention of every student, and a tall man strode in, clad in an all-black robe, his face instantly recognisable to anyone who’d looked at the front page of the Daily Prophet in the last few months.

Aarav Burns.

Just like Malfoy had said.

He walked all the way to the front of the class before turning on his heel to face them. Eyes so dark they resembled the hue of midnight were framed by tiny wrinkles, leading Hermione to gauge his age to be between forty and fifty. His hair, which she had been used to seeing longer in the pages of different newspapers, had been cut shorter.

"Hello, everyone. In case we haven't met, my name is Aarav Frederic Burns. I’ve temporarily resigned from my role as an Auror for the upcoming year to take on the esteemed position of your professor in the crucial field of Defence Against the Dark Arts."

Though his speech leaned towards formal, the way he spoke felt casual. Approachable.

Still, no one said anything.

Not even Hermione, who’d always enjoyed a bit of academic favouritism.

Professor Burns sighed. “I acknowledge this class may be seen as somewhat idle by some of you, considering most of the students in here—a few more closely than any others—have already faced the darkest magic there is.”

She felt the professor’s eyes linger on Harry, then on herself and Ron. Gradually, they shifted to her left, briefly pausing on Malfoy, before travelling over the rest of the class.

“I must say I’m terribly sorry that wizards and witches as young as you have had to suffer through the atrocities that a select group of power-hungry, monstrous beings decided to inflict upon us.”

The older wizard shook his head.

“But being sorry doesn’t help you. We failed to protect you. And that won’t happen again.”

Where most of the class had likely heard a promise, Hermione didn’t.

She heard a warning.

Because there was only one reason an Auror like Aarav Burns would be at Hogwarts, and it had nothing to do with education.

“This year, I want you to work in groups. It is essential for you to rebuild your bonds, to relearn trust in one another after something as traumatic as what happened this past year. You’ll get assignments every week, alternating between learning an offensive spell or curse and mastering their counters. Each week, you’ll face off against another group, chosen randomly by me.”

The room erupted in indistinct murmurs.

“I pity whoever goes against us,” Ron whispered beside her, smug. “The Boy Who Lived, the Brightest Witch of Her Age, and, well, shit. I really need to find me some sort of title.”

Before Hermione could roll her eyes, Professor Burns raised his voice. Not much—just enough to silence the noise. The man didn’t need to yell. He had the kind of presence that screamed I could end you before you blink.

“I have already chosen the groups.”

Ron’s face fell. “What?”

“Ah, Ronald Weasley.” The professor’s gaze swept over the trio. “Hermione Granger. Harry Potter. I must say, it is an honour to meet you three in person at last.”

“Likewise, Professor,” Harry said. “I’ve been following your search closely. You’ve been very dedicated.”

Something flickered in Aarav Burns’s dark eyes. Not quite pride. “It’s a worthy cause, hunting those who caused this.”

“Why did you give it up?” Hermione asked, watching for a reaction.

He smiled at her. “Well, Miss Granger, being here is also a worthy cause. Besides, Minerva asked, and she’s a dear friend.”

Hermione didn’t believe him. At least, not fully. But she nodded anyway, forcing a small smile back. It wasn’t fair to voice her suspicions. Not until she knew for sure.

“What are the groups, Professor?” Neville asked politely.

“Each group will consist of three students and will be determined based on your past grades.”

A collective groan rippled through the classroom.

“This does not automatically signify a disadvantage, as many of you can easily compensate for a lack of academic proficiency with pure, raw talent. However, it does ensure that each of you pulls your weight within your group. No leeching off someone else’s work ethic.”

“This is bollocks,” Ron muttered, glowering.

“I actually think it sounds quite fair,” Harry said, defending the professor, whom he clearly admired.

Professor Burns paid no mind to the grumbling as he continued, “Now, I will list the groups, and you may arrange your seating accordingly.” He cleared his throat. “Group one will comprise… Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, and Theodore Nott. You three have the highest grades in your year.”

Hermione’s pulse stuttered.

“What? No way she’s—” Ron groaned loudly, cutting himself off as he suddenly doubled over, clutching his stomach. He shot a glare at Harry, who had leaned over Hermione to jab an elbow into his ribs.

“Hermione can handle herself, Ron,” Harry censured.

“I know that, but—”

“Worry about yourself, will you?” Hermione interrupted as she rose from her seat. “You might end up going against me, after all.”

Ron frowned. “Mione—”

“Please don’t insult me by suggesting I can’t handle Malfoy. I’ve dealt with worse, remember?”

The moment the words left her mouth, she knew they were harsh. The colour drained from Ron’s face, his mouth pressing into a thin line. But if she couldn’t use her trauma for things like this, what else was she supposed to do with it?

"Besides, I would destroy them if they harmed her," Harry said casually.

From anyone else, it might have sounded like an empty threat. But from the wizard who had killed Voldemort, it landed with the heavy finality of a stone sinking into deep water.

Harry Potter would never stop protecting his friends. There was little he wouldn’t do for them. And even less they wouldn’t do in return.

Hermione looked at him with affection before turning on her heel and walking towards Malfoy and Nott’s desk. She felt their eyes on her as she approached, but only one pair made the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end.

When she reached them, she pointed to the empty seat on Malfoy’s left. "May I?"

Theodore Nott grinned. "Lucky us."

She saw the murderous glare Malfoy shot his friend. "Shut the hell up, Theo."

"What? It’s not every day we get to work with the Gryffindor princess," Theodore defended, flashing her a wink.

"Don’t call her princess."

"Don’t call me princess."

She and Malfoy spoke at the same time.

Hermione exhaled and sank into the seat. "Let’s just wait for our assignment."

This close, she was acutely aware of the heat radiating from Malfoy, her gaze drifting to him from the corner of her eye. He was a solid wall of tension, his shoulders forming a rigid line.

If she turned her head, she’d be staring straight at his collarbone. Maybe having me so near is affecting him.

Last night in the library, he’d looked like he was in agony, barely holding back his… instincts.

They’d parted with the agreement that she’d meet him again tonight to rummage through whatever scraps of information they could find about what was happening to him. At least now, if they were ever caught, they’d have a decent excuse to be found together.

Still, Hermione couldn’t help but feel anxious at the prospect of meeting him alone again. The old Malfoy had never made her nervous—just extremely annoyed. But things had changed.

He was different now, and not just because he was a werewolf.

He had thoughts about her. Urges.

Just remembering what he had implied, what he had made it seem like he wanted, how indecent—

A fresh wave of heat surged through her, and her cheeks burned.

She shifted her hair over her right shoulder, hoping it would help her cool off.

The movement left the left side of her neck exposed.

The side Malfoy sat on.

A low grunt reached her ears, rough and strained, and her eyes widened as she noticed his shoulders drawing even tighter. His breathing seemed to quicken, too.

Shit.

She should move away. Maybe that would help.

Slowly, carefully, Hermione edged towards the very edge of her chair, moving as far as she could go without making it obvious.

When she stilled, he looked down at her, his eyes holding that strange, stormy intensity that only seemed heightened by the natural grey of his irises.

She raised an eyebrow in question. Is this better?

He ignored her, jaw clenched, and shifted his gaze to the front of the class, where Professor Burns wasn’t finished listing the groups.

He was still not looking at her when she sensed him stir in his seat.

And then he was moving.

Not much. Just an inch. Then another.

Then another.

Until his leg was nudging into her chair, reclaiming every fraction of space like it’d never been hers to take.

Hermione blinked hard, forcing herself to keep her face impassive. To not react.

The distance between them was very near gone. Nothing but a breath, a whisper, the width of a damn eyelash.

And yet—

Why the hell am I fighting the urge to close it completely?

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Draco

This was not the first time Draco had found himself lurking in the shadowy corners of the school's library, spying on Hermione Granger as she buried herself in whatever overly large tome she had deemed relevant enough for the day.

As the Malfoy heir, he had found it infuriating that a witch from her background consistently outperformed him in their studies. He had always dreaded going home for the holidays because of her, knowing exactly what awaited him the moment his father learned of his failure.

“How can you let a dirty Mudblood stand above you? You bring unimaginable shame to our house, Draco.”

Draco was not unintelligent—far from it. He was well above average, exceptional, even. And on top of that, he had every possible advantage at his disposal: the best tutors, the finest education money could buy.

And yet, Hermione Granger, born to Muggles, still managed to place above him every single year. Above everyone.

It didn’t make sense.

Draco could not comprehend how anyone could achieve that without some sort of trickery. He’d convinced himself she was hiding something, cheating her way to the top.

That was why, for many days and nights, he had utilised an old family heirloom designed to make him less noticeable to others to try to prove it. It didn’t conceal him entirely, not like Potter’s stupid blanket, but it had a way of making people overlook his presence.

It was the same silver ring, set with a rounded blue gem, that rested on his finger now. The weight of it on his index was as familiar as the sight of her long curls spilling over onto the pages of a book.

Unfortunately for younger Draco, after countless hours of rage-fuelled surveillance, the only maddening conclusion he’d been able to reach was that the swotty little nightmare genuinely loved to learn. More than anything. She had fun combing through those massive textbooks, her hunger for knowledge becoming more obvious the longer he watched her.

Sure, Draco loved reading, too. But his taste was selective. He didn’t just gobble up any book within reach like some deranged literary vacuum. He savoured them, dissected them, let the pleasure of well-crafted prose and meaningful insight settle before moving on.

Granger, on the other hand, tore through texts like a starving man at a feast, inhaling pages at a frankly obscene pace. It might have been impressive if it weren’t so bloody exasperating.

At the time, it’d pained him greatly to accept her innocence.

But, now—

Now it served to his advantage.

Because if there was anyone in this castle capable of helping him figure out what was happening to him, it was her.

More than that, she was an integral part of it.

Which meant it was her responsibility to help him fix it. To make it stop.

Because there was no other way to describe his symptoms than—

he
burned
for
her.

"I know you’re there, Malfoy."

The voice of his obsession called to him.

Draco’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and he gave a small shake to the finger where his ring rested. Is it broken?

She had never noticed him before, not in all the times he’d used it to watch her study.

Still, he stepped out of the shadows, his cane gripped in his right hand.

"Have you made any progress?" Instead of acknowledging that she’d just caught him spying on her, he chose to ignore it.

Granger merely shrugged, letting him get away with it. "Not yet."

He moved closer and pulled out the chair directly across from hers. "What are you reading?"

"Journal annotations from Sir Thomas Plunkett."

"He was a werewolf?"

She shook her head. "His brother was."

Draco nodded, settling into the seat and stretching his bad leg to the side. "That’s smart, going for personal accounts rather than formal reports."

Granger arched a brow. "Some people consider me more than just smart, Malfoy."

"I’m well aware of your know-it-all status."

"Are you also aware of your own?"

He frowned. "My own what?"

"Of course you’re not. No one cares to remember the ones who come in second."

Draco couldn’t help the choked laugh that escaped him. Well, he might be the creature here, but she certainly had claws.

"Touché, Granger."

Had he forgotten this was the same girl who’d once punched him in the face during their pre-war years?

Granger was not some meek wallflower.

Why did that please him?

"Give me something to read through," he demanded, looking at the pile of books on her right. "I've already inspected every worthy work on lycanthropy through the ages. All of them were useless. We may have to look in more... obscure... places."

Hermione handed him an old, leather-bound journal. "I’ll ask Harry for the Invisibility Cloak. We’ll go to the Restricted Section if we still have nothing by the end of the week."

Draco scowled as he remembered a particularly cumbersome detail. "I have a tracker." The Ministry had kept it on him as part of his gracious release.

She furrowed her eyebrows, her golden-brown eyes scanning him intently, and an odd feeling rippled over his skin, the whisper of a touch that never quite landed.

"Stop checking me out, Granger," he goaded her. "You won’t see it. It’s a spell."

A highly inconvenient spell, considering his other affliction. He’d been trying for weeks to figure out how to bypass it.

"You can’t have a tracker, Malfoy," she said, her eyes narrowing. "How are you supposed to transform? You can’t do it here.”

"And here I thought the middle of the Great Hall would be the perfect spot. Give the first-years something truly memorable to write home about."

She didn’t react. Not even an eye-roll.

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose before letting his hand fall away. "I know it’s a problem. I’m working on it."

Granger took a slow breath, her chest rising with the movement. His eyes absolutely did not drop lower. Control.

"Does it function the same as the one we have until we turn seventeen?"

He nodded. "Yes. Same principle."

"I... I can help, then." Her hesitancy was obvious.

"What?" He asked, his smirk a little too sharp at the edges. "Afraid I’d use my newfound freedom for evil?"

Her silence spoke for itself.

His fingers drummed against his knee before he clenched them into a fist. While the smirk stayed, it felt like a mask now, stretched over something far less amused. "Don’t worry, princess. I have my hands full dealing with this."

With you.

Granger closed the manuscript in front of her, giving him her full attention for the first time. "It’s not…I’m not worried about that.”

"Then why be so reluctant to help me with the tracker?"

"Well, because... it’s illegal." She tucked a curl behind her ear, but it slipped free almost instantly. Stubborn little thing.

Just like her.

Draco huffed. “Like that’s ever stopped you before."

Even he knew about some of her little misdeeds over the years. Brewing Polyjuice Potion in second year. Helping Potter run a full-blown secret defence group in fifth. Breaking into the Ministry. Breaking into Gringotts. Stealing a bloody dragon.

He refused to admit how badass that sounded.

"I guess I just thought that part of my life was over. I... I thought we were done. I was done." She sighed, staring past him like she wasn’t really in the room anymore. "But it never will be, will it? Especially not when... some of them... are still free."

This time, he knew she wasn’t talking about him.

He knew exactly who put that look in her eyes.

His jaw clenched, something hot and volatile curling in his stomach. "They’ll get her soon, Granger."

She didn’t answer, but her hand drifted to her arm, fingers scratching absently over her sleeve. His chest tightened. He wasn’t the only one who’d come out of the war with a mark, was he?

"How is it that you know how to circumvent the tracker?" A change of subject. A distraction. An attempt to pull her away from whatever dark place her mind had gone.

Her eyes returned to him.

The pressure in his chest eased.

"I was afraid we’d have to move Harry before he was of age," she admitted. "I wanted to be ready, just in case. So I started researching ways to undo it the moment he told us Voldemort was back. After the Triwizard Tournament."

The same night Cedric Diggory died.

Draco shook his head, unarguably impressed. “You truly are leagues ahead of anyone else, aren’t you?”

“I’ve had to be.”

The obvious pain behind that statement struck him.

He tilted his head. "It’s not a bad thing to be prepared, Granger."

If anything, it was the one thing he wished he had been.

"No... but it’s exhausting when everyone expects it of you." She hesitated, then added, "And when you aren’t, when you fail… they blame you. Even if they don’t realise they’re doing it."

"You blame yourself, too,” he deduced quickly.

Her eyes fluttered. "Sometimes."

Always.

Draco leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "It’s not very smart to carry around misplaced guilt, little witch."

She looked at him, and he didn’t know what she saw—what she thought she saw—but something in her gaze softened just before she let out a small chuckle.

"I suppose even the brightest minds can be foolish about some things."

His lips twitched. "Finally, something we have in common.”

He’d meant to say more, but the sound of her laughter had torn something open above his heart. A black hole, vast and greedy, desperate to swallow the sound and keep it locked away where only he could hear it.

It was this sickness inside him, making him react like this.

Making him feel things too large for his sanity. 

“How fast can you get the tracker off me?” he demanded, his voice harsher than he’d intended.

She stilled. Whatever softness had been there just seconds ago was gone, slipping through his fingers before he could even think to grab it.

And fuck if he didn’t already want it back.

"At least two days," she said coolly. "And a trip to Hogsmeade."

Draco cleared his throat. "We’ll wait until the weekend, then. I’ll figure out an excuse to go without them questioning it."

He may not be in Azkaban, but he wasn’t free.

"I’ll just go alone."

His blood ran cold. "No."

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, no?"

“I know you’re intelligent enough to suspect what an Auror like Burns is doing at Hogwarts, Granger."

Her expression shifted, irritation melting into something more thoughtful.

Draco bent his left leg, adjusting his position as the ache in it grew stronger.

"You don’t believe he’s here because he suddenly felt the inspiration to teach, do you?" she asked.

He arched a brow. "No. And neither do you."

“Not for a second.”

"Any guess as to why, then?"

She shrugged. "Any Death Eater stupid enough to come back to Hogwarts would be begging for consequences. Well, besides you."

His glare was immediate. "Hilarious."

“Whatever his motives are, it doesn’t change the fact that I can handle myself, Malfoy. There’s no reason to waste any more time.”

“Ah yes, the ever-noble Gryffindor instinct to charge headfirst into stupidity.”

Her eyes flashed. "Aren’t you the one desperate to get rid of your symptoms? Of me?"

Something in him snapped.

His fist slammed onto the table. “Not at the cost of your safety!”

His pulse pounded at his temples. “Don’t you understand? I won’t be able to sleep, eat, maybe even breathe if I think you’re in danger. This miserable condition won’t allow it." He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck. “So quit being a selfish bitch.”

Granger shot to her feet so fast her chair nearly tipped over, wobbling for a second before settling back. "Call me that again, Malfoy, and you’ll be eating through a straw for the next month.”

He got up, too. "Then wait until we can go together!”

She tilted her chin. "What if I don’t agree?"

His brows rose. “If that’s the case, don’t blame me for what I’ll do to keep you from leaving my fucking sight."

The idea settled in his mind too easily. Maybe he could make one of his fantasies a reality—have her bound in silk, wrists tied prettily against his headboard.

She glared at him for a full minute before speaking through gritted teeth. "Fine."

He was fairly certain he heard her mutter "bloody tosser" under her breath, but he let it slide, opting instead to flash her his most self-satisfied smile.

"Good." Girl.

They both sank back into their seats, the tension still thick between them. A beat later, she grabbed the fattest book he’d ever seen and tossed it across the table, where it landed squarely against his chest.

"Start with that."

Draco let out an exaggerated sigh, ready to comment on her appalling lack of manners, but by the time he looked up, she was already buried in her book, deliberately ignoring him.

He should have immediately turned his attention to the behemoth in front of him, sifting through its endless pages for anything useful.

But instead, he found himself watching her read, just as he’d done so many times before. And, like always, it took him longer than it should have to tear his gaze away.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

They left the library empty of any findings and right on top of the mandatory curfew. It was bloody ridiculous. One day, they were old enough to fight in a war, and the next, they had a set bedtime.

Granger barely spared him a "See you tomorrow" before striding off towards the Gryffindor dorms.

He let her have only a few moments' head start before following.

Draco knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep unless he saw her make it back safely. That was how fucked up he was. How utterly unhinged this had made him.

If she noticed him trailing behind, somewhere between the library and the password-protected entrance, she didn’t acknowledge it. And only when he saw her step inside with his own eyes did he finally turn away.

If Aarav Burns’ arrival had proven anything, it was that Hogwarts was, as always, spectacularly bad at being safe. The war might have ended, but not every Death Eater had been caught. Not yet.

She was still out there, the other monster who shared his blood.

The one who’d broken him until there was nothing left but the pieces he had no choice but to reshape.

The one who haunted his nightmares.

And worse—hers.

The torches burned lower as Draco descended into the depths of the castle, making his way towards the Slytherin dorms. But even if he didn’t know these corridors as intimately as the halls of his Manor, he wouldn’t have cast a Lumos to light the way.

He liked the dark. Liked the way it let his mind wander to places he kept buried during the day.

Here, he could think about his craving for dark magic, the way his body had grown so accustomed to its pulse that its absence left him restless, anxious, hungry.

Here, he could feel the feral edge that lurked beneath his skin, the werewolf curse waking something inside him that made him feel other more often than he felt human.

Here, he could despair about how fucking good Granger smelled. How the scent of her made his cock twitch to life every time she got too close.

Draco felt like a ticking time bomb, just waiting for the right trigger before it exploded.

Which was why what happened next could have ended very badly.

A shadow lunged at him from the darkness, and before he could react, a wand pressed hard against his throat, shoving him back until his spine hit the wall. Gasps echoed from the moving portraits lining the corridor, one casting just enough light for Draco to make out his attacker.

“What the fuck, Theo?”

“The last time you were sneaking around like this, you were helping Death Eaters break into the castle.”

Draco let out a bitter laugh. “Fuck you.”

“I won’t go through that again. Not even for you.”

 “Go through what?” Draco hissed. “You left before things ever got real.” He shook his head as much as Theo’s wand allowed. “You went through nothing.”

Theo’s wand dipped, but his shoulders stayed rigid. “Should I have taken the Mark, then? Is that what you’re saying?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “You know it’s not.”

“It sure as hell sounded like it.”

“If I thought that, I wouldn’t have told you to run. I’m glad at least one of us got out in time.”

At his words, Theo deflated completely, his breath coming out sharp as he slowly stepped back. “Fuck.”

Draco took advantage of Theo’s moment of weakness, pulling his wand from his sleeve, and just like that, the tables turned. Theo slammed into the wall, his limbs locking in place before Draco had even spoken.

He didn’t need to. His magic obeyed him in silence.

Black tendrils coiled around Theo like living shadows, tightening against his arms, his chest, pinning him as effortlessly as a web held its prey. His eyes widened. “Draco?”

Draco stepped forward, smiling, but there was no humour in it.

“I’m not helping them,” he said evenly. “You never need to worry about that. But the war isn’t over, Theo. Not yet. And this time, I’m going to need you to stick around.”

Theo writhed, muscles straining against the magic, but the shadows didn’t budge. “What spell is this?”

Draco only tilted his head.

Theo swallowed. “D-Did they teach you this?”

Draco smiled wider, the answer coming easily.

“No.”

They taught him many things, made him use dark magic until it became a drug in his bloodstream. But this?

This was his.

“I created it.”

Theo’s breathing turned shallow, his fingers twitching. “Bloody hell.”

Draco finally released him, the tendrils of magic snapping back into nothing, and Theo stumbled forward, rubbing at his wrists as if he could still feel the weight of the magic on his skin.

He stared at Draco, his expression tense. “What exactly do you need me to do?”

Draco twirled his wand once between his fingers before tucking it back into his sleeve.

“Something that’ll keep us from ever being pawns in someone else’s war again.”

Ever since the last battle, it had taken hold of Draco.

A purpose. A need.

More urgent than the werewolf curse.

Almost as all-consuming as his fixation on a certain witch.

He wanted power.

Enough to finish what the war had started.

Enough to carve his own justice into the world.

Enough to make damn sure he was never made to kneel, never left watching as those he cared for were hurt. Just like his father had.

No.

He’d never be powerless again.

And no one would ever lay a hand on what was his.

Theo’s brows knitted together, but he stepped forward anyway, his hand settling on Draco’s shoulder.

“I got you, mate.”

Draco held his gaze for a moment before nodding, his grip finding Theo’s shoulder in return.

“Then we start now.”

Chapter Text

Hermione

“Anything else?” Ginny asked, half-laughing as she dragged Hermione along by the arm, who was once more ranting about Quidditch being an inherently unsafe pursuit.

“And you always end up bleeding or limping after every match,” Hermione promptly offered. “Surely that’s a sign this sport should be banned.”

“Or a sign that I’m doing it right.”

Hermione huffed, using her free arm to wrap her Gryffindor scarf more tightly around her neck. The outside air felt like ice shards against her face.

“Look, there’s Ron,” Ginny pointed to the green pitch ahead of them, where a crowd had already gathered.

Unlike Hermione, who preferred her competitive activities to involve ink, parchment, and a structured grading rubric, Ginny was an absolute Quidditch fanatic, along with Harry and Ron.

She played as a Chaser, while Harry maintained his status as Gryffindor’s golden-boy Seeker, and Ron, despite his tendency to psych himself out mid-game, had grown into his role as Keeper.

Which was exactly why Hermione was now being forced into the biting cold, to sit and cheer as her friends threw themselves into the kind of danger she typically reserved for life-or-death situations.

And for what? Bragging rights? Eternal house glory?

Possible concussions?

And yet, since her very first year, she had learnt that few things at Hogwarts were taken quite as seriously as the Inter-House Quidditch Cup. She supposed there was something reassuring about that, about things falling back into place. Last year, they hadn’t even been at the school. And the year before that, Voldemort and the ever-growing certainty of war had already torn away any last illusion of normality from them.

Their childhood slipping away long before they’d even noticed it gone.

A shiver ran through her, though not from the cold this time, and she forced the thought down, burying it deep in the ever-expanding graveyard of memories she dared not dwell on. Instead, she focused on the present, following Ginny as she walked.

The Quidditch cup was structured like a mini-league, with each house playing the others throughout the terms. That meant three matches for every team, which totalled six games of Quidditch for students to witness (and, if they had the gold, place bets on).

Final standings in the competition were based on the total number of points won over all matches played, rather than the number of victories. It was entirely possible for one team to lose to another but still claim the Cup if their points from previous games had been high enough. The Cup itself was an enormous silver trophy, with four handles designed after the four Houses' emblematic animals, which was to be kept in the office of the reigning champions' Head of House until the end of the next tournament. Presumably so they could gloat about it for an entire year.

The game Hermione was currently being hauled to, however, didn’t even count for official house points. It was just a practice match, hastily organised by students who wanted to make up for how much training they’d missed when they were busy fighting a war.

Headmistress McGonagall, a known Quidditch enthusiast, had immediately given permission for them to go ahead with the idea.

“Mione!” Ron called as they neared the side of the oval pitch, right by the stairs leading up to the spectator stands. “Ginny actually convinced you to come?”

Hermione shot Ron’s sister a sideways glare. “She didn’t convince me. She kidnapped me.”

“I’m pretty sure you could have stopped her if you really wanted to,” Harry chimed in as he approached, his eyes flicking towards Ginny with that awkward, I’m-trying-so-hard-to-be-casual look he always got around her.

“Did you get the ball chest?” Ginny asked, completely ignoring the tension between them.

Harry nodded. “Yeah. We’re ready.”

The game was played with four balls: a Quaffle, two Bludgers, and a Golden Snitch. Each one designed to make the game as dangerous as humanly (wizardly?) possible.

The Chasers, like Ginny, handled the Quaffle and earned points by tossing it through any one of a set of three goalposts on the opposing team's side of the field, while the Keepers guarded them, in an effort to prevent the opposing team's Chasers from scoring.

Harry, as Seeker, had the most ridiculous job of all: chasing down the Golden Snitch, a tiny, almost impossible-to-spot ball that zoomed around the pitch at terrifying speeds. If he caught it, the game would be over, and Gryffindor would instantly earn 150 points.

And then there were the Bludgers.

Aggressive, rogue balls that actively tried to knock players off their broomsticks.

Which was why each team had two Beaters, whose main job was to smack those homicidal balls away from their own teammates and, preferably, straight at the opposition. It was one of the most demanding positions on a team. You had to be strong enough to send a Bludger exactly where you wanted, fast enough to be in the right place at the right time, and ruthless enough to direct it towards the right target.

“Who were you playing against, anyway?” Hermione asked, her displeased scowl still firmly in place.

The crowd was noticeably smaller than at a real match, mostly because not all years had this afternoon free—only the older students. But the ones who had turned up were decked out in robes from all four houses, making it impossibly difficult to tell which team Gryffindor was actually playing against.

“All of them.” Ron grinned.

Hermione blinked. “What do you mean, all of them?”

“Every match will run for a set time,” Harry explained, his cheeks red from the cold. “When it ends, the losing team swaps out with another, and the team with the most points by the end of the afternoon wins. If someone catches the Snitch, it’s an instant victory.”

Hermione processed that. So basically, the more matches you won, the longer you got to stay on the field, and the more opportunities you had to rack up points. A brutal, endurance-based free-for-all disguised as a fun, student-organised event.

Hermione sighed. “And why, exactly, must I watch this?”

“Because it’s going to be wicked,” Ginny said, her eyes bright with excitement. It earned her a heavy glance from her ex-boyfriend.

“And because I need a cheerleader,” Ron teased, throwing Hermione a wink.

She stared at him, deadpan. “Right. Well, you’d better spell one up, because the only person I’ll be cheering for is your sister.”

“Hey, what about me?” Harry asked, laughing.

“I’ll just be hoping you don’t get yourself killed.”

Merlin knows it almost happened before.

Twice.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

The first game was Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw.

The speed of the brooms overhead kept sending icy gusts through the stands, making the cold even worse. Her heating charm barely made a difference, and Hermione was this close to becoming a shivering mess.

Neville and Seamus, sitting to her right, didn’t seem to be suffering nearly as much. They had been exuberantly celebrating every time Gryffindor scored, their faces flushed with the high of the game.

Ron was doing a very solid job of keeping the Quaffle away from their goalpost, while Ginny was nothing short of brilliant at seizing every opportunity to score. Harry, however, was nowhere to be seen. Which meant he was probably somewhere high above, lost in the fog, chasing after the Snitch.

It made her nervous.

The last time she’d seen him disappear into a sky like this, he’d fallen out of it.

When the referee, a seventh-year Hufflepuff, blew the whistle, Gryffindor was the clear winner. But Hermione only relaxed when she spotted Harry finally coming down from wherever the Snitch had led him. Alive and in one piece.

Thank Merlin.

“Ginny Weasley is pretty incredible,” a voice commented from beside her.

She startled slightly, pulling her gaze from the pitch. Theo Nott had just appeared at her side, dressed in full Slytherin colours and holding a cup of something that definitely looked warmer than she felt.

“Theo,” she greeted, offering him a polite smile. “You like Quidditch?”

They’d been getting to know each other better this last week as they worked on their DADA assignment. She didn’t think they could consider themselves friends. Not yet. But they weren’t strangers, either.

She’d call them a pleasant in-between.

“Not really my thing.”

He lifted his cup to his lips, and Hermione’s frozen fingers ached at the sight of the steam curling from the rim. Would it be rude to ask if she could hold it? Just for a second? Maybe just until she regained feeling in her hands?

She flexed her fingers instead, tucking them deeper into her sleeves. “Then why are you here? Have a personal fondness for hypothermia?”

Theo smirked, shaking his head. “Same reason as you, I suppose.”

She raised an eyebrow, and he jerked his chin towards the lower left side of the field.

“I came to watch my friends play.”

Hermione leant forward, glancing past Neville, who was blocking her view, and spotted the Slytherin team gathered on the sidelines, waiting for their turn.

A head of white-blonde hair immediately caught her attention, taller than the rest.

“Malfoy’s playing?” she asked, surprised. “Won’t his leg hurt?”

Theo only shrugged, taking a slow sip of his drink, offering neither concern nor an answer.

Brows knitting together, Hermione’s gaze drifted to the pitch again, and then, as if pulled by a magnetic force, back to where the Slytherin players were warming up. Not for the first time, it made her question whether Malfoy’s condition was as one-sided as they’d assumed.

He stood apart from the others, adjusting his gear, rolling out his broad shoulders, shifting his grip on something in his right hand.

Hermione blinked.

Was that a—?

“Is he no longer a Seeker?” The question slipped out of her.

When Malfoy had bought his way onto the team in their second year, he had, unsurprisingly, chosen the same position as Harry. But now—

Her eyes dropped to his hand again.

A bat.

A Beater’s bat.

“He asked to switch this year,” Theo told her. “Even showed up to try-outs like everyone else. As it turns out, he’s annoyingly decent at it.”

Her brain short-circuited. Malfoy? A Beater?

It didn’t make sense.

The position had always belonged to those built for impact. Players who could take a Bludger to the ribs and keep flying, who could send one hurtling across the pitch with enough force to break bones.

Certainly not boys who’d once curled up in the infirmary for hours, whimpering over a bruised arm.

But then reality caught up with her.

This wasn’t second-year Malfoy, all wiry limbs and sneering entitlement.

The war had changed him, even if she didn’t yet understand all the ways it had. More than that, he had a werewolf curse running through him now, something that would never really go away. It lurked beneath his skin, wrapped around every beat of his heart and feeding his body. 

And as her gaze lingered on him, sharper now, she saw the changes written across him in ways that were impossible to miss. His uniform fit differently, snug where it had once hung loose, the fabric pulling over his arms and sitting tight across his shoulders as he lifted his bat and swung it once, testing its weight.

The movement was fluid, almost lazy, like the bat weighed nothing at all. 

Which was ridiculous, because Hermione had seen Ron play Beater once, during a family match with his brothers and Harry, and he hadn’t been able to lift his arms high enough to hold his pumpkin juice the next morning. The bat couldn’t be light—if it were, the Bludgers would snap it in two.

Malfoy just made it look that way.     

Her eyes were still on him when he suddenly bent to re-tie his shoe, his number stretching across his back, all strong lines and definition. Hermione pressed her lips together and inhaled slowly through her nose.

It wouldn’t have made sense before.

But now?

It did.

It absolutely did.

“Something on your mind, Granger?”

Theo’s voice was light, but when her eyes slid to him, his gaze was uncomfortably perceptive.

She cleared her throat so fast it hurt. “What? No. Nothing.”

“Hmm.”

Hermione wrenched her focus back to the pitch, purposely zeroing in on Harry and Ron, who were smacking each other with their broomsticks like small children raised by wolves.

It took her a bit to realise she no longer felt cold.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

The next game was announced.

Gryffindor versus Slytherin.

“Care for a wager?” Theo asked her with a wink.

Hermione shook her head. “Tempting, but I’d rather not participate in the enrichment of the already offensively wealthy.”

He laughed loudly. “You’ve got a sharp tongue, Golden Girl. I like it.”

“Hey, I’ll take you on!” Seamus declared, speaking right over Neville.

“Brilliant!” Theo grinned, the two of them immediately descending into heated negotiations.

Hermione, caught between them and already sensing her patience thinning, clambered over both of the Gryffindor boys on her right and dropped into the empty seat beside Luna, who sat on Neville’s other side.

She was wearing oversized glasses with red-tinted lenses, her gaze drifting dreamily across the crowd, far more interested in the people than the game itself. When she noticed Hermione beside her, she turned with a soft smile. “Hello, Hermione.”

“I’m sorry Ravenclaw lost,” Hermione said, though the words felt half-hearted given the stakes—or lack thereof—of these matches.

“Oh, that’s alright. I’m mostly here to see the fillions. They love the cold and big crowds.”

Hermione paused, considered asking, then simply nodded.

Once, she might have dismissed Luna’s eccentricities as frivolous, might have cast silent judgments on her peculiar habits and outlandish beliefs. But then the war happened. And Luna had revealed herself to be one of their greatest allies—brilliant, fearless, and loyal to a fault.

It humbled Hermione to admit it had taken something as devastating as war for her to fully understand the rare and wondrous beauty of Luna Lovegood. Odd, certainly. But the kind of odd that felt like a gift once you stopped trying to explain it.

The high blast of the whistle cut through Hermione’s thoughts, announcing the start of the game, and her gaze drifted towards the pitch just in time to see Malfoy’s bat collide with a Bludger, the sound of it like thunder splitting the sky.

She resisted the urge to flinch, her heart jolting in her chest.

Quidditch was a brutal sport by design.

But watching him now, the way strength seemed to pour off him… it made the whole thing feel even more savage.

Hermione bit her lip and, for the first time, found herself watching every play with complete focus.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

With not too long left, the score was tied.

Both teams had been playing incredibly well, never letting the other hold the lead for more than a few minutes at a time, and the Snitch was flying lower, making it easier for Hermione to keep track of Harry (and to mentally catalogue every increasingly reckless stunt he pulled in his attempt to catch it).

The real standouts, though, were Ginny and Malfoy.

Ginny, because she was obnoxiously fast and hell-bent on scoring every goal herself.

And Malfoy, because he could now swat Bludgers aside like they were mildly inconvenient midges. More surprising still, he did it strategically, sending them exactly where they would cause the most disruption, without actively trying to maim anyone.

It made the match, though it physically pained her to admit it, thrilling to watch. Brooms shot past the stands so fast her hair was being whipped across her face, and every time a ball came within a foot of the goalposts, the crowd let out a collective gasp—she included.

Hermione even laughed when Ron took a dramatic bow after blocking a particularly tricky shot.

She still thought the game was unreasonably violent and objectively ridiculous. But, as Ginny had predicted, she was enjoying herself.

Everyone was.

All around her, students were grinning wider than she’d seen in months.

Merlin, she could have sworn she even saw Ron and Malfoy—Ron and Malfoy—chuckling together after another player yelled at a Slytherin Chaser that they threw worse than a girl, and Ginny, without missing a beat, spun mid-air and shouted back, “This girl just scored on you twice, mate. Maybe aim higher.”

For all Hermione misgivings about Quidditch, during this few precious hours, it had carried them back to a time when they were nothing more than rival houses facing off in a school match. Not soldiers. Not enemies in any real sense.

For that alone, she’d show up to every game from now on, smiling.

“Hermione.”

“Yes?” she asked Luna distractedly, her eyes fixed on Malfoy as he swivelled out of the way of a rather vicious-looking Bludger before sending another flying with his bat.

“Your string looks rather dull.”

Harry dived under the seating structure after the Golden Snitch, with Slytherin’s Seeker, Marcus Larson, right on his tail.

“Hmm—what?”

Luna’s words didn’t always make sense at first.

“The string that connects. It’s not shiny.”

Ginny managed to score again, and the crowd erupted into cheers. Somewhere in the noise, Hermione could just make out Theo’s polite swearing.

“It will make him ill, Hermione. Terribly so.”

Hermione’s brows knitted together as she finally pulled her attention away from the game to study Luna. “I don’t understand. Who will be ill?”

“Go Harry, go!” Neville shouted loudly.

“The one it starts at. Where it connects. Draco.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, her heart slamming hard against her chest, as though it had decided to fight its way out. Around her, the roar of the stands swelled, Gryffindor and Slytherin voices blending into a single wall of noise as both sides screamed for their Seekers.

But Hermione was too busy replaying Luna’s words and trying to work out whether she had misheard or if Luna had actually just uttered his name.

She opened her mouth to ask, fully prepared to demand some kind of explanation, when a soft but frantic fluttering sound caught her ear.

Her head snapped up.

The Snitch.

It was hovering directly in front of her face, so absurdly close she could have plucked it out of the air and handed it to Harry with a flourish. And, right behind it, diving at full speed with an arm outstretched, was the Slytherin Seeker, Marcus.

Hermione’s brain, ever the overachiever, immediately offered up two extremely unhelpful facts.

One—the Snitch was far too close for her to be remotely safe.

Two—the Seeker was moving far too fast to stop.

Harry, who had spent most of his adolescence narrowly avoiding death by broomstick, might have pulled off some miraculous last-second twist to avoid flattening her. But this was not Harry. And this boy, who was closer, and very clearly panicking, had zero chance.

“Mione!” Harry’s voice was full of fear, undoubtedly reaching the same conclusion she had.

There wasn’t enough time to reach for the wand tucked inside her sleeve.

All she could do was fling her arms over her face and pray to every deity she’d never believed in that she could walk away with all her limbs attached.

She was about to squeeze her eyes shut, when, through the narrow gap between her arms, she caught the sudden shadow of another player hurtling in from the left and colliding with the Slytherin Seeker at the very last second. The brutal impact send both of them spiralling off their brooms and plummeting towards the ground.

Hermione barely had time to process the fact that she was still upright before the shock gave way to instinct. Along with the rest of the stunned audience, she leaned forward, desperately searching for the two fallen players.

One was Marcus, who was sprawled out on the grass, clutching his left arm with a grimace of pain.

The other was Malfoy.

Blood ran in a thin, bright line down his forehead, seeping into his closed eyelid and making Hermione’s pulse jump at the sight. If he was in pain, however, he wasn’t showing it. No, he just looked… furious. The kind of fury that seemed to hum in the air around him as he scrubbed at the blood with the sleeve of his uniform.

One moment she was frozen, the next she was already moving, shoving past anyone who got in her way, her feet barely hitting the stairs as she took them at a run.

By the time she reached the grass, Malfoy was standing—towering, really—over his teammate. “—I will make sure you never step on a broom ever again, you little shit. If you’d fucking hurt h-”

“Malfoy!” 

The instant he heard her, Malfoy spun. “Tell me you’re not hurt,” he demanded, even as his gaze raked over her from head to toe.

The wildness in his eyes threw her off balance, and she had to press her heels into the grass to keep steady.

“Say it, Granger.”

”I—“

Suddenly, Ginny’s arms were around her, squeezing her tight. “Hermione, thank Merlin! You’re alright?”

The rest of the players were dismounting too, shaking off the shock of the collision as they made their way down.

Hermione hugged her friend back, but her attention never fully left Malfoy. He was still staring at her over Ginny’s shoulder, still breathing hard, still bleeding heavily down the side of his face.

“I’m completely fine,” Hermione said, louder than necessary for just Ginny to hear. “He didn’t even touch me.”

Malfoy nodded. 

Harry and Ron arrived next, skidding to a halt beside her with Blaise Zabini close behind.

“Mione!” Harry and Ron called together, both breathless.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t get there fast enough, I—” Harry began, guilt written all over his face.

“Did that tosser actually hit you?” Ron asked, eyes already narrowing at Marcus, clearly ready to throw a punch on her behalf.

“No,” she said, exasperated. “Can’t you see I’m not the one bleeding?”

She tilted her chin towards Malfoy, and her friends’ eyes followed, just in time to hear him snap at Zabini. “I said I’m fine. Fuck off, Blaise.”

“Mate, you look like a Weasley with that much red on your head,” Blaise drawled, entirely unimpressed. “Go to Madam Pomfrey.”

Malfoy shook his head stubbornly, and Hermione didn’t miss the slight stagger to his step when he did it.

Her stomach clenched.

“You should go, Malfoy,” Harry said, eyeing him warily. “That was a bloody hard crash.”

A crowd had already formed around them, half-concerned, half-curious.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Potter,” Malfoy muttered, wiping at his forehead. “It’s just a bit of blood.”

It was much more than a bit.

“The Death Eater looks fine to me,” Ron grumbled, the fleeting moment of shared laughter from earlier clearly forgotten. Or ignored. He jabbed a finger in Marcus’s direction, who looked on the verge of tears. “And he deserves whatever pain he’s in. He nearly killed her!”

Hermione couldn’t have imagined it—the low, warning growl that rumbled from Malfoy’s throat at those words.

“Enough,” she said urgently, narrowing her eyes even further when it looked like Malfoy and Ron might argue. “They’re both injured, and they’re both coming to the infirmary. Now.”

Silence.

“Well, you heard her,” Ginny said brightly. “Time to go patch up your boo-boos, boys.”

Malfoy took a step—and immediately stumbled on the next.

Without thinking, Hermione rushed to his side. “Here. Put your arm around my shoulders.”

He didn’t have his cane, and from what she could see, his broom was little more than splintered wood. But none of that stopped him from giving her a look that made it abundantly clear he thought she’d lost her mind. And he wasn’t the only one.

“You saved me,” she stated clearly, looking around. “I was raised to return favours, whether I want to or not.”

Her debt to him was stacking up, the arsehole.

The corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Fine, Granger. If you insist.”

Ignoring Ron’s protests and the wide eyes of half the pitch, Hermione stepped in beside him.

Honestly, was it really that shocking for her to help someone who’d just saved her life (again), limp his way to the infirmary? Even if that person was Malfoy?

She considered it for a moment.

Alright. It was a little shocking. But what between them wasn’t strange these days?

As if to prove her point, the moment his arm settled around her shoulders, the strangest sensation unfurled inside her. An instinct, no, a need that rose from somewhere beneath her ribs and urged her to move closer. To press herself fully into his side as though her very survival depended on his proximity.

Startled by the force of it, Hermione looked up at him—and instantly wished she hadn’t.

His jaw was clenched so hard the muscle flickered beneath his skin, and a vein stood out along his neck. But it was his eyes that caught her. She knew that look. Recognised it with a jolt of memory that scraped against her nerves.

It was the same look he’d had in the library that night.

The night he’d dropped to his knees in front of her to stop himself from… something.

“Malfoy?” she called worriedly, his name standing in for all the questions she didn’t know how to ask.

Are you okay? Are you in control? Do you feel it too?

He glanced down at her. “Just walk, Granger,” he choked out. “For fuck’s sake, just walk.”

Right. That answered that.

A bead of sweat slid down his temple, mixing with the blood, and Hermione swallowed hard before taking the first step.

The height difference turned out to be… unhelpful. She barely reached his shoulder, which made her plan to support him awkward at best.

Luckily, Malfoy seemed too preoccupied to care, at least until they left the pitch behind.

“You’re too short,” he said eventually.

She shot him a glare.

“Seriously. It’s embarrassing how little you’re helping me right now.”

Hermione huffed. “Get your arm off me, then.”

She tried to shift away, but his fingers clamped against her shoulder, holding her in place.

“As much as I wish this weren’t the case, Granger,” he said, his breath brushing her ear, “at this moment, I’m afraid you’d have to cut my arm off before I let go.”

Hermione’s lungs seized; the air knocked clean out of them.

She didn’t know what to do with his words, how to answer them, how to even think around them. So, she just dropped her gaze to the ground and kept walking, her pulse frantic beneath her skin.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

When they finally reached the infirmary and he was forced to let her go, she could feel how rigid his entire body was with the effort.

But it wasn’t just him.

Because the further he stepped from her, the stronger became her urge to close the distance again. Just like a few days before, in their Defence Against the Dark Arts class.

Her stomach turned over, a wave of panic rolling through her and making her breath uneven as she tried to fight it. 

“Hey,” Malfoy called from where he was sitting on a bed, Madam Pomfrey fussing over the gash on his head. “You alright, Granger?”

He craned around the healer to find her, paying no mind to the older woman’s order to stay still.

Hermione swallowed and gave a quick nod. “You’re the one bleeding.”

Malfoy said nothing, but his gaze stayed fixed on her, making it clear he was unconvinced.

“You need to be looking at me, Mr Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey reminded him firmly.

He ignored her.

With a sigh, Hermione shoved her panic down, the way she was getting used to doing, and stepped up to stand beside the healer. Only then did his eyes shift to where Madam Pomfrey needed them, keeping Hermione in his line of sight all the while.

It felt possessive, the way he looked at her.

And maybe that was exactly what they were, she thought.

Possessed.

Claimed by some ancient, bloodthirsty force, shoving them into each other just to see how much damage they could do.

Chapter Text

Draco

“Drink it.”

“No.”

“Merlin, you’re impossible. Just drink the damn potion.”

Draco tipped his head back against the pillow, eyes half-lidded. “I’d rather lick the floor of the Great Hall.”

Granger’s brow twitched. “Dramatic, much?”

“It tastes like troll piss.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “And exactly how would you know what troll urine tastes like?”

He shot her a look. “Do you need to eat dirt to know it’s disgusting?”

A loud exhale left her. “Malfoy, you have a severe concussion. Take the potion before your brain starts leaking out of your ears!”

The diagnosis had been hers—confirmed after she insisted on casting the spell herself under the flimsy excuse of wanting to practise. Draco knew better. She didn’t trust Madam Pomfrey not to uncover the truth, the curse that lived in his blood just waiting for the wrong spell to unearth it.

He couldn’t fault her for the caution. It was a clever move.

“I’ve told you, my taste buds are too sensitive for something that ghastly.”

Her nostrils flared as she leaned down, so close he could see the faint freckles dusting her nose. “I swear to God, Malfoy, if you don’t—”

“What?” He cut in, cocking a brow. “Will you straddle me and force it down my throat?”

Her mouth opened—then closed—then opened again, her face rapidly cycling through disbelief, outrage, and something perilously close to flustered. And despite the pounding ache behind his eyes, Draco couldn’t help but grin, slow and wolfish, because fuck, he loved getting under her skin.

“You’re insufferable,” she declared.

“And what does that make you?”

Granger huffed and straightened. “You know, perhaps I should have been the one hit. At least I wouldn’t be such a whiny patient.”

His smile died instantly, the playful edge replaced by something darker.

“Don’t say that.”

She frowned. “What?”

His fingers curled into the blanket.

“It’s…” he swallowed, “distressing.” A pause. “The idea of you being hurt.”

The thought alone turned his stomach—her lying here instead of him, blood in her hair, her eyes unfocused. If he hadn’t seen Larson move when he did, if instinct hadn’t yanked him into action in time, the Slytherin team would be short a Seeker.

Draco wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from taking out a life. 

“Thank you for saving me. Again,” she suddenly said, her tone as begrudging as it had been the first time.

The complete lack of sincerity dragged a low chuckle from his chest. “You’re welcome, Granger. What would the world do without the brightest witch of her age?”

He expected one of her usual dry retorts, something clever and cutting, but instead, her expression grew thoughtful. Too thoughtful.

He didn’t like it.

Not at all.

“Give me that bloody thing,” he said sharply.

She blinked, visibly startled, but quickly uncorked the small bottle and held it out to him.

He took it without breaking her gaze, the moment lingering a beat too long before he tipped the vial back and swallowed in one grimacing gulp. “Bloody hell,” he rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That’s foul.”

Her lips actually twitched.

“Is everything alright in here?” Madam Pomfrey drew back the partially unrolled privacy drape, peeking inside.

“Yes, ma’am,” Granger said primly. “Malfoy already took his potion, and all by himself.”

Draco’s brow lifted, getting the sense he was being insulted.

“Oh good,” the healer said. “But you’ll still have to stay the night, Mister Malfoy. Concussions can be stubborn lesions, and it’s always safer to keep an eye.”

Draco nodded, not particularly bothered by the prospect of a night away from his roommates.

“What about Marcus, ma’am? Is he alright?” Hermione asked.

Draco turned his head so fast he nearly flinched, the pain around his skull surging. “Why the hell do you care? He nearly turned you into a human pancake.”

Gryffindors and their fucking bleeding hearts.

“He only suffered a mild wrist sprain,” Madam Pomfrey informed them. “Fixed him up in a jiffy.”

“Shame,” Draco muttered through clenched teeth. The little shit deserved far worse. “His irresponsible flying could have really hurt someone.”

Hurt her.

“I agree,” Granger said, surprising him. “He should get kicked off the team.”

Draco’s brows rose. “Really? You believe that?”

Granger rolled her eyes. “Just because I don’t want him hurt doesn’t mean I condone his behaviour, Malfoy. He deserves consequences. Harsh ones.”

A satisfied smile began forming on Draco’s lips. “Consider it handled.”

Now that he was certain the idiot Seeker had never reached her, Draco felt confident he could restrain himself from delivering any life-threatening consequences. But he still planned on having a friendly chat with Larson, right before he went to Blaise, their team captain, and ensured the prat never set foot on a Quidditch pitch again.

“Well, get some rest, dear. And call if you need me,” Madam Pomfrey said, drawing the curtain closed.

It left them alone again.

“I suppose it’ll be just me researching tonight, since you’re stuck here,” Granger remarked casually.

They’d been going to the library together every evening for the past two weeks, and still hadn’t found a single useful clue about what was happening to him.

“It’s pointless now,” he said. “Unless we break into the Restricted Section, we’ve already picked the library clean.”

No matter how vast the general collection of Hogwarts’ library was, there were only so many books on lycanthropy and dark curses available to students. And when sufficiently motivated, it turned out they were both alarmingly fast readers.

Malfoy was also not keen on the idea of her sitting in the library alone, or wandering the castle corridors at night without him following a few steps behind like an over-invested stalker. Strangest, however, was the annoying pang of disappointment he felt at the thought of missing their nightly research session.

She had the habit of coming up with theories that weren’t entirely idiotic, and for reasons beyond his understanding, he didn’t hate arguing with her about them.

The over-protectiveness he could easily blame on his mystery affliction, which had apparently rewired his entire nervous system into some humiliating tug-of-war between protecting her and wanting to shag her senseless.

Against the nearest bookshelf. On the table. In the chair, facing the window.

His imagination was nothing if not thorough.

But him being bummed about not meeting her tonight? How the fuck did he justify that?

Could this thing inside him really be strong enough to alter even his perception of her? So much that he’d started enjoying debating with the little swot? 

That he’d come to find it rewarding when he managed to prove his point to her?

She pouted whenever he did. 

Properly pouted—even if she’d rather die than admit it. That full lower lip would push forward, just slightly, like her mouth was sulking all on its own. And every damn time, his cock jumped to press against the confines of his trousers, turning rock-hard beneath their shared desk. 

“Are you worried we haven’t found anything yet?” she asked, ripping him from his thoughts, her golden-brown eyes nearly level with his despite the fact that he was sitting.

"Are you?" he countered, watching her carefully.

She’d looked off earlier, paler than usual while the healer poked at Draco’s wound, her fingers twisting in front of her like she didn’t know what to do with them. Was she concerned about what was happening to him, and what it meant for her?

Now, though, she just shrugged. “No. We’ll figure it out. Eventually.”

He scooted back further until he was propped against the pillows on his infirmary bed, then met her gaze again. “We can’t stop until we do, Granger,” he warned her. “I’m not living like this.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t worry. Neither am I.”

There was something about the way she said it that grated against him, and irritation flared hot beneath his ribs.

“Like you’ve got anything to complain about,” he snapped. “All you have to do is sit in the library for a few hours, which is basically your idea of a raging good time. Meanwhile, I’m the one stuck with this—” He gestured vaguely at himself, scowling. “Whatever the hell this is.”

A few nights with him and she was acting like she deserved a bloody medal for enduring his presence. He didn’t know what pissed him off more—that she’d clearly hated every second, or that he hadn’t.

She was annoying, yes. Bossy. Pedantic. A know-it-all of the highest order.

But after so many hours crammed next to each other in the library, elbows constantly knocking and her hair forever spilling into his space as they discussed bits and pieces of their research between stretches of silence, he couldn’t deny it. She was brilliant. And beyond that, she was gloriously witty, funny in ways that kept catching him off guard.

Except, of course, when she was being a huge bitch instead.

“You’re wrong.”

His nostrils flared. “About fucking what?”

“It’s not just you.”

His mind blanked, a strange buzzing sound forming in his ears, while his lungs squeezed until no air could pass through them.

“What?”

His tone came out much softer this time, all the heat drained out of it and leaving only confusion.

When she didn’t answer right away, he pushed himself up, already halfway out of bed before she caught him, stepping closer and placing a hand flat on his shoulder, so she could shove him back down.

“You’re a terrible patient, Malfoy,” she grumbled when her effort barely moved him. “Bloody stay still.”

As her hand slipped away, his fingers closed around her wrist, keeping her there. “What do you mean, it’s not just me?” His heart raced inside him, the frantic rhythm bleeding into his voice.

“Muffliato,” she whispered, her gaze flicking towards the curtain before returning to him, gold and wide. “It means… I-I’ve been feeling things too. Strange, uncomfortable things I cannot explain. And every single one of them is linked to you.” A deep sigh left her. “So no, it’s not just you.”

His grip tightened on her before he even registered, and her eyes dropped.

“You’re hurting me.”

He let go instantly, a flash of guilt cutting through the haze in his mind. “Sorry.”

She took a step back, rubbing her wrist absently. Shit. “It’s fine.”

Draco went to drag a hand through his hair, but his fingers caught on the bandage wrapped around his forehead. His jaw clenched as frustration spiked, too much noise and pain in his head to process any of this properly. “Granger… since when?”

She bit her lip, sinking into the chair beside his bed. “I don’t know. Maybe for a while. It’s hard to tell.” Her foot tapped against the floor, restless energy vibrating off her. “I don’t think it’s as bad for me as it is for you. It’s more like… I’m always aware of you. And there’s this pull, guiding me closer.”

His mouth felt dry. His skin, too tight. He knew what she meant—the same awful pull that had been making him feel like he was crawling out of his own body whenever she was near.

He swallowed hard. “That’s all?”

She nodded.

He exhaled, thinking it through. If that’s all she felt, then there was no question this thing had its claws buried far deeper in him than in her. Because his was not just awareness, or some type of vague pull. His was hunger. Craving. Need, sharp enough to hurt.

And yet it was still immensely satisfying knowing she felt anything at all. In fact, it might be the best fucking thing he’d heard in months.

“So it’s both-sided,” he said, already tasting the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “At least in part.”

“I suppose,” she agreed. Then her brows pulled together, her eyes fixed on his face. “Why, in Merlin’s name, do you look happy about this?”  

He leaned back against the pillows like a king on his throne. “I don’t know, Granger,” he mused. “Perhaps you’ve heard the phrase ‘misery loves company’?”

Her mouth fell open, her eyes blazing—but before he could enjoy the outrage, her own smirk carved across her face, all teeth. “Right. I have heard that. Which is why it’s so comforting to know this is still twice as miserable for you.”

“You absolute arse,” she added, for good measure.

Instead of fading, his smile only stretched wider, heat rising under his skin. Feisty little witch.

“You can’t blame me for being glad when this assures me you’ll help see this through.”

No matter how bloody long it took to get answers.

“I would’ve helped regardless, Malfoy! I was helping you regardless,” she hissed. “It was only today that I became sure it’s affecting me too.”

Yes, her version of this was definitely milder than his. His had always left no goddamn doubt.

“What changed?” Draco asked curiously. “What made you sure now?”

He leaned forward a little, like moving closer might pull the answer out of her faster.

Plump lips pressed together, hesitation settling between them like a held breath. Then, she spoke, “You got hurt.”

Oh.

Heat settled in his chest, spreading wider as he held her gaze—the colour of old whisky, his favourite kind, the sort that caught the light and glowed amber at the edges, dark and rich in the centre.

Strong enough to burn going down, but impossible not to want another sip. 

Granger suddenly turned away, her attention dropping to her coat, draped over the chair next to his bed, while she mumbled, “I should go.”

His blood went cold all at once, like someone poured ice water straight into his veins.

“Wait.”

She paused, turning back to him.

“Don’t go to the library tonight, alright?”

She frowned, tilting her head. “Look, even if we’ve already gone through everything useful there, I could still review some of your work, see if you missed anything.”

He had to clamp down hard on the urge to snap at her for suggesting he’d been anything less than thorough, mostly because getting into one of their fights wouldn’t help him with his goal.

“Madam Pomfrey said I needed to rest,” he said. “But I can’t. Not if you go off alone. This thing inside me is already stretched well past its limit after watching you nearly get flattened today. So I’m asking… don’t go.”

Something flashed in her eyes, too fleeting to pin down.

“But—"

“Please, Granger,” he cut her off, letting some of his exhaustion seep into his voice. “I’m tired.”

Her brows furrowed, and she studied him for a few seconds, silent.

Finally, she sighed. “Okay. I won’t go. I promise.”

Gryffindors and their bleeding hearts, he thought for the second time that day. Except this time, there was no bite to it.

Just relief.

“We can go to Hogsmeade tomorrow,” he informed her, feeling lighter now that she’d agreed. “I’m sure Madam Pomfrey will discharge me in the morning.”

Surprise crossed her face. “You found a way to go?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“That is a secret.”

Money, obviously. Not everyone was a Death Eater, but plenty of people were willing to look the other way if the pouch of Galleons was heavy enough.

She scowled but did not press him. Instead, she suggested, “Let’s go Sunday. You should just rest tomorrow.”

He shook his head, biting back a wince when the motion tugged at the throb in his skull. “I want this tracker off me. It’s… getting closer.”

They both knew exactly what it meant.

By next week, he would turn—and the tracking spell had to be gone before then, so he could do it somewhere far from the castle. He had a backup plan if it came to that, but he had to admit it was riskier. Much riskier.

She bit her lip, then nodded. “First bell, then. Near the hidden fountain.”

He offered a lazy wink. “It’s a date.”

Granger huffed, and didn’t bother saying goodbye before leaving.

As Draco lay there alone, staring up at the ceiling of the Hogwarts infirmary, he wondered just how furious she would be if she knew the other reason he needed the tracker spell removed.

Would she feel betrayed?

And why, for the life of him, did that thought sit so uncomfortably in his chest?

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Draco woke up to the sound of familiar voices engaged in quiet conversation, and the first thought that occurred to him was that none of the voices belonged to her. He took his time coming back to himself, letting reality creep in piece by piece.

His body felt like it had been pummelled by a troll and left for dead.

And while the injury from earlier certainly deserved some credit, it wasn’t the main culprit. By now, he could recognise the way his body braced itself for the violence of the change. The full moon was only a week away, and the curse was already making sure he felt every second of the countdown.

One eye cracked open. Then the other. The infirmary was dark, lit only by a handful of candles, just enough light to let him make out Theo, Blaise, and Pansy. The first was slouched comfortably in the chair beside his bed, while the others stood at the foot of it.

Draco turned, groaning loudly when the movement sent a white-hot bolt of pain through his head.

“Ah. Sleeping Beauty lives,” Theo drawled, his eyes on Draco.

“Who the fuck is that?” Draco croaked, slowly pushing himself upright.

“A princess from a Muggle fairytale,” Theo explained, the only one among their Slytherin circle who’d ever shown the slightest curiosity about the Muggle world.

Which is probably why Granger took to him so bloody fast, Draco thought with annoyance.

“Cursed to sleep until her true love kisses her awake,” Theo added, pursing his lips at Draco.

He fixed him with a flat stare. “Try it, Nott, and they’ll be scraping your remains off the walls.”

There was only one set of lips he yearned for, and they belonged to someone who would sooner bite him than allow him a single kiss.  

“Relax, mate.” Theo tapped his own mouth. “As if I’d waste these bad boys on you.”

“How’s the head?” Blaise cut in, gazing at the white bandage circling Draco’s forehead.

“Brilliant. Best it’s ever been.”

“Don’t, Draco. We all saw how hard you fell,” Pansy said, her expression creased with worry.

“It did look like a solid knock to the skull,” Theo agreed.

“Honestly, I’m still trying to work out how you got there so fast,” Blaise praised, his brows lifting above his eyes. “That was some impressive broom work. If you hadn’t, things would have been a hell of a lot worse. Granger’s like half your size, and Larson was about to crush her.”

The thought was enough to send Draco’s temper boiling beneath his skin. His jaw ached from the force it took to swallow the growl threatening to spill out.

“He should have let him. Who cares about that pompous swot?” Pansy muttered, arms folding across her chest.

Draco’s fists clenched beneath the covers.

“You’re just jealous, Pans,” Theo quipped. “You hate that everyone treats her like Hogwarts’ own princess.”

It fit her so well. Princess. All proper and dignified.

And, whether he liked it or not—beautiful.

“Fuck off, Theo. I just don’t see what’s so special about her,” Pansy snapped.

“She’s a bloody war hero, Pans,” Blaise said with a shrug. “What did you expect?”

“She got lucky,” Pansy bit out. “Being best mates with Harry Potter.”

Theo tilted his head. “I don’t know. With her brains, maybe Potter’s the one who lucked out.”

“He did.”

All heads turned to Draco.

“That tosser would’ve been dead his first year if she hadn’t been around to save his arse.”

He had zero doubts about that.

Pansy scowled at him. “Since when do you defend Hermione Granger? You saved her once and what? Decided to make it a habit?”

If only she knew.

“I’m not defending her,” Draco said easily. “I’m stating facts.”

Pansy huffed, her lips curling with disdain. “Well, you can’t tell me it doesn’t make you sick, the way she struts around this castle like we’re all meant to fall at her feet.”

“Fucking enough, Pansy,” he said, his voice angry enough to make her eyes widen in fright. “You’re making my headache worse.”

Granger doesn’t strut.

If anything, she walked like someone trying to make herself smaller, trying to disappear. Like someone broken and forced to wear the shape of someone whole.

It was there, written into a thousand quiet tells for anyone who cared enough to notice. The slight tremor in her hands. The way her shoulders flinched at every sudden noise. The bruised hollows beneath her eyes, marked deeper every morning.

But Draco had seen it long before that.

He’d seen it in its rawest, most undeniable form, when she didn’t even try to move as a werewolf lunged straight for her. Like she was done. Finished.

The Golden Girl’s scars, just like his, ran far deeper than the ruined skin on her forearm.

And maybe, in some twisted way, her pain called to him.

“I-I just hate the way they all look down on us now,” Pansy mumbled, her fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve as she avoided his gaze.

“That’s because you’re used to being the one looking down,” Theo said with a small smile, the kind that cut straight through pretence.

Their whole privileged lives, reduced to such a simple observation.

Draco cleared his throat. “I’m knackered.”

“Alright, let’s leave today’s hero to his well-earned rest,” Theo teased. “Let him wake up a villain again.”

Draco smirked.

“Tell me if you need me to sneak something in,” Blaise said with a wink.

He’d always been the closest thing Hogwarts had to a dealer.

“Sleep well, Draco,” Pansy told him, her voice unusually tentative.

Draco, taking pity on her, gave a small nod. “Thanks.”

She’d never know that when she badmouthed Granger earlier, the image of Pansy’s neck snapping had flashed through his mind, quick and brutal.

Whether they were linked or not, both his conditions were tearing at him in tandem, wreaking havoc on his body by filling him with urges he couldn’t control and pain that kept getting more intense.

Once his friends were gone, Draco closed his eyes, his mind circling back to the way their standing had changed.

At Hogwarts. In the world.

But maybe that’s a good thing.

They used to flaunt their power. Parade it like a birthright.

Flash it like jewels for everyone to admire.

He’d never make that mistake again.

Draco had learnt the hard way that real power lived in silence. No one should know it existed until the moment it was absolutely necessary.

He would build his in the quiet… and be all the more dangerous for it.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Draco woke at dawn the next morning and slipped out of the infirmary after tearing off his bandage, ignoring the deep ache lodged in his muscles and the constant shivers running through him.

He needed to return to the dormitory to take his daily dose of Wolfsbane, safely tucked inside a spelled compartment hidden among his belongings. Dressing took longer than usual, the cold bath he forced himself through doing little to ease the fever burning under his skin.

Still, by the time he arrived at the hidden fountain, just moments before the first bell, he was dressed as impeccably as ever in an all-black outfit—every piece tailored to him. All of it new, too, given his change in size.

He sensed her before he saw her.

And, for the first time since she left the day before, it felt like he could take a full fucking breath again.

Chapter Text

Hermione

"Going somewhere, Mione?" Harry asked, perched on one of the worn, overstuffed couches in the Gryffindor common room, today’s edition of The Daily Prophet spread open in his hands—just as it had been every morning since the searches began.

The air had that lazy Saturday morning stillness, most of the castle tucked away in sleep.

"Just Hogsmeade," she said, stepping closer. Now that they were eighth years, none of them needed permission to leave the grounds on weekends. They were adults, at least in the eyes of the law. "Any sightings?"

Harry shook his head, jaw tightening as his gaze moved back down to the crinkled paper. "Nothing. They haven’t caught anyone in weeks."

At first, they were found often—two, sometimes three Death Eaters a week—dragged out of cellars, pried from secret family homes, hiding in half-collapsed cottages or deep in the woods. But now, only a handful were left. The ones who knew how to disappear. The ones who knew how to stay gone.

Like her.

Bellatrix.

Hermione scratched at her forearm.

"They’ll find them eventually, Harry," she said softly. "But you can’t let it consume you. You’ve done enough, more than enough. It’s time to let the Aurors handle it." 

Harry’s scowl deepened, frustration flaring behind his glasses. "But I want to be out there. I need to see it through. I need to know when it’s over. Really over. Not just in the headlines."

Hermione sighed, sitting down beside him, the fire crackling low in the grate. "Harry… even when they’re all caught, it still might not feel over.”

That’s the thing no one tells you about wars. The endings are never as clean as you hope they’ll be.

He didn’t answer right away, only twisting the paper between his fingers until the edges wrinkled and tore. "I just thought," he said finally, "that if I knew they were all gone, I might be able to sleep again."

Hermione’s heart ached at the admission, and she placed her hand over his, stilling his fingers.

"You will sleep again.”

She had to believe that. For him and for herself. She’d already taken more Dreamless Potion than was advisable—than was safe—and she knew it was only a matter of time before it caught up to her.

He sighed, sinking back into the couch, his head tipping against the worn fabric. "Defeat Voldemort. That’s all I focused on. If I could do that, everything else would snap into place. Like some kind of storybook ending. I’d win, and that would be it. No more nightmares, no more waking up waiting for the next threat. I thought peace would feel… peaceful."

Hermione leaned back beside him, her shoulder pressing into his. “Me too,” she whispered, because anything more would have broken her open.

Harry laced his fingers through hers, turning his head so he could see her, and the heavy look in his green eyes weighed on her chest. "Do you think we’ll ever feel normal again?" He paused. "Properly normal?"

Hermione hesitated. “Is that the goal? Normal?”

She wasn’t sure she even remembered what that felt like.

When she thought back, all she could see was a girl who believed bravery was raising her hand in class and having all the right answers.

And then, one day, bravery was standing across from her parents and saying goodbye. It was erasing herself from their lives and sending them halfway across the world because it was the only way to keep them safe.

Normal had ended for her the moment she understood the people she loved would always be targets in a war. And after that, after the war itself, after all the choices she made just to survive, after all the people who died—how did one move on?

How did one go back to caring about essays and career plans and all the little things people called a life?

How did she convince herself that living would ever feel worth it again?

“If not that, what do we aim for?” Harry asked, and she could hear the genuine fear in his question.

Hermione wanted to have an answer, the way she always used to. A plan, a strategy, something they could cling to. But all of that had been stripped from her, leaving only pain and the truth that lay underneath it.

She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. “I-I don’t know.”

Silence lingered for a moment. Then Harry squeezed her hand.

“We’ll find something, Mione. Something good.”

Hope, she thought. Harry always had hope.

That was the difference between them. It was what made him better, what made him believe they could win without reaching for the dark.

It was also the piece of herself she’d lost somewhere along the way.

Hermione was hopeless. And the shame of it burned so fiercely that all she could do was force a smile and nod, before standing too quickly, her hand slipping from his as she walked away. Ran away.

Not from him.

From what she didn’t want him to see.

From herself.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Hermione fought a shiver as she rounded the corner to the hidden fountain, the cold biting through her coat and making her cross her arms over her chest and pull her scarf higher, hiding her lips beneath the thick wool. It was freezing, even more than usual for this time of year, so much so that she wouldn’t have been surprised to see a thin veil of snow falling from the sky.

Then, suddenly, warmth rolled over her skin, crashing through the cold like a tide. With a sigh, she added it to the mental list she’d been keeping: Weird Magical Bullshit That Happens to me around Draco Malfoy.

He was dressed entirely in black, his long coat buttoned to his throat, the dragon-headed cane clutched in his left hand. The bandage he’d worn yesterday was gone, and she could see the healing wound cutting into his scalp before disappearing into white-blond hair that had grown just long enough to brush his jaw.

Hermione didn’t need to call out to him. The moment she took a step closer, he turned.

“Morning, Granger.”

There was something off about his voice, a slight roughness, like smoke had scraped its way through his throat.

“Morning.”

“Tell me, why so early?” He cocked a brow. “Couldn’t wait to see me?”

“How did you guess?”

A little curve of lips. “Are you admitting it?”

“Of course,” Hermione said, tugging at her sleeves until they covered more of her hands. “The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

His gaze narrowed, though his smile stayed put, while the weak winter sun caught on his eyes, drawing out hidden flecks of colour and melting them into a shade like quicksilver. But as she studied him more closely, she began to notice other things. The skin beneath his eyes looked bruised, stark against the unnatural pallor of his face. His cheeks were flushed, and small beads of sweat clung to his temple despite the cold.

He looked… ill.

Luna’s words from yesterday replayed in her mind.

It’ll make him sick, Hermione. Terribly so.

Hermione had gone looking for her after leaving the infirmary, determined to ask about what she’d said during the match, right before the accident. But when she got to Luna’s dorm, her roommates told her she was gone for the weekend.

Apparently, it was birthing season for Bunfogs, little magical creatures that looked a lot like goats, and Luna had left to help.

Hermione would just have to wait until she got back.

Even if the thought left her uneasy.

“Malfoy… are you feeling alright?” she asked, still eyeing him critically. “You don’t look too good.”

“I don’t look too good?” He echoed, then clicked his tongue. “Is that why you were staring?”

“I’m serious. You look dreadful.”

His brows lifted. “Oh, and the compliments just keep coming.” His cane pressed into the grass as he leaned in, whispering near her temple, "Come on, Granger. We both know that even on my worst day, I’m still devastatingly handsome."

She wanted to roll her eyes at his arrogance, but her body was too busy registering the way his breath ghosted against the tip of her ear. She looked up at him, seeing a thin line of sweat sliding down his temple, trailing along the curve of his cheek before disappearing into the hollow of his jaw. It made her chest feel strange. Tight.

"Will you just tell me what’s going on?" she demanded, stepping back to meet his eyes.

“It’s nothing.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Just the full moon getting closer.”

Hermione frowned.

Fatigue, body aches, mood swings—those were expected in the days leading up to a transformation. She knew this because she’d read close to a hundred accounts by now, memorising every recorded symptom. But a full-on fever? A week before?

“Are you sure that’s all it is? This doesn’t seem… right.”

Malfoy let out a breath. “Because my situation has been the picture of convention up until now?”

Hermione pressed her teeth into the inside of her cheek. “Do… do you think it has something to do with the, um, other condition?” A pause, then lower, “Ours?”

He shrugged. “Who the fuck knows.”

Hermione folded her arms, watching him carefully. “Well, are you sure you don’t want to stay and rest?” He looked like he should be lying down, not dragging himself through Hogsmeade. “I can go alone.”

“No need.” He jerked his chin towards the path ahead. “Let’s go.”

“But it’s bloody freezing, and—”

“You’re not going alone.”

Her mouth opened, then closed.

She should push back, tell him he was being absurd and that she could take care of herself. But the absolute protectiveness in his voice—gravel-rough and fevered—stopped her. It wasn’t real. Just another consequence of this thing between them. Hermione knew that. Yet even as she reminded herself of it, it didn’t change the fact that, lately, being around Draco Malfoy made her feel something she hadn’t felt in months.

Something she wasn’t sure she’d get to feel again.

Safe.

“Fine,” she blurted instead, striding ahead while her mind spun over how disastrous it would be to let her sense of safety become entangled with Malfoy.

They fell into silence as they made their way towards the village, the only sounds the steady rhythm of their footsteps and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. Hermione kept her eyes on the ground, where loose stones still littered the path, remnants of the battle that made tripping all too easy. When she could no longer resist the urge to glance at Malfoy, she noticed how he used his cane to move the larger stones out of his way rather than stepping around them.

The sight drew an unexpected laugh from her. It was such a quintessentially Malfoy way of moving through the world—an innate refusal to yield, even to something as insignificant as a misplaced stone. So effortlessly entitled.

At the sound, Malfoy looked over, his gaze settling on her lips. "What’s funny?"

She shook her head, letting her smile fade. "Nothing."

His expression suddenly darkened.

"Is it the limp? Does it amuse you?"

Her breath hitched at the accusation. “What? Are you serious?”

Before she could say more, he picked up his pace, his cane barely slowing him as irritation rolled off him in waves.

Hermione hesitated for half a step before rushing after him. She was distracted, eyes locked on his broad back, and didn’t see the small hole in the ground until it was too late. Her boot caught, and then she was falling.

She went down hard, the impact rattling through her knees while a sharp sting shot up her palms. “Shit.”

Hermione pushed herself up slightly, wincing as she rubbed her hands together, trying to brush off the stubborn grit clinging to her skin. She didn’t get much further before long fingers wrapped around her arms and hauled her upright like she weighed nothing at all.

“Will you be fucking careful?”

She only caught a glimpse of Malfoy’s cold glare before it dropped, scanning the dust smeared across her trousers. A scowl took over his mouth, and then he crouched, discomfort crossing his face as his left leg bent.

He brushed the dirt in her clothes away with a few swipes of his hands while she just… stared. Silent. Heart beating a little faster than normal. But the second he straightened, towering over her again, she rushed to find her voice.

“Malfoy.”

His gaze met hers.

“I would never laugh at your injury,” Hermione stated firmly. “I can’t believe you actually thought that. I… ” Her eyes fell to his shoes, polished dark leather, sharp at the toe, while shame twisted in her chest. “I’m sorry I didn’t go back for you that day. Something happened. F-Fred—” The words tangled in her throat, choking her before she could get them out.

“It’s okay.”

Her head snapped up.

“I wasn’t holding it against you, Granger. So don’t do it to yourself.” He shifted, leaning his cane against his side as he pulled off one of his black gloves with his teeth, then slipped off the other with his free hand. His fingers flexed briefly, stretching out after being confined. “Haven’t I told you already? Carrying around misplaced guilt—not your smartest move.”

His gaze drifted towards her hands.

“Give me those.”

She blinked. “What?”

He rolled his eyes and grabbed her right hand before she could protest, turning it over in his palm to examine the faint red scratches left by her fall. There was no blood, just shallow marks against her skin. Apparently satisfied, he slipped his glove onto her hand.

She jerked back. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t let go, ignoring her weak attempt to pull away as he tugged the glove into place. It swallowed her fingers, the excess fabric bunching awkwardly at the tips. 

“It’s too cold to go without,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “And considering how bloody clumsy you are, at least they’ll help break your next fall.”

Malfoy was already reaching for the other hand when she stepped back, with more conviction this time, shaking her head.

“If anyone should be wearing these, it’s you.” She was already pulling at the glove, her fingers hooked beneath the edge. “You’re ill—”

His fingers caught her wrist, firm but not exactly rough. “Don’t be difficult.”

A spark of indignation flared in her chest.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do—”

“Adhaerescere,” he interrupted, and a rush of warmth spread through her palm as the glove she had on tightened, the fabric shrinking and moulding perfectly to the shape of her hand. “There.” Malfoy released her with a smirk. “Good luck getting that off now.”

Hermione gaped at him before attempting to yank the glove off—once, twice, a third time, each effort as useless as the last. It clung to her hand like it had fused there.

Her glare was nothing short of murderous. She enunciated her next words painstakingly slow. “Break. The. Spell.”

He merely lifted an unimpressed brow. “No. Give me your other hand.”

She crossed her arms, unmoving.

Malfoy sighed, rubbing at his temple, fingers digging into the skin. “C’mon, Granger. You'd really rather walk around wearing only one?"

Normally, the exasperated tone he used would’ve been an invitation for another round of their endless bickering, the kind that could go in circles until she was ready to tear her hair out. But there was something different about it this time. His delivery lacked its usual bite, softened by the thread of exhaustion lurking beneath it. And then there were his eyes, glassy now, unfocused at the edges, a clear sign the fever was getting worse.

And suddenly, Hermione found herself caught between obstinacy—because yes, she absolutely would wear just one glove out of spite—and the nagging sense that now wasn’t the time to fight him. Not at all.

But if she gave in and took the gloves, he’d be even more exposed to the cold.

She shifted, caught in indecision for a few seconds, when she felt the edge of her scarf start to slip from her shoulder. And it was just as she moved to fix it that an idea abruptly struck, making her quickly pull the scarf free from where it was tucked beneath her braid, bunch it in her hands, and all but shove it at him.

“I’ll trade you the gloves for this.”

He barely glanced at it before his nose curled in disgust.

“Never.”

She blinked, momentarily thrown by the offense in his tone, when a thought crossed her mind.

“Is it because it’s red?”

“Gryffindor red,” he corrected, like that made it a personal attack. “Besides, I don’t need it. So just take the other glove and stop wasting our fucking time.”

Hermione sucked in a breath, forcing air through her nose instead of screaming in his stupid, stubborn face, then whipped out her wand and flicked it with entirely too much force.

The red drained from the fabric instantly, transforming into a dark shade of green.

Slytherin green, one might say.

She held it out again, raising a brow. “Better?”

He averted his gaze.

Something inside her snapped.

“Malfoy, I am actually trying to be reasonable here,” she hissed, frustration laced into every syllable. “You clearly have a fever, and in case you need reminding, this whole bloody mess affects me too! It’s stressing me out just looking at you, so take the damn scarf before I stoop to your level and hex it onto you!”

His eyes widened slightly at the fire in her words, an unreadable emotion dancing in his gaze. But after a slight pause, he nodded.

Satisfied, Hermione pressed the scarf towards him again, waiting for him to take it. But instead of reaching for it, he simply dipped his head, as if he was expecting her to put it on him.

Her lips parted. “Seriously?”

He said nothing, just lifted a single brow in challenge.

He’s sick, Hermione. Pick your battles.

Resigning herself to the moment, she stepped forward. But it wasn’t until she reached up that she realised he was still too tall. Her brows furrowed as she adjusted, rising onto her toes, stretching just a little more.

She hadn’t anticipated just how close that would bring them.

The soft wool brushed against his collar as she looped it into place, her fingertips grazing the chilled skin at the base of his throat. His scent, crisp and cool, like fresh linen and crushed mint, caught her off guard, threading through her senses and lodging deep in her lungs.

It made her close to lightheaded, and she had to concentrate harder on tying the knot, determined to ignore the strange tension creeping in and the way the air between them felt charged with… something.

But then his gaze moved, a slow drag downward, pausing just slightly at her eyes, skipping over her nose and landing hungrily on—

Her lips.

Her breath faltered, and she finished the knot with a rough pull, stepping back in a rush and nearly losing her balance in her urgency to put space between them again. 

Malfoy quickly reached up, tugging at the knot she’d tied, tight enough, she realised belatedly, to be verging on an accidental murder attempt. But his eyes were still on her, tracing the lines of her face as heat bloomed at the nape of her neck. His mouth curved, slow and knowing. “What’s wrong, Granger? Don’t trust me to control myself?”

She swallowed, looking down. “I—I—”

As Hermione stuttered, he moved, catching her left hand in his and slipping it inside his spare glove. A quiet whisper, a small wave of his wand, and the fabric shrank to fit her perfectly, becoming as snug as the one on the other side. Then, before she could even think of pulling away, he reached out, his bare fingers curling under her chin and tilting her gaze upward to meet his.

“Clever little witch,” he murmured, his fingers tightening just a fraction before releasing her, his smirk barely there as he turned, setting off towards Hogsmeade.

She lingered for a beat, pulling in a slow breath, then followed, blaming every unwelcome reaction on this wretched curse tying them together.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

The sign outside ‘Dervish and Banges’ bore its name in elegant, magical lettering, the script shifting subtly in the light. Inside, an array of enchanted products was displayed on shelves and behind glass cases, each item meticulously arranged.

“What do we need from here?” Malfoy asked, glancing around.

Hermione walked straight to the counter, offering a polite nod to the older wizard standing there. “Hello, sir. I’d like a fever-reducing potion, please.”

She could practically feel Malfoy’s eyes burning into the back of her head.

The man nodded and disappeared into the rear of the shop, returning moments later with a small vial in hand. “Here you go, miss. Ten Sickles.”

Hermione reached for her pocket, fingers brushing against the coins she had set aside for today, but before she could retrieve them, a hand appeared from behind her, dropping a whole Galleon onto the counter.

“Keep the change.”

The shopkeeper paused for half a beat, his gaze rising to peer over her shoulder, where she could feel Malfoy’s body heat pressing into her back, before pocketing the coin with a small nod. “Much appreciated, sir. Generous of you.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek, snatched up the potion, and turned around, holding it up for Malfoy to take.

“Go ahead.”

He shot her a look.

“Oh, please. This one isn’t even that bad. It reminds me of grape juice.”

His gaze narrowed. “I’m seriously starting to question whether your taste buds even work.”

Still, he tipped the vial back without further complaint, his expression twisting as he gulped it down. When he was done, he set the empty glass on the counter behind her, exhaling through his nose as if that might rid him of the taste.

“Where to now?” he asked after a moment.

“Since we’re here, we might as well check the bookstore—see if there’s anything useful.”

“Sounds good.”

Malfoy moved ahead, pushing the door open for her. She paused just enough to arch an eyebrow.

“What?” he drawled. “Never met a gentleman before?”

“You’ve never been one, Malfoy. Not to me, anyway.”

His gaze darkened, jaw tensing, and Hermione moved past him without another word, feeling some sort of satisfaction in making it clear to him—and maybe herself—that some things weren’t so easily forgotten.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Hermione had a habit of losing track of time—or at least any real awareness of it—whenever she stepped into this place, where the air was rich with the aroma of paper, ink and wood. The moment she crossed the threshold, minutes and hours blurred together, slipping away as she wandered between shelves stacked high with all kinds of knowledge and fun.

Her friends, however, did not share this particular affliction.

When they came with her, impatience always settled in far too quickly. Sighs became louder, foot tapping more pronounced, glances at the clock more exaggerated. Before long, she spent more time managing their boredom than actually doing what she had come for.

Which was exactly why she always preferred coming alone.

No exasperated huffs, no thinly veiled complaints, no one reminding her that most people didn’t consider two uninterrupted hours in a bookshop a worthwhile use of an afternoon. Just her, the shelves, and a steadily growing stack of books she absolutely did not have room for—but would, inevitably, be taking home anyway.

Today, however, she hadn’t come alone. And perhaps that’s why she kept having the instinct to glance up from the book in her hands, half-expecting to find Malfoy standing there with his arms crossed and an all-too-familiar look of boredom on his face.

But… he never was.

Every time her gaze lifted, he remained the same—completely engrossed in his own reading, a generous stack of books beside him, not unlike her own.

By the time the morning had slipped away and lunch crept closer, she was the one calling out to him.

His head snapped up instantly, tired eyes locking onto her. “Hmm?”

She hesitated. “I—I’m sort of hungry…”

His brow furrowed slightly, and with a quiet snap, he closed his book. “Would you like to go, then?”

She gestured towards his reading. “Only if you’re done.”

“I’m done.”

She nodded. “Okay. Good.”

Turning away, she picked out the two books she wanted to purchase and made her way to the front of the shop, where Malfoy was already waiting with two thick, black-bound volumes under his arm, along with the one he’d been reading before she interrupted.

“Did you find anything that could be useful?” she asked.

“Not about our situation in particular, no.”

She grimaced. “Me neither.”

As they walked towards the counter, he abruptly extended an arm in front of her, stopping her in her tracks, and set his cane against a nearby shelf before turning back and reaching for the books she was holding

She leaned away. “What are you doing?”

“Don’t you want to buy them?”

“Well, yes. But—”

“I’ll get them for you.”

Something hot and indignant curled in her stomach. “I don’t need you to pay for my books, Malfoy.”

Did he think she couldn’t afford a couple of books just because her parents were Muggles?

He frowned as he studied her face. “I know you don’t. I just… want to.”

“Why?”

“Because you were right before, alright? I never treated you well when we were younger—fucking far from it. My father… he made sure I inherited all his prejudice, all his self-importance, as though they were virtues. He wanted me to believe that blood mattered more than anything, that status was something dictated at birth.” He  exhaled. “But he did also teach me how a man ought to treat a lady.”

Hermione folded her arms. “Just not a Muggle-born lady, right?”

A shadow passed over his face, darkening the grey of his eyes. “No. Not a Muggle-born.” The admission carried weight. “But I know better now. I’m not the person I was back then.” He stepped closer. “So let me do this. Let me buy your books. Please.”

She could be stubborn. She could refuse, throw all his past cruelty in his face with far more detail than she’d done in Dervish and Banges. Every sneer, every slur, every time he had made her life and her friends’ lives hell.

But the thing was… she believed him.

Their past couldn’t be undone, but she knew that he’d changed. That he was different now. That he was no longer the same boy who’d once been her bully.

Not because of this. Not because he was saying it. But because he’d already proven it on the day he threw himself between her and a werewolf. Whatever his reasons were, they couldn't belong to the Draco Malfoy she used to know.

And, well, he had just said please. If that wasn’t proof enough that he wasn’t the same, then what was?

She tilted her head. “Can I add more, then? Since you’re buying?”

His eyes widened, but he recovered quickly, masking the surprise with an easy nod. “Yeah, go ahead. However many you want, Granger.”

She didn’t hesitate, turning on her heel and slipping back into the aisles, fingers gliding over the spines of books she had memorised long ago.

When Hermione returned to where he was waiting, three more books were stacked in her arms. Two were special edition copies, the kind with gilded lettering and intricate, embossed covers. The other was a rare version of Magick Moste Evile, its leather binding cracked with age, the title barely visible under centuries of wear.

She’d been eyeing it for years.

Malfoy glanced at her selection before a laugh escaped him. “Like I said, clever little witch.” He took the books from her hands, turning the rarer one over and inspecting it with obvious admiration. “You’ll have to let me borrow this one sometime,” he mused, running a thumb over the worn cover.

“Be careful with it,” she scolded, eyeing him like a hawk.

“Merlin, Granger, you’re looking at me like I plan to rip out the pages or something.”

She didn’t respond, just lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, completely unrepentant.

He shook his head, a small smile still playing on his lips as he carefully placed her book on top of the rest—a stack made up of both their selections—and gathered them in his arms. “Don’t worry, little swot, you’ll have it back in a second.”

He moved towards the counter with the slightest limp and began ringing up the books with the young witch behind the till. She couldn’t have been much older than them, perhaps only a few years, and Hermione noticed the way she leaned in and brushed her fingers against Malfoy’s arm as he handed over the payment.

A bitter taste flooded the back of her throat, but Hermione ignored it, or at least tried to, but her feet moved of their own accord, bringing her right to his side. “Are you done?”

Malfoy’s brows furrowed as his gaze shifted to her, but thankfully, he didn’t question her sudden rush. He simply handed over the books he’d bought for her. The oldest one had been wrapped neatly in a protective cover. An extra purchase, she was certain.

She pointed to his own pile. “Give me those, too. I’ll shrink them and carry them in my bag.” Walking while holding both the books and his cane wouldn’t be easy.

Malfoy seemed to consider it, then nodded. “Thanks.”

She drew her wand, whispered a firm Reducio, and tucked the now-miniature books into her small bag. After that, they walked towards the door together, the shop’s warmth fading as the cold crept closer, and just as Hermione stepped over the threshold, something made her glance back.

The witch behind the counter was still watching them, and the moment their eyes met, she shot Hermione a vicious glare.

It forced Hermione to confront, with a painful squeeze in her chest, the fact that, for a moment, she had acted possessive over Malfoy. Worse, she had felt possessive over him, even more than over a book she’d been coveting since her first visit to Hogsmeade.

And for the first time since she’d accepted what was happening to them, she felt scared.

Overwhelmed.

Triggered.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

"Right, where do you want to go next?" Malfoy asked as they stepped onto the narrow, cobbled streets of the village. "You’re hungry, aren’t you? I’d rather we eat now than risk you becoming completely insufferable." A pause. "Well, more so than usual," he amended.

Silence.

"Granger?"

A hand on her arm.

"Hey, what’s wrong?"

“I-I can’t breathe,” she choked out, her chest rising and falling in frantic, useless motions, every breath escaping before she could hold onto it.

This wasn’t the first time it happened to her.

It’d started when she went on the run with Harry and Ron. Long, agonising moments where the world blurred at the edges and the weight of everything pressed against her chest until the air fled from her lungs, threatening to never return.

She’d been able to hide it from them, at least most times. Had forced herself to push through while pretending it wasn’t happening. But here, in the middle of Hogsmeade, in broad daylight, with Malfoy of all people, it was spiralling. She was spiralling.

They shouldn’t be drawing attention. If anyone from Hogwarts saw them together, it would be enough to ignite a wildfire of gossip they wouldn’t escape without a few very well-crafted lies.

But her body was betraying her, control slipping through her fingers like sand, lost to a panic that crushed against her ribs, cinched tight around her throat, and dragged her under. The world shifted, tilting perilously, and then she was just—

Falling.

“Hey, hey, hey—” Arms wrapped around her, holding her up. “Here, hold on. Hold on to me.” Suddenly, they were moving. She felt the uneven gait beneath her, stronger on the right than on the left, until they were somewhere darker, more hidden, away from prying eyes.

Her back met stone, her feet found solid ground, but when her legs still refused to hold her, strong hands carefully guided her downward.

He went with her, crouching, searching her face. "Breathe with me," he demanded. "Slowly."

“I-I can’t.”

"You can."

He tore off one of her gloves, then forced his jacket open with his free hand and pressed her palm firmly against his chest, over the thick fabric of his black sweater.

"In and out. Do it with me, Granger."

His chest expanded beneath her hand, rising in a controlled inhale, then dipping just as steadily. A rhythm to follow, something to cling to in the chaos.

But that wasn’t all her touch registered.

Warmth.

Malfoy felt warm. Too warm.

Even through the dense weave of his sweater, the heat of him radiated against her hand.

"You're—you're really hot."

His gaze flickered, way too shiny.

"Oh, was that what took your breath away?" he rasped with a smug arch of his brow. Then, more serious, "Keep breathing, little witch."

She felt his heart beat strong as she tried to match the pace he set with his lungs, but the warmth rolling off him in waves still made alarm break through her haze.

“You h-have a fever again,” she whispered, her voice breaking a few times. “D-Did the potion not work?"

"It did. For a while." His brows drew together. "But it’s been coming back, I think. Deep breaths, Granger. Don’t stop.”

There was no thinking about it. Not with the sweat glistening at his temples, the flush reddening his cheeks, the way his face was set with discomfort as he ignored his own state to help her.

And he was helping her, she realised.

Her breaths were easing, no longer so ragged, no longer slipping away from her.

But as the worst of it passed, shame and humiliation wasted no time settling in, and her hand fell from his chest like it’d been burned. Which, with his body temperature, could almost be true.

"I’m sorry about this, I—I’m feeling better now—" Her eyes stung as the words tumbled out. “It won’t happen again—"

"Don’t,” he cut her off. “Don’t apologize for something you can’t control. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

She didn’t even have time to react before he suddenly let himself drop back, sinking onto the ground beside her with a small grunt. He stretched out his left leg stiffly, his head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut. "Fuck. My head hurts."

Hermione quickly looked around, the fog in her mind lifting enough for her to take in where they were. The part of the village Malfoy had carried her to still looked ravaged by the war, which was why no one could be seen around them, only abandoned buildings and remnants of destruction left to time. Crumbling walls, shattered windows, and scorch marks blackening the stone stood as silent evidence of the chaos that had torn through when the battle spread beyond Hogwarts, reaching all the surrounding areas.

And it hadn’t been just witches and wizards fighting. Voldemort had recruited creatures of all kinds to serve his cause. Giants, werewolves, inferi, acromantulas… every one capable of immense devastation.

She shifted, her legs still feeling shaky as she eased into a crouch in front of Malfoy. At the movement, he lifted his head, peeking at her through half-lidded eyes while she realised his breaths were the ones sounding laboured now.

Uneasiness stirred low in her stomach as she reached out, pressing her hand to his cheek. His skin was ridiculously hot, the faint rasp of stubble grazing her fingers while heat thrummed beneath her palm. She was just about to pull away when his body completely sagged into the touch.

"Malfoy!" she gasped, her hand bracing instinctively against the added weight.

"Sorry," he murmured, the word slipping out on a breath. "It’s just… that feels really good."

Her brows lifted. “What?”

"Your hand.”

Oh.

Her gaze locked on her bare palm, still resting against the side of his face.

"It—It’s cold," she offered. "My hand. That must be why."

A faint frown creased his brow at her explanation, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he straightened, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the glove he’d taken from her earlier. Then he grabbed her wrist, pulled her hand down, and gently slid it back over her fingers.

Hermione watched him, her thoughts racing.

All day, he’d been putting her first, choosing to care for her before himself. That had to be the curse, didn’t it? The magic compelling him to protect her.

It wasn’t like that for her.

But even so, she felt she wanted to give some of that care back.

“We have to get you back to the castle so you can rest,” Hermione said, brushing her hands over her robes as she rose.

Seeing her standing, he moved to get up too, but his body didn’t seem to be cooperating well. His limbs moved sluggishly, drops of sweat falling along his temples as his gaze swept the ground, searching for something.

His cane.

Her eyes darted around until she spotted it behind them, half-forgotten on the floor. He likely hadn’t been able to use it while carrying her here, so he must have dropped it the moment they were hidden.

She ran over, snatched the cane off the ground, and turned back to hand it to him.

“Thank you,” he said, gripping tightly.

She nodded. “Let’s go back now.”

But he shook his head.

“We can’t leave until we handle what we came here for, Granger.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. He wasn’t wrong. They needed the things she had stashed here to deactivate the tracker spell. But if he’d said something earlier about the fever returning, she wouldn’t have wasted all that time at the bloody bookshop.

Still, arguing wouldn’t get them anywhere now. And while retrieving the supplies wouldn’t take long, even a short detour felt like a risk with Malfoy looking this ill.

“I’ll just come back tomorrow and grab what I need,” she stated.

He let out a low sound—part growl, part exhausted sigh—and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then, suddenly, his hand shot out, wrapping around the back of her neck and holding her in place while he leaned in, his voice furious against her ear. “How many fucking times do I have to say it? You. Are. Not. Coming. Here. Alone.”

She reared back as much as he allowed, scowling when it wasn’t much. “Do you honestly think you’re in any condition to protect me or whatever nonsense is playing out in that fever-fried brain of yours?” She crossed her arms. “At this point, you’re a walking liability.”

His mouth fell open. “Liability?”

“Yes!”

Malfoy dropped his hand from her neck and turned away, dragging his fingers through his already-messy hair, then spun back around with a glare.

“You’re so damn irritating.”

“Right back at you,” she snapped, because she was definitely the mature one here.

But then she caught it—a feverish shiver passing through him—and something inside her pulled back.

“Look… I’m not trying to fight you,” she said. “But be realistic, Malfoy. You can barely stand.”

His jaw clenched, shoulders held in a rigid line. For a long moment, he just stared past her at the empty stretch of ruined stone. Until, finally, he spoke.

“I just… I can’t stomach the idea of you coming here without me, okay?” he said, pressing a hand briefly to his ribs before dropping it. “Where are the things you need? Let’s get them quickly, and then we’ll go. I can hold out a little longer.”

She geared up to argue further, but he was faster.

“And for the record, Granger—it doesn’t matter how bad I look. If anything came for you, I’d stop it.” His eyes didn’t leave hers. “I wouldn’t let you get hurt.”

She froze, her mouth half open, the fight leaking out of her all at once. The only thing she could do was nod and turn, legs moving on instinct as she began to lead the way, too rattled by his words to offer anything but compliance.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

There was a time—years ago—when she’d prepared for this. Quietly. Secretly. She had gathered everything she might need to sever a Ministry-grade tracker spell and tucked it away safely in Hogsmeade. The ingredients were dangerous, some outright forbidden, and far too valuable to risk being confiscated if discovered.

She hadn’t been willing to take that chance. Not when Harry might need them. And the village had seemed like the obvious choice—close enough to reach quickly, but beyond the bounds of Hogwarts' strict jurisdiction.

Now, rounding a familiar corner, Hermione slowed. Malfoy was just behind her, the tap of his cane echoing off the cobblestones as she approached an unassuming stretch of wall, wedged into one of Hogsmeade’s sketchiest alleys.

“What the fuck, Granger?” he rasped, scanning everything around them as he stood unnervingly close to her. “Are we buying fireleaf or something?”

She rolled her eyes but mirrored his caution, her gaze sweeping the alley just long enough to confirm they were alone. Fireleaf was a magical hallucinogen banned by the Ministry, favoured by thrill-seeking seventh-years and a far more dangerous, older crowd.

She supposed the alley did give off that sort of vibe.

Instead of answering him, Hermione slipped her wand into her hand and pointed it at the wall.

“Revelio.”

The wall shuddered and stone groaned as a seam split cleanly down the centre. What had seemed like a dead end began to peel open, revealing a narrow rift, and within it, a small black vault embedded in the rock like a secret waiting to be found.

Not that it ever would be. Hermione had made certain of that.

She had chosen this alley with care. It was well-hidden from the main road and a place few ever wandered unless they were, as Malfoy implied, doing less than favourable things. And even if someone did manage to sense the magic concealed behind the stone, it would make no difference. The vault was bound to her alone, unwilling to reveal itself to anyone else.

“You really are something else, aren’t you?” Malfoy murmured, stepping up beside her, one brow arched as he looked down with something between admiration and disbelief.

Hermione bit back a small smirk as she stepped forward, placing her wand against the vault's surface. Then, in a voice just above a whisper, she began to unravel the wards—her own layered enchantments—one spell at a time. After several incantations, the vault gave a soft click, and the lock disengaged.

Inside, a velvet pouch and a dark wooden box awaited her. She retrieved them quickly, slipping both into her bag before sealing the vault once more. The moment she did, the fissure sealed itself, the stone knitting back together until the wall stood smooth and unbroken, concealing the vault once again.

She turned to study Malfoy. “Can you still walk back?” she asked, uneasy at how pale he’d become. “I have everything we need.”

“Of course I can. I’m not an invalid,” he grumbled, then glanced down at his leg with a scowl. “At least not entirely.”

Such an exaggeration, considering how slight his limp was.

Still, she hoped he truly could manage the walk, because he weighed much more than she could possibly carry, and levitation would turn way too many heads.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Hogwarts had already come into view in the distance when Malfoy suddenly stopped walking, bracing himself on his cane in what looked like a desperate attempt to keep from falling.

“Damn it,” he growled, voice low and strained.

Hermione reached out on instinct and wrapped her hand around his arm, feeling the solid muscle tense and quivering beneath her fingers. “Malfoy?”

“J-Just give me a second,” he panted, glancing at her, then casting a quick look around. The sky was darkening rapidly, heavy grey clouds gathering overhead. “But stay close.”

“Come on, I’ll help,” she said softly, guiding his arm around her shoulders, just as she had the day before when he was injured.

His warmth pressed against her side, a big contrast to the deep chill in the air. But she knew it wasn’t only the cold that made her shiver. Being close to him felt… incredible. Even more than it had after the Quidditch match, when she’d helped him limp towards the infirmary. It was like something inside her chest eased, like a part of her she didn’t realise was tense had finally relaxed.

With her supporting him on the right, Malfoy took a step. Then another. But on the third, he faltered again.

“Shit,” she heard him whisper—then it happened.

He collapsed, the full weight of him pulling her down with him. No matter how hard she tried to hold him up, he was simply too heavy. Within seconds, they’d both dropped to their knees.

Malfoy turned his head towards her immediately. “Granger,” he said quickly, breath coming fast. “Did I hurt you?” His eyes looked dazed and unfocused as he tried to check on her.

She let out a breath and steadied him as best she could, pushing gently at his shoulders to help him sit up straighter. “You can’t walk anymore,” she said the obvious.

“Y-You’re still too short to help much,” he said, somehow still finding enough strength to mock her.

She rolled her eyes, but anxiety twisted in her chest like a knot. Apparating to the school was impossible now that the wards were up again and floating him there would be like lighting a signal in the sky.

He needed a place to rest. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere safe.

Her mind raced until, finally, an answer struck.

Without a word, Hermione slipped her arms under his and pulled him close, hugging him tightly.

“Granger?” he breathed in surprise, forehead brushing hers as he tried to look down at her.

“Don’t let go,” she whispered.

And just as they vanished, she felt his answer ghost her ear. “Never.”

Chapter Text

Draco

When the world stitched itself back together, he was unceremoniously dumped onto the floor—Granger landing directly on top of him. The breath was punched from his lungs, and his stomach gave a dangerous heave, still protesting the feeling of Apparition. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t forced to fight the absurd urge to keep her there, her body pressed against his, when she started lifting her head to look around.

“Good. We made it.”

Malfoy glanced around the shadows. “Where even are we?”

Granger pushed herself off him, drawing her wand. “Lumos.”

The space bloomed into view, dim and dusty, the remnants of furniture cloaked in years of neglect. A house, just barely. A sitting room, if one were generous.

“The Shrieking Shack,” she said, brushing herself off. “It’s outside the wards and close enough to Apparate to. You’re in no shape to go any farther.”

He dragged himself up onto his elbows, arching a brow in incredulity. “So you brought us to the most haunted house in the entire country?”

“It is not haunted.” Granger slipped the strap of her bag from her shoulder. “It’s perfectly safe.”

“Right,” he drawled, before abruptly turning his head to cough into his shoulder.

His head swam, and he sank back with a grimace, disgusted by how weak he felt.

She frowned at the sight of him. “How are you feeling?”

“Rotten,” he said. “And probably about ten minutes from catching a disease last seen in the Dark Ages,” he added, eyeing the filthy floorboards with distaste.

A laugh burst from her, an actual laugh, and the sound struck him like wind chimes caught in a soft breeze.

“You’re such a prat,” she said, shaking her head.

“You should do that more often,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

“Laugh.”

His answer seemed to catch her off guard, stilling her for a moment. Then she blinked and reached forward to carefully place her bag beneath his head. “Here. Use it as a pillow.” She straightened and looked around. “I’m going to see if I can make this place a little less miserable for you to rest in.”

His hand shot out, catching her wrist with what little strength he could summon. “Don’t go out of my sight, Granger.”

His arm dropped back, boneless and spent. He felt useless, like the little cup of jelly he used to leave untouched at Hogwarts feasts—too wobbly, too undignified, too ordinary for someone raised to believe he deserved better.

Life, it seemed, was determined to humble him. And she was a merciless, vindictive bitch.

Granger, at least, had the decency to take pity on him.

“I won’t,” she promised. “I’ll stay here.”

He gave a faint nod, relief settling over him like a warm hand on his chest.

Then he closed his eyes.

Just for a second.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, twitching against the pull of sleep before finally, grudgingly, beginning to lift. The world came to him in shadow and blur, and it took a full minute of unfocused staring before shapes began to settle and awareness returned in a slow tide.

He wasn’t on the floor anymore.

Something soft cradled his back, and as he glanced down, he saw he was lying on a red sofa, the fabric worn in most places but free of dust. Magically cleaned, he guessed. Thoughtful, practical. Granger.

He turned his head sluggishly, the movement making his neck ache. A small candle burned nearby atop a low table, its golden glow the only light in the room. The rest of it was shut out by wooden boards nailed over the windows. And just beyond the table—there she was.

Granger sat curled into a chair, legs tucked beneath her, a book propped open on her knees, one he’d bought for her hours ago. There was something oddly gratifying about the sight.

She also had an arm wrapped tight around her middle, and her shoulders were drawn in. His brow creased.

Is she cold?

His eyes narrowed as he realised the problem: she wasn’t wearing her coat.

Draco searched the room with his gaze, trying to spot it, when he finally registered the weight of something draped across his torso.

He looked down, and there it was.

She’d covered him with her coat while he slept, the fabric laid over him like a blanket.

He turned his head again, slower this time, and let his eyes return to her while her focus remained on the pages, her brow slightly furrowed, those large honey-brown eyes moving steadily across the lines. She looked peaceful. Soft. Entirely unaware of him watching her.

And like a seed sprouting, a thought bloomed in his mind.

Hermione Granger, as fierce as she could be, was also… astonishingly sweet. A tragic contradiction, as only one of those traits was suitable for war.

No wonder she was drowning.

Draco watched her for another minute, ignoring the scratch building in his throat. When it asked for release, he stubbornly sealed his mouth shut. He just wanted to keep watching her a little longer without her noticing.

Not like a creep, though, just... fuck.

But the pressure built, and within seconds it felt like his lungs were on fire. The cough ripped its way out, harsh, dragging, and completely giving him away.

She looked up at the sound, eyes widening slightly.

“You’re awake.”

Granger closed her book and stood, setting it on the now-empty chair before making her way over to him. When she reached his side, she bent down and pressed a hand to his forehead, instantly making a shiver run down his spine.

Her touch felt surreal, like walking into shade after being lost too long in the sun. A hush fell over his nerves, the fever humming in his blood dimming just enough for him to feel something else: relief.

“You’re still burning up,” she murmured, her button nose wrinkling at the information.

“H-How long was I asleep?” he asked, voice rasping at the edges.

“Not too long,” she replied, pulling her hand back.

It felt like she’d taken a piece of him with her. The relief she’d given him ebbed immediately, leaving behind the heat and the ache and the ghost of her fingers.

“Do you think you can sit up for a moment?”

“Hmm… yeah.” The syllables floated out, but his mind was still reaching backward, to the feeling of her hand on his skin.

He began to straighten, grabbing her coat before it could slip off his chest. Once upright, he glanced at her and extended it towards her. “Put it back on, Granger.”

She looked down at the coat in his hands, then back at him. “You were shivering…” she explained.

He ground his teeth together, humiliated at the thought, and set her coat beside him on the sofa before changing the subject. “I’m sitting. What now?” Draco almost winced as a fresh throb of pain pulsed behind his eyes.

“Actually…” She hesitated, the faintest blush rising across her cheeks. “I need you to take off your coat, too.”

He blinked. “Take off my coat?”

She nodded, eyes not quite meeting his.

He gave her a long look, then sighed and chose not to press her yet. Instead, he began to unbutton his coat, his fingers slow and stiff. He draped it over hers, removing the scarf she’d given him as well. When he looked back up, she was still standing there, her hands fidgeting in front of her.

“Granger?”

“L-Luna Lovegood said something to me yesterday… during the match.”

His brows drew together. “Okay?” he said, waiting for the rest.

“To be more exact,” Granger continued nervously. “She said that our string looks dull. And that it would make you ill. Very.”

String?

He leaned forward. “Wait. Are you telling me Loony Lovegood—”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, does it really matter what I call her right now?”

“Yes!” Granger snapped. “Words carry weight, Malfoy. They bruise. But you already knew that—didn’t you?”

Shit.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have called her that.” He inhaled through his nose. “I’m sorry, Granger.” A pause. “Truly.”

She frowned but nodded anyway, and he felt himself relax, tension loosening in his shoulders.

“But if she does know something,” he went on, “why are you only telling me about it now?”

“I’m not sure she does, not entirely,” Granger said. “You got hurt before I had the chance to ask her anything, and when I finally left the infirmary to find her, her roommates said she was gone for the weekend.” She bit her lip, the gesture so familiar now it almost drew a smile from him. “McGonagall gave her permission to help the… Bunfogs.”

He said nothing.

She shifted her weight, and added, more quietly, “It’s their birthing season.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally, all that came out was, “Oh.”

They just looked at each other for a long breath, until a snicker bubbled up from his chest and escaped before he could stop it. He was about to apologise when she laughed too, the sound curving her lips and lifting her cheeks, freckles shifting across her skin and making him wonder, very briefly, how long one would take to count them all.

One, two, three—

“Anyway, I’ll speak to Luna as soon as she’s back,” Granger said, cutting through his thoughts. “But I’ve been thinking it over while you were resting, and since your fever hasn’t broken, I… I’d like to try something.”

He pressed the back of his head into the cushion, a line of sweat cooling along his hairline. “Does this ‘something’ involve me taking off any more clothes?” he joked.

“Maybe.”

His head snapped up, surprise piercing through the lethargy in his limbs. “Hang on… are you trying to get me naked, Granger?” He shoved his hands against the cushion to help him sit up straighter while a half-smile curled at his lips. “I’m not at my finest, but for you, I promise I’ll make it good.”

Fever or no fever, if she let him—if she wanted—he’d take her right here on this sofa, hands tangled in her hair, mouth on her throat. Hell, he’d risk the dirty floor if it meant tasting the way her breath hitched when she said his name.

His hunger for the witch had teeth, and every one of them was sharp.

Sadly, Granger just huffed. “In your dreams, Malfoy.”

He didn’t falter. “Every night,” he said, “and in a dozen different ways.”

Her eyes went wide. Colour rushed to her cheeks like fire.
“You—you—I—”

“Brilliant sentence, Granger,” he murmured. “Ten points to Gryffindor for the effort.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “You’re an arsehole.”

“And yet, here you are. Undressing me by request.”

“Scientifically,” she hissed. “Magically. Not—whatever this is.”

He let his head fall back again, smirking up at the ceiling. “Whatever this is,” he said, “it’s getting harder to ignore.”

“I agree,” she said, catching him off guard once more. “But I think I know what might help.”

“What?” he asked, still gazing upward, trying to breathe through the rhythmic pain in his skull.

Then, suddenly, he felt it: the soft press of a palm against his cheek. Cool and gentle.

His eyes dropped, slow, even if startled, and met hers.

Golden. Intent. Wide enough to fall into.

“Does this feel good, Malfoy?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, his hand lifted, fever-warm and heavy, until it found hers. He placed it over her smaller one, pressing her palm more firmly against his cheek. His eyes drifted half-shut at the contact.

She didn’t pull away.

“I’ve been going over our symptoms,” she said. “And there’s one thing the magic seems to be saying consistently. To both of us.”

She hesitated. He heard the subtle shift in her breathing.

“It wants us close. Not just in proximity. It wants… contact.” Her brow furrowed, the crease between her eyes tightening with thought. “We’ve been resisting it. Avoiding it. Trying to work around it like it's something we can outsmart. But what if that’s the problem?”

He opened his eyes fully now.

“If your fever isn’t from the werewolf curse, if it’s a consequence of… this thing between us… then maybe it isn’t just another symptom. M-Maybe it’s a punishment,” she said, her hand still resting against his cheek beneath his own. “Your body weakens as the change draws closer, which makes it easier for the magic to assert itself. Or... retaliate. And the fever, I think it could be the result of us disobeying it.”

She paused, gaze locked with his.

“So, the only way to fix it,” she continued, “should be to do what it wants. We have to—”

“Touch,” he finished, understanding her perfectly.

She gave a small nod, the barest motion—but it was enough.

Draco lifted his hand from hers, only so he could grab her wrist, and then he pulled.

She landed on his lap with a startled gasp, hands catching against his chest for balance as her eyes flew wide. The press of her body hit him all at once, her thigh firm and warm against his, her waist angled into the cradle of his hips in a way that was accidental but devastatingly exact.

His blood stirred in his veins, electric, while he forced a nonchalant smile. “Let’s test it then, shall we?”

She pushed at his chest, trying to gain some distance, and his arm slipped around her waist, holding her securely in place. It was as if her closeness had given him new strength.

“Granger,” he said, voice silken, “don’t be rude. I’m gravely ill.”

“I—Malfoy—this isn’t necessary,” she stammered, still trying to lift herself off him. “We can just—I don’t know—hold hands.”

“I might die,” he said flatly. “Neither of us knows how bad this could get.”

She rolled her eyes, but he didn’t miss the way her body stilled.

He gazed down at her, the scent of peaches growing stronger with each breath he took. Sweet, ripe, distracting. “Look, you said it yourself—contact helps. You want results, don’t you?” He cocked a brow. “I figure the more contact, the faster it could work.”

Even as he spoke, the magic responded within him, like a low note vibrating deep in his chest. His fever still lingered, but the pressure behind his eyes seemed to be easing, little by little.

It might still be too soon to prove her theory correct, but there was no denying how good she felt in his arms. No denying the searing rightness of it.

And suddenly it made perfect sense that the constant desire he felt, the urge to be near her, to touch her, it wasn’t just a want. It was a need.

It was survival.

“I’ll sit next to you on the sofa,” she offered, and he could feel the tension in her spine. “I’m sure it won’t make much difference.”

Draco exhaled, using the sleeve of his free arm to dab at the sweat in his temple, then let it fall to his side, his hand settling just close enough to graze the fabric of her trousers. His fingers twitched once, then curled into a fist.

“That’s bullshit,” he said at last.

“What?”

“It will make a difference. Every bloody inch makes a difference. Do you not feel this?” His voice was low, unsteady. A touch angry. “This...rightness.”

Every amount of distance she put between them, no matter how small, would feel like the length of a fucking Quidditch pitch to him.

Her lips parted, then pressed shut again. “It’s… a lot,” she murmured, eyes averted. “The way it feels.”

There was something fragile in her words, something scared.

That stopped him cold.

His arm loosened around her waist, his body remembering what had happened earlier today. How she had gasped for a breath she could not find, her pupils dilated with total panic. The sound of her shallow rasps still haunted his ears, the desperation beneath it making his own heart race with helplessness.

Draco had always known Granger as ruthlessly clever and unflinchingly brave.

He was not prepared for the version of her who shook in his arms. Who needed him to help her breathe.

And it had torn something open in his chest.

He hadn’t known how to fix it, not really, but he’d wanted to be the arm she held on to while she fell apart. He’d wanted to be the one to put air into her lungs again.

“Are you feeling overwhelmed now?” he asked carefully, his eyes searching her face.

She looked up and gave a small shrug.

A curl had fallen into her eyes, and before he could stop himself, his hand lifted. With a single finger, he brushed it back and tucked it behind her ear. It felt so soft.

“Does it happen often?”

“Not often,” she mumbled. “It happened sometimes when we were on the run. Me and the boys. And… after.”

“Did they help you?”

She paused. “They tried.”

Granger raised her arm then, pressing her palm gently to his forehead.

“You’re still warm, but…less. I think. How do you feel?”

“Yeah… better.”

More than he had in weeks, even with a slight fever still clinging to him.

“I suppose it’s working,” she said, her lips curving into a smile.

“Pleased to be right as always, Granger?”

“Maybe I’m pleased you’re not dying.”

He arched a brow, a clever retort half-formed—
and then she shifted.

In his lap.

Her arse landed directly against his cock, which, until that exact moment, had been behaving itself admirably under the influence of fatigue, fever, and general restraint.

Now? Not so much.

Dear, sweet Merlin.

“G-Granger,” he hissed, nearly biting his tongue.

“Sorry,” she said, annoyingly unaware as she adjusted again. Again. “Just trying to get comfortable. It’s nearly sundown, and I figure we should maximise contact while we can. If we stop too soon, the fever might spike again.”

“You were furious about this not so long ago,” he bit out, voice rough with equal parts exasperation and unbearable want, while he scrambled for something, anything, to keep himself from acting on the surge of heat curling low in his gut.

Filch in lace. Hagrid in a towel. Theo giving head—something he'd walked in on once and never emotionally processed.

But it didn’t help.

Nothing could override her.

The feel of her. The shape of her. The scent of her.

His cock gave a brutal twitch, ignoring his silent pleas to behave, and he coughed out a grunt, shifting beneath her and angling his hips away under the guise of steadying her, his fingers digging into the curve of her waist as he moved. Still, she was too close.

Too close to the hard, swollen length straining against the front of his trousers, the tip already wet and aching like he was a horny fourth year again, with poor control and seconds from losing it.

“That was before I knew for sure it was working,” Granger said breezily. And then—Gods—she kept moving.

In a desperate split-second decision, he stood, lifting her clean off his lap. She gasped, arms flying to grip his shoulders as he sat back down and dragged her sideways across him, her legs draped along the far end of the sofa, her side flush against his chest as he reached blindly for his discarded coat. When he found it, he dragged it over her legs, draping it across her thighs and, more importantly, over the large bulge in his trousers.

“There,” Draco said, his lips brushing her temple. “Now behave.” A pause. “Or I’ll start thinking you want me to do something.”

Her head tilted up towards him, cheeks red with understanding as she met his eyes. Finally catching on, Granger?

“I—I didn’t mean to make you… uncomfortable,” she said awkwardly. “I won’t move again.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. You just made it… extremely hard to be decent.”

Her eyes widened a fraction. She swallowed.

“Right. Well. I apologise anyway,” she said, more carefully this time. “And… thank you. I know the curse isn’t easy to fight.”

It wasn’t. Not when her body was soft against his and her scent was drenching his senses. Not when he was finding himself increasingly less inclined to fight it at all.

His lips curved into a fuller smile, surprised she’d thought to thank him. “You’re welcome, little witch.”

Maybe later tonight, when he closed his eyes, she’d thank him for the opposite—for giving in and giving her everything he’d been holding back.

She rolled her eyes, the flush in her cheeks deepening as she muttered, “Why do you call me that? I’m not even that short. You’re the one who decided to grow stupidly… big.”

“It suits you. You stomp around like you're seven feet tall, attitude to match it, when the truth is you are short. Objectively. But especially when compared to me.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you can see anything from up there with your head wedged that far up your own arse.”

Draco barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Trust me, Granger. I see you just fine.”

Far clearer than ever before.

His grin lingered for a moment longer before something in her expression pulled it down. He let his gaze drift, almost absently, from her eyes to the delicate lines of her face, tracing the gentle slope of her cheekbone, the faint hollows beneath her eyes, the way her mouth curved even when she was trying to look unimpressed.

There were shadows there. Not just from the lighting, but under her skin. Worn into her.

She looked tired.

Draco wondered how dark her dreams had grown, and how much they stayed with her during the day, stealing her breath and throwing her into panic without warning.

“You should get some rest too,” he said. “Before we go back.”

“No, I’m fine. You’re the one who’s ill.”

“Is it that you’re uncomfortable falling asleep with me here?” His tone was dry. “You do realise I’m probably the least likely person to hurt you at this point?” His arm shifted around her. “You’re safe, Granger. Even if you don’t sleep, just... let yourself stop for a minute.”

She was quiet for a long beat.

“Malfoy?”

“Yes?”

“Earlier, when I was feeling… overwhelmed. What you did—it helped.” She hesitated, words catching at the edges. “I don’t know if it’s because of… this thing between us…but I haven’t felt like that in a long time.”

“Like what?”

Her golden eyes locked with his. “Truly safe.”

He didn’t answer right away. Whatever rose inside him was new. Warm and painful all at once, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

She cleared her throat, looking away. “You’re probably the last person I ever thought would make me feel that. And I’m sure you never imagined feeling protective over me, either.” She offered an uncertain smile. “Strange how powerful this magic is.”

Something sour filled his chest, completely erasing whatever had been there before.

“You really think it’s just the curse?” he said through gritted teeth.

Her brows knit. “What else would it be?”

His hands curled into fists. “Maybe I want to protect you, Granger. Maybe that’s not the curse. Did that ever occur to you?” His voice chilled. “Or will I always just be the villain in your story?”

A Death Eater. That’s all they saw. What Weasley shouted in rage, and what others whispered behind his back. It lived in every glance. Marked into his skin. Bred into his name. It didn’t matter how it got there. It was his now, down to the bone, buried deep where all her lessons had taken root.

No trial could clear that.

Hermione sat up straighter in his lap, her expression tightening. “I testified for you, Malfoy. I wouldn’t have done it if that’s all I saw in you.” Then, more bitterly, “But come on. In what world would you choose to protect me?”

His jaw clenched. Without a word, he lifted her legs off his lap and shrugged her aside, the gesture rougher than it needed to be. He hated how instantly he felt the cold where she’d been. How quickly he missed the weight of her.

Turning his body to face her, chest burning, he snapped, “I did protect you. Before the fucking curse. That was me. I chose that. Don’t dismiss it just because you don’t like where it came from.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That had nothing to do with me.”

His breath caught sharp in his throat, disbelief crackling through his words. “Who the fuck did I throw myself in front of, then?” His gaze flickered briefly to her curls, framing her face in soft waves. “A bloody hedge?”

She threw up her hands. “Oh my god, you annoying idiot! I'm not trying to discredit what you did, alright?” She leaned forward now, face flushed, voice rising with frustration. “You did save my life. I know that. I just don’t think it was about me as much as it was about saving—”

“Myself.”

It came out before he could stop it. Not quite an admission—more a preemptive strike. He didn’t want to hear her say it. Couldn’t give her the satisfaction.

Her lips pressed together, then she continued, “I think you did it because you wanted to prove you’re not like them, Malfoy. That you’re not a—”

“Monster.”

“Stop cutting me off.” She sighed. “But… yes.”

He leaned back against the sofa, hands digging into the cushion beneath him, a sick ache curling inside him as her words rang painfully true. He shut his eyes, his anger draining with nothing left to justify it. Unfortunately, Draco had no right to be mad just because she had him all figured out, and no energy left to pretend she was wrong.

"Poetic, isn’t it? In its own twisted way.” His smirk was tired, all edge gone. “Now I get to turn into one every full moon.”

He had saved her to somehow save himself. And now they were both living with the consequences. The werewolf curse. The magic that bound them together. Whoever—or whatever—was pulling the strings had a macabre sense of humour, twisting their fates like thread through a needle.

“Do you regret it?”

Draco’s lids snapped open at the question. He should say yes. He wanted to say yes. To just let the bitterness speak, push the memory away, and shut it all down before the conversation cracked him open and exposed everything he couldn’t afford to show. But the lie caught behind his teeth. What finally came out was, “I don’t know.” A pause. “Do you?”

Surprise quickly crossed her features, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of his answer or the question he followed it with.

He leaned in, repeating himself. “Do you regret that I saved you, Granger?”

Her lips parted, her gaze flickering across his face.

They were both there that night, and she might have figured him all out. But he’d figured her out, too.

He hadn’t lied when he said he saw her. More than ever before. More than anyone else seemed to at the moment. And he knew Hermione Granger had been broken by the war just as deeply as he had.

Broken enough to stop fighting for herself.

Broken enough to stop wanting to live.

Draco watched her realise it—that he knew. That he’d seen through what she tried to hide.

And when she finally answered, it came as an echo of his own truth.

“I don’t know.”

Her gaze dropped instantly, but he reached out, fingers brushing beneath her chin, tilting her face back up. He needed to see her eyes when he said it.

“Come to me, Granger. If you ever feel like you did earlier… let me be the one to help you through it.”

She frowned, not in resistance, but as if she were trying to make sense of something.

“I’ll make sure you’re not alone in it,” he added, carefully reining in the strain in his voice. How much he needed to be the one she went to. “The magic… let it help you.”

“Okay.”

He blinked. “Okay?”

Coult it be that simple?

She gave a tired shrug. “Yeah.”

It hit him again, how grossly he’d oversimplified her. How incomplete his understanding of her had always been. Granger could be cynical, endlessly stubborn and damn near impossible when she wanted to be. But she could also be soft—so soft—and when she let that softness slip through… fuck.

He dropped his hand, unsettled, and his stomach chose that exact moment to betray him with a loud, gurgling growl.

Granger snorted. “Seriously?”

He scowled as she stood, walked over to her bag, and pulled something out. She tossed it at him. “Here,” she said. “Before your stomach eats itself.”

He glanced down, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“My favourite.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know. You always eat them unnecessarily loud.”

He grinned, the annoyed little huffs she always threw his way surging to mind, then bit into the green apple with an exaggerated crunch.

Delicious.

But oddly, he couldn’t shake the thought that a peach might’ve been better.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“Granger?”

She lifted her eyes from the page she’d been reading beside him. “Yes?”

“We should go now.”

Unfortunately, he’d only paid for time until sunset, and he couldn’t risk his tracker alerting the Ministry to his whereabouts after that. He wasn’t supposed to leave Hogwarts without permission—even for a trip as short as Hogsmeade.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, glancing down at their joined hands resting between them on the sofa. They’d decided to stay like that while they each read their own book, letting the minutes slip by unnoticed. “Your hand doesn’t feel too warm anymore, I think.”

Draco nodded, instantly regretting it when she slid her hand out from under his.

“That was a great result,” she went on, shifting slightly. “Though I'm pretty sure it won’t be enough. We should… repeat this. During the week. I suspect that with the full moon coming your body will become increasingly susceptible to whatever magic is affecting us.”

The frown of distaste he gave her was entirely at odds with the way her words made him feel inside.

“If we have to,” he said. It wasn’t like he wanted to grab her hand like some lovesick teenager. It wasn’t like he noticed how perfectly her fingers fit against his, or how ridiculously small and soft her hand felt compared to his own.

Granger nodded and stood, grabbing her coat from the sofa and shrugging it on. He followed, glancing around for his cane.

"There’s actually another reason I chose this place when we Apparated," she said, as he collected his dragon-headed cane from where it leaned against the arm of the sofa.

Draco’s brows furrowed.

"The shack has a secret passage that leads to the school grounds. I’ll show you, since you’ll need to come here often.”

He stilled. “Why the fuck would I need to come here often?"

"This is where Professor Lupin used to undergo his transformations," she explained with a pointed look. "It will be the perfect place for you to turn once we get rid of your tracker. The entrance is protected by the Whomping Willow, but Dumbledore showed me how to put it to sleep. I can teach you."

Draco resisted the urge to flinch at the name of their old Headmaster and looked around, finally allowing himself to smell the thick, musty scent of neglect he'd been trying to ignore since their first moment here.

"Granger, you can’t possibly think I’ll use this… this junkyard," he said, wrinkling his nose. Everything in the room—even the structure itself—looked abysmally dirty. He might be turning into a beast, but he still had standards.

She crossed her arms. "Do you have any better ideas?"

"Well—not yet. But—"

"If you somehow come up with another place that meets the same requirements as this one, I would be happy to see you use it. Until then, this is it."

Draco glared at her and her haughty little tone. "Fine."

She smirked. "Let’s get going, then."

Granger led them towards the hidden tunnel connecting to the school, and after spelling it open, she slipped inside without a word. Draco walked close behind, casting a Lumos to push back the darkness and reveal anything that might have been lurking in the shadows.

It didn’t take long for them to reach the exit.

"We should separate here," she announced once they stepped onto Hogwarts’ grounds.

He looked at her, jaw clenching.

"Embarrassed to be seen with the Death Eater, are you?"

“If people randomly spot us together, they’ll ask questions. I’m not worried about being seen with you, Malfoy. I’m worried curiosity will lead someone to investigate further, and your secret will be exposed. You—you’re not a Death Eater.”

"I have his mark."

"That was forced on you." She paused. "Besides, I’m the proof."

His brows drew together. "What does that even mean?"

"You saved me that night to prove to yourself that you are not like them. And you’re not." Her voice softened. "I am your proof."

Shock rendered him silent for a moment, before he huffed out a laugh. "Fuck, Granger," he said, meeting her gaze. "As if I needed another reason to want to look at you."

Her lips parted, red shooting up her neck in blotches. "I—I should go,” she murmured, turning so fast it made it obvious she was running away.

Draco watched her, her curls bouncing with every step, the autumn breeze tugging at her coat. She was nearly out of sight before he moved to follow, a monster at her heels, caught between hunting and protecting.

His obsession was bad enough.

If he made her his light… would it burn them both?

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

"Another glass, mate?" Theo asked, holding up the bottle of whisky.

They had already drunk more than half of it, and Draco’s glass was nearly empty again.

"Yeah," he grumbled.

Silence reigned in the common room; everyone else had long since gone to bed.

The other Slytherin poured him the drink and relaxed back against the black leather sofa beside him. "I have a question for you, Draco."

"What?" Draco said absentmindedly, his mind lost to images of hazel eyes and a million freckles.

Theo pulled something from his pocket, his fingers closing around it before he popped off the cap of what Draco guessed was a vial. Theo brought it to his nose and inhaled, a strange glint in his green eyes.

"So… when were you going to tell me that you’ve become a werewolf?"

Draco nearly choked on his drink.

But suddenly, he could smell it. A cold, herbal scent, like crushed roots and damp stone, threaded with something metallic beneath.

Wolfsbane.

In Theo’s hand.

More specifically, the wolfsbane that was supposed to be locked in Draco’s safe, inside their dorm.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Hermione looked around at the neutral colours the Room of Requirement had settled on when it turned itself into one more common room at Hogwarts. It was obvious the choice meant something more than simple decoration, which made Ron’s stubbornness right now all the more infuriating.

"Why the hell would we give up having a common room all to ourselves?" he grunted, pacing around. "Harry, talk some bloody sense into her!"

She planted her hands on her hips. "You cannot be so selfish that you ignore what the room is clearly trying to tell us!"

"And what is that?" he demanded, throwing his arms out.

"That this isn’t meant to be just your personal napping spot, Ronald!"

Harry let out a short laugh, sitting on a table with his feet slung over the chair in front of him.

"Whatever, Mione.” Ron glared. “I’m not letting any of the snakes in here."

"Letting? Who do you think you are, the Room’s keeper?"

“We spent years fighting to protect the school from them! Now we’re just supposed to invite them in?"

"We didn’t fight them, Ron. We fought Voldemort and the ones who chose to follow him."

"And some of them did!"

"Some of them had no say in it! You think everything is black and white, but it isn’t. People are not just good or evil because of where they were sorted. And you cannot condemn an entire house for the actions of a few."

"Do you know what is black and white, Hermione?" Ron roared in her face. "Death! You are either alive or you’re fucking dead! Fred’s gone and he will never come back!"

He had never spoken to her this aggressively before. Even Harry looked startled, quickly sliding off the table and stepping forward to edge himself between them.

"Easy, Ron," he warned.

Ron was not huge, but he was not small either. He was significantly bigger than her, and it was not exactly pleasant to see him looking at her with so much anger. But that didn’t stop her from stepping around Harry and facing the other boy again. There would be no day on this earth she ever let Ron Weasley intimidate her. "You know how devastated I am about Fred," she said, the guilt in her voice barely scratching the surface of what she carried beneath. "About everyone who died. But you cannot let his death be the reason you instigate even more hate.”

“Don't you dare compare your pain to mine. He was my brother.”

Her throat tightened, a familiar pressure building in her lungs, and she blinked rapidly, forcing back the sting in her eyes before the tears could fully form. "Do you think you’re the only one grieving, Ron?" she spat. "Everyone has lost someone. Friends. Family. Parts of themselves." She jerked her chin towards Harry. "Harry never even got to know his parents. And mine?” She shook her head. “Half the time, they cannot even remember me anymore. Do you know why?"

She swallowed a shaky gulp of air, her heart hammering painfully against her ribs. "Because I had to find a way to leave them somewhere safe while I stayed behind to protect my other family." Her gaze flickered between the two boys who had become her world.  "You."

Hermione felt so tired, so defeated by the terrible cost of it all. "This war will never stop taking from us unless we force it to.” She looked straight at Ron. "So please. I know you’re hurting. I know it’s hard. But I need you to at least try, because I really don’t think I have it in me to keep fighting.”

That was probably as close as she ever came to admitting just how done she was. And it didn’t even come close to the truth. 

Ron was staring at her as she finished, eyes wide, and it took him a few moments to speak again.“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— I just... I miss him, Mione.” His shoulders sagged, then trembled. “So bloody much.”

When a choked, wet noise escaped his lips, thick with the agony of loss, Hermione quickly moved forward to comfort him. She couldn’t help it. There was a time she thought it might have been love, what she felt for Ron. And it was, in a way. It was the love of chosen family, of a bond made not from passion but from friendship, loyalty, and years of standing side by side.

They clung to each other now, forgiveness passing silently between them in the way they held on, and she felt Harry’s heavy gaze on them before he stepped forward too, wrapping his arms around both of them and pulling them close until Hermione found herself caught in the centre of a three-person hug. The Golden Trio, they called them. War heroes. Did they have any clue how each of them was still scrambling to survive the war they helped win?

"I think I have an idea," Harry whispered when they finally broke apart.

"What?" she asked, curious.

The Boy Who Lived grinned. "I say we have a party."

Ron’s face twisted in surprise, very obviously not expecting that to come from Harry’s mouth. She shared the sentiment. “A party?"

"Yes," Harry confirmed. "We’ve been forced to be adults for so long... let’s be stupid kids for once.” He glanced around. “Let’s have a party right here in the Room of Requirement."

That actually sounded... perfect. Introducing the common room this way would diminish most of the potential pressure, offering a relaxed setting where interaction was optional.

Ron shook his head. "How the bloody hell would we get that past McGonagall, mate?"

"You don’t," Hermione said, mind already turning over the possibilities. "We just tell her. We explain it."

"And you think she’ll go for it?"

"I do."

"You sure, Mione?" Harry asked, his green eyes peering at her thoughtfully.

"It’s not just us that need to heal... I’d wager she’ll see the good in it."

"In a bunch of students sneaking booze into a magical room in the middle of term and throwing an epic bash?" Ron said sceptically.

“No," she said, then added with a cheeky smile, "but perhaps she’ll say yes to an inter-house gathering, organised to foster unity and rebuild school spirit, in a space provided by Hogwarts’ very own Room of Requirement. A space known to offer students and staff what they need, not what they want."

Harry’s eyes shone with mirth as he grinned at her. "That would do it.”

"Well then. I guess we’re having a bloody party," Ron announced with a smirk, all previous complaints about sharing their secret room forgotten.

A party for all four houses. It felt right.

It was time they began celebrating life, instead of forever mourning it.

She was still here—still breathing—because a certain Slytherin had stopped her from becoming another casualty. Others had not been so lucky.

Fred’s last words to her echoed in her mind. "All right. But don’t take long, Mione. They’re worried—and besides, we have a victory to celebrate."

She swallowed.

I’m trying, Fred. I’m trying.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

When Hermione arrived at their little corner of the library, he was already there, sitting on one of the wooden chairs with his white-blond head resting on his arms, turned away from her. She could sense magic in the air as soon as she drew closer.

A privacy spell.

When she placed her things down on the table, she was surprised he didn’t even stir, so she walked around to peer at him from the other side—only to find him fast asleep. Brows creasing together, she crouched down next to him, studying his pale face while lifting her hand to press against his slightly damp forehead.

Warm. He was running a fever again.

She still had her hand resting there when his grey eyes suddenly fluttered open, finding hers.

“H-Hi,” she said, her voice catching a bit.

He glanced up at her hand. "Feels so good," he rasped.

She ignored the small jump her heart gave.

"When did the fever come back?"

He sighed and shifted, trying to straighten up. When her hand fell away, he caught it quickly, fingers curling around hers as if he could not quite let her go yet.

"Not sure," he murmured. "This afternoon, I think."

She frowned. "We should have stayed longer yesterday.”

They had implemented a sort of touching protocol every day since they returned from Hogsmeade. Their legs pressed together under the table, the casual intertwining of fingers, shoulders brushing as they read.

But she’d had one of her worst nightmares the night before last, after days and days of poor sleep, and she had been dead on her feet all day. When she arrived at the library, her eyelids heavy and her body slow with fatigue, he had insisted she go straight to bed.

She’d tried to argue, tried to tell him she was fine, but he had not listened, all but demanding she leave.

“No. You needed to sleep, or you were going to scare the first years with the state of your face.”

A surprised laugh burst out of her before she shot back, "You scare them just by existing, Malfoy. No sleep deprivation required.”

She wasn’t sure if it was because he looked tall and intimidating or because of his… past. But she had seen more than one terrified little face turn away quickly when they spotted him.

He smirked, letting his head tilt back against the chair. " Fear is just another form of respect, little witch.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, biting her cheek to keep a small smile from slipping out at his lazy arrogance. She jerked her chin towards the bag sitting on the table. “I brought everything we need to do it tonight. But we could wait until tomorrow and try to get your fever down first.”

Malfoy shook his head. “There are only two days left. It’s too risky.”

Hermione exhaled but nodded, knowing he was right. The full moon was nearly upon them, and Malfoy needed the tracker removed as soon as possible—never mind the risk of something going wrong with her spell.

She straightened her legs and gently pried her hand from his, catching the way his face darkened as she did it, before moving around him and sinking into the chair at his other side. No sooner had she sat down than his leg moved, brushing against hers, pressing close all the way down.

Hermione leaned forward, pulling her bag onto her lap, and rummaged through it until she found a small black velvet pouch. She loosened the tie and tipped it over, letting a silver ring fall onto the table between them.

She picked it up straight away, and the moment she did, she felt it—a heavy feeling settling over her body.

“This is a magical object,” she said, turning the ring in her fingers. “It’s spelled to mimic a living being. It’s the closest thing I could find—short of, you know, an actual person—that can act as a placeholder for the tracker.”

Malfoy’s gaze sharpened on the ring. “So the spell will stay active... but it won’t be connected to me anymore?”

“Exactly. Wherever this ring is, that’s where they'll believe you are.”

She had hunted for it relentlessly, scouring obscure texts and piecing together fragments of information. She’d needed something that could not only hide Harry’s location but mislead those pursuing him. This was the only non-living object she’d found that could emulate a biological signature well enough for the tracker’s spell to adhere to it.

It had taken her months to find it, and even longer to find a way to purchase it. But she had managed.

Malfoy was still staring at the ring, his expression hardening. “It feels... wrong.” His eyes snapped up to meet hers. “Very fucking wrong.”

She kept her face blank. “That’s because it’s made of dark magic.”

Hermione heard his rushed intake of breath a second before his hand shot out, snatching the ring from her fingers. He clenched it in his fist, the muscles in his forearm tightening visibly beneath his sleeve as he lowered his hand to the table, still closed around it. “How the hell did you even find this?”

She shrugged. “I have my ways.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Do you have any idea how dangerous dark objects can be?”

She didn’t appreciate the patronising tone one bit.

“I hunted Horcruxes for a year, Malfoy,” she said flatly. The darkest objects in existence. “I’m not some idiot playing with magic I don’t understand. I know exactly what I’m doing, and you should be thankful for it, because it’s the only thing standing between you and getting caught.”

“Dark magic always takes something from you, Granger. It’s corruptive—a venom. It shouldn’t be anywhere near you.”

His words reached a place deep inside her, overflowing with shadows.

“What if sometimes venom is needed to save lives?” she blurted angrily. “What if I'm willing to go that far? Does that make me so much worse than—” She cut herself off, eyes dropping to the table, and took a shallow breath. “Harry and Ron…they never even considered it,” she admitted. “Using dark magic. But I—”

She didn’t have enough fingers to count the times she had stood there, wand in hand, weighing the choice.

Choosing it.

“I—” she tried again, but her voice cracked.

A hand suddenly tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet deep silver eyes. “It’s a brutal thing, being a realist in a world of dreamers,” Malfoy said. “Logically, the Order should have fallen. You saw it. You prepared for it. They just... believed hope would be enough.”

She swallowed “And it was.”

His gaze was softer than she was used to as he lowered his hand.

“But what if it wasn’t?”

If it wasn’t... She would have done anything. Anything to save her friends. To save lives. And unlike the others, she wasn’t able to simply believe that good would always prevail.

Because if she didn’t prepare for the worst... who would?

“You’re not worse than them because of how far you’re willing to go, little witch.”

The air was scarce around her, every breath a little harder to take.

“It feels like I am.”

“If that’s what they made you feel, then they’re much shittier friends than I thought,” he said harshly.

She shook her head wearily. “They just think differently.”

He scoffed. “No, they think like someone who’s always had the choice. It’s easy to act righteous when you’ve never had to make the ugly calls or get your hands dirty in ways they’ll never feel clean again. When you get to go through life believing the good guys will win just because they’re good. But you—you never lied to yourself. You saw what could happen and weren’t stupid enough to look away. You knew how bad it could get, and you reacted accordingly.” He leaned forward. “That’s not weakness. That makes you braver than they are. Better, too.”

The lines etched upon his face were like cracks upon fragile porcelain, showing the emotion behind his words. And suddenly she felt … understood.

Acknowledging one's shadowed depths was a daunting endeavour, especially among those who clung to the illusion of faultlessness. Perhaps that’s why it was so much easier to tell him the things she could never tell anyone else. Malfoy felt safe. Not because he was darker than her friends—though he was— but because he was so honest about it. He didn’t make her feel…broken.

She glanced down at his closed hand, still wrapped tight around the ring.

“I’ll need it back,” she murmured. “To set the spell.”

“Do you need to be touching it?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then I’ll hold on to it. Have you thought of somewhere we can do the magic?”

She had given it a lot of thought—and every time, she had come back to the same solution.  The same one that had sparked her fight with Ron earlier today, when she told him and Harry that it was time to share their secret room with the rest of the school.

“I know a place. But it’s safer to go just before curfew.”

“Where?”

She smiled. “You’ll see.”

His eyes narrowed.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“Once the tracker comes out of you, I’ll need to—”

The sudden sound of footsteps, growing louder each second, startled her. Her head snapped to the side, and she snatched her hand away from Malfoy, who had been holding it while she explained the spell she’d perform on him tonight.

“Who’s there?” she called, reaching for her wand.

A head peeked in—green eyes, brown hair.

“Am I late?”

Malfoy swore under his breath.

Hermione’s eyebrows furrowed as she recognised the lanky boy wearing Slytherin robes.
“Theo?”

Her gaze whipped back to Malfoy, and he sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “So, it turns out I was a bit careless the morning we went to Hogsmeade. I left my wolfsbane out, " he admitted with a scowl, then jerked his chin at Theo. "That arsehole found it.”

The morning they’d gone to Hogsmeade...

The same morning Malfoy had been running a raging fever.

No wonder he’d slipped up.

Theo pulled out a chair on the other side of the table. “You should be glad I’m the one who found it, Draco. I was relieved when I found out—finally understood why you’d been sneaking around like a girl with a crush. Besides, I’m all about secret clubs that meet in creepy corners of the castle.”

Malfoy glared at him. “You’re not part of this. You know why you’re here, Theo.”

Hermione started to panic. “So he knows that you’re a werewolf? Does he also know about... the rest?”

“About the magic that makes him want to jump your bones?” Theo offered quickly.

Embarrassment washed over her, heat climbing up her neck, and Malfoy growled at his friend. “Behave or get out.”

She turned to him. “Why would you even tell him? It’s our secret.”

“I didn’t fucking want to.” Malfoy pointed at Theo. “The prat laced my drink with Veritaserum.”

Hermione’s eyes rounded, moving to the other Slytherin. “He—what?”

Theo smirked at her, completely unrepentant. “Welcome to Slytherin, Golden Girl.”

Malfoy exhaled heavily. “It is a rather common occurrence in our House.”

She blinked, her gaze shifting back to the boy at her side. “And you’re not mad he drugged you?” A pause. “Or that he knows?”

Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose before meeting her eyes again. “Trust me, if it’d been anyone else, they wouldn’t be sitting here looking perfectly healthy.”

“And I did drink it with him,” Theo added. “He knows I mean it when I say your secret’s safe with me.”

Hermione fidgeted in her chair, nerves jumping beneath her skin, a weight building in her chest.

“Tell her the rest, Theo,” Malfoy demanded, his eyes heavy on her.

“Right,” Theo said easily. “I suppose it also helps that I agreed to make an Unbreakable Vow tonight. Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me... but to each their own.”

There was a fleeting moment of stillness as her mind caught up with the information. Then, like a spring released, she jerked back, and the legs of her chair tipped off balance.

Malfoy rushed to grip the back of it so she wouldn’t fall.

“An Unbreakable Vow?” she rasped out loud.

They both nodded.

An Unbreakable Vow was a magical contract of the utmost seriousness, forged between two individuals using a binding spell, and the consequences of breaking it were severe. If the person who made the vow failed to fulfil their promise or broke the terms of the agreement, they’d suffer immediate and sometimes fatal consequences. That could be anything from instant death to being cursed or left permanently maimed.

To make a vow like that, you didn’t just need the people agreeing to it. You also needed a witness, usually a skilled magic-user, to seal the spell properly. It didn’t take Hermione long to figure out why Malfoy had wanted Theo to meet them here.

She turned to the boy sitting beside her, his leg pressed completely against hers beneath the table. “You wanted me to witness it?”

There was a strange glint in his eyes. “Yes.”

She exhaled, nervously tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “But isn’t this a bit much, Malfoy? Theo said he wouldn’t tell anyone… and, I mean, he’s your friend.”

Theo coughed. “Best friend.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, then looked back at her, all serious. “There are a lot of secrets I trust Theodore with.” His lips thinned. “Not this one.”

He didn’t say which one he meant—the werewolf curse or… them. And it felt too awkward to ask. All that came out was, “Alright.”

“Well, that settles it,” Theo said, and dropped a big brown book onto the table between them—a book she hadn’t even realised he’d been carrying.

She looked at it, instantly recognising the cover. It was Professor Darklin’s The Power of Magical Promises, which she knew outlined every intricate detail involved in making an Unbreakable Vow. Hermione glanced up at Theo. “You’re really sure?” she asked. “This isn’t something you can back out of. It’s called unbreakable for a reason.”

Theo smiled. “Don’t worry, Golden Girl. I know exactly what this entails.” He exchanged a loaded look with Malfoy. “And I’m willing to do it.”

Hermione bit her lip, still uncertain, and suddenly there was a hand there, tugging her lower lip free and making her head turn to the side. “Stop mauling your lip like its a fucking meal, Granger,” Malfoy said.

She glared at him. “It’s my lip. I’ll do whatever I want with it.”

His eyes dropped to her mouth, darkening briefly with something fierce and proprietary, and Hermione immediately turned away, forcing herself to look at Theo instead, while ignoring her out-of-control pulse. “I guess we’d better get on with it, then,” she said. “While we still have time.”

“Do you know how to do the spell?” Theo asked.

She almost scowled. “Obviously.”

“Don’t insult her, mate. She’s Hermione Granger, remember?” Malfoy’s voice drawled from beside her.

Hermione ignored him, pushing back her chair and moving to stand at the end of the table, between them.

“Clasp your right arms together.”

They both obeyed, gripping each other’s forearm, hovering over the length of the table as she raised her wand.

“What we agreed on?” Theo asked Malfoy.

“Yes. All of it.”

“Got it.”

A slender flame danced forth from her wand, coiling around their hands like red-hot wire.

“Theodore Nott, do you swear to keep my lycanthropy a secret, unless I, myself, grant you permission to disclose it—and only to the person of my choosing?” Malfoy began.

“I will.”

Another flame joined the first.

“Will you also hold in secrecy the still unknown magic that is connecting me and Hermione Granger, unless one of us permits you to share it, under the same terms?”

“I will.”

A third burning strand encircled their clasped arms.

“And will you protect Hermione Granger’s life, to the utmost of your ability, if I find myself in any way incapable of doing so?”

Hermione gasped, almost dropping her wand.

“I will.”

The flames shone brighter as the vow was sealed, each term bound. If Theo broke any of them, he could die. Then, a second later, the spell released them, the flames blinking out, and they pulled back their arms.

Hermione lowered her wand and met Malfoy’s gaze, heart racing in her chest. “What did you just do?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not your business, Granger. The vow’s between me and Theo and he wasn’t forced.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare act like this doesn’t involve me!”

“It’s fine, Hermione,” Theo said quickly. “He’s just taking precautions. I don’t doubt that, if it ever comes to it, he plans to protect you himself. But he has his reasons for asking… and I have my reasons for saying yes.”

She swivelled to face him.

“It’s an Unbreakable Vow, Theodore! Do you even understand the magnitude of what he’s asked of you?" She shook her head. “What if we find a cure and you’re stuck protecting me while Malfoy doesn’t even bloody care anymore?”

“Should that ever happen, I would obviously release him from the vow,” Malfoy said, tone clipped.

He’s mad? What right does he have to be mad?

“You can’t release someone from an Unbreakable Vow!” she snapped.

Malfoy shrugged. “There’s always a loophole.”

She let out a disbelieving laugh. “A loophole? Are you serious?”

"Hermione," Theo interrupted gently, "just because you’re brilliant doesn’t mean the rest of us are hopelessly daft. I know what I’m doing. I know Draco. And it was my choice to agree to it."

"He’s putting my life before yours!" she cried, exasperated. 

"Well, yes. But it’s not as reckless as you’re making it sound. The war is already over, and the vow only triggers if Draco’s unable to act. That makes it a largely redundant contingency plan, not some noble sacrifice." He gave a wink. "I’ll leave that kind of martyrdom to Gryffindor, where it belongs."

Hermione rolled her eyes and stared at him, still searching his face for any sign of doubt, anything she could grab hold of to make him see reason. But he didn’t budge, remaining annoyingly solid until she blew out a frustrated breath and threw her hands up. “Fine. But just to be clear—” she bit out, turning her anger onto Malfoy— “I don’t need either of you to protect me!”

Not at all bothered by her temper, Malfoy lazily sat back down in his chair while massaging the front of his left leg, close to where she knew his injury was. “I don’t doubt that, little witch. But for now, our lives are tied together in ways we don’t fully understand, and not unlike you, I prefer to be prepared for the worst.” His hand left his leg and extended towards her, palm open and waiting, his voice now softened by fatigue. “Come here?”

Hermione glanced at his hand, aware he still had a fever, but shook her head.

“No.”

His mouth pulled into a frown. “Granger, I—”

“No, because we need to go,” she clarified firmly. “It’s almost curfew, and we need to get there before someone finds us wandering the halls.”

“Get where exactly?” Theo asked, glancing between them.

Hermione sighed. “The Room of Requirement.”

Both boys’ eyes widened.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“So you’re telling me that the famous Room of Requirement, the one that was supposedly burned down and where Dumbledore’s Army trained for war—is suddenly a cosy beige common room?” Theo asked, gazing around at the space she’d brought them to.

Hermione set her bag down on one of the empty tables. “We thought it was gone too,” she said, “but it revealed itself to Ron and Harry on our first day back.”

“Of course it did,” she heard Malfoy mutter under his breath.

“Why do you think the Room chose to shape itself like this?” Theo asked, frowning. “Don’t we have enough common rooms already?”

“But this one’s different, isn’t it, Theo?” she prompted, turning towards him. Then she glanced at Malfoy. “Do you have the ring?”

He nodded.

Before they left the library, Malfoy had insisted on keeping it again. Then he and Theo had followed a bit behind her through the corridors, careful to avoid being seen together even if they had a group project they could blame it on.

Now inside the Room of Requirement, Theo’s gaze grew thoughtful as he swept the room again, this time studying it more carefully. “It doesn’t belong to any house,” he said slowly.

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “It doesn’t belong to anybody—which, in turn, means it belongs to—”

“Everybody,” Malfoy finished for her.

She met his gaze. “Yes.”

His mouth turned down. “The school’s paltry attempt at promoting unity, I guess?”

“Are you against it?”

He walked closer, cane in hand, until he was towering over her in a way that was becoming more and more familiar. “Not at all. But I know better than to think it’s that easy.”

“Forgiveness is never easy. It depends on how badly you want it.”

A heavy exhale left him. “Sadly, I’ve long learned the things you want most are the ones you’re least likely to get.”

“But you do want it,” she said, half-statement, half-question.

His gaze dragged over her face. “I want it.” A pause. “Just not sure I deserve it.”

Hermione considered that, then tilted her head a bit. “I’d say wanting it is the first step towards deserving it, don’t you think?”

His eyes flashed at her words, and the pull that was always there, inside her, between them, grew impossibly strong, drowning her with the need to get closer to him. But she did the complete opposite, turning away and fumbling with the clasp of her bag with clumsy fingers.

“We should, um, start preparing.”

Her shoulders were stiff with tension and her lungs felt weak as she fought the magic’s call, and she wondered for a moment if this was what it would feel like to struggle under Imperius.  

“How can I help?” Theo asked, approaching her side. Malfoy had already told him about their plan to remove the ministry’s tracker, right before they left the library.

Hermione pulled out a black notebook where she had written the instructions for the incantation. “I need a few minutes to read through this again. You could set up wards around us—maybe a few magic containment barriers. I’m afraid this might be powerful enough to draw attention unless we take precautions.”

“What about me?”

She felt him more than she heard him, his body a wall of heat at her back.

Taking a deep, silent breath, she turned around, her eyes lifting to meet his. “You,” she said, reaching out to grab his hand, “are going to stock up on energy. The spell… it’s going to be hard on you.”

Unfortunately, there was no way around it, at least not one she could find, and she had looked extensively.

His hand, big and warm, laced easily with hers, his thumb brushing once over her skin. “Okay.”

He didn’t sound the slightest bit afraid of the pain, and it made her wonder—not for the first time—who Draco Malfoy had become.

In many ways, he was exactly the boy she remembered: proud, prickly, sharp-tongued to the point of cruelty when he wanted to be. Intelligent enough to get under her skin and irritating enough to make sure he stayed there. Arrogant. Difficult.

But there were other layers to him now.

Kindness that caught her off guard. Strength that had nothing to do with his larger build. A steadiness that felt... real. Earned. And while she could blame the protectiveness—the too-quick willingness to shield her—on the magic binding them, the small things still gave him away. Things that belonged to him only.

Tiny choices. Quiet instincts.

Details that shaped their every interaction.

He was what the war had left behind: some parts of him lost forever, others hardened by necessity, and a few made entirely new.

“What, so she’s like your own personal battery or something?” Theo asked, looking between them.

“No, it doesn’t work like that,” Hermione said, her tone automatically adjusting as she slipped into an explanation. “The magic isn’t pulling energy from me directly. It’s more like... it stabilizes when we’re close. Physical contact seems to feed the connection, especially as the full moon approaches. When we stay apart for too long, it becomes…unstable, and he starts showing symptoms. Fevers, mostly.”

Luna’s words replayed in her mind. Your string looks rather dull.

They hadn’t had a chance to speak to her again yet. In a rather unlucky turn, the Ravenclaw had been granted a full week away from school—something about the Bunfog mother’s tragic death, and the newborns requiring special care.

“He gets... touch-starved?” Theo asked with furrowed brows.

“In a way.”

“And you don’t?”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. “I… I don’t get fevers.”

She couldn’t say she felt nothing, though. There was this sense of hollowness…emptiness…that disappeared when he was close. It never reached the point of pain, but it wasn’t comfortable either.

Malfoy squeezed her hand. “Come on, enough with the questions.” He guided her towards the nearest chair, reaching out with his free hand to open her notebook in front of her. Then he sat down in the chair beside her, their clasped hands coming to rest on his leg, just below the tabletop. “Read, little witch,” he said. “Theo can handle the wards.”

Hermione reviewed her notes, scanning each line with care while Theo moved around them, murmuring protective and concealing spells under his breath. Across from her, Malfoy rested his head on his folded arm, facing her this time, his eyes closed in something that resembled peace.

It became increasingly difficult to keep her attention on the page. Part of her was too aware of the soft rhythm of his breathing, the strong line of his lashes shadowing the skin beneath his eyes, and the strand of white-blonde hair that had fallen across his face.

“I think I’m done,” Theo said after some time.

She looked up, sensing Malfoy shifting beside her. “Yeah, me too,” she said.

“Where do you need the ring?” Malfoy asked.

“On the floor, between us. You should stay seated but turn your chair towards me.”

He nodded, pulling the ring from his pocket and placing it on the floor in front of him while she stood, letting go of his hand and ignoring how their fingers scraped against each other like they were asking not to let go.

When Hermione moved to adjust the ring, wanting it placed more precisely, Malfoy’s hand shot forward, blocking hers. “Merlin’s sake, Granger, it’s a cursed ring, not a centrepiece. Just fucking tell me where.”

She pulled back, frustrated. "Why are you so adamant about me not touching it?"

“I told you. Dark magic is a venom. It hurts you, even when you can't feel it.”

“Then why are you touching it?” she snapped.

His grey eyes were intense as they rose to meet hers. “Because I’m already full of it!”

Hermione faltered. “W-What?”

He didn’t answer, just scowled at her with his lips pressed together.

Malfoy… what the hell did you go through during the war?

Theo stepped forward, filling the heavy silence. “So, uh... what’s the actual plan here?”

Hermione blinked, dragging her focus away from Malfoy with an effort. Right. The spell. “We're transferring the tracker’s magic into the ring. It'll trick the Ministry into thinking nothing's changed. If we just deactivated it, they'd notice immediately.”

Theo grimaced. “Lovely. Where do you want me?”

"Stay close to him," Hermione said, glancing over at Malfoy again. He had shrugged off his robe and pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he gripped the chair beneath him. "The spell won’t be kind."

“Got it.”

Theo moved to stand right next to Malfoy, looking down at him with a wink. “I’m right here, mate. Feel free to hold my hand if it hurts.”

“Fuck you.”

Once they were all in position, Hermione drew her wand again. She opened her mouth, ready to speak, but the words stalled for some reason, and her eyes found him. “Are you sure you’re alright?” she asked nervously. “Maybe we should wait.”

Malfoy’s face was blank, but he was watching her. It took him a moment to answer, and then, calmly, he said, “I’m okay. Go on, Granger. Don’t be afraid.”

Afraid?

Was that what she was?

She tried to understand her feelings, the way her chest felt heavy and how her pulse jumped in her throat, and that’s when it struck her.

It wasn’t fear. At least not just that.

It was… worry. She was actually worried about him. About Draco bloody Malfoy.

Crushing down the sudden rush of noise the realisation stirred in her mind, she forced herself to nod. Focus. Her fingers curled tighter around her wand and, with a shaky exhale, she began.

“Exsolve. Extraho. Transferre. Exsolve. Extraho. Transferre. Exsolve magiam. Extraho notam. Transferre ad anulum.”

Pale blue light burst from her wand, winding its way towards Malfoy and wrapping around him in a soft glow. For a moment, it just rested there—quiet. Harmless. And then it started pulling.

"Aagh!"

Malfoy let out a guttural groan, his whole body seizing, veins bulging along his arms and throat as Hermione felt the brutal tug of the spell through her wand. She grimaced, watching helplessly as the magic tore at him, clawing for the tracker buried deep inside while fighting ruthlessly against every resistance.

When his body twisted at an odd angle, trying to escape the pain, a startled cry came out of her.

"Malfoy!"

Theo grabbed him, holding him upright just as he nearly collapsed out of the chair. Malfoy’s muscles were locked so tight it made him seem bigger, broader, even as he trembled from the effort of holding on. Drops of sweat slid down his temple, and Hermione's hand shook trying to keep her wand up.

The pain he looked to be in—Merlin, it was like she was Crucio’ing him. Like she was doing to him what Bellatrix had done to her. Her vision blurred. "I'm sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered frantically. " I'm so sorry.”

His eyes, which had been squeezed shut in agony, suddenly snapped open, searching for her through the blue light still pouring from her wand. The moment they found her, they locked onto the tears running down her face.

"Granger," he choked out, his jaw clenched so hard she was surprised he could talk. "Look away."

She shook her head.

"No."

The magic yanked again, and Malfoy grunted, his eyes rolling back in his head while he thrashed violently in the chair, Theo barely managing to keep his grip on him. Her stomach knotted sickeningly as she willed her magic to move faster, the spell dragging on for what felt like an eternity as blotches of red and purple bloomed like bruised flowers across his pale skin. When another pained moan escaped him, Hermione’s own sob fell through her mouth, and Malfoy somehow found the strength to turn towards her once more, his voice cracking through the pain.

"F-Fucking close your eyes!"

How can he still be protecting me right now?

Her whole chest seized. "No!”

She was the one hurting him. She couldn’t look away. She wouldn’t.

His gaze widened, right before the spell pulled with yet again, her wand vibrating through it, and for the first time he fully screamed, his neck straining to the side as it ripped out of him. The horrible sound was still echoing through the room when the blue light finally began to fade, and a dark green orb tore free from Malfoy’s body, rising until it hovered in the air above him.

Hermione hurriedly scrubbed her sleeve across her face, wiping away the wetness distorting her vision, then gritted her teeth and pointed her wand at the orb. She whispered another spell under her breath, locking onto the tracker with her magic so she could drag it towards the ring resting on the floor between her and Malfoy, all while forcing the original spell to keep working.

Malfoy was now slumped back in his chair, completely spent, his hair sticking to his forehead as sweat shone along the chiselled lines of his face, while Theo kept a strong hold on him with his lips pressed into a thin, grim line.

The muscle in Hermione’s right arm ached as the magic fought her harder than she had expected. It didn’t want to move towards the ring. Like really didn’t. She furrowed her eyebrows, biting down on panic as she realised time was running out. A few seconds more and the Ministry would be alerted.

Before she could think twice, she snapped her left hand forward and shouted, "Accio!" aiming for the ring and feeling the surge of magic as she extended her fingers to catch it mid-air.

Handling a dark object bare-handed wasn’t very advisable, Malfoy had been right about that. And now she had to force it open while the orb was still fighting her.

But there wasn’t time to be careful. She had no choice.

Both boys jolted at the sudden burst of additional magic, their heads whipping in her direction to see the ring fly into her grasp. She caught a glimpse of Malfoy trying to shove himself upright at the sight, leaning heavily on Theo while growling, "Don’t!"—but her focus stayed locked on the orb and the ring now clenched between her thumb and forefinger.

Feeling the ring’s magic hum against her skin helped her anchor the writhing green orb, dragging it towards its new container even as the effort made every muscle in her scream to stop. But just when she thought her body might give out, the magic finally snapped, and the orb collided with the ring.

For one terrifying second, the object seemed to explode to life in her hand, dark energy pouring off it in violent streams, the heat licking against her skin. Hermione cried out, stumbling back a step as the ring slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor, the tracker sealed inside it.

But the shadowy cloud that erupted from the ring wasn’t fading; it hovered there, thick and unnatural, and she found herself staring at it, rooted to the spot.

It felt disturbingly like a Horcrux—weaker, but not by much.

“You’re not safe from me, mudblood. I am coming. Everyone will die."

Hermione’s heart lurched as that voice slithered through the room, wrapping cold fingers around her spine. Then another voice, this one even more familiar and wrenching in a completely different way.

"Who are you?"

The shadows twisted into her mother’s form, looking down at her with empty eyes.

"Do I know you?"

Hermione gasped, the words slicing into her like knives, the dark magic seizing her deepest fears and yanking them into the open before she could hide them. Bellatrix’s laughter rang out next, the shadows shifting until the witch was there too, stitched from darkness and stalking closer with wild eyes.

Hermione’s lungs spasmed, all strength draining from her until her legs gave out and she collapsed onto her arse, staring up as her nightmares closed in, ready to end her.

Then, suddenly, he was there.

Right in front of her. Between Hermione and the dark.

His cane was tight in one hand, his wand already up in the other, his back broad and tense as he shielded her from the twisted things her fear had made real.

Theo crouched down at her side, his voice low and urgent, "Are you okay?"

She didn’t answer, busy staring up at Malfoy as he lifted his wand higher and a whisper slipped from him, too soft for her to make out the exact words. Immediately, magic erupted from the tip of his wand, colliding with the shadows in a powerful rush. The light wasn’t bright, but it devoured the darkness all the same, pulling the figures apart until they shuddered and dissolved into nothing.

All it took was a few seconds, and the dark magic was completely gone.

“Holy shit,” Theo whispered.

Yeah…

With the room cleared of any traces of the ring’s magic, Malfoy pivoted to face her, his face still pale, his hair damp with sweat. "What the fuck were you thinking?" he snarled. "I told you not to touch that thing!"

Her lips parted, but Malfoy didn’t wait. His cane hit the floor as he dropped down in front of her, his gaze dark and wild.  "How can someone so clever act like such a goddamn idiot?”

Hermione’s brows drew together, anger flaring under her exhaustion. "What the hell was I supposed to do? Let the Ministry find out about everything?"

"I would have found another way!" he bit out sharply.

“Don't be obtuse, Malfoy. You think we had time for that? We didn’t. I did what had to be done and you don't get to bloody berate me for it!”

His eyes flashed with fury, his shoulders tense. “You put yourself in danger!”

“And that’s my decision to make.”

“No,” he growled, so close she could see the hint of panic hiding in his gaze, “not when it doesn't just affect you anymore.”

Somewhere at the edge of her awareness, she heard Theo shifting, sneakily backing away from the rising tension between them, while Malfoy leaned in even closer, one hand coming up to palm her cheek, rough and possessive, as he murmured against her ear. “Do you have any idea what it does to me, Granger? Seeing you in danger?” He paused, his breath brushing her skin in shallow bursts, like he was fighting himself. “It makes me insane. I want to tear apart anything that touches you.”

His fingers flexed against her skin, but he pulled back, just enough to look her fully in the eyes. “Next time you throw yourself into harm’s way, remember you're not the only one paying the fucking price.”

For a moment, she could only stare at him, stunned. Her mind fumbled for a place to land— confusion, anger, disbelief, something—but everything was tangled, messy and too much. Then, suddenly, she registered the heat of his hand where it touched her cheek, as warm as it’d been in Hogsmeade, when his body had been so searing with fever she thought he might melt straight through her, and her focus switched entirely to that.

"Removing the tracker was too hard on your body,” she stated firmly. “You need to rest.”

The change was only two nights away now, falling on a Saturday by sheer luck, and he should be as strong as possible for it. She’d seen firsthand how devastating transforming could be—Professor Lupin never came back from them quite whole.

Malfoy’s jaw worked silently, like he was swallowing down something bitter, but he nodded. Still crouched before her, he braced one hand against the floor to grope for his cane, and when his fingers closed around it, he used it to push himself up, fresh sweat breaking along his hairline. Once standing, he held out his hand to her. “Come on, little witch. You need rest, too.”

He no longer sounded angry, just really tired.

Hesitating only a second, she slid her hand into his, gripping tight as she pulled herself up.
But the moment she stood, her eyes in line with his collarbone, she felt him waver, a big tremor running through him.

"Malfoy?"

He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, but staggered back a step, his face going an alarming shade of pale.

Shit.

"Theo!" Hermione shouted over her shoulder, barely sparing a glance back as she lunged forward to grab Malfoy’s arm. "I think he’s going to pass out!"

Theo scrambled over. "Get him down!" he barked, rushing to Malfoy’s other side.

Hermione shifted her grip, sliding her arm around Malfoy's waist just as his knees buckled. Together, she and Theo lowered him to the floor, Malfoy slumping heavily between them.

"Easy, easy," Theo muttered, while the sound of Malfoy’s cane hitting the floor echoed in the room for the second time tonight.

His head lolled for a second.

"Hey," Hermione whispered. "Stay with us, Malfoy."

His eyes fluttered—once, twice—before focusing on her, glassy and strained. "I’m fine," he rasped.

"Bullshit," Theo said bluntly. "You're white as a goddamn sheet."

Hermione pressed her hand against Malfoy’s forehead, feeling the fever heat rising beneath her fingers. "Damn it,” she said. He was beyond burning up.

Malfoy’s eyes shut, his head tipping forward slightly—and then his whole body sagged, sliding bonelessly against them. Hermione scrambled to keep him from slumping sideways onto the stone.

"Is he out?" Theo muttered.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed, chest squeezing. "We should move him somewhere more comfortable."

Theo nodded and shifted behind Malfoy as Hermione cradled his head carefully. He crouched low, hooked his arms awkwardly under Malfoy’s, and started to drag him across the floor.

"What are you doing?" Hermione demanded, startled.

Theo gave her a look, eyebrows raised. "What do you expect me to do? Princess-carry him?" He grunted, adjusting his grip as Malfoy’s weight sagged further. "The bastard’s heavy as fuck.”

Hermione gave him a look of pure disbelief. "You’re a wizard, Theo. What I expect is for you to use your wand.”

He blinked. “Oh. Yeah…good point.”

Hermione stood up with a sigh. “I’ll do it.” She pulled out her wand and pointed it down at Malfoy’s unconscious form. “Mobilicorpus.”

His body lifted with a faint wobble, and she guided him across the room, Theo trailing close behind, until they reached a long grey sofa. With as much care as she could manage, Hermione lowered Malfoy down, letting him sink into the cushions, his arm slipping limply to the side.

Without pausing, she stashed her wand into her sleeve and dropped down beside him, lifting his arm and tucking it carefully across his body.

"Is he going to be alright?" Theo asked, concern threading through his voice. "Should I get a healer?"

"No. It’s too risky."

"Then what do we do?”

"Remember what I told you about how the magic between us works?" she said, glancing back at Theo before returning her focus to Malfoy’s worryingly pale face. She moved even closer, lifting his head, then sat down on the sofa, allowing his head to settle onto her lap. Her hand moved over his damp hair, smoothing it back, before reaching down to find his hand and tangle their fingers together, resting them lightly over the hard wall of his chest. “I’m going to help him.”

He didn’t need a healer… he needed her.

Theo crouched down in front of her, inspecting his friend. Then his green eyes rose to meet hers. “Hermione… whatever is going on between you. It looks really intense.”

She paused. His choice of words wasn’t wrong, but it barely scratched the surface. “It is,” she agreed, regardless.

"What does it feel like?"

"It’s… hard to explain," she admitted. "There’s something between us. Invisible, but... constant. When we’re not together, it feels stretched too far, it’s… very uncomfortable. And when he’s close, it pulls. Like close isn’t close enough. Ever.”

Even when they were touching, it wanted… more.

"I’ve never seen him so locked onto anything—anyone—before. It’s borderline creepy, the way he watches you." Theo huffed. “Honestly, I just thought he had a huge thing for you.”

Heat burned her cheeks. “What? How could you think that?”

The idea that Malfoy would ever…She almost laughed.

Theo stood and crossed his arms. "Hey, spend five minutes around you two and tell me it’s not a reasonable assumption. You’re practically magnetised. It was getting unsettling to watch."

Hermione swallowed.

They’d been around Theo a lot the last few days, working on their DADA assignment. But the only time she and Malfoy actually touched was during their late evenings in the library, when no one else was around to see.

It made her stomach knot that Theo had still noticed something.

"It’s just the curse, Theo," Hermione said firmly. "Whatever you’re seeing... it’s not like that. It’s the curse reacting. That’s all."

Theo nodded, then walked to the side to grab one of the stuffed bean bags in the room, dragging it closer. He sat down. “So you think it’s a curse?”

She took a moment to think, gazing down at Malfoy breathing softly in her lap, his skin still clammy. “This thing… it’s compulsive. It alters behaviour and distorts emotional response in a way we didn’t choose or have any control over. That kind of invasive power…how could that not be a curse?”

Theo tilted his head, his forehead creasing in thought. "I don’t know… do you think you’d feel the same if it had happened with someone else?" he asked. "Someone you don’t hate?"

Hermione’s eyes lifted to meet his. "I don’t—" she hesitated, then said more quietly, "I don’t hate him."

"No?" Theo gave a small smile. "You’d have every reason to.”

“I know,” she said. “And I did. For most of my years at Hogwarts. But… things change.”
She brushed her fingers lightly along the inside of Malfoy’s wrist until she found the beat of his pulse. “He changed.” A pause. “I think we all did.”

Sometimes, she searched for the version of herself that existed before the war, and it felt like she had to grieve her too.

“He was the one who told me to run, you know?” Theo said, eyes fixed on Malfoy. “Draco had to live with him… with You-Know-Who. I can’t even begin to imagine what that was like. But it meant he saw it coming—long before the rest of us did.”

His throat bobbed. “If I’d stayed, I would’ve ended up with a Dark Mark too. And I…I don’t think I’d have made it out the way he did. I don’t think I could’ve survived it—what they put him through. He saved my life.”

That makes two of us, she thought.

Then a different thought unfurled in the back of her mind.

“His magic, Theo… it feels different. Off. But—” she wavered, brow furrowing. “Strong. Really strong.” Uneasiness crawled over her like ants as she asked, “What… what exactly happened to him during the war?”

She remembered seeing him once before their encounter in the Forbidden Forest, when the Snatchers had captured her and the boys and dragged them to Malfoy Manor, hungry for a reward. Malfoy had refused to confirm Harry’s identity, though she’d seen it in his face that he’d recognised him instantly. Even then, she realised now, Malfoy had already lost the boy he once was.

It was also likely that he witnessed her being tortured, though she couldn’t say for sure. Not when the pain had blinded her to everything but the screaming.

“He doesn’t speak about it,” Theo said. “But his aunt… she did things to him.” He exhaled heavily. “Pansy found him once, right after. She never really described what he had looked like—only that it really scared her. And Pansy doesn’t scare easy.”

Hermione’s heartbeat caught in her throat, and she instinctively clutched Malfoy’s hand tighter, her eyes drifting down to stare at his sleeping features. He was both ivory and flushed beneath the fever, sweat clinging to his brow, his jaw clenched even in rest. While studying him so closely, she noticed faint traces of movement, tiny twitches along the lines of his face, that made it clear whatever he was dreaming about, it wasn’t peaceful.

A chill slid down her spine.

Do you see her too, when you close your eyes?

Do we share the same monster?

She couldn’t help but recall how he’d stepped in front of the shadowy figure of his aunt tonight, despite his own trauma. How he’d protected Hermione.

And for the first time in a while, she didn’t feel afraid when she thought of Bellatrix Lestrange.

She felt… furious.

Chapter Text

Draco

When he woke, it wasn’t gradual. He jolted into consciousness, like surfacing from deep water, or being caught in a fall, or pushed forward by invisible hands. His eyes snapped open, breath coming erratically, and he was already sitting before his mind caught up with his body.

Only then did the world around him begin to register: the stillness of the room, the gentle firmness of the cushion his head had just lifted from, and the warm hand that had been clasped in his own. His best friend was seated across from him on a bean bag, watching with mild amusement, one brow arched and a finger pressed to his lips in a quiet command for silence. Theo’s green eyes flicked meaningfully to the side, and Draco followed their path to Granger, fast asleep beside him.

Her head was tipped back against the sofa, neck at an odd angle. The kind of position you’d regret in the morning. Her curls had fallen forward and to the side, thick and unruly, a few strands brushing over closed eyes and drifting past freckled cheeks.

He stared for a moment longer than he should have.

His head had been in her lap, he realised. And her hand—he looked down—had been holding his. There was a strange pressure in his chest as he forced his eyes to find Theo again.

“What happened?” Draco mouthed.

“You fainted,” Theo said in a low voice. “Quite dramatically, I might add. Like a Victorian maiden who misplaced her fan and smelling salts.”

Draco gave him a look and lifted one hand, slowly curling down every finger except the middle one.

Theo’s mouth twitched. “Hermione said being near her would help. So?” he asked, leaning forward a little. “How are we feeling, princess?”

“I’m fine.”

“You do look better,” Theo said. “For a moment I thought you were trying to accept Myrtle’s invitation. You know, join her in the afterlife. Real romantic.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Did she help you with what I asked?”

Theo nodded. “She did. Although I have to say, she’s alarmingly handsy for someone whose hands I can’t technically feel.”

Draco snorted under his breath. “Yeah… she has that unfortunate skill.”

Theo reached into his pocket, pulling out a familiar ring.

“And what should we do with this?” he said, holding it up between two fingers. “It’s got your tracker now, right?”

“Don’t touch it with your bare hands. Did you not see what it tried to do to Granger?”

Draco still felt bloody furious about that. With her, for risking herself. And with the magic that dared threaten his wit—her.

Theo put a hand to his chest and sniffled. “I knew you cared.”

Draco ignored him and reached for his Slytherin tie, pulling it from beneath his collar. He nodded at Theo to bring the ring closer, then took it, wrapping it in the green silk.“Here,” Draco said, handing it back. “Take it to our dorm and put it in my safe.”

“How the hell am I supposed to open it?”

“Get your wand.”

Draco drew his own and tapped it lightly to Theo’s. “Commune secretum.”

A soft pulse of magic passed between them, warm and brief.

Draco pulled his wand away. “It’s keyed to you now. Just rest your wand against the lock and it’ll open.”

Theo cast a quick glance at the tall window, still dark with pre-dawn murk. “We should wait another hour. I think it’s a little too soon to claim we’re just obnoxiously early risers if we get caught wandering the halls.”

Draco knew Blaise would never rat them out for not spending the night in their dorm, but that didn’t cover being seen strolling through the castle during curfew.

Still, Draco said, “You’ll be fine.”

Theo raised a brow. “You’re usually the paranoid one.”

Perhaps. But paranoia had kept Draco alive. Had kept others alive, too, though they’d never know it. He didn’t get the luxury of casual mistakes. Not anymore. There were too many people just waiting—hoping—for him to screw it all up. For one wrong move, one moment of carelessness, so they could say there it is, and drag him straight back to where they thought he belonged. Back to courtrooms and headlines and cold stone walls with his father as a cellmate.

Draco didn’t take risks. Not unless he had no other choice. Not unless they were the cost of keeping his secrets.

Not unless they mattered enough to be worth it.

“I’ve decided to grow as a person.”

Theo blinked. “Right now?”

“Yes.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Theo’s gaze moved between Draco and the sleeping form of Granger, her head dangerously close to falling against his shoulder. He didn’t need to look to know. He could feel it. The warmth of her so near. The delicate awareness of her breathing.

“Oh,” Theo said, lips slowly curving. “I see what’s happening here.”

Draco scowled.

“You want me to go so you can stay here. With her. Alone.”

Draco glared. “I want you to shut up.”

“I can do that,” Theo offered, far too quickly. “I can stay here and be very, very quiet.”

Draco stared at Theo for a long, tired moment, gritting his teeth. “Go,” he said finally. “Before I make you.”

Theo grinned. “I rest my case.”

Draco pointed towards the door. “Out.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Theo said, still smiling as he backed away. “But—”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off as Draco waved his wand and a whoosh of air lifted, sending Theo flying backwards through the door, which then clicked shut in his startled face.

Draco exhaled, not loudly but fully, and his eyes—because they always did—found her again. It wasn’t even conscious anymore. Like his gaze just belonged there. Like it had nowhere else to go. She was still asleep. Her breathing soft, the tension gone from her face. She looked peaceful in a way she never let herself be when she was awake. And that was the thing, wasn’t it? She never stopped. Not really. He saw the exhaustion in her, the kind that didn’t stop at her face, but soaked into everything.

The other day in the library, she’d been so sleep-deprived she moved like she was drunk, stumbling through sentences, forgetting what she was saying halfway through. It was the first time he’d ever seen her mind struggle to keep up with itself. He’d found it…unsettling.

Draco made her go back to her dorm that night. Not asked. Told her. He would’ve forced her if it came to it. But she didn’t even fight him much, which only served to disturb him further. He’d followed her all the way to the Fat Lady’s portrait, keeping a careful distance, always a few steps behind. And once she disappeared inside, he spent the rest of the night wondering whether she actually slept or if whatever kept her awake was still there, gnawing at her in the dark.

But now—she was resting. Properly resting. He didn’t need to wonder this time. He could see it. And it made something inside him unclench.

Her neck, though, was still bent at that ridiculous angle.

That wouldn’t do.

Moving slowly, Draco reached for her, one hand behind her head, the other steadying her shoulder as he eased her down until her head rested in his lap. Her curls spilled everywhere, all over him, soft and warm, and he swallowed as he stared down at her.

She didn’t stir, didn’t even twitch.

Granger, of all people, dead asleep in his lap. Completely relaxed. Trusting him in the most unconscious, unthinking way. And fuck. He didn’t know when it happened—when she’d gone and turned into this kind of beautiful. The kind that got under his skin. The kind that made it hard to think. Hard to breathe.

He wanted to hate her for it.

Just like he’d hated her for everything that was happening to him. All the things he was being forced to feel. Except… he didn’t.

Not anymore.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“Malfoy?”

Somehow, he’d fallen asleep again. And judging by the stiffness in his neck as he lifted his head, Draco could tell he had ended up in the very position he’d tried to rescue Granger from. He blinked once. Twice.

And there she was.

No longer in his lap, but still close. Her face was framed by a halo of brown curls, eyes still heavy with sleep as she looked at him.

“I think Theo left,” she said as soon as their gazes met.

For a reason he couldn’t quite explain, Draco didn’t love that the second thing he heard from her that morning was the name of another man.

“He did?”

Granger made a point of looking around, before nodding. “It would seem so.”

Draco shrugged. “I suppose he had other things to do.”

“So, um,” she started, pausing to clear her throat gently, “I guess we switched positions?”

He frowned. “Did we?”

Draco could have told her he was the one who moved her onto his lap. But really, where was the fun in that?

Her eyes widened. “I—oh. Well. Never mind. How are you feeling?”

He glanced down at himself, giving it a moment. “Good. Actually, really fucking good.”

“No fever?”

“Not at all. And…” He shifted his left leg, testing it. “Strangely, I think my leg feels better, too.”

The only thing bothering him now was his neck, and even that was barely worth mentioning. From beside him, he heard her release a shaky breath.

“Shit.”

His brow creased. “What?”

She bit her lip. “This... this is actually the first time I’ve been able to sleep without taking Dreamless Sleep Potion in...” Her teeth released the skin they’d been worrying as she glanced away. “A while.”

A cold sensation formed in his gut. “Granger,” he called, waiting until her eyes returned to him. “How long, exactly?”

She hesitated, then said it so softly he almost missed it. “A little more than a year.”

The cold spread fast, travelling through his body until all of him felt it.

“You’ve got to be joking,” he said, voice rasping around the disbelief. “A year?”

The way she pressed her lips together told him all he needed.

Draco shoved himself upright, the sudden movement pulling at the tension in his neck, then turned to face her fully. “Are you completely fucking mad? Do you have any idea what that does to your system over time?”

Her silence only made it worse, only made him angrier.

“Fuck, Granger! You can’t just take that kind of potion every night like it’s nothing. That shit’s made for short bursts. A month. Two, at most.” He forced a breath through the tightness in his chest. “After that it starts disrupting your cognition. Even longer, and it starts eating into your ability to regulate magic. You could’ve lost control of your spells. Your focus. Your memory.”

She flinched, barely, but he saw it. And he didn’t stop.

“You could’ve collapsed. You could’ve gone into magical withdrawal. Seizures. Neurological damage. And you just kept knocking it back like water? For an entire bloody year?”

His mind reeled with an image of her, pale and unconscious, her own magic turned against her. The thought sat like acid beneath his ribs. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to break into her dorm and hex every bottle of that fucking potion out of existence.

There was a fury building in him, loud and volatile, and he had no idea where to put it.

His shoulders rose with the effort of holding himself back, and he glared down at her. “I know you’re not this stupid!”

She stood abruptly. Her head barely reached his collarbone, but her chin lifted to keep her gaze locked with his. “What do you want me to say, Malfoy? That I knew the risks? Fine. I did. I knew it was reckless. I knew it was dangerous. But I didn’t see any other way.”

His jaw flexed. A muscle jumped under his eye. “You’re Hermione Granger. Brightest witch of your age. Isn’t that what they all love to say? If anyone could’ve found a way, it was you. But you didn’t even try, did you?” He stepped deeper into her space, using every inch of himself to crowd her. “You knew what it was doing to you, and you let it. Because you stopped caring. Not about the war. Not about everyone else. About you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why didn’t you tell anyone?” he roared loudly.

“I didn’t want anyone to know!” she shouted, her voice climbing to meet his. “I didn’t want to explain why I couldn’t sleep without it. I didn’t want to admit that I couldn’t even handle my own fucking dreams.”

She shoved him, then. Not hard. She couldn’t even if she wanted to, not with those slight arms. But it landed. Her palms firm against his chest, her strength more emotional than physical. His foot slid slightly across the floor, the heat in his chest rising so fast it burned.

But it wasn’t anger.

It was the impact of her hands, the bitter edge in her voice, the fire in her eyes. She was furious and flushed and utterly alive, and it lit something in him that had no name.

He let himself feel it. Just for a second.

Then he crushed it down and stole back the distance she gained. “Oh, so that’s where we are now? Shoving people when the truth doesn’t sound the way you want. Very mature.”

“Don’t talk to me about maturity,” she bit back. “You’re acting like I wanted this. Like I enjoy needing something just to fall asleep.”

“Then tell me why. Tell me why the hell you keep poisoning yourself every night.”

“I…” She faltered. Her throat worked. “I kept hoping the next day I wouldn’t need it. That I’d stop on my own. That the dreams would go away.” A small breath slipped out of her. “But they didn’t. And so I… I didn’t.”

She called it hoping, like she’d been holding out for something to change, but that wasn’t it, not really. It wasn’t anything close to optimism. It was avoidance. It was resignation dressed up like a decision. It was inertia—just her letting herself keep going because the alternative required something she didn’t think she had anymore.

He scoffed. “And you think that can justify an entire year?”

Her big, golden eyes thinned. “I don’t need to justify myself to you.”

“No,” he agreed quickly. “But maybe you needed someone to notice. Someone to actually bloody care.”

A glint of something crossed her face, something raw and defensive and very close to hurt.

His voice lost some of its hardness. “I won’t let you do it anymore, Granger. So you better start looking for a different solution.”

She stared at him.

“Why?”

His heart punched against the walls of his chest, but he didn’t let himself hesitate. “What do you mean, why?” he asked. “Have you forgotten we’re connected by some freaky, unknown magic? Or did that conveniently slip your mind?”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m not about to let your recklessness screw with me through some ancient blood curse or whatever this is.”

Granger was watching him, her expression unreadable and calm in a way that unnerved him more than the shouting had.

“You don’t need to worry,” she said.

“Oh, I don’t?”

She shook her head. “I already found another way.”

His eyes narrowed. “What other way?”

What the hell could she have come up with in the last five minutes that she hadn’t managed in the past year?

“You.”

The word was simple. Small. But it exploded inside him.

“Me?” He choked out.

She nodded as though it was obvious.  “I slept tonight, didn’t I?” she said. “With you.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“It helped your fever,” she went on, her voice flat now. Matter-of-fact. “It helped me sleep. It even helped your leg. You’re standing, and I haven’t seen you reach for your cane once.”

He looked down at himself like he needed to confirm it.

“Let’s use it, Malfoy. Whatever this thing is between us. We might as well make use of it—at least until we can get rid of it.”

He dragged a hand through his hair again. “Granger,” he said slowly, trying to sound level, rational, anything but what he was actually feeling. “Are you really asking to sleep with me?”

It was a genuine question. And also not. Because his brain had already filled in the rest: her curled into his bed, her scent on his sheets and pillows, the softness of her body under the covers beside him, her breath quiet in the dark while he dreamed all the fucking things he wanted to do to her.

She sighed and sat back down on the sofa, crossing her arms. Her eyes stayed on him, though, as she answered, “I guess I am.”

His stomach pulled tight, a low heat crawling up the back of his neck.

Draco should say no. He knew he should.

Even if his leg felt better today, more stable, more normal than it had since he was bitten. Even if he hadn’t woken in a sweat or in pain. Even if he felt more energised and closer to himself after one full night near her than he had the entire past year. Maybe since before the curse even took place.

But still. He should say no.

Because while she wanted to sleep next to him to stop dreaming, what the hell was he supposed to do with her there? How the fuck was he supposed to lie still with her thigh brushing his under the covers, her hair fanned across his pillows, her breath ghosting over his neck if she shifted in the night?

How was he supposed to keep his hands to himself when every inch of her would be right there, while his dreams were already full of her mouth, her skin, the sounds she might make if he touched her just right?

In what world could he trust himself with her that close? Close enough to touch. Close enough to—

Draco clenched his jaw.

He couldn’t say yes.

But…if he did say no… she’d just keep taking the potion. He had no doubts about that.

And as much as he could lie to her, blame it all on the thing they shared, he couldn’t lie to himself.

He cared about her.

He cared about Hermione fucking Granger.

Not because of the magic linking them, not because of some blood-deep tether, not even because his body had gone mad for her.

It was because the more he saw of her—the reasons behind her choices, the way she did the hard things without needing anyone to notice, the softness beneath the fire, the pain she tried to hide, the humour laced through the logic, the sharp brilliance, the stupid recklessness, the mercy, the impossible goodness and, fuck, the darkness too, because it was definitely there—the more he liked what he saw.

And the more he got to see, the more he truly understood her. And the more he understood her, the more he wanted her around.

And—

He stopped himself. Cut the thought off before it could go any further.

He sank down on the couch next to her, drained of energy, his hands dragging over his face before he turned towards her and murmured, “Where?”

Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Where should we sleep?” he clarified.

“Oh. Um…” She rested her chin in her hand, considering. “Harry and Ron know about the Room of Requirement. So while it’s an option, it’s a risky one.”

Draco would pay to see the look on either of their faces if they walked in and found her in bed with him. But, alas, not quite worth the fallout.

By a smidge.

“You could sleep in my dorm,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Theo already knows, and Blaise would never tell. I’ll talk to him. We’d just need to figure out how to get you in.”

“I have a way.”

Draco nearly laughed. “Of course you do. I always forget how much rebellion you hide under all that swotty perfection.”

She rolled her eyes but grew serious again. “I know it’s going to be awkward, Malfoy. But I think it’ll be mutually beneficial. Sneaking a few touches clearly wasn’t enough to keep your fevers down long, and the transformation on Saturday is going to be really hard on your body. You know that better than anyone.”

He scoffed.

Granger frowned. “What?”

He exhaled and rested against the back of the sofa. “If only you took care of yourself the way you do everyone else.”

There was a pause. Not tense. Just weighted. Then she spoke again.

“I know you think Gryffindors are martyrs. But it’s not like that, Malfoy. I just…” She trailed off, tucked her curls behind both ears and dropped her eyes to the floor. “I think I got addicted to it.”

She said it simply, but he could hear the shame clinging to every syllable.

Granger picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “It started because I needed it. But after a while, I didn’t want to try. It doesn’t even really work that well anymore—I think I’ve built up a resistance—but I still can’t convince myself to stop. I’m… scared. Of how bad it might be without it.”

Draco sat with her words, never taking his eyes off her. Finally, he sighed.

“I get it, Granger.”

She glanced at him, eyes a little glassy. “You do?”

He nodded.

He was a hypocrite, that’s what he was. Judging her so harshly before, when he’d been doing worse. When his addiction was to something far more destructive, not just to himself, but possibly to everyone around him.

“Do you have dreams too? About the war?” He could feel her hesitation. “About what happened to you… during it?”

Draco crushed down the memories her words dared stir.

“Sometimes.”

Then his mouth twisted into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace. “But lately it’s you who’s been stealing all the spotlight.” Apparently, she was more powerful than his entire collection of trauma—and that was saying something.

Her eyes widened, her cheeks colouring slightly. But what she said next caught him off guard.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yes.”

He blinked. “Did you just admit you’re okay with me having sex dreams about you?”

“No,” she said flatly. “But… I’m okay with being the reason you don’t have worse ones.”

His heart thudded so hard he could feel it everywhere. His chest, his throat, his ears.

“I lied before,” he said, the admission too quick to catch or pull back.

Her brows drew together. “What?”

“When I said it was just because of this.” He motioned vaguely between them. “The magic. The curse. Whatever the hell this is. That was a lie.”

She tilted her head. “Malfoy… what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m saying I do fucking care, alright?” he snapped. “That’s why I’m going to condemn myself to waking up with blue balls every time you’re in my bed. Because I don’t want you poisoning yourself with that damn potion anymore.”

His hands curled into fists.

“I’ll protect your bloody dreams, Hermione.”

Her lips parted, her pupils blown wide, and he didn’t know what was embarrassing him more—saying he cared about her, or realising he’d just used her name for the first time.

As he finished tasting the sound of it on his tongue, he inevitably thought about how he’d spent all this time calling her something awful, or throwing around her surname, or using that teasing little pet name he thought suited her, and how all of them suddenly felt like a waste when her real name sounded so bloody good coming out of his mouth.

She cleared her throat beside him, her shoulder shifting as she sat straighter. “H-How do you know it’s not the curse? That it’s not just… instinct? The magic trying to keep you alive by making you care.”

His jaw tensed. “Because I’m not an idiot,” he said. “I’m perfectly capable of telling the difference between a magical side effect and when a feeling’s actually mine.” It hadn’t been obvious, not at the start. It had all blurred together, instinct and curse, reaction and want. But the more time he spent with her, the more the magic revealed itself, how it flared when she touched him, pulled taut when she stepped away. How it twisted with his mood, but only when she was part of it. He’d slowly learned to feel the difference, until he could separate what the bond wanted from what he wanted. Mostly. He looked at her. “Can’t you?”

A crease formed in her forehead. “I think you’re a prat. A rude, mostly vexing prat.”

His brow lifted.

“But…” she said, slower now, “you’ve changed. There are parts of you that didn’t exist before. You’re not the same person—or maybe you are, but also… more. And this version of you, the one I’m beginning to know…” She hesitated for a moment. “I think I’m starting to care about him, too. Not because of the curse. Just… because of who he is. And…I think I’d like to have him as a friend.”

He let that settle between them, her words falling like warm static over his skin. Then he turned a bit, his knee brushing hers while his lips twitched. “A friend who really wants to shag you?” he teased.

She rolled her eyes, but her pulse jumped. He saw it, right at the base of her throat. “That part is obviously the curse. It’s not like you want to.”

Draco let out a short, disbelieving laugh, then leaned closer until his eyes were peering straight into hers. “Granger… maybe no one’s said it to your face yet, so allow me the honour.” His voice slipped lower, close to a rasp. “You’re fucking beautiful. Curse or no curse, I’m afraid I’d always want to.”

Her mouth parted with a soft intake of breath she didn’t seem aware of.

“Maybe not to the degree my body keeps threatening. I’m not about to die over it. But…” He let his gaze drift down for just a second before meeting hers again. “I’m still a man.”

All her freckles, one by one, were swallowed by the crimson shade spreading across her cheeks, the colour blooming so fast and deep it was like watching the sun rise on her face.

He found it... infuriatingly endearing.

Draco leaned back again, giving her space. “Relax, little witch. I promise I’ll behave myself even when you’re in my bed.” A pause, then a dry smile tugged at his mouth. “Though you’ll have to promise to do the same. I’ve no problem admitting you turn me on, but let’s not pretend I’m not a bit of a temptation, too.”

Yes, his reputation had taken a hit lately, what with the whole Death Eater situation and all the deeply unpleasant associations that came with it, but that hadn’t stopped anyone from looking, and while he’d noticed that sort of thing before, now it was like his body had caught up to his name and girls looked at him differently, with more hunger and a little more curiosity, as if the danger somehow made him more appealing rather than the opposite.

And Granger, she’d looked too. He’d caught her once or twice, eyes lingering on him before she snapped her gaze away like he hadn’t already seen her, like he didn’t see everything now. The foolish witch truly didn’t understand just how much he noticed about her these days, how much he read without her ever saying a word, and that didn’t even account for how the curse messed with his senses, making him aware of things like how her scent changed when she was flustered, all soft and sweet and just a bit more intense, and yeah, he was starting to get what that meant and that it would definitely become a problem.

Especially once they started sleeping together, with nothing to distract him from it.

“Don’t worry,” she muttered tightly, avoiding his gaze. “I can control myself just fine.”

He very much wanted to point out how that sounded an awful lot like an admission, like maybe she had thought about it. About him. In that way. But her face was already the dreadful colour of a Gryffindor banner, and he had a feeling that if he pushed even a little more, she might actually combust. With that in mind, he bit back the smirk tugging at his mouth and said, “So… when should we have our first sleepover?”

She cocked a brow. “Sleepover? That’s what we’re calling it?”

“Yes. Very wholesome. Two friends staying up too late, sharing secrets, maybe hexing each other awake if one of them dares fall asleep first.” He winked.

A little laugh escaped her, creating a faint dimple in her left cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

He just smiled.

“I guess I’ll need a few days,” she said thoughtfully. “To organize things. And… it should be after your transformation, too. You’ll be less on edge, then.”

His smile faded just a touch at that, and he nodded. “Makes sense.”

Silence stole the room for a minute before he broke it again.

“Don’t take anything.”

She tilted her head. “What?”

“For the dreams,” he said. “If it’s my aunt—if that’s who keeps showing up—I swear on everything, she’ll never get near you. I won’t let her. So hold on to that. Even when you’re asleep.” His fingers curled into his palm. “No more potion, Hermione.” If there was a line between begging and demanding, he was walking it.

A kind of astonished softness crossed her features at his words, gentling every line of her face and bleeding into her voice as she whispered, after a beat, “I…Thank you, Draco.”

And maybe the real discovery that morning wasn’t how good it felt to say her name.

Maybe it was how good it felt to hear her say his.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Draco made it back to the dorm he shared with Theo and Blaise with his cane in hand, though it felt more like a prop than a necessity this morning. He turned the handle, stepped inside, and was immediately greeted by the abrupt death of a conversation as Blaise pulled away from Theo and launched himself across the room with all the subtlety of a stampede. The moment he reached Draco, he grabbed him by the shoulder and said, very seriously, very gravely, “Be completely honest with me, lad. Are you and that arsehole in a threesome without me?”

“I—” Draco blinked. “What?”

“He thinks we stayed out all night because we were shagging someone together,” Theo offered, in the exact tone one might use to discuss the weather.

Draco’s gaze returned to Blaise, who was still staring at him with the intensity of someone who’d been personally betrayed. “What the hell is wrong with you? How could that be your first conclusion?”

Blaise let go of Draco’s shoulder with an affronted snort. “Well, it’s not like Theo’s been helpful. He claims he’s sworn to secrecy, the dramatic little wanker.”

“I am sworn to secrecy!” Theo protested.

“Oh, please, Theodore. You’re not the Department of Mysteries.”

Draco sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Actually… he’s telling the truth.”

Blaise’s dark eyes rounded. “What do you mean?”

Draco blew out another breath. “There are things I need to tell you, Blaise. Things I could use your help with. But you should know—once I do, you’ll be part of it. No going back. You’ll be… complicit.”  He didn’t throw the word out lightly.

“Is it dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“Deadly?”

Draco smiled. “Hopefully not for us.”

That finally made Blaise pause. His usual ease, there even when he was in a mood, vanished, and his posture straightened as his face grew completely serious. Blaise placed his hand on Draco’s shoulder for the second time, squeezing tight. “Friendship aside—I remember what you did for me during the war, Draco. Every bit of it. So whatever this is… count me the fuck in.”

Something in Draco’s chest gave a little, and he offered his friend a small but meaningful nod. Then he tilted his head towards his bed, where Theo was currently sprawled, watching the two of them. “You should sit. It’s going to be a long story.”

Blaise frowned as he dropped onto the edge of the bed. “Fine. But if this does involve a girl and you two have left me out of some wildly unethical love triangle, I’m throwing you down the stairs.”

Theo smirked. “Trust me, mate. Draco’s not the sharing type.”

Chapter Text

Hermione

"Where have you been, Hermione?" Ginny rushed to her the moment she stepped into the Gryffindor common room, and Hermione tried not to let her cheeks redden the way they did that morning, when she woke up to find herself drooling in Draco Malfoy’s lap.

"I was in the library," she told Ginny, averting her gaze.

"No, you weren’t. I searched the entire library for you when you didn’t show up at our dorm all night." Her friend’s voice sounded worried, if a little hurt.

Harry and Ron, who had been standing off to the side and clearly eavesdropping, stepped closer upon hearing that.

"You didn’t sleep in the dorms?" Ron asked, eyebrows knitting together.

"Where were you, Mione?" Harry added to the interrogation she’d apparently walked into.

Hermione sighed as all her friends stared at her, waiting for answers. She could just give them a simple lie; say she fell asleep somewhere in the castle after studying alone all night. It’s not as if it hadn’t happened before. But Hermione had learned long ago that the best lies were the ones with a bit of truth in them.

So, she said, “I was working with Malfoy and Nott in the library for Burn’s class. Then I went to the Room of Requirement to finish up, and I fell asleep there.”

Ron recoiled like she’d slapped him. “You were alone with those snakes?”

“The Room of Requirement?” Ginny said at the same time, her eyes flying wide as they bounced between the three of them. But when the boys didn’t look remotely surprised, her expression instantly darkened. “Wait. So you all knew it miraculously survived, and just—what?—collectively decided not to mention it to me?”

Harry flustered, clearly uncomfortable at upsetting her—the girl he still loved. Which might be the reason he immediately threw his best friend under the bus. "Ron wanted to use it for his naps!"

Ron’s mouth dropped open. "What? No, I—"

“Really, Ronald? Will you always be that immature and selfish? No wonder Mum worries,” Ginny hissed. Her reaction probably burned hotter than the situation deserved, but Hermione wasn’t unfamiliar with the way Weasley arguments tended to spiral wildly off-topic and far beyond their original point. As an only child, their brand of familial chaos often felt like stepping into a storm she wasn’t built for.

"Yeah? What about you, Ginevra? Breaking my best friend’s heart because you suddenly needed to ‘find yourself’?" Ron shot back, cheeks puffing. "Guess what? You’re right bloody here!"

"Ron!" Harry barked, stepping slightly in front of Ginny.

The witch, far from grateful, shoved him aside with a firm hand. "Oh, please, Harry, as if I need protection from that," she muttered, glaring at Ron like he was something she’d stepped in.

Ron’s jaw clenched. “You know, for someone who claims to be on a journey of self-discovery, you’re remarkably consistent in being a twat.”

“Ron, enough!” Harry was beginning to sound genuinely angry now, stepping between them again—but neither of them looked at him.

Hermione knew she should step in, too. She should help, make sure they didn’t say things they regretted for days, until they forgave each other and found something else to fight about. And she did feel bad, a little, that her feet were already moving, sneakily carrying her away while the siblings kept jabbing at each other with Harry stuck in the middle.

But there were things she needed to do. Plans to make, details to arrange, and she still had to change her clothes before classes began.

Harry and Ron…they were her friends. Her best friends. They had stood with her through everything, and they would again. However, there was someone else, someone unexpected, someone she was still figuring out how to call a friend, who needed her more than they did right now. He was only one night away from a transformation he couldn’t control, something he had no choice but to survive, and Hermione had so much to do before then that her thoughts wouldn’t stop tumbling over each other.

And yet… she wasn’t just helping him. That wasn’t the whole of it.

Because in this strange time of her life, Draco Malfoy had quietly become the one person she could be honest with. The one who, bit by bit, was coming to know the secrets she worked so hard to keep hidden, even from the people who loved her.

It was somewhere in that truth that Hermione found the realisation that she might need him too, not just because of the magic, not just because it pulled her towards him like something tightly stitched into her bones, but because he was the only one who made her feel like she wasn’t damaged beyond repair. Like maybe it wasn’t that she lost herself in the war, but that she uncovered parts of herself she hadn’t known existed. And it wasn’t that those parts were bad, or that she was tainted or ruined or broken.

Maybe she was just changed.

The fear, the anger, the hurt, and the shame… he was finding it all. But instead of feeling exposed, vulnerable, desperate to hide and push him away like she thought she would, Hermione found herself feeling another way entirely.

The more he peeled back the lies… the more she felt like she could breathe.

The more she felt

freed.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“Hermione!”

Sarah Teller, a fourth-year Ravenclaw with windblown curls and ink-stained fingers, came hurrying down the corridor. “You were asking about Luna the other day, right?” she said, slightly out of breath. “I just saw her get back.”

“Oh! Yes.” Hermione smiled. “Thank you, Sarah.”

The younger girl shook her head. “Of course. I… I really admire you.”

A tight flutter rose in Hermione’s chest, that familiar tangle of discomfort and guilt that always surfaced in moments like this. She never quite knew how to accept the admiration; not without it burning a little.

“Thank you,” she repeated anyway, ducking her head. “That’s kind of you to say.”

Sarah gave a quick nod, cheeks flushed pink, then turned and hurried away, her steps light and eager in a way Hermione couldn’t help but envy, while she stood still, lingering in the corridor until her lungs softened enough for air to pass through again.

It vexed her, how something so small could slow her down, especially on a day she really couldn’t afford it, and even less now that a hopefully enlightening conversation with Luna had been added to the mix, forcing her to reshuffle everything again, cramming tasks into corners of the day she wasn’t even sure existed, all while knowing her time was limited to the brief stretch of hours before the moon would climb up and swallow the sun like it always did.

Only tonight, it would come hungrier, brighter, and more unforgiving than any other night of the month. A full moon.

At least she had the advantage of having got out of bed at an absurdly early hour. Though not because she’d happened to wake up, or made herself wake up, or anything remotely sensible or functional like that. She just… never went to sleep. Not for a single minute.

Apparently, now that someone else knew about the whole Dreamless Sleep Potion situation, the stupidity of it all felt even more… stupid. And Hermione hated feeling stupid. She might hate it more than anything else in the world. Well. Maybe not more than war. Or death. Or, on some days, herself. But still. She’d been holding the potion in her hand, just about to down it like any other night before bed, maybe out of routine, probably out of addiction or just sheer weakness or whatever combination of things she didn’t really want to name, when she suddenly heard his bloody voice in her head, as clear and real as if he was right there, whispering in her ear.

No more potion, Hermione.

It was so weird, hearing him say her name, not just in the moment but even after, replaying it in her head, because the way he said it didn’t land the way it did when anyone else said it, it just didn’t, and perhaps that was because it meant more than just her name when it came from him. It meant they were crossing this gigantic invisible barrier that had always been there, one built from his cruelty and her constant need to defend herself against it.

And it wasn’t that the animosity was completely gone, she wasn’t even sure it ever could be, but it wasn’t loud anymore, it wasn’t nearly as alive, and it wasn’t the only thing between them. So, when he said Hermione, it didn’t just feel like her name. It felt like change, like healing, like something deeper and undeniably meaningful and maybe even a little bit… special.

It was in the midst of those thoughts that breath finally found its way back into her, and so Hermione set off in a very specific direction, the bag on her shoulder packed with shrunken things she’d carefully selected to help her accomplish her first mission of the day.

While her feet moved fast, there was a weight to her steps she hoped Sarah Teller’s would never mirror.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

She grabbed him by the arm and yanked him into the little stone alcove tucked behind the arch outside the old music room, where the light from the windows spilled just short of the far wall. It wasn’t dark, exactly, but the air was cooler there, shadows pooled in the corners, and the sun didn’t quite know how to reach it. He stumbled, blinked like he wasn’t sure what had just happened, and then his silver eyes narrowed to slits as he stared straight ahead and saw nothing.

He moved fast, fingers gripping the edge of the cloak and tearing it off her at the exact moment he stepped forward, giving her no time to react before her back hit stone, one arm coming up to brace above her head while his other hand wrapped around her throat.

“Stop, Draco,” she instantly hissed, a little breathless, mostly annoyed, entirely overwhelmed because he was so tall and so close and suddenly the world felt smaller, like the castle shrank just to leave her with him and the sound of her own heartbeat. “It’s just me!”

He made a noise she didn’t have a name for, something dark and pleased and just deep enough to feel not quite human, and it crawled under her skin like her nerves were trying to warn her. Suddenly, all she could think about was that she’d volunteered to sleep in the same bed as him in a few days. Sleep. In. The. Same. Bed. What the actual hell had she been thinking?

“I knew I could smell you,” he said, just before he inhaled, slow and indulgent, as if to prove his point. “Sweet little witch, hiding like that.”

And that’s when she realised that even though his hand was still on her throat, it had never actually pressed, hadn’t threatened, hadn’t really done anything at all. It just rested there, warm and… possessive?

She looked down at it, then up at him.

“Let me go already, will you?”

His lips curved, not quite a smile, and his fingers flexed once against her skin, nowhere near tight enough to hurt her, before he stepped back, giving her space. Just enough that while she still had to tilt her head to meet his eyes, it wasn’t to such a ridiculous degree. He bent to pick up the cloak she’d been wearing.

“So, is this Potter’s famous invisibility blanket?”

She rolled her eyes and took it from him. “It’s a cloak,” she said as she bunched it up and threw it inside her bag again.

Malfoy shrugged. “Same difference.”

She gave him a look, but his face had already changed, a faint frown settling on his brow as he reached out, his knuckles grazing gently beneath her eye. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”

Hermione’s lashes dipped. She hesitated, then shook her head. “Not much.”

“It doesn’t look like not much. Your eyes are, bloody hell, they’re all red.”

“I didn’t take the potion,” she said, the words tumbling out fast, oddly eager, like saying it to him was the final step in choosing it, like his knowing made it real, and now she could finally allow herself to feel proud of it.

It was just one night. But it was the first night she’d made the right choice in far too long.

He stilled, processing it for a second, and then his features eased, a quick smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Good girl.”

Oh.

Heat slid down her spine like it had been poured there.

Shit.

He exhaled, the rough sound thankfully pulling her from it. “It just fucking kills me that you didn’t sleep,” he said, every syllable bitten off like it cost him to speak it calmly.

“You look tired too,” she said softly, because he did, though maybe not in the way she did, not like the sleeplessness she wore beneath her eyes like smudged ink or the red webs that threaded through the whites.

He looked tired in a way that was the opposite of tired, which somehow made it worse, because it meant his body was forcing out energy it didn’t want to give. He was tense and restless, she could see it in the way he kept fidgeting, fingers curling and uncurling, shoulders rolling again and again in an attempt to shake off a stiffness that refused to leave, as though he’d been walking for hours inside a body that no longer felt like it belonged to him.

His mouth, when at rest, stayed drawn too tight to look casual, as if his own teeth might betray him if he let his jaw go slack for too long.

His eyes, they weren’t dulled like hers, they were sharp, silver like freshly torn steel, like something split open under pressure, and there was heat behind them, not the kind that warmed you, the kind that warned you, the kind that said I’m barely holding it together so don’t get too close unless you’re willing to burn with me.

And his shirt sat strange on him, rumpled through the middle as if he’d gripped it in a fist and twisted without noticing, the collar pulled askew and slipping low enough to bare the curve of his throat, where the skin looked hot and weirdly tender, stretched over a pulse she knew was beating faster than it should with him at rest.

So yes, he looked tired. But not Hermione’s sort of tired.

He looked like a boy on the verge of becoming a monster, all because he’d once decided to save a girl who was ready to die.

“That’s because of… you know. Feels like my body starts breaking before the moon even shows its fucking face.” He glanced away then, jaw ticking, eyes flicking to the far-off window as though he could already see the night coming for him, already hear it calling his name.

“Draco,” she said firmly, wanting to remind him it wasn’t time, not yet, not when he was still here, still him, still standing in front of her with his hands not shaking and his body still shaped like his own, and it was her voice now that said his name—hers, not the moon’s, not the dark’s, not the thing waiting beneath his skin, but hers.

His gaze snapped to her immediately, pupils stretched wide enough to make the air between them feel thinner.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I pulled you in here?” she asked.

He cocked a brow, some of the darkness slipping from his face as his usual smugness settled back in, quick and familiar and clearly glad to be home. “Well. I just assumed it was because you missed me so desperately.”

Her lips twitched, traitorous things, before she scoffed and said, “Luna’s back at Hogwarts.”

His mouth parted. “Shit. Let’s go, then.”

She cleared her throat. “Hmm, actually…. I was thinking maybe I should speak to her alone.”

Draco scowled. Not dramatically, not performatively. Just enough to let her know he didn’t like it. “Why?

“It’s just—well, you seem a little on edge, which is fair, obviously, but if you’re going to be rude to Luna I’ll—”

She didn’t even finish the sentence before he leaned in, his breath ghosting her cheek, cool with a trace of mint that moved over her skin like winter wind, rousing every nerve in its path. “But it’s only you I have trouble controlling myself with, remember?”

Her lungs forgot how to work, so she simply abandoned the concept of breathing altogether as he straightened and offered her a look which could rival the innocence of Hagrid’s dog—Fang—when he once took half a sandwich straight out of her hand. “I’ll be nice to your friend, Granger. You have my word.” He even had the nerve to wink.

Hermione sighed, the kind that sagged her whole frame, and wondered if this was how people felt right before signing a deal with the devil.

“Fine. Meet us at the Astronomy tower.”

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Hermione had always thought there was something otherworldly about Luna Lovegood, something a bit out of their reach, like she belonged to another plane entirely, with those big light-blue eyes that held this impossible mixture of childlike wonder and an almost preternatural wisdom. As if one could be five and five hundred at the same time. And her looks only added to that idea, with her wide pale-blue eyes and her fair skin and that long, fine, white-blonde hair.  And weirdly—so weirdly that Hermione had thought it more than once—if you looked only at their complexions, at that striking, translucent sort of beauty they both had, and the fact that they were both unfairly tall and elegant, Luna and Draco could easily pass for siblings. Which, given pure-bloods and their well-documented habit of marrying cousins, probably meant the truth wasn’t all that far off.

Their colouring, however, was very much where the similarities ended. Everything else, one could even say, was the complete opposite. While Draco wore nothing but expensive robes that were always immaculately tailored and varied only in shades of arrogance, Luna had once turned up to breakfast wearing a belt made entirely of Chocolate Frog wrappers. She always wore her radish earrings too, and there was that necklace of Butterbeer corks she claimed protected her from Nargles.

People stared, others laughed, but Luna either didn’t notice it or didn’t care, and Hermione often ruminated about how that looked a lot like peace, the way Luna could so easily escape the world, and how Hermione, who spent so much of her life double-checking and overthinking and trying to make sense of absolutely everything, would never get to know what that kind of peace felt like.

And perhaps that was why it took her some time to accept Luna for who she was, to see her eccentricities as something to admire instead of judge, to recognise that for all her odd sense of fashion, all her spacey stares and slow, drifting sentences, Luna Lovegood was rather brilliant, sometimes unsettlingly so, and she saw things no one else did, probably because she was the only one who knew about them, or maybe just the only one who believed in them, even if Hermione had stopped doubting her ages ago, or well, tried really hard to, but it would be wrong not to admit that her scepticism still showed up uninvited now and again.

Still, if there was one person Hermione believed—or at the very least hoped—might actually help her and Draco figure out whatever the hell this thing between them was, this maddening, nameless force that refused to show up in any book or spell or theory they’d torn apart so far, it was Luna Lovegood.

“Hermione, it’s so much shinier!” Luna said the moment Draco’s head appeared at the top of the stairs leading to the Astronomy Tower, followed, unexpectedly, by Theo.

“What is?” Hermione asked, though she wasn’t really listening, not properly, because her eyes were still on Draco, watching the way he paused on the last step like his body wasn’t quite ready to move forward, like something about the air up here made him want to turn back around and leave. And that’s when it hit her that this might be the very first time he’s come up here since that night. Since he was meant to kill Dumbledore. Since he couldn’t do it, but someone else did, and so he still had to stand there and watch their Headmaster die. Just like Harry had to.

Hermione was crossing the space between them the next second, reaching for his arm in a way she hoped looked casual enough as she drew him forward. He didn’t resist. If anything, she could feel a bit of tension leave him as soon as she made contact, and when she turned back to Luna, waiting for the girl’s answer, Hermione caught Theo smiling at her from the corner of her eye.

“Your string,” Luna breathed, her gaze darting between Hermione and Draco in awe. “It’s grown beautiful.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, reasoning that the string’s healthier appearance was likely due to how much more physical contact there had been between them since the last time Luna saw it, back at the Quidditch match.

“Do you know what it is?” Draco asked, his tone polite but cold in a way Hermione wasn’t used to anymore. “This…’string’?”

“It’s a bond, of course,” Luna said lightly, as though that explained everything.

“Right,” he said slowly, dragging out the word. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Hermione sighed and, without hesitation, jabbed her elbow into his side—hard. He let out a grunt, whipping his head towards her with a glare, and she offered one right back, hoping her eyes spoke for her.

You promised to be nice, you prat.

His lips thinned, clearly getting the message, and he turned back to Luna. “I apologise,” he said, stiffly but not unkindly. “It’s just that we’ve been trying to make sense of this for weeks, and none of it has led anywhere useful. So if you actually know what this thing is—this bond, or string, or whatever you want to call it—we’d really appreciate a proper explanation.”

Hermione bit back a smile. Much better.

Luna, however, seemed genuinely perplexed. “But… how can you not understand something you created?”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up just as Draco bristled, any trace of diplomacy gone from his posture in a heartbeat. “Come again?” he growled, advancing a step.

Hermione’s hand closed around his arm instantly. “Draco,” she hissed, a warning in her voice, at the same time Theo stepped in front of them, facing Luna.

“Don’t mind him, lovely. He’s been growling at everything that moves today—more bark than bite, really, though regrettably loud about it.”

Hermione could feel the shift of Draco’s muscles even through the thick material of his Slytherin robe, the way they coiled and uncoiled with restrained agitation, and she inwardly cursed herself for letting him come. She should’ve done this alone, or better yet, waited until after the full moon when he wasn’t even moodier than his already prickly self.

“Oh, that’s quite alright. It can’t be easy for him today, after all.” Luna looked up at the sky. “Just a few more hours.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, and so did the boys’. They must have made an interesting image, the spattered-on painting of complete shock. She was the first to recover, taking a few steps forward and blurting out, “Luna, you know?”

“Did you cast the privacy spell?” she heard Malfoy mutter to Theo from behind her.

“Yeah.”

Luna frowned. “The gesliths always run from him. How much more obvious could it get?”

Hermione had no idea what a ‘geslith’ was supposed to be.

“You can’t tell anyone,” she said quickly, her voice tinged with urgency while panic gripped her throat and made her pulse trip.

If anyone found out what Draco was, especially now, before they even understood the full extent of what existed between them, there was no telling what would occur. His body had nearly broken down before when they weren’t touching each other frequently, so what could happen if his secret got out and he was made to leave while she stayed behind?

How bad would it get?

Luna reached out and took Hermione’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I would never, Hermione. It’s not my secret to tell, is it?”

A very heavy breath left Hermione at Luna’s words, some of the tension easing from her spine, though not all, when she suddenly felt the heat of a large body behind her. “Can we trust her?”

Luna’s hold on her hand dropped while Hermione’s teeth found the inside of her cheek, her mind telling her that this was the same person who’d forced his best friend to make an Unbreakable Vow over the very same information. She couldn’t falter in her trust of Luna, not even for a second, or Draco might not be convinced. And she dreaded the kind of fight that would come from that.

Good thing, then, that she already knew there were few people more loyal than Luna Lovegood. Hermione turned, tilting her chin to meet his stormy-grey eyes. “We can trust her. Absolutely.”

Draco’s jaw ticked like he didn’t quite believe it, like he was still waiting for her to hesitate or give him some reason to doubt her, but she didn’t, she made sure she didn’t, so after a bit he gave a visibly reluctant nod and took a single step back.

A throat cleared loudly.

“You know, kind of wish you’d shown that much trust in me, mate,” Theo drawled, arms crossed, one brow raised dramatically high.

Draco barely turned his head. “You drugged me.”

Theo scoffed. “Oh, come off it. Like we haven’t been dosing each other every Friday night since fourth year.”

“There are rules, Theodore. Blaise recites them every time, and you still like to pretend they don’t apply to you.”

Luna giggled softly in the background while Hermione stared at both boys and shook her head. “Seriously. What is wrong with Slytherin hangouts?”

Theo grinned at her. “Plenty, Golden Girl. But you’ll find out soon enough. Maybe we’ll even let you play the fun games. Finally get you out of those Gryffindor colours.”

Hermione frowned, trying to work out what he meant, but before she could, a strange sound began to rise from Draco’s chest. Deep, rough, and very wrong. Everyone turned to him in unison, and just like that, the sound cut off.

“What?” Draco grumbled, and while it was technically his voice, it also… wasn’t.

Theo’s green eyes were wide. “Merlin, mate. Was it something I said? Just so I can, you know, never say it again.”

Hermione spun towards Luna, reminded that there was no time to waste. They needed to find out what she knew, whatever she could give them, and then get Draco out of the school and to the Shrieking Shack before the transformation began. “Do you think him being a werewolf has anything to do with the bond?”

It was an easy conclusion to reach once one factored in how the bond began emerging at the same time the lycanthropy invaded his system. Still, she couldn’t help but ask.

Luna’s fingers wandered to her necklace, the one strung with Butterbeer corks, and she toyed with it absently as she spoke. “I don’t think I can give you all the answers, Hermione. Not the kind you’re looking for. But that… I’m quite sure it’s got everything to do with it.”

“Why?” Draco asked, his voice sounding closer to normal now, which made Hermione breathe easier. “And why did you say I bloody created it?”

“Well… I’ve only ever seen bonds like this between creatures. Never between people. So it would make sense that you being a werewolf plays a significant role. And when I said you created it, I only meant because of the type of bond it is. It would be difficult for it to form without intention. Though, of course, exceptions happen. Magic does what it wants.”

“The type of bond?” Hermione asked, the phrase catching in her mind like a snag in cloth.

Luna nodded, and for the first time she looked a little hesitant, maybe even somewhat sheepish, which was something Hermione had never seen from the other girl.

“What type is it?” Draco pressed, and Hermione could feel her heart thudding hard against her ribs, unprepared for the answer.

Luna’s eyes locked on Hermione as she said it.

“It’s a mating bond.”

“Oh, shit,” Theo whispered under his breath.

That was the last thing Hermione registered before there was nothing.

Not a sound, not a breath, not a thought she could hold onto. Just silence. Dense and electric. The kind of silence that felt like the pause before a lightning strike, stretched so tight it buzzed in her ears. She couldn’t even move. Her brain hadn’t caught up yet, and since that was not a normal experience, it decided the only sensible response was to freeze entirely.

A mating bond.

The words echoed back through her, hollow and huge, like she’d heard them from a great distance and they were only now reaching her properly, and her mind chased after every possible reason it couldn’t be true, every rule, every line of theory, every piece of structure and magical law she’d clung to for years, but none of it held, it all came apart in her hands like paper left too long in the rain, and suddenly the only thing she could feel was the weight of it sitting in her chest, buried beneath her skin, irrefutably and inescapably alive somewhere inside her whether she wanted it or not.

She blinked, slowly, and turned her head.

Draco was already looking at her.

And his face—Gods, his face—wasn’t furious or confused or even angry like she thought it would. It was quiet. Guarded. Searching. Like he didn’t know what he was looking for but needed to find it in her anyway.

She swallowed, cleared her throat. “It… It makes sense.”

The faintest crease formed between his brows. “Yes.”

All the symptoms they were experiencing, the pull, the aching, the need to touch, his dreams, his instincts… it made all of it terrifyingly clear. In the end, the only part that made absolutely no sense, the part that made her want to scream, was why the hell it existed in the first place. Because it shouldn’t, it couldn’t, there was no reason, no way, no—

“H-How could this happen?” she blurted, her voice catching as her lungs fought for air.

Draco paused, then glanced over her shoulder. “Any ideas about that?”

“No,” Luna answered him quickly. “It’s really rather odd.”

Hermione let out a sudden, startled laugh, the sound short and dry of amusement. Because if Luna Lovegood was calling something odd, then it wasn’t just odd. It was… inconceivable.

She gazed up at Draco, dread burning her stomach. “We’re sort of screwed, aren’t we?”

He looked down, his face drawn tight with that particular tension he got when he was thinking too hard, when his whole body seemed to still around the storm behind his eyes, that were now clouded with things she was sure didn’t belong to this moment at all, but somewhere older, darker, and the grey of them looked almost bruised with memory. But then, just as her heart gave its third too-fast beat, the tension suddenly bled out, his jaw relaxed, his lips unpressed, and there was a calmness that hadn’t been there all day as his gaze found its way back to the present. To her.

“You know what, Granger,” he finally said, leaning in just enough that she could feel the shape of his presence wrap around the words, “I’ve had worse.”

Maybe it was because she hadn’t expected that to be his answer, not even a little, not even hidden in the furthest, dustiest corner of her mind, but the knot in her chest—the one that had been sitting there all messy and miserable—suddenly loosened. And this time when she laughed, it came straight from her lungs instead of her throat, and it was real, and full, and felt like breathing properly again, because as bad as this situation was, as strange and nonsensical and frustrating and scary as being stuck in a mating bond with Draco Malfoy was… he was right.

She’d had worse.

Much, much worse.

Draco’s lips curved as she laughed.

“Okay, but if they’ve got a mating bond… what does that actually mean?” Theo asked. “Is this some sort of fuck-or-die situation?”

Her amusement didn’t just perish; it flung itself off a very high cliff and plummeted into the icy waters of complete mortification.

Draco turned to the other Slytherin, and the shift in his body language from how he’d just been looking at her to how he was looking at Theo was so stark it made even Hermione straighten, her nerves lighting up with the awareness of danger, even if it wasn’t being directed at her.

Theo blanched, clearly sensing the same, only with the added misfortune of it being very much directed at him, and took a step back, then another, until he happened to end up just slightly behind Hermione.

Draco’s gaze dropped to her, then lifted to Theo. “Don’t fucking use her as a shield. You’re supposed to protect her. Remember?”

“Curiously, both me and my vow agree I’m the only one who needs protecting right now. Or would you actually hurt her just to get to me?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed.

“Exactly,” Theo muttered. “And I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful, you fucker. I’m just trying to understand what we’re dealing with here. As your friend. I mean, is this dangerous? For you? For her?”

That made Draco go still. He turned to Luna. “Is she in danger?”

He didn’t ask about himself. He asked about her.

Hermione’s body felt warm.

Luna shook her head. “The bond is happy right now. If I had to guess, as long as it stays that way—balanced, healthy—there shouldn’t be any risks for either of you.”

“And… what Theo said,” Hermione mumbled, unable to bring herself to repeat his exact words. “Do you think the bond might… require that? That we’ll have to…” She trailed off.

She could feel Draco’s eyes on her as they waited for Luna to respond.

“I’m not sure, Hermione,” Luna said gently. “But mating bonds, at least in most cases, tend to unfold in phases, like growth rings on a Dirigible Plum vine, each layer responding to its own cycle of need. The bond starts by asking for something small. Something simple. Like—”

“Touch,” Draco offered.

Luna nodded. “Yes. A basic physical connection, so it can build from there. These bonds move towards equilibrium first, not completion. It won’t push you into anything unless it reaches the point where it’s starving—literally starving. A bit like a Flitterbloom that hasn’t had enough sunlight. It doesn’t react violently right away. It just weakens. Wilts. And only when it’s close to dying does it start pulling from whatever’s nearby to stabilise itself.”

That would explain the fevers.

But if the first step was touch… what would be the next one?

“It’s really not a good idea to let it get to that point,” Luna continued. “If it does, I’m afraid the consequences could be... serious. That’s what I was trying to warn you about at the Quidditch match, Hermione. If I’d known you didn’t understand what was happening…”

Hermione shook her head, cutting her off, because there was guilt in Luna’s eyes and she didn’t want her to carry it. “You couldn’t have guessed what was actually going on.”

“So, the bond, it might eventually reach a point where it asks them to, eh,” Theo hesitated, “consummate it?”

“Perhaps, in the future,” Luna said.

Not perhaps. It absolutely would, and if Hermione didn’t already know that from the dreams Draco kept implying he had, like a prologue to something inevitable, then she knew it from how her own body had started reacting whenever he was near, not just the pull, not just the hum of magic but lower, deeper, something warm and specific and not easy to ignore.

And the worst part was that she could tell, just like Draco could tell, that it wasn’t only the bond, it wasn’t just some magical interference she could blame and dismiss, because once the years of hatred had started to loosen its grip on her, and she got to know him without the cruelty and the prejudice staining her idea of him, it had become harder and harder to pretend she didn’t see him, properly see him, and the truth was that Draco Malfoy was both objectively and infuriatingly hot, to a ridiculous sort of degree, and Hermione simply wasn’t blind, not even a little.

“But we have time,” Hermione said firmly, because she needed to say it out loud, to hear herself say it. “We still have time to find a way to break it.”

A fracture of expression surfaced in Luna’s face, a ripple echoing through what had once been still water, and Hermione’s chest squeezed in response, her fingers curling into the fabric of her robe. “What?”

A beat stretched.

“Usually,” Luna said at last, eyes moving between the two of them, “there’s only one way to break a mating bond.”

“How?” Draco demanded.

Luna frowned. 

“One of you has to die.”

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“Wait here,” Draco told Theo, just before they stepped into the tunnel that led to the Shrieking Shack. “I’ll need you to take her back to the castle before sunset.”

Theo nodded. “Of course, mate.” He shifted his weight like he wanted to say more, then settled on, “Are you ready for, you know… tonight?”

Draco shrugged. “As ready as I can be.”

Hermione and Theo frowned at each other as Draco turned away, both of them stuck in the same terrible position of knowing exactly what would occur when the moon graced the sky and being completely powerless to stop it.

“Granger? You coming?”

At the sound of his voice—sharp and a little impatient—she turned and followed, falling into step behind Draco and staying close to the broad line of his back as they disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel.

The walk to the Whomping Willow had been quiet, each of them stuck in their own heads, and Hermione had kept Harry’s invisibility cloak wrapped tight around herself, hadn’t even hesitated when it came time to use it, partly to avoid drawing attention but mostly so she didn’t have to worry about what her face was doing while her brain spun in circles, going over what Luna had said again and again.

She had promised to teach Hermione and Draco how to see the bond too, even if she’d warned them it might take a while. It had always come naturally to her, she said, like breathing or dreaming, and she wasn’t entirely sure how to turn it into something teachable. But that was fine, Hermione had decided, because at least they would have another way of knowing when the bond was off that didn’t involve Draco being violently ill and looking like he was halfway to death.

That said, he didn’t look particularly good now, though that probably had more to do with the fact he was about to shift than with their bond, which Luna had determined healthy enough. Still, Hermione thought it was smart to stay close to him until the sun started to dip, which she had insisted on, firmly and without compromise, when he’d tried to argue that he’d be perfectly fine going alone to, and she quoted, “that haunted, rodent-infested dust coffin pretending to be a house”.

His glaring distaste for his full moon accommodations, only made worse by his foul mood, made it all the more satisfying for her when they finally finished crossing the tunnel and pushed into the Shack, which she’d already been to that morning, hours earlier, when the air still smelled like rot and the dust made her eyes water.

Now, however, after a good amount of time spent scrubbing, levitating, transfiguring and organising, the place looked, well, not good, not nice, but better. Liveable.

Breathable.

All around them were bits of furniture she’d sneaked out of the castle by shrinking them to fit in her bag—a sofa from the Room of Requirement, a couple of mismatched but solid chairs from classrooms still unusable after the war, a table that didn’t wobble (much), piles of clean throws and heavy blankets she’d stolen from the laundry room when no one was looking, food packed into enchanted containers from the kitchens, and a small collection of carefully brewed potions—some for pain, some for healing, and a few for things she hoped wouldn’t happen but planned for anyway.

She watched as Draco walked further into the room, still facing away from her, his head turning from side to side, taking it all in. Then he spun around, his mouth parted open. “Did you do this?”

Hermione crossed her arms. “Not quite up to Malfoy Manor standards, I know. Do try to cope.”

He stared. Not at the room. At her. Like she was the part he didn’t know how to handle.

“Fuck,” he said, barely audible.

“What?” she asked.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Took a breath. When they opened again, they glinted, silver catching in the light.

“Just... I need you to understand that what’s about to happen is entirely your fault.”

She didn’t have time to ask what he meant because he was already moving, swallowing the distance between them in no more than two steps, until he was standing right in front of her, close enough that the rest of the room faded, blocked out by the width of his shoulders. Then he was pulling her in, into him, arms wrapping around her like it was normal, like that was allowed, and her whole body just kind of froze—not in panic, but in sheer what-the-hell-is-happening shock.

Her arms hovered, useless, completely unsure of what to do or where to go, like she’d never been hugged before in her life, while he pressed her against him, holding her tight to the solid heat of his body, his body that somehow felt even bigger now that she was inside his arms, and maybe a little bit safe, though she would never admit it out loud.

Her cheek landed somewhere near the centre of his chest, and she could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, but beneath that was his heart, loud and fast in her ear, really fast, which was probably the curse wrecking all sorts of havoc inside him. Though that didn’t stop him from smelling obnoxiously good, all clean skin and cold air, with small hints at something richer that contrasted pleasantly with the rest.

Her hands were still floating in that weird I-don’t-know-where-to-put-these way, until she gave up and let them rest, awkwardly at first, then more naturally, at his sides. They stayed like that for a few seconds, or maybe hours, or maybe days, though realistically probably just seconds, until she felt him move again. His head dipped, and his breath stirred the curls at the top of her head, warm and feather-light as it slipped through them.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “This was... really fucking sweet of you.”

Hermione knew many words, far more than most, but none of them came to her then. So she settled for a simple nod, her temple brushing his collarbone as her fingers sank nervously into his robe.

They stayed like that for one more beat, before he slowly pulled back, his arms easing away while hers fell straight down. Draco looked at her, then tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you blushing?”

“No,” she said quickly, refusing to acknowledge the fire burning in her cheeks.

He stepped back half a pace, eyeing her like she was a particularly interesting potion reaction. “You are. Merlin, your whole face is red.”

“You hugged me,” she accused, not even bothering to pretend that wasn’t the reason.

His smirk deepened. “I told you, that was your fault.”

“I just didn’t want to listen to you moaning about the Shack any longer!”

“What if I’m moaning for a better reason? Would that interest you?”

She rolled her eyes, ignoring the spark of amusement in her chest. “You’re unbearable.”

“Well, at least now you know the only way to be free of me, right? Classic solution, really. Bit unoriginal. But more effective than any other I suppose. It did clear out the snake infestation at the Manor.”

He chuckled, low and dark.

But it wasn’t funny. Not even a little.

“Draco,” she said firmly. “That’s not something I’m willing to consider. Ever.”

His eyes gleamed, alive with something volatile, like lightning held too long behind glass, and she couldn’t tell if it was the weight of his thoughts or the beast beneath his skin, restless and caged, that charged them with such furious intensity. “Maybe not now. But what happens when the bond starts demanding more? How far are you willing to go before you can’t handle it?”

She shook her head fast, as though that would be enough to bat the question away. “There’s less than an hour left until sundown. This isn’t the time—”

“I need to know now, Granger.”

“Why?”

“Because we just found out we’re tied to each other by a fucking mating bond! And yes, I know this isn’t the ideal time, and I know you still need to overthink it to death because that’s what you do with everything, and maybe it’s unfair of me to bring it up now, when you haven’t had a chance to map it out in your head a hundred different ways—but I still need to know. I need it, because you keep telling yourself we have time. You keep saying we’ll break it before it gets worse. And right now, fine, the only thing the bond’s making you do is hold my hand, or stand a little too close, or look at me like you don’t hate me anymore. But I have dreams, Hermione.”

He yanked at his collar like it was strangling him. “I have dreams and I have want, and it’s not subtle, it’s not sweet, it’s definitely not innocent. It burns. Every fucking second around you is pressure, and I don’t know if the time you think we have is going to be enough before I can’t bloody hold it back anymore. So even if you have to think about it, I need to know what the fuck we’re planning to do before then.”

Her heart was pounding. She didn’t know when it had started, only that it was everywhere now, loud and erratic. She forced herself to take a breath. “You’re wrong. I don’t need to think about it because I won’t kill you, Draco. Even if we never find another way. So unless you’re planning to kill me to get out of this, the only thing we can do is keep hoping we find a way to break it before it gets to that point. That’s it. That’s all you need to know.”

There was a pause. A beat of silence that didn’t feel calm. It felt like the moment before a storm broke.

“What if I don’t agree?”

Her lips parted. “What?”

“What if I’m not willing to risk waiting until there’s no longer a choice?”

Her stomach turned to stone, and before she could stop herself, she stepped back, away from him, her fingers twitching at her hip—right where her wand was tucked away.

Draco noticed.

Of course he did.

His jaw tensed and his eyes darkened. “Are you fucking serious?” he growled. “You think I’d touch a hair on your head, you infuriating little nightmare?”

“Then what the hell are you saying?” she snapped.

He lunged, his hand closing around the back of her neck with enough force to hold her there. Her chin tilted, dragged upward until she was locked into his burning gaze, shivers running all through her body.

“I’m saying that if this bond ever tries to make me take something from you that you wouldn’t give me freely—” he swallowed, hard, like the thought alone made him sick, “—I would rather you kill me than become the person who did it.”

She felt her gaze widen, and her hand found his forearm, the one connected to the grip still buried in her hair. “Draco…”

He shook his head, and it was all there in the lines of him, the pain that lived in memory but cut like it was fresh and hurt just the same.

“I’ve seen that kind of monster. Watched it destroy my mother in her own fucking house while the people who were supposed to protect her did nothing. I’ve lived with being the boy who stood by; the one who grew up and realised everything too late. And I can live with that shame. I’ve learned to. I can even live with what I turn into now, every full moon.”

A breath escaped him like a wound.

“But I cannot become that.”

It wasn’t just that he wouldn’t do it to her, it was that he couldn’t bear to let himself anywhere close to something that resembled what’d been done to Narcissa Malfoy. And that said a lot about him, but it also screamed about what he’d endured.

Hermione tried to hold it in—tried with everything she had—but her vision blurred, and the moment she blinked, the tear slipped free. There was no stopping it as it traced down her cheek, while her mind spun and her heart split clean down the middle with the horrible tragedy that was war, no matter which side you were on.

Draco froze.

His gaze flicked down to the tear, brows creasing, and slowly, his hand eased from her neck, fingers tucking a curl behind her ear before his thumb brushed beneath her eye, just as more tears threatened to follow.

“Hermione…why the fuck are you crying?”

“Because it’s awful,” she whispered miserably. “Because your mother went through something no one ever should, and you… knowing, hearing, not being able to stop it. It’s unbearably cruel, beyond awful, and I… I hate that it happened to you. To both of you.”

Her voice trembled near the end. He caught another drop before it reached her jaw, then clicked his tongue.

“You’re not supposed to cry for me,” he murmured, almost chiding. “Least of all you.”

She let out a small laugh, breathy and wet, her shoulders still shaky with the failed effort of keeping herself together. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t deserve it.” He gave her a crooked, bitter smile. “Pretty sure there’s a list somewhere.”

A pause took place, her thoughts racing before she spoke.

“Then burn it.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Let’s burn the list.”

He opened his mouth, shaped like a no, but she got ahead of him.

“You’re not the boy who did nothing anymore, Draco. You’re the boy who saved my life, and that… that means something. So forget the rest. I don’t even bloody remember who I was when this Merlin-forsaken war started, and I sure as hell know you’ve changed.”

He drew back just enough to break the contact, hand falling. “I…It can’t be that easy, Granger.”

“Easy?” She scoffed. “Is anything we’ve been through in the last two years easy? Is what we’re going through now easy?” She shook her head. “I’m tired. I’m so tired of everything being hard, so let me make this one thing easy for both of us. Let me be clear.”

She reached up and caught his chin, a touch rough, making sure his eyes stayed on hers, just like he’d done, because she was in control now. And there, in the shadowed depths of his gaze, swam a fatigue so much like her own it only pushed her words out faster.

“You will not become the kind of monster who hurt your mother, because this—us—our situation, is a world apart from that. And if I ever end up shagging you, Draco Malfoy, it won’t even crack the top ten worst things I’ve done in my life. You’re decent-looking, and I actually kind of enjoy your company now, so just don’t be shit at it, and maybe I’ll even find it a good use of my time.”

Hermione felt her face go red almost immediately.

Merlin’s bloody bones, had she actually just said that? Out loud? To him?

That…it wasn’t her. Not even a little. Hermione didn’t speak like that—blunt and bold. Like she hadn’t only had sex once before, months ago, one night that was born more from despair than desire. Like she had any right to say something so confident to someone like him, who was far more than just ‘decent-looking’, and who moved like he could write sin into skin with his hands and make you beg for the next line.

But she did. She said it, and now he was staring at her, wide-eyed, with her hand still gripping his face. She let go, taking a small step back, the burn in her cheeks becoming more serious the longer he kept quiet.

It was just when the silence was about to undo her that something shifted.

The shock drained from his features, and what took its place was fierce and soft all at once, a contradiction that somehow only made sense looking at him in that exact moment, in the middle of a roughly renovated Shrieking Shack and with far too little time left until the night stole him away.

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on a man as desperate as me, little witch,” he said at last, and his mouth curved, just slightly, before he offered her the rest, “but if I ever got to have you willingly, I swear there wouldn’t be a single fucking second where I’d let you regret being there with me.”

Heat bloomed in her body again, and this time it wasn’t just in her face, it was lower, deeper, flaring behind her navel and spreading until it pulsed between her legs, and it came on so suddenly, so intensely, that she couldn’t stop herself from clenching her thighs, hoping the pressure might ease the ache.

Draco exhaled, a harsh sound slipping into the room through parted lips, his shoulders jolting forward like he’d just taken a blow straight to the chest. And for a second—less than a second—his eyes weren’t grey or silver or black or any colour she’d ever seen on him before, they were gold, but not gold like hers, and wild in a way that made her stomach knot, and then it was gone again, like a door slammed shut, and all that was left was the tension in his jaw and body.

His throat moved, a rough swallow. “You should go now. The sun’s starting to go down and I… I can feel it already.”

Her teeth tasted the inside of her cheek, but she nodded.

“I left some magical shackles downstairs. They’re reinforced with silver threading, but charmed so they won’t hurt you. Just in case you don’t trust the Wolfsbane enough, or if it hits harder than usual. I didn’t know if you’d want them, but I figured it would be good to have the option.”

“It is.”

Hermione shifted, hands twisting at her sides. “There’s a mattress down there too, it should be big enough, thick enough for the worst of it, and I brought some healing potions, and clothes, not your clothes obviously, but they should work, I guessed your size, sort of. There’s food, too, in case you’re starving afterwards, and water, and I packed a couple of calming draughts just in case the pain gets bad, and a blanket—the soft one from the library, you know the one —and a pillow, obviously, and a towel. And I left a book. Not that you’ll want to read or anything, but I thought…well, um, I’m not sure what I thought exactly.”

As soon as she finished, she wanted to vanish into the floor. Ron would’ve called it one of her Hermione avalanches and gone on about how she came on too strong, planned too much, cared too hard.

Draco, however, was just staring at her. Saying absolutely nothing.

She scrunched her nose. “Too much?” she offered, because she could already hear it in her head.

But he shook his head. “No. Not at all. Though, if you don’t leave soon, I might end up hugging you again.” His lips twitched. “Your fault again, too.”

Her heart jumped. “I… I’ll be back in the morning.”

He gave her a look. “Don’t come alone. Theo will walk with you.”

She nodded. They’d already had this fight—about how she didn’t need Theo to escort her everywhere. But Draco won, as always, by sheer stubbornness.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Hermione.”

“Bye, Draco.”

She turned to leave, paused at the door, looked back over her shoulder. “It feels really hard to go.”

He met her eyes. “It feels really hard to let you.”

Most of it was the bond, she knew. But there was also this part of her, just her and nothing else, that hated the idea of leaving him here alone, suffering the consequences of the choice he made to save her life.

And then she wondered why that choice was beginning to feel more and more meaningful to her.

The answer came easily.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, she could feel herself wanting it again.

A tomorrow.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“Hermione?”

Harry’s voice drifted across the mostly empty Gryffindor common room, his head appearing over the back of the sofa, one arm slung over the cushions, the other bracing as he twisted to glance at her.

“Yes?” she asked, stopping on her way to her dorm room.

“Do you have it?”

He made a vague gesture of draping something over himself.

The Invisibility Cloak.

“Oh, um, yes. Do you need it?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

He shook his head. “Nah. You can keep it—if you’d like?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll hold on to it a few more days, then.”

Harry got up and rounded the sofa, coming to stand in front of her, his green eyes full of quiet worry. “Hermione, is everything alright? You’ve been a bit… off, lately.”

Her nerves spiked. 

“I’m fine,” she said hurriedly. “There’s just… something I’m researching. And the books I need are in the Restricted Section.”

Harry frowned.

“Why not just ask McGonagall for permission? I’m sure she’d give it to you without a second thought.”

Hermione hesitated again, barely, but it was enough for Harry to catch it and make his gaze narrow, searching her face for the things she wasn’t saying.

“Unless… you don’t want her to know what you’re researching.”

Her body stilled, breath stuck in her chest.

“I’m not doing anything wrong, Harry,” she said firmly. ““I just… I don’t want to explain myself right now, alright?”

“Not even to me?”

She swallowed.

“Give me some time to figure it out on my own. Then I’ll tell you.”

Hopefully, when this entire situation was behind her and she could lie about it more easily.

There was a long pause between them, and he sighed.

“Since when do we do things alone, Mione? We’re a team, aren’t we? Us three?”

She raised a brow. “You mean the Golden Trio?”

He shook his head. “No. That’s what they call us. To me, we’re just… us. You and Ron and me. We’re family.”

She felt herself soften.  

“At least promise me you’re not in danger,” Harry added, more protective now. “That’s the only way I’ll let it go.”

She smiled, because that she didn’t need to lie about. “I’m safe, Harry. What I’m researching… it’s not dangerous.”

At least not in the way he meant.

It took him a bit, but he gave her a reluctant nod. “Alright.”

When Hermione made it up to her dorm, she found it empty. The others were probably still at dinner, and she wondered whether Harry had already gone or had chosen to skip it too. Hermione wasn’t the slightest bit hungry, she didn’t think she would be until the moon left and the sun began to rise.

She also didn’t think she would sleep, despite not having slept at all the night before.

And yet, at some point, her eyes slipped closed.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

But she dreamed.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Come to me.

It wasn’t a voice, not in the way she understood voices, it was more like a presence, like something had sunk its teeth into her soul and was tugging, hungry and demanding, unwilling to wait even one more second.

Then there were eyes, still and bright and watching her like they already knew her, like they’d always known her, surrounded by fur that was dark and thick and moonlit and endless, and he was huge, impossibly huge, and she should’ve been terrified, but she wasn’t.

Come to me.

Her eyes snapped open.

I’m coming.

Chapter Text

Theo

"Bloody hell, that stings!"

"It’s meant to," Theo muttered, smearing more of the gunky mixture onto Blaise’s arm. "That’s how you know it’s doing its job."

Blaise hissed through his teeth. "He wasn’t on his own, the bastard. Only reason he got the drop on me."

Theo let out a tired sigh. "You should’ve swept the whole perimeter first. You know we’ve got to be careful. We’re decent in a fight, yeah, but they’ve still got years on us. Even with the extras Draco’s chucking our way, we’ve got to stay sharp."

He wrapped the bandage tight around the angry red skin.

"I know, I know," Blaise mumbled. "I’ll watch it next time.”

Theo nodded. "Good." He turned, rummaging through the bottom of his trunk before pulling out a small bottle with a golden label. " Now—firewhisky, tried and true? Or the one with floaty bits Pansy swore was a ‘vibe’?”

Blaise recoiled. "Give me the one that won’t land me in St. Mungo’s."

Theo snorted, poured out two glasses, and handed one over. They clinked them together with a soft chink. The firewhisky burned on the way down, smoky and strong, with a warmth that spread low in his chest and lingered like heat from a dying fire, and as the familiar taste settled, Theo’s eyes drifted to the large window beside Draco’s neatly made bed. The moon hung high and bright tonight, casting its silver light over the castle grounds until everything looked washed in mist.

"I still can’t believe Draco’s a bloody werewolf right now," Blaise said.

"Yeah," Theo murmured, his gaze returning to the room. "Mad, isn’t it?"

Blaise stared into his drink. "Might sound strange, all things considered… but he doesn’t deserve it. Not after everything that happened with the Dark Lord."

"You can say Voldemort, you know. He’s dead."

A small grin touched the edges of Blaise’s mouth. "And fucking cheers to that," he said, and they knocked their glasses together once more before downing a generous gulp.

Theo leaned forward. "The werewolf curse is a nasty one, wouldn’t wish it on anyone, really.” Well, maybe my father. “But… I dunno. Maybe this time, it’s not all bad. Maybe something’s balanced out the scales."

Blaise raised a brow. "Balanced how?"

"It gave him Granger."

Blaise’s eyebrows shot up all the way this time. "The same girl he spent years calling a mudblood to her face?"

Theo smirked. "There’s no line thinner than the one between love and hate, my boy."

"Nah. I don’t buy it. It’s just that weird magical nonsense they’ve got going on."

"You say that now, but wait until you see them. The way they speak, the way they move around each other... it’s quite fascinating.”

They moved like opposites in orbit, clashing and connecting in equal measure, volatile one moment and seamless the next. And while the bond had certainly forced them into each other’s space, Theo had witnessed enough to know there was something else slowly building between them. It was in the way they were always perfectly attuned or completely misaligned, but never indifferent.

Blaise sighed. "Theo, you know I love Draco like a brother, yeah? But he was a right prick for a long time, especially to people like Granger. We all were… well, maybe not you so much. Maybe that’s why you got out when you did. You didn’t have anything to atone for, not like the rest of us."

Theo scoffed. “That’s not why, and you bloody well know it. I got out only because Draco warned me and went against my father to make sure I actually got to leave. Just like he stood up for Pansy when her own family tried to sell her out, or kept your parents’ mess from landing in Voldemort’s lap. And just like he saved Hermione Granger’s life.” He glanced out the window again before returning his gaze to Blaise. "So yeah, he was a giant arse for most of his life. But even then, he was always protecting us. And the war, all of it, it tore him to bits, but it didn’t break him. He’s become…”

“Scary as fuck, mate,” Blaise said. “Wouldn’t want to cross him on a good day.”

Theo huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. That about sums it up.” He set his glass down on the desk. “Draco became exactly what he needed to be to make it out alive. But there’s always a cost. And her? Their bond? I reckon it might be the only thing that can stop him from paying too much of it.”

Theo liked to piss about, liked to make people laugh and keep things from getting too heavy all the time, but he wasn’t stupid, not by any stretch. Draco and Hermione might be first and second in their year, but Theo was third, and he noticed things, noticed people, especially the ones he spent most of his time with.

And lately, there was this slow, sinking feeling in his stomach every time he looked at Draco and really paid attention to what had changed.

Before, he had been jaded and selfish, ambitious too, and clever enough to get what he wanted. But even when he played dirty, his actions had always been tempered by something. Fear. He valued his life. And even though he came from a powerful family and was already a gifted wizard, he’d known his limits, and he’d made damn sure not to push past them.

Now? Theo wasn’t even sure Draco had limits anymore. And the fear—the caution that used to live just beneath his confidence—it was gone. Completely.

These days, the only thing that seemed to shake him, even a little, was her.

Everything else barely bloody registered.

Blaise frowned. “Do you really believe she’ll ever be able to look past all he did?”

Theo turned the glass in slow circles, watching the amber liquid swirl. “I don’t know. It won’t be easy, and she’s got every right to hold onto it. What he did, how he treated her… none of that just disappears. But I also think she’ll see who he is now, not just who he was back then.”

He gave a small, humourless smile.

“She’s not perfect, you know? Everyone acts like she is, like she’s this brilliant, moral paragon who always knows the answer and always does the right thing. But she’s not just that. She’s bitter. She’s angry. And she’s hurting more than most people realise.” He exhaled. “They turned her and Potter into these... ideas, like proof the world could be saved if the right people were brave enough. But once people start seeing you like that, you don’t get to fall apart anymore. You’re not allowed to be messy, or tired, or done with it all. You’ve got to stay strong and shiny, even when it’s killing you. And I worry, Blaise, I really do, because I think it is killing her.”

Theo hadn’t fought in the war, not in body anyway, but fuck if he hadn’t obsessed over every bit of it. He’d read anything he could get his hands on at the time, desperate to know what was happening, worried about his friends, his home, the whole bloody world.

Draco’s suffering happened behind closed doors, where no one really saw it. But hers? Hers was out in the open for everyone to watch. Hers and Potter’s, sometimes Weasley’s too. They got dragged into the heart of it over and over, and none of it was fair. They were just kids when it started. Just fucking kids. And somehow it became Potter’s job to die for everyone, and Hermione’s job to make sure they all stayed alive until then. She was the one who had to think ten steps ahead, who had to fix everything before it went wrong, because if she didn’t, people died. That was the deal.

Theo couldn’t even begin to imagine the weight of it. The pressure. The constant fear of what one wrong move might mean.

And now people expected her to smile, to move on, to be grateful they won?

Blaise studied him. “So you think she’ll go easy on Draco because she’s a big mess herself?”

Theo shook his head. “No, it’s not just that they’re both utterly and rightfully fucked up after all they were put through. It’s that the bond won’t let them hide it… not from each other. And I think that’s what she needs, really. Someone who sees everything, even the parts she’s not proud of. Someone who appreciates her dark bits enough to help her accept them, and who’s strong enough to hold her through the process.”

Potter and Weasley were good friends, even if Weasley sometimes had all the sense of a flobberworm, but as loyal as they were, they weren’t what Draco had always been to Theo, Pansy and Blaise. They didn’t have to be, because they had Hermione. She was the one who took care of things, who did the thinking and came up with the solutions. And maybe that’s why no one ever thought to look at what carrying all that did to her.

But she was drowning now. She needed someone to take care of her for a change. And Draco, for all his faults, was rather brilliant at taking care of people, at least the ones he considered his. He’d been doing it for years. Sure, he wasn’t like Potter, saviour of the world. But to a select few, he was that. To Theo, he was that.

Blaise’s voice cut through Theo’s thoughts. “What about Draco? How will it help him?”

Theo smiled. “Well, I think her forgiveness, if she’s willing to give it, would be the first step towards him even believing he’s worth forgiving. Not just because she wouldn’t give it lightly, but because she’s someone who paid a high price for his ignorance. And I think that once she forgives him, she won’t stop there, it’s just not who she is. She’ll fight for him. She’ll try to keep hold of whatever light is still left.”

And that might make him fight to keep it, too.

“So what,” Blaise muttered, chin in hand, “Granger’s his redemption, gift-wrapped and tied up in a nice bow?”

Theo shrugged. “More or less. Though I’m not sure I’d call a werewolf curse and a magical bond a nice bow.”

Never mind a mating bond, though Theo wasn’t sure Draco wanted Blaise to know that—not that he could tell anyone. After all, Draco had forced Blaise into an unbreakable vow, too. With Theo as the witness.

Blaise let out a sigh. “Mate, I’m here for the soul-connection stuff and our boy dragging himself out of the war pit…but let’s not pretend Granger isn’t looking drop-dead fit these days. Are we sure he doesn’t just wanna throw her on a bed, have a rough go at it and call it destiny?”

Theo closed his eyes. “For the love of Merlin, Blaise. Don’t ever say that where he can hear you.”

Just thinking back to the sound Draco had made earlier, when Theo had only vaguely alluded to a stripping game with the little Gryffindor, was enough to make his skin crawl. He wasn’t sure humans were meant to hear that frequency. His ears still hurt. And he had reasonable doubts whether it had actually originated from Draco’s chest or from the pits of Hell directly.

“Why?” Blaise asked. “Would he be angry, you think?”

“Angry? No, lad. He’d kill you.”

Blaise gulped. “Blimey. Because of the bond? Or your pretty little theory that he like-likes her?”

“Look, maybe he doesn’t. Not yet,” Theo said. “But he’s circling it. You can’t miss it if you know him. And it’s not just that he could like her. It’s bigger than that. It’s like every time he sees another part of who she really is, he can’t look away.” His mouth tugged at a memory. “Remember fourth year, when someone nicked the last jar of marmalade Narcissa sent him? One bloody jar goes missing, and he goes full Malfoy meltdown, nearly hexed the whole dorm. Cut Goyle off completely. Draco doesn’t share well, if at all. He’s possessive down to his bones. And if he got that way over breakfast spread, Merlin help us all when it’s a girl he’s got feelings for.”

Draco had been with other girls, yes. But it had never mattered. Not like this. Theo had never seen him try so hard not to want something. That, if anything, said everything.

Blaise lifted an eyebrow. “Alright, alright, I get it. Whatever they’ve got going on, it’s intense. Probably runs deeper than this mysterious bond they’re tied up in.”

“And?” Theo prompted.

“And I should be careful how I speak of her in front of Draco, unless I fancy forfeiting my life.”

“There’s hope for you yet.”

Blaise shifted in place—once, then again—before saying, “But he still wants to shag her, yeah?”

Theo didn’t even blink. “Oh, yes. Badly.”

With every fibre of his body, the poor sod.

“And they are planning to share a bed?”

Theo gave the mattress a fond little pat. “This very one.”

Blaise whistled low. “Merlin’s balls. This is going to be a proper show, ain’t it?” He grinned. “Draco will combust in a month, tops. Granger, though… I’d give her the term, if she manages to see past his flaws, that is. I’m sure the abs will help.”

It could all depend on the bond, Theo thought to himself. But he hoped not, he hoped the bond still gave them a chance to get there themselves.

“I say the term for him. A year for her.”

He knew Draco wanted her desperately, in part because of the magic connecting them, and in part because he just wanted her. And yet Theo had seen it, more than once, the way Draco worked hard to hold himself back. Malfoys were bred with a thousand awful ideas, yes, but they were also raised to be gentlemen. Lucius Malfoy was a terrible man, but he cared deeply for his wife, and he made damn sure Draco always treated her with respect. Not that he had to try very hard—Draco adored his mother.

Blaise tilted his head. “Well, Nott, how about we put our money where our mouths are?”

And that’s when they clinked glasses for the third time that evening, and for the god-knows-how-many-th time in their friendship, made a bet.

This one, though, Theo wouldn’t mind watching himself lose.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

It was technically morning, though he thought that was being generous, what with the sun barely dragging itself over the mountains and hiding behind clouds so thick you could hardly tell it was there at all. Thankfully, what mattered here wasn’t the sun going up, but the moon finally coming down.

He trudged across the outer courtyard, boots cold and shoulders hunched, and with every step, the pounding in his head got worse. He really shouldn’t have let Blaise talk him into finishing that last bit of firewhisky. Or maybe it had been his own idea. It was all a bit blurry now, except for the part where he’d woken up feeling like someone had taken a hammer to his skull. Repeatedly.

And now here Theo was, feeling like death and close to freezing, heading to meet Hermione so they could walk together to the Whomping Willow and access the secret passage that led to the Shrieking Shack. Between the Chamber of Secrets and this, Theo was getting way too familiar with all the dangerous, hidden corners of Hogwarts.

He sniffed. Whoever bloody said it’s the safest place in the world clearly didn’t go to school here.

When he got to the spot Hermione had pointed out the day before, a big old oak tree mostly hidden behind a slope of stone, he leaned against the trunk and rubbed his hands together, hoping the friction would help warm them up. When that didn’t do much, he pulled out his wand and cast a quick heating charm, sighing as the warmth spread across his skin before shoving it back into his pocket.

Then he waited.

And waited.

And…  where the hell is she?

His brows pulled together as he kept his eyes scanning in every direction, waiting to spot a flash of brown curls coming his way. It wasn’t exactly surprising that he and Hermione Granger hadn’t been close until this year, not with him being best mates with her main tormentor, which, if he thought back on, Theo did feel plenty guilty about. He should’ve tried to stop Draco, of course he should’ve, but the thing was, while Theo had always preferred keeping to himself and didn’t go out of his way to ruin anyone’s day, he wasn’t immune to the world he’d grown up in, all that pure-blood bollocks and the quiet pressure to keep his head down and play along. So no, he never joined in on the name-calling or hexing, but he didn’t exactly speak up either. And yeah, some would say that was just as bad, and he reckoned they were probably right, which was why he now made sure to treat her with the kind of grace she’d always deserved.

Over the past few weeks, he’d learnt a lot about Hermione, and the more he got to know her, the more he liked her and the more he admired her. Not like Draco, obviously, since there was no mating bond between them clouding things up with all manner of complications, and also because Theo had a well-established preference for, well… dick. But even so, for everything he was learning now, there were things everyone had always known about Hermione, just from sitting in the same classroom all these years.

She was responsible. She was punctual. She didn’t miss class or anything important unless she was petrified by a giant snake or off saving the world with Potter and Weasley. So the fact that she was nowhere to be seen, already fifteen minutes past their agreed meeting time, was starting to make him nervous. Really nervous. There was a wave of nausea rising in his mid-section that had nothing to do with the hangover he was sporting, and everything to do with how completely out of character her lateness was.

Theo fidgeted in place. He crossed his arms and paced in front of the tree, then moved a bit further away to check the surrounding area and see if he could spot her. He did all of that for about five more minutes, glancing around constantly, before dragging his hands through his hair and taking off at a sprint back to the castle.

First, he tried the library. Then the Great Hall. Then the hospital wing. After that, he made his way through nearly every empty classroom he could think of, one after another, before finally giving up on anything but the Gryffindor common room. Maybe she’d overslept. Everything going on was wearing her down too, and he’d seen the dark shadows under her eyes more than once. That had to be it. She was probably just tired.

Still, even as he told himself that, his heart was about to fall out through his mouth when he came to a stop in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“I need to go inside for a moment,” Theo said, trying not to sound as frantic as he felt.

The Fat Lady gave him a once-over. “Password.”

“I don’t have the password.”

“Well then, you can’t come in, can you?” she said, lifting her chin. “Rules are rules.”

Theo’s hands fisted. “I just need to speak to Hermione Granger. It’s important.”

“She’s not expecting visitors,” the Fat Lady sniffed. “Especially not from Slytherin boys with no passwords. Honestly, what do you take me for?”

“I’m not trying to sneak in, I swear. Just let her know I’m here, will you? Theo Nott. She’ll come.”

“Oh, I’m not a messenger service,” she said, fanning herself with the corner of her painted gown. “And I don’t go about disturbing young ladies in their dormitories at all hours, thank you very much.”

“It’s not all hours, it’s morning,” Theo muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And it’s not like I’m asking to barge in.”

“You clearly are,” she said, folding her arms. “No password, no entry.”

Theo was about to try again, this time with a bit less patience, when the portrait suddenly creaked open from the inside. And just like that, standing right in front of him, was Harry bloody Potter.  He looked half-dressed and half-awake, his glasses slightly crooked, eyes fixed on a bit of parchment in his hand that seemed to shimmer and shift like it was alive. He stepped through the hole, clearly too absorbed in whatever it was to notice he was about to walk straight into Theo.

“Potter.”

Potter froze, eyes quicky lifting before narrowing with distrust. “What are you doing here, Nott?”

Theo’s mind raced as he searched for the most inconspicuous answer he could give.

“I-I was supposed to meet Hermione at the library this morning to work on our DADA assignment. But she didn’t show up.” His mouth felt dry. “Do you think you could get her for me?”

Potter kept staring at him for a second longer, green eyes bright beneath the jagged scar that marked his unlucky fate, before his gaze dropped again to the parchment in his hand.

Theo fought the need to curse. “Look, Potter, it’s, um, rather urgent.”

Potter didn’t reply, but his expression tightened the longer he looked at whatever was on the paper. It looked almost like a floor plan, maybe a map, with tiny moving dots trailing through twisting corridors of ink.

“Potter—”

The Gryffindor’s head snapped up. “Where the fuck is she?”

Theo blinked. “W-What?”

Potter stepped forward, shoving the map into his robe pocket as his other hand reached for his wand, which he pointed straight at Theo’s chest. “Where’s Hermione?”

Between his hangover, Hermione being nowhere to be found, the looming threat of Draco’s reaction to that, the clamp of an Unbreakable Vow squeezing at his insides, and the wizard who defeated Voldemort now pointing a wand at his chest, Theo was fairly certain he was about ten seconds away from either throwing up or passing out.

He raised his hands. “I just told you I’m looking for her, how am I supposed to know where she is?” He jerked his chin towards the portrait. “Can you check inside?”

“She’s not inside,” Potter said slowly, his teeth gritted, wand still aimed straight at him.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“How do you know she’s not inside? I mean, she has to be, so maybe just go get her and tell her I’m outside—”

“She’s not fucking there. I don’t need to go in to tell you that because I already checked. It doesn’t matter how, but I did, and it wasn’t just her room. She’s not anywhere inside the bloody castle. So I’m going to ask you again. Where. Is. She?”

Theo tried to speak past the panic clogging his throat. “She’s not in the castle?” he rasped.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Theo’s stomach fully dropped as his brain scrambled to make sense of it, trying to figure out where she could have gone, why she’d leave without telling anyone, what could’ve happened if she hadn’t meant to, while his heart pounded so loud he thought he might actually go deaf from the sound of it. It wasn’t just that he was terrified something had happened to her. It was that if she wasn’t found in the next hour, while Draco might still be too exhausted from the full moon to wake up, his best friend, who had literally turned into a werewolf last night, was going to lose it.

Completely. Spectacularly. Lose it.

And all of it was going to come down on Theo. Because it had been his job to watch her. Even if he’d never really believed anything could happen to her inside her dorm at Hogwarts, it had still been his responsibility to keep her safe. He’d said he would. He’d looked Draco in the eye and promised. It wasn’t even about the vow, though that was there too, it was that he’d promised Draco he didn’t need to worry—because fuck, Theo really hadn’t thought he would.

And now she was gone.

Gone.

Shit.

“Potter,” he said, voice thin and cracking, “I swear, I have no idea where she is.”

But he was going to find out. He had to. And while he really didn’t fancy facing the consequences of showing up without her, he already knew exactly where to look first. The one place outside the castle where he’d bet his life she might be.

First, though, he needed to lose Potter, which he quickly realised wasn’t going to be easy.

“I find that very suspicious, Nott.”

“If I knew where she was, I wouldn’t be here looking for her,” Theo said. “Like I said, we were meant to work on our—”

“Defence assignment. Yeah, I remember. And maybe you’re telling the truth. But Hermione’s been acting strange since we got back to Hogwarts, and if I was worried before, I’m a hell of a lot more worried now. Which makes me a bit paranoid about why you wanted to meet so early on a Saturday to work on something that’s not due for months.”

“I’m sorry. Have you met Hermione? Is she really the type to wait until the last minute?”

“What about Malfoy? He’s part of your group, yeah?”

Theo didn’t let himself hesitate. “He refused. Said she was mental for wanting to waste a lie-in.”

Potter processed that and very slowly lowered his wand. “If I find out you’re lying to me—”

“Why are you freaking out so badly? She could’ve just gone to Hogsmeade, you know?”

Theo had plenty of reasons to be panicking, plenty of reasons to jump straight to the worst-case scenario, but that was because he knew just how wrong it was that Hermione hadn’t shown up. She’d hated leaving Draco yesterday, he could see it in every step she took away from the Whomping Willow, like walking had been a fight against herself. She’d been worried about him, and Theo couldn’t help but hope that worry went a bit deeper than the bond. He’d fully expected her to already be there when he arrived this morning, pacing, anxious to get back to Draco.

“You said she made plans with you, Nott. It’s not like her to flake, she—” Potter’s eyes looked haunted. “Someone could’ve gotten to her. Fuck, Bellatrix is still out there, I—”

“Hey,” Theo called, firmer now, forcing down the twist in his own stomach so he could focus on the wizard in front of him. “It’s going to be fine, Potter. We’ll find her soon.”

Trauma. That’s what this was. That’s why Potter looked like that. Why his face was pale and his stance nervous. This was about what it meant when someone went missing. About the kind of memories that came crawling back when you realised you didn’t know if someone was safe anymore.

It was about living through a war.

Theo cleared his throat. “Come on, let’s split up. One of us should take Hogsmeade, the other the Forest.”

“I’ll take the Forest,” Potter said. “It’s safer for me.”

He was the better fighter, that was what he meant, and Theo wasn’t about to argue, not when it was true and not when it would let him leg it to the Shrieking Shack faster.

“Got it.”

If only Potter knew how bloody lucky he was. A couple of spiders and some shadows in the trees were a walk in the park compared to what Theo was about to face, which might be Hermione safe and sound, if Merlin wasn’t too deaf to hear the hundreds of desperate prayers Theo had already sent up, or it might be no Hermione at all and a rather tall, very dangerous, and only extremely recently un-werewolfed Malfoy heir who would, no doubt, not let years of friendship stop him from ripping Theo’s throat right out when he found out Theo had lost his… mate?

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Theo should’ve paid attention. Like properly watched when Hermione did the thing with the tree, instead of spacing out and assuming he’d never be out here alone, trying not to get turned into mulch. Because now he was about to be publicly executed by a psychotic piece of landscape, and it was ninety-nine percent a tragedy and one percent a relief. Because if he did get flattened by the bitch tree with anger issues, at least he wouldn’t have to walk into the Shack and possibly have to tell Draco, post-war Draco, scary as shit Draco, werewolf-cursed Draco, that Hermione wasn’t with him.

Still, Theo raised his wand and tried something, anything, shouting the first half-useful spell that came to mind, which clearly wasn’t useful enough because the tree just responded by whipping one of its branches around faster than he could regret every single life choice that led him here.

He jumped back with a yelp, stumbled over a root, and did what any reasonable person would do in his place.

He shouted at it.

“What the fuck is your damage? Husband cheat on you?”

Another branch swung right past his ear, never giving him enough time to get away.

“I swear to Merlin, if I die like this, I’m going to haunt the Herbology department forever,” he snapped, ducking again.

And just as the next branch came flying at his head, ready to end him, something slammed into his side, knocking him flat on his back.

“Immobilus!”

The word rang out above him, and for about three glorious seconds, the tree froze. Just enough time for a blur of movement to reach the trunk and press against the bark in what Theo could only assume was the exact spot Hermione had touched yesterday when she made the bloody thing behave. The figure then turned, cloak flapping, and as the panic and branches cleared from Theo’s field of view, he blinked up into the very unimpressed face of Harry Potter.

The other wizard pointed his wand at Theo for the second time that morning. “You’re trying to get into the Shrieking Shack, aren’t you? Tell me why.”

Theo said nothing.

“I also know how to wake the tree up, Nott, if you'd prefer to go another round with it.”

Theo shook his head quickly.

Potter walked closer, bent down, and smiled at him in a way that was threatening but also kind of hot. “Then talk.”

Theo sat up. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“What are you even doing here? You were supposed to go to the forest, Potter. Or did you decide to follow me instead?”

“You told me Malfoy wanted to sleep in. But he’s not in your dorm. Coincidentally enough, he’s not even in the castle,” Potter accused.

Theo huffed out a breath and shook his head. “How the fuck would you even know that? Do you know where everyone is in the castle all the time?”

He meant it as sarcasm, but the way Potter’s face stayed still made him pause.

“Holy shit. Do you?”

Potter ignored his question. “I testified for Malfoy because Hermione asked me to. I told the Wizengamot that he was a product of the people who raised him, that he made the wrong choices but could be better.” His wand was still in his hand. “But if he’s done anything to her, Nott, I swear to you, all I have to do is say the word, and he’ll spend the rest of his life in Azkaban. So I’ll ask you one last time. Why are you trying to get into the Shrieking Shack, and why are both of them out of the castle?”

Fuck.

“Draco wouldn’t hurt her, Potter”

“No? Then why do you look so nervous?”

“Because you’ve got a really nice face,” Theo said. “And it’s right in front of mine.”

It must be said that Theo took great pleasure in watching Harry Potter, war hero of the century, chosen one, defeater of dark lords, suddenly lose the ability to form a sentence, his features swinging wildly between confusion, offence, and a touch of embarrassment.

Theo tilted his head with a smile. “You’d think someone like you would be used to compliments, Potter.” He paused. “Or is it because it’s coming from a man?”

Potter’s eyes reacted to that, but he quickly pulled himself together. “It’s because you’re a Slytherin who’s currently lying to me.”

Theo’s smile dropped. “Not lying. Just... withholding.”

“That’s not better.”

“Well, it’s a little better.”

“You know what, I’m done with you wasting my time, Nott. I’ll find this out myself.”

Before Theo could stop him, Potter turned on his heel and ran straight towards the base of the Whomping Willow. The tree, already peacefully still from earlier, didn’t even twitch as he dropped to the ground and crawled into the hidden passage.

“Shit. Potter, wait,” Theo hissed, scrambling after him.

By the time he crawled in, Potter was already ahead, moving fast through the narrow tunnel while Theo stumbled after him in the dark, swearing under his breath as he tried to catch up.

“Potter, I’m serious,” he said again, reaching for his wand while he ran. “You can’t—”

Potter didn’t even look back, but Theo’s wand still flew straight out of his hand, the sound of it hitting stone echoing loud in the cramped space. With no time to retrieve it, Theo simply kept running, dread crushing all the air out of his lungs.

He didn’t know what condition Draco would be in, whether what had happened last night would still be written all over him, whether Potter would figure it out the second he saw him, or whether Hermione would even be there at all.

All he knew was that Potter was still ahead of him and already pushing open a door they wouldn’t be able to close again.

Theo reached the end of the tunnel just in time to see him step inside.

“What the fuck happened to this place?” Potter murmured, voice low as he took in the scene.

Theo followed behind, not sure what Potter was on about exactly, since all he could see was furniture, and this was his first time actually stepping inside the place. Draco had asked him to wait outside yesterday, and Theo had accepted it easily, having absolutely zero interest in going in. The place had quite a reputation, after all, and he was already at his limit when it came to anything haunted this past week, considering Myrtle wouldn’t stop trying to grope his dick every time he went for a piss.

For a second, he felt relieved by the room’s empty-looking state, but that vanished quickly, first when his brain started shouting questions about where the hell Draco and Hermione actually were, and then again when Potter took two more steps, turned, and headed straight for a narrow staircase Theo hadn’t even noticed before, one that to his fresh horror Potter was already going down.

Theo bolted down the stairs after him, heart thudding, already bracing for whatever mess they were about to walk into, because if Draco was down there still recovering from the full moon and Potter so much as raised his wand, Theo was ready to throw himself on him and sort the rest out later.

But before any of that could happen, Potter suddenly stopped dead on the last three steps, and Theo crashed straight into his back, not even slightly on purpose, and it was only Potter’s hands gripping the bannister and the wall that stopped them both from going flying straight into the room.

Theo heard him grunt a bit at the impact, but that was it, that was all the reaction he gave, clearly too occupied with staring straight ahead with his mouth parted open, and Theo’s eyes followed, already pretty sure of what he would find… only to find himself just as frozen in shock.

“Sweet bloody Merlin,” he breathed.

Draco was there, naked and asleep on a thick mattress on the floor, heavy shackles still locked around his ankles.

And that was fine.

That was expected.

What Theo hadn’t been ready for was the fact that Hermione Granger was right there next to him, fully dressed but just as deeply asleep, her head resting on Draco’s arm like it was a pillow, his face pressed into her curls where they framed the side of her face. From where Theo stood—and yeah, Potter too—it looked like Draco had folded himself into her space completely, arms and legs drawn possessively around her, his shoulders slightly curled, head angled down, limbs set like she was something to protect, the shackles doing absolutely nothing to keep him from wrapping himself around her like that.

He was so much bigger than her that most of her was hidden from view on that side, but even so, her curls were unmistakable, and Theo could already feel Potter building towards a complete fucking meltdown—not that he could blame him. The sight of them like that was a proper shock (if disgustingly sweet) even to Theo, and Potter was facing it completely blind.

His reaction was entirely justified, it was.

But it didn’t do a single thing to stop Theo from following through on his earlier plan the second he felt Potter’s wand hand start to twitch. He knocked into him from behind, this time on purpose, and allowed himself to fall forward with Potter until he landed squarely on top of him on the floor.

“Get off me!” Potter roared.

“No!” Theo shouted, pressing his full weight down to keep him from moving.

And that’s when the energy in the room shifted completely, and a sound Theo had begged never to hear again came ripping out of the chest of a very naked, very furious Draco Malfoy, now standing protectively in front of the girl he’d been snuggling just five seconds ago, his gaze empty of any trace of civility or recognition as he stared at Theo and Harry on the ground.

Today, Theo had woken up extremely hungover, been threatened (twice) by the wizard who turned evil to ash, and almost flattened by a vengeful overgrown plant in the space of barely an hour. It had already been an absolutely awful bloody morning, but this, this moment right here, still won the fucking prize.

He swallowed, stared at the murderous expression on Draco’s face, and did the only thing he could think of that might save both himself and the boy who lived and was about to die.

“Hermione! Wake the fuck up!”

Art by Selune_illustrations (IG)

Chapter Text

Draco

Peaches.

The scent came before anything else, slipping into his nose, so close it felt like it was resting on his own skin. He was breathing slow, still caught in that floaty space just above sleep, and with every inhale the peaches sank deeper into his lungs, spreading warmth through him until he melted further into the solid softness beneath him.

It wasn’t that there was no pain. His head still throbbed behind his eyes; his side tugged with each breath that went too deep because he was fucking greedy for it. Desperate for more of the excruciating sweetness gracing the air, the perfume that wrapped around him so thick it felt almost drinkable.

Or maybe he was the one wrapped around it. Hard to tell. Didn’t matter.

What mattered was that it was here, tucked into the crook of his arm where it belonged, where he could keep it close, keep it his. The world could fall to bits for all he cared. As long as this stayed, he’d be fine.

He kept still. Limbs heavy. Eyes shut. Fully content to never move again while exhaustion and satisfaction folded over each other, holding him suspended in that place between dreaming and waking where time didn’t move and thought barely tried, and everything he wanted or needed was already in his arms, held with him in the closest thing to bliss.

Then came the sound.

A thud, loud and sudden and close. His eyes shot open.

Peace gone.

Stolen.

He went from calm to furious in a hard beat of his heart, vision tinging red, blood pounding through his body like it wanted out, fire rising past the pain as every nerve in him screamed the same thing over and over.

Protect.

One second he was still, the next he was all muscle and rage and movement. His head was empty. He was ruled completely by instinct as it pulled him upright, made him stand, made him shield, made him cover. He drew the line with his own skin between the threat and the thing he would tear limb from limb and throat from throat to keep safe, a savage warning rolling up through his bared teeth.

All he could smell now was fear. The peaches were gone, smothered under it, and it only made him angrier.

“Hermione! Wake the fuck up!”

They were trying to look past him. Behind him. Reaching for what was his with eyes that didn’t deserve to see. His shoulders rolled, hands closed into fists, spine tight and trembling with the rage running wild in him. He’d tear their eyes from their skulls, rip ou—

“Theo?” A breathy gasp, groggy and confused. “Harry? What—oh my god. Draco!”

“He’s not recognising us, Hermione!”

They made sounds with their mouths, shaping the air that reached his ears, and the noise went through him, around him, trespassing to where it wasn’t allowed.

It made him snap.

His body launched forward, fury and bare instinct all shoved into motion, and he would have reached them, he would have torn them apart, if not for the sudden slam of metal yanking him back. The force of it knocked him sideways, his knees hitting the floor hard and his breath torn from him in a snarl.

His head whipped up, eyes searching—frantic—but not for them.

For her.

Soft words and magic rushed over his skin, the weight of fabric covering his lower half as he kept searching, chest tight and breath coming fast, until a figure dropped down in front of him. Relief and panic crashed over him at once. She was here. But she wasn’t safe. She was facing him, crouched with her back to the threat that had woken him.

He growled, trying to twist around, trying to shove her behind him, but his legs were caught, the metal around his ankles tugging hard, biting in, scraping over skin already rubbed raw. He didn’t care. He had to move her. She couldn’t be there. Couldn’t be where they could easily reach her with nothing in their way.

“Draco. Stop. You’re hurting yourself.”

He continued fighting, trying to move in front of her, pressing an arm out, blocking her with his body the best he could, dragging his limbs through the pain without thought or plan or control. His nails scraped against the floor, teeth still bared, muscles coiled and ready.

“Hey, hey,” she whispered, both hands reaching for him. “Come back. Come back, Draco.”

“He looks bloody feral! Get away from him, Mione!”

A hand clamped around her arm, trying to pull her back. Thunder tore out of his chest, his blood boiling as his gaze fixed on the contact.

“Oh, I hate that noise. I hate that noise so much.”

She shrugged the hand off. “No! You’re not helping, Harry! Just—give me a minute.”

“He won’t hurt her, Potter. I told you.”

“You told me? Are you bloody kidding me, Nott?”

“Snap out of it,” she went back to whispering, her breath brushing his cheek. “They won’t hurt us. It’s alright.”

“I will definitely hurt him.”

“No, you won’t, Harry,” she hissed, not turning.

Her hand touched the side of his face, her palm settling over his jaw, and his lips came together, hiding teeth. “Draco. Wake up.”

The name, said like that, in her voice, pulled at something deep within him.

“Come back… Please.”

He blinked, and the light was wrong and red painted the world, but something cracked beneath that, forming a gap just wide enough for her to get in. And there it was again, flooding his senses and stealing all his focus.

Peaches.

Sweet and addictive and his.

His hands twitched. The pressure behind his eyes made him feel sick. His head hung too heavy on his neck. His mouth opened, and it came out dry and broken.

“G-Granger.”

Big brown eyes, speckled with gold, widened.

Another figure dropped down next to her. Dark, but not black, hair. A frown.

“Christ, mate. You owe me a very strong drink and possibly a new pair of pants.”

Draco leaned back, awareness flooding him in a brutal wave. The Shack. The moon. The ache in every bone. The shift. And then… nothing. Just a blank stretch of darkness where he must have lost himself.

Until now.

“Hermione, I need you to explain this to me. Properly,” came a voice, biting and annoyingly familiar. “But for now, step away from him, will you?”

Draco’s eyes snapped up, confirming what he already knew.

Saint bloody Potter, standing right behind Granger with his wand raised and that famous mug of his twisted into a very displeased scowl.

Draco’s narrowed gaze slid to Theo, who made a face. “Right. Just, before we get into it, know that however bad you think your morning's going, mine’s a thousand times worse.”

Draco didn’t press him for details. Not yet. Instead, he dragged himself to his feet, feeling two different hands helping him on each side. One was dainty and feminine and searing on his bare skin, the other was Theo’s. He glared at the boy standing across from him. “Potter. What the fuck are you doing here?

Potter only spared him one second of attention before his gaze returned to Granger. “Come here, Mione.”

Draco didn’t think. His hand shot out, wrapping as firmly around her wrist as he felt the metal on his ankles. “No.”

Potter’s brows immediately lowered, nearly meeting the rim of his glasses as his wand lifted a fraction. “No?”

Draco pulled, letting Granger trip into him as an answer.

Fuck no.

Potter’s eyes flashed.

“Let her go, Malfoy.”

Draco smirked. “Why don’t you try and make me, Potter?”

He had no wand, his legs were shackled, and his entire body was hurting… but what lived in him now didn’t need a weapon, not when possessiveness flowed like lava in his veins.

A huff exploded beside him.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Granger bit out. “I am not a toy for you two to fight over. If you don’t both stand down in the next five seconds, I’ll hex you so thoroughly you’ll be waking up next to each other in the hospital wing.”

She wriggled in his grip until he was forced to either let go or hurt her. He let go.

Granger looked between them, arms folding across her chest as she exhaled. “Clearly, this is a mess, and we will sort it, but we will do so in a civilised manner. Harry, put your wand away. And you…” Her gaze dipped to his bare chest for half a second, and the scent of peaches kicked up. “You’re going to get dressed, take the potions I give you without whining, and sit your arse down and rest while we all talk. Got it?”

Merlin, that bossy little tone of hers. It did things to him. Made him want to toss her over his shoulder, take her somewhere dark and private, spank her until she was squirming and flushed and perfect. Made him want to fuck the attitude right out of her—or maybe let her keep it, just a bit longer, let her play the part until he reminded her who was really in control.

“Draco?” she pressed.

It pained him greatly to crush his fantasies in favour of rolling his eyes and grumbling, “Fine.”

There was a beat of silence in the room before Potter spoke, wand no longer in his hand but his face set like he’d just swallowed something incredibly bitter. “Alright, no. No. What the hell is this?” He jabbed a finger at Granger. “Since when does Malfoy listen to you, Hermione? Since when do you call him Draco? And since when do the pair of you talk without sounding like you'd rather be hexing each other into the next century?” He dragged a hand through his black hair. “And for fuck’s sake, why in the name of Merlin did I walk in on the two of you cuddling on what looks like the aftermath of a very particular full moon affliction?” His head snapped to Draco; eyes narrowed to slits. “Which leads me to my final fucking question, when the bloody hell did you become a werewolf, Malfoy?”

“Huh. He got there quickly,” Theo muttered.

Draco’s brows pulled together. “Wait—cuddling? What do you mean you walked in on us cuddling?” He turned to Theo. “Did she not come here with you?”

Theo’s face twisted in a grimace. “Er… no. I… I couldn’t find her.”

“Is this why you wanted the Invisibility Cloak?” Potter questioned Granger. “So you could help Malfoy hide his little condition? You lied to me, Mione. You told me you weren’t in danger.”

“And I’m not.”

“If you’re hanging around a werewolf, you are!”

Draco had to let their exchange fall to the back of his head as he focused on Theo. “What do you mean you couldn’t find her?” His voice was hard. “Where was she?”

Theo hesitated. “She was… here. I suppose.”

“You suppose?” Draco barked, the words ripping out of him.

“If anyone should know, it’s you,” Potter cut in coldly. “She was sleeping in your arms. So, tell me, Malfoy, what the hell are you playing at?”

“I—” His mouth opened but nothing came out.

Every other time he’d transformed, he’d kept his mind, courtesy of the Wolfsbane in his system, but last night was just gone, completely fucking gone, and no matter how hard he tried to dig it up, there was nothing waiting for him except the dull pulse of panic in his chest.

“I—I don’t remember anything,” he said finally. “I don’t know why, I should, I mean, I took the wolfsbane, but—"

His heart was doing this funny thing that wasn’t really funny at all, detaching itself from his chest just so it could wedge itself somewhere in his throat.

“Hermione?” Theo said, cautious but pressing. “Care to explain?”

Draco turned on her then, her name heavy on his tongue. “Granger?”

And Merlin, there was a whole bloody tangle knotted up in just that one word because he didn’t even know where to begin.  Didn’t know if he was more furious or terrified, because what the hell had happened, what had she been thinking, showing up alone when she was meant to come with Theo like they’d agreed, like he’d trusted her to.

And he didn’t even want to think about when she’d come, because what if he’d still been a fucking monster when she showed up? If that were the case, then Potter was right. She had lied about not being in danger, and it made him sick that he was the reason.

But how in the name of all things sacred had they ended up cuddling? How had they got to that, and why couldn’t he remember a single godsdamned second of it?

He wanted to. Fuck, he wanted to.

He felt lost. Robbed. Furious. And most of all, he felt like punching something.

Preferably Potter.

“I…” Hermione paused, arms crossed over her middle. “You don’t remember anything?” she asked, looking at Draco.

He shook his head.

She nodded once, then looked away. “That makes it more complicated.”

He moved on instinct, bridging the small distance between them in less than a breath. “Why?” he demanded harshly, studying her pretty face. “How could you come here alone? You swore you wouldn’t. Is your word really that worthless?” His fists flexed at his sides. “When did you get here, Hermione? What were you thinking? And how—how the hell did we end up—"

“Draco,” she snapped. Her chin was lifted high enough to defeat their height difference, her gaze fierce as it levelled with his. “Shut up.”

His teeth set like iron. “I’ll shut up when you’ve stopped behaving like a reckless brat who—”

“I don’t remember either!”

That stopped him cold.

“What?”

“I went to sleep in my dorm last night and woke up here, next to you. That’s all I know.”

His mind turned to chaos, fragments of thought slamming into each other until he reached the only possible conclusion.

“The bond,” he said, voice low and hoarse.

“Yes,” Granger agreed.

The magic must have pulled her to him last night, must have dragged her out of her bed and into this cursed Shack, perhaps while he was still a beast.

The room swayed, first a bit, then a lot. He staggered.

Granger was already there, grabbing his arm to help, and Draco grasped at his balance before he took her down with him. “You need to rest,” she said firmly. “Get dressed, then come upstairs. I’ll give you something that might help, and we can start making sense of this.”

“Hold on,” Potter spat from the side. “The fucker can rest after you tell me everything. What bond?”

Hermione turned on him so fast it startled even Draco. “You of all people know what the transformation does to the body, Harry. You saw it, all the time, with Re—” She stopped herself, the name choking off halfway, and something in the break made Draco want to reach for her with both arms.

“We’re going upstairs,” she said, stepping away from him instead to grab Potter’s arm and pull him with her. “And I’m going to sort out the potions while you tell me how and why you showed up here with Theodore.”

As they went up the stairs, Potter given no choice but to follow her, Draco kept his eyes on the exact spot she was touching the other wizard, ice coating his gut.

Theo had started up the steps too, but paused on the first and glanced back. “What are you going to do about Potter?”

Draco considered it. “Nothing.”

Theo raised a brow. “You’re going to risk it?”

“You and Blaise already know. She needs someone on her side too.”

“But you won’t be able to convince him to take an Unbreakable Vow,” Theo said. “Aren’t you worried he’ll decide to out you one day?”

“I did what I wanted to protect the secret from my end,” Draco said. “But she’s allowed to choose how she protects it from hers.”

He didn’t trust Potter, not at all. But… he trusted Granger. He trusted she would find a way to keep him quiet.

“That’s why you didn’t press her about Luna, either.”

Draco gave a slow nod.

Theo tilted his head. “Though you weren’t just protecting the secret, were you?”

Draco didn’t answer.

After a small and amused shake of his head, Theo resumed climbing, only to pause again a few steps up, glancing over his shoulder with a glint in his eye.

“Don’t worry, mate. I’ll pull the memory out and save it for you.”

Draco frowned. “What memory?”

Theo winked. “The one of you and Hermione cuddling so sweetly.”

“Fuck off.”

Still… how much could a Pensieve actually cost?

It could be useful. For other things.

He’d look into it.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“You and that bloody map, Harry Potter. I ought to burn it someday,” Granger said as she handed Draco his second dose of pain potion.

He was sunk low into the only sofa in the room, having just endured Theo’s dramatic retelling of how Potter had ended up barging into the Shrieking Shack with him that morning. And while Draco had half a mind to throttle someone, he couldn’t really blame Theo. The real offence, in his opinion, was Potter’s collection of magical artifacts as if they were bloody Chocolate Frog cards.

Draco sipped the horribly bitter potion and muttered, “Isn’t it a bit perverse, though? Spying on a girl like that?”

Potter bristled. “I checked the map for Hermione because she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. End of story.”

“Mm,” Draco said. “Because paranoia and invasion of privacy are entirely off-brand for you, right?”

Potter’s eyes narrowed. “The last time I had to keep tabs on you, Malfoy, you were sneaking Death Eaters into the castle.”

Silence reigned for a moment, then Draco gave a thin smile. “Touché.”

“Alright, let’s not lose focus,” Granger said, looking between him and Potter with a frown.

“When did you become a werewolf?” Potter promptly asked.

“During the last battle.”

Potter’s brows scrunched. “And you’ve managed to keep it a secret how?”

“Luck,” Draco said. He nodded towards Granger. “And help.”

Theo coughed into his hand.

Draco rolled his eyes. “A lot of help.”

Potter turned to Granger. “But why would you help him hide it? He’s a danger to everyone in this school.”

She chose that moment to sit beside Draco, and he may or may not have shifted just enough to brush his leg against hers. Her gaze was on the other Gryffindor as she murmured, “Would you say the same if it were me who’d been bitten? Would you out me to the world and make it so I couldn’t return to Hogwarts?”

Potter shook his head. “That’s different.”

“Different how? I’m not saying precautions aren’t necessary, and I won’t be hypocritical and pretend I didn’t find it reckless that Dumbledore hired a werewolf to teach us in third year. But I need you to answer this honestly, Harry.”

“I… Hermione, that’s not a fair question.”

“You’re wrong. It is a fair question. Because if Draco hadn’t been there, it would have been me.”

Potter’s mouth opened. “What?”

“I should have been the one it happened to, Harry,” she said plainly. “Although, if it had gone that far, I probably wouldn’t have become a werewolf at all. I’d be dead.”

Something cold went down Draco’s spine, and he curled his hands into fists without meaning to.

Potter’s face drained of colour, and he fiddled with his glasses, suddenly appearing much younger. “Tell me everything.”

Granger sighed. “That day, I couldn’t find you anywhere. Ron and I hadn’t seen you in hours, and I thought maybe you’d gone to the forest again. So I went to look for you.”

“On your own?”

She nodded.

“The sun was already going down by the time I got there, and the night came on fast. I didn’t dare use a Lumos, in case someone saw, but then I heard growling in the dark. I-I panicked, tried to run… and, after a bit, ended up crashing straight into Draco.”

“And then?” Potter asked, his green eyes turbulent.

“Then I asked if she was going to kill me,” Draco answered for her. “And she said I wasn’t worth her time.”

They glanced at each other, and he caught the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. It matched the one pulling at his. That night felt like it belonged to a completely different life, at the same time it felt permanently etched into every part of him.

“I was about to leave when Greyback found us,” Granger said. “I recognised him, even in that form. He immediately lunged, and Draco--he threw himself in front of me.”

Shock and confusion played out on Potter’s face as his gaze moved to Draco. “You did that?”

“Yes.”

“I… Why?” Potter asked, disbelief coating each syllable. “I mean, no offence, but… you’re not that person. And it’s not like you haven’t spent years telling her how worthless her blood makes her.”

“I was wrong. I’ve always been so wrong. And I knew that already, just like I knew that if one of us deserved to die that night… it was never her.” He turned slightly, catching Granger’s gaze again. Her lips were parted, her eyes steady on his. “It wasn’t her time,” he added softly. “Death didn’t get to have her.”

Fate made it so another monster claimed her first.

Potter pulled out a chair and dropped into it, scrubbing a hand down his face. “ Shit. Malfoy… I don’t even know how to thank you for that.”

“Don’t,” Draco said. “I have no need for it.”

“Well, tough, cause I do,” Potter said. “She’s my best friend. My family. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her. So you’ve got my gratitude, whether you like it or not.”

They locked gazes for an uncomfortable amount of time, until Draco gave the smallest of nods.

“Fine.”

“You know,” Theo said, gesturing with his mug, “this feels like the perfect time for a hug.”

Draco’s lip curled. Potter actually recoiled.

Theo snickered at their faces. “Too soon?”

“Regarding the curse,” Potter said, eyes cutting to Granger. “I get why you’re helping him hide it now, I do. What I still don’t get is what the fuck I walked in on this morning. Malfoy said something about a bond. Care to explain that part?”

Granger stiffened beside Draco, and he felt the heat coming off her skin as she cleared her throat, fingers whitening around her knee.

“Well… I’m not really sure how to explain it,” she murmured. “We’re still trying to understand it ourselves, to be honest. But something was created between us that night. A magical bond. A very powerful magical bond. And it’s been affecting us; manifesting in certain… symptoms.”

“What symptoms exactly?” Potter’s features were drawn tight. “And why the hell would it drag you to him during a full moon?”

Granger shifted, her leg pressing closer for a second. “The bond—Luna, she thinks it’s connected to the werewolf. To the creature. Because of the, um, nature of it.”

“Luna knows?” Potter asked. “And what’s the nature of it, then?”

 “Oh, lord,” Theo mumbled into his mug,

Granger was visibly struggling to answer, stuck somewhere between explanation and retreat, and when the silence stretched too long, Draco leaned forward, his shoulder sliding in front of hers.

“It’s a mating bond,” he announced with no hesitation, voice steady and clear.

A broken inhale left the soft lips to his left, and he had to force himself to keep looking at Potter.

“It’s physical by nature, so it requires proximity, contact,” Draco continued. “That might be why it pulled her to me last night. I didn’t expect it, and for what it’s worth, I’m probably more unnerved by it than you are, Potter. Going forward, I’ll make sure it never happens again, so don’t worry about it.”

Even if they had to shackle her too, he’d never risk it. Maybe she hadn’t faced the beast this time. Or maybe she had and for Merlin knows what reason it didn’t get a chance to harm her. Either way, Draco knew he could never transform again with any peace of mind if there was even the faintest chance she might come to him.

Potter’s jaw was completely slack as he took in Draco’s words. “You’re not joking,” he said at last. “You’re actually serious.”

“Very.”

Potter’s head fell into his open hands, elbows braced on his knees. For a moment, he just breathed. Then he looked back up.

“A mating bond?”

“Yes.”

“W-What does that even mean?”

“We don’t know yet. That’s why I asked for the Cloak,” Granger said. “Why I need access to the Restricted Section without asking McGonagall for permission.”

Potter’s gaze was wide. “There’s a way to break it, right? I mean, you can’t be stuck together for life.”

“We’re hoping so,” Granger whispered. “But… we haven’t found any yet.”

“Besides death, of course,” Draco commented.

Potter stood abruptly, his chair scraping back and falling behind him, and then Granger was on her feet as well, so quick it was as if she’d anticipated his reaction. She placed herself in front of Draco, her narrow shoulders rigid with tension, while Theo took a step closer too, positioning himself calmly at her side.

Draco’s brows rose high as he stared at the elegant line of her back in surprise, a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth.

“Hermione, what—”

“I won’t let you hurt him, Harry.”

“Hurt him? I’m worried he’ll hurt you.”

With that, any trace of amusement left Draco.

He pushed himself up, ignoring the twinges of pain along his muscles, and stepped forward until he stood just behind her. Then he reached out, one arm curling around her shoulder and sliding across her collarbone as he pulled her in, drawing her flush against him, her body warming his ribs. Her breath quickened, coming in shorter bursts, but she didn’t stop him. She let him hold her that close, his hand splayed possessively over her other shoulder.

Something burned pleasantly in his chest as Draco lifted his gaze, locking eyes with the boy who lived over the top of her head.

“See, Potter? She’s not afraid of me. And she shouldn’t be. But you?” Draco’s voice cooled. “You may just find out what else the war turned me into.”

Tension filled the air.

“Draco,” Granger warned, tipping her head back to look at him, her curls brushing the base of his throat.

He smiled down at her innocently. “Little Witch.”

“For the millionth time, Potter,” Theo said, exaggerating exhaustion. “He won’t bloody hurt her.”

Potter let out a rough breath. “Does the bond stop him? Is that why you’re defending him too, Mione?”

Granger wrapped her hands around Draco’s arm and tugged. It didn’t move. She pulled again, harder. Nothing.

“Lad,” Theo muttered, side-eyeing him. “Read the room.”

Draco’s jaw ticked, but he finally released her, and after casting him a quick scowl, Granger closed the distance between herself and Potter. Draco and Theo followed close, which earned them a long-suffering look from The-Boy-Who-Lived.

“Do you remember asking me if things would ever feel normal again, Harry?”

Potter nodded, cautious now.

“I think they will,” she said, reaching out and taking his hand. “But not the kind of normal we used to know. That’s gone. We don’t get to have what we had before, not after everything. We have to build something different. And in this new world I’m trying to believe in, Draco Malfoy isn’t the enemy anymore. He’s… my friend.”

Potter’s face held all kinds of emotion as he tore his gaze from her to glance behind her, eyes narrowed.

“Just your friend?”

Draco tilted his head.

“What?” Granger let out a sound of surprise. “Yes. Of course. What you saw this morning… it was part of the bond. I suppose we’re not normal friends, exactly, but no, Harry. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not… that.”

Potter looked down at her with his mouth in a thin line and, after a moment, said, “I want to speak to Malfoy. Alone.”

Granger stepped back as if he’d pushed her with his words. “Harry, enough.”

Potter dragged a hand through his hair, eyes closing for a breath. “Look, I’m not going to hurt him. I swear. I just want a word.”

Draco nearly snorted. As if.

Potter might still be quicker with a wand. Might even still be the better duellist. But that wouldn’t be enough. Not anymore.

“Go with her, Theo,” Draco ordered.

Hermione turned sharply. “I’m not leaving.”

Draco met her glare with a calm smile.

“Granger, we’ve just informed Saint Potter that his least favourite classmate is now a cursed monster with a claim on the girl he considers family. Let him have a moment. Let him say what he needs to say. If he wants to throw a fit and threaten me a little, I can take it.”

His gaze flicked to Potter, then back to her. “And don’t worry, little witch,” Draco added. “I won’t hurt him.”

“Come on, Golden Girl,” Theo said, steering her gently by the shoulders. “Let them work out who’s got the bigger wand while we get some fresh air. I’d stick around for the drama, but I’m still emotionally compromised from this fuckshow of a morning.”

“But—”

“No, no. You owe me,” he cut her off. “You left me to the wolves. Nearly literally.”

Hermione exhaled hard through her nose. “Oh, fine.” She cast one last look over her shoulder as Theo tugged her away. “Behave.”

Once they were gone, Draco turned to Potter expectantly. “Go on, then, Potter. Show me what you’ve got. I’m assuming the little Weasley didn’t find it enough?”

Potter made a rough, incredulous sound. “Bite me, Malfoy.”

Draco smirked. “You should’ve asked me a few hours ago. Bigger teeth.”

“And far too close to her neck,” Potter snapped.

The smirk vanished.

“I told you. It’s not going to happen again.”

Potter’s lips thinned.

“Was she telling the truth before?”

Draco gave an impatient huff. “About bloody what?”

“Are you just friends?”

A humourless laugh escaped him. “You don’t believe her?”

“It’s not her I don’t believe. It’s you.”

Draco cocked a brow. “Me?”

“You don’t look at her like she’s your friend,” Potter accused. “You look at her like she’s…”

He trailed off, searching for the word.

Draco spoke before he could think better of it. “Mine?”

Potter’s jaw clenched.

“Exactly.”

Draco nodded. “I understand, Potter. I do. But we’re friends. Even if I don’t deserve it in the slightest. Though, I won’t lie to you...”

He stepped forward, voice lower now. “She’s my friend, yes. But she’s also the face I see when I close my eyes. The one I want to be around constantly. The one my body craves in a way I can’t control. And if someone tried to take her away—” He stopped, darkness whirling inside him. “I don’t know what I’d do.”

Potter exhaled.

“Is that how the bond makes you feel?”

“It is.”

A pause.

“Is it only the bond?”

Draco fell back until he could lower himself onto the sofa again, his body weary and achy but not the reason he needed to sit down. He looked at the floor for a moment, then back up at Potter, giving him the only truth he had.

“No. I don’t think so.”

Potter pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was really hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

When Draco offered nothing else, Potter dropped his hand and squared his stance.

“Right. Then I’ll be clear. You saved her life. That counts for something, whether I like it or not. And I do believe you won’t hurt her—not intentionally.” He let that land before his tone shifted. “But if she ends up hurt, Malfoy, by your hand, by your curse, by your carelessness, by whatever, I won’t just reveal what you are. I won’t just let the world come for you. I’ll come for you myself.”

After a beat, Draco let out an incredulous chuckle.

“Bloody hell, Potter. I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“What day?”

“The day I didn’t entirely dislike you.”

Potter raised an eyebrow. “Don’t get comfortable. I still do.”

Draco shrugged. “Good thing I don’t particularly care.” He got up. “If you’re done,” he said, moving past Potter with little regard to whether he was really done or not. There was a pressure in his chest, a restless tug beneath his skin, that urged him in the direction she had gone only moments earlier. But he forced himself to stop, just at the mouth of the tunnel, and glance back.

“Oh, by the way, if you happen to be watching that little map of yours in the future, don’t be shocked to find her in my dorm. We’ll be having a few sleepovers soon.”

He offered a wink.

“You know…. as friends do.”

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“Here, look at this,” Granger said, bringing her wand closer to the page.

Draco skimmed the passage, Potter’s invisibility blanket still draped over their heads as they sat wedged between two large shelves in the Restricted Section.

The affliction known commonly as lycanthropy engenders the metamorphosis of the individual into a creature neither wholly man nor beast, but some grotesque amalgam of both. In this altered state, the subject is divested entirely of rational thought, moral restraint, or human sentiment. Governed instead by primal instinct, the werewolf is singular in purpose: to pursue, to hunt, and to kill.

He frowned. “There’s nothing new about this.”

She didn’t look up right away. “No, but… I’ve been wondering.” Her thumb hovered near the margin. “If the bond is tied to the werewolf, maybe it doesn’t only affect the human. Maybe it interferes with the creature too.”

“Interferes how?”

She shifted, her knees brushing his. “I’m not sure exactly. But maybe it makes him a little more evolved, maybe a little more…I don’t know. Just more.”

“The werewolf curse is born of dark magic, Granger. What it creates, it doesn’t just look like a monster. It is one.”

She closed the book, letting it fall shut between them. “I know. It was just an idea. I guess my mind tends to ramble when I’m tired.”

He studied her. “How have you been sleeping?”

He hated that he already knew the answer.

She shrugged, eyes on her hands.  “Not great.”

“But no potion?”

At that, she looked back at him.

“No potion.”

He gave her a small, approving smile and reached over to pinch her cheek. “I’m proud of you.”

She scrunched her nose, in that way he knew she did when she was trying not to look flustered, then cleared her throat. “Shall we go? I think we’ve covered all we can for tonight.”

“I suppose,” he said, concealing just how little he wanted to leave.

She passed him the book, and he slid it back into place on the shelf behind them, careful to keep the cloak draped over them both. Their height difference wasn’t making it any easier, and it was likely only because he barely needed the cane anymore that they hadn’t tripped, pressed so close together under the shared cover.

They’d both agreed the healing of his leg was related to the bond, and Draco was ravenously curious to see what would happen once they began sleeping in the same bed, which Granger told him should be possible in less than two days according to her planning.

He rose slowly, wincing as his ankles throbbed with the motion, then offered her a hand.

She frowned, gazing down as she took it. “Are they still hurting?”

“Just a bit.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t use the shackles anymore.”

“That’s not an option. Especially not now that the Wolfsbane’s proven completely useless at its one job of letting me keep my own mind. It put you in danger.”

“I’m completely unharmed.”

“And I intend to keep it that way.”

She paused. “Are you so sure he would hurt me?”

“He?”

“The werewolf.”

“Of cour—” Draco froze suddenly.

Their conversation replayed in his mind.

“If the bond is tied to the werewolf, maybe it doesn’t only affect the human. Maybe it interferes with the creature too.”

“Interferes how?”

“I’m not sure exactly. But maybe it makes him a little more evolved, maybe a little more…I don’t know. Just more.”

“Draco?” Granger called, brows pulled together, watching him closely.

“Him,” Draco whispered.

“What?”

“You always called the beast an ‘it’ before. But now you called it a him. A he.”

Granger’s eyes widened.

He moved quickly, crowding her back until her spine pressed against the bookshelf, one hand braced beside her head, the other still gripping the edge of the cloak. Her wand slipped from her fingers, the Lumos charm dying out as the dark swallowed them whole, the magical fabric draping close and heavy around their bodies.

He leaned in, slow and controlled now, his nose brushing the curve of her hair until his mouth ghosted over the shell of her ear. “Oh, you naughty, naughty witch,” he accused, both angry and exhilarated by his discovery.

“Draco,” she gasped, unsettled.

He drew back a little, their faces close enough that each breath became shared—one cool and steady, the other sweet and shallow.

“You lied to me, Hermione.”

“I—”

He leaned in again, cutting her off, his lips hovering just in front of hers as he spoke.

“You remember.”

The accusation sat heavy between them, his heart thundering with echoes of it as the silence stretched, every moment too long. And even as the air grew stifling with charged energy, he held her there, trapped by his body and by her deception.

Finally, and maybe only after weighing all her options, she sighed and rose to her toes, her head tipping until her mouth found the space just beside his ear.

“Got me.”

Holy. Fuck.

Chapter Text

Hermione

It wasn’t that she meant to keep it a secret.

It was just that when she’d woken up the morning after the full moon, everything had been too much, there were too many people and too many questions and too much bloody chaos. She hadn’t wanted to explain what happened to her the night before, not right then and there, and especially not when Draco was being snappy and moody when it hadn’t even been her choice to go to the Shrieking Shack in the middle of the night. At least she didn’t think it had been. All she really knew was that there’d been a pull, stronger than anything she’d ever felt, and it had led her to him. Not Draco.

Him.

So yes, she hadn’t planned on hiding it from Draco, not at the time. Except now, with his large body caging hers against the bookshelf and her heart racing madly as he dipped his head and inhaled deeply at her neck, like he could taste the lie on her skin, she found herself strangely protective of it, of her lie, of what had happened that night. And when his mouth returned to her ear and he whispered, his voice husky with anger, “Tell me what happened, Granger. Now,” she didn’t feel like complying. Not at all. So she just turned her head and said, “No.”

He pulled back slightly. “No?”

She pressed her lips together.

At her silence, Draco let out a quick dry laugh that felt everything but amused, before he said, “Don’t you fucking dare. You don’t get to keep this from me.”

She shifted. “I know.”

“Then tell me.”

“I… no.”

She could feel the tension pulsing off him as his hand lifted from the shelf beside her head and slammed back into it, the sudden impact making the whole structure jolt behind her. “Hermione,” he growled, close enough that a shiver ran down her spine.

She swallowed. “I just… I need a few more days.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t even processed it.”

“What bloody happened that you need to process it? Is it because you saw it? The creature?”

Her mind reeled and her stomach felt weightless like it might just drop straight out of her.

“Yes. I-I met him.”

“Stop calling that thing a him like it’s human or it’s got a soul or a conscience! It’s a goddamn monster, Granger!”

“What if it isn’t?”

His hand darted out and grabbed the side of her face. “Listen to me, before you make me lose my fucking mind. Just because it didn’t hurt you this time doesn’t mean it won’t the next, and I can assure you I will not let there be a next, because that thing is not a person, it is not a him, it’s a savage, bloodthirsty animal, a killer, and you are not going anywhere near it again. Not when I’ve spent every single morning choking down that vile, gut-rotting excuse for a potion just for it to fail the one thing it’s meant to do and give that thing free reign for the entire bloody night. I was gone. Do you have any idea how messed up that is? How it feels? Of course you don’t, because if you did, you’d tell me.”

She looked away from him, even if it was pointless in the dark, and pulled in a shaky breath.  “What if I let you see it?”

His grip eased in an instant, his thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. “What?”

“When I’m ready… I’ll let you see what happened. I’ll show you exactly how we ended up like we did. You can use Legilimens on me.”

There was a pause, and then he spoke, close to her temple.

“Show me now.”

Her teeth found the inside of her cheek.

“I’ll show you before the next full moon.”

“Fucking hell,” he bit out roughly. His hand slid down to rest at the curve between her neck and shoulder, warm and heavy through her clothes, and his fingers tightened there.  “You’re so bloody difficult sometimes, it’s infuriating, it’s exhausting, it’s like you do it just to test how far you can push me, just to see if I’ll snap, and I swear, Granger, I’m this close. But also, shit…” A sound rose in his throat, caught somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “The way it makes me want to keep you right here, exactly like this, and take my time pulling every last secret out of your stubborn little mouth with m—”

He stopped abruptly—stopped—and it made her blink, made her ache, made her a bit insane to be left hanging where he left her. His head snapped to the right, the air shifting fast across her face with the movement.

“Wh—”

A large hand covered her mouth, his forehead pressing against hers, and then she heard it too. Footsteps. Slow and moving closer. Her nerves spiked in alarm, her eyes widening even though she couldn’t see a thing, and Draco was already pressing her deeper into the shelf behind her, his other hand tugging Harry’s cloak tighter around them just as a pool of lantern light began to spill into the aisle.

“I still can’t decide whether your place ought to be out there or in here,” came the familiar voice of Headmistress McGonagall, echoing low as she walked. “I do sleep easier knowing you’re within these walls. But do I truly believe they’d be foolish enough to strike the school again? I’m not convinced. What would be the purpose?”

“Most of them will just run, like they’ve been doing.” Professor Burns. Their Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and formerly one of the best Aurors in the field. “Disappear abroad, change their names, pay off the right people and hope we’ll eventually stop looking. We won’t. And I’ve no doubt my fellow Aurors can manage those… it’s the others I’m worried about.”

McGonagall slowed. “Which ones?”

“The ones who still believe the war isn’t over. They’re not fleeing, not forever, they’ve simply slipped into the shadows, gathering what scraps of power they can find and keeping their heads down until they are ready to strike again.”

“And you think they’ll come after the students?”

“They’re not just students, Minerva. You’ve got the boy who did what most grown wizards couldn’t, and the two who stood with him until the very end. They’re a symbol, the three of them. Of victory. Of hope. Of the light’s strength. Potter and Granger most of all. And if someone wanted to snuff out the light, to cast doubt, to get revenge, you wouldn’t start with the Ministry or the Auror Office. I'm afraid there would be no quicker statement than to start with the three who are living under this castle’s very roof.”

“Aarav… do you have any proof, or is this just instinct?”

“A bit of both,” Professor Burns answered. “There are important names we haven’t crossed off yet. Bellatrix Lestrange among them. She’s got nothing to lose.”

McGonagall exhaled loudly, the sound weighted with dread.

“So this is why you requested the position.”

The last thing Hermione heard before they walked out of range was, “If she comes, I want to be here first.”

More often than not, the feeling would begin in her chest, stealing the air from her lungs and crushing them until nothing had any hope of coming in to replace what was stolen, and then it would spread, crawl through her limbs and settle in her hands, make them shake, make her legs weak, like her whole body was under attack from something she couldn’t see or touch or fight. This time though, she could still breathe. She could still hold herself up. And maybe that meant she was getting stronger, more resilient, maybe she’d finally grown past it and could consider herself healed. Except that wasn’t it at all.

The real and only reason she was keeping herself together after what she’d heard was because she could feel him shaking, his hand dropping from her mouth, his entire body vibrating against her as his breaths blew quick and harsh above her ear.

She placed her fingers on his arms, letting them curl gently into the tense muscles beneath. “Draco? Are you alright? What do you need?”

Hermione knew Bellatrix’s name was a trigger for her, and it made sense that it could be one for him too, especially after what Theo had alluded to, the things Hermione still didn’t fully know, the things no one had said outright but that lived behind his eyes when the war came up.

“Hey,” she tried again when he didn’t answer. “It’s okay. You’re safe in here, no one will let her get—"

“Granger.”

She swallowed her other words. “Yeah?”

“I know her. I know them all. I know what they’re capable of, because I’ve seen it from the inside. I’ve worn their mark and stood beside them. But they don’t know me. Not anymore. And if my aunt or any other filth thinks they can come back and finish what they started, I'll make sure they learn it."

Unlike his body, his voice wasn’t shaking. It was strong and unmistakably threatening, terrifying in the kind of way she had enough sense to recognise, but not because it created any fear in her.

“Learn what?” she asked in a whisper.

“That there are bigger monsters than them out there,” he snarled.

And that was when she understood.

He wasn’t shaking because he was spiralling. He wasn’t shaking because of his trauma.

He was shaking because he was furious. So furious it was boiling out of him, his whole body alive with violence.

Still, she had to say it. “You’re not a monster, Draco.”

Not even on a full moon.

Definitely not.

“Oh, little witch. That’s where you’re wrong,” he muttered. “I’m the worst kind of monster.”

“A werewolf?”

His hand lifted again, thumb brushing her cheekbone.

“The kind with a mate to protect.”

Her breath caught.

He tucked a stray curl behind her ear, one she hadn’t realised had fallen loose, and she had no idea how he’d seen it in the dark.

“And if they come anywhere near you, Hermione… I’ll be the kind of monster they don’t survive.”

It was a strange thing, really, how between the creature he turned into under the moon and the boy in front of her now, she couldn’t quite say which one made her feel safer. And for a moment in time, only as long as one breath to the next, she contemplated it.

The bond.

Would it be such a terrible thing to keep it?

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“I really, really don’t like this.”

“I know, Harry. You’ve only said it three times since we left,” Hermione muttered under her breath.

She never thought she’d long for the days she had the Invisibility Cloak to herself. Mostly because it’s not the sort of thing one expects to lose access to.

“I don’t think there’s a number high enough to convey how monumentally I hate this plan.”

“You should’ve just let me walk here alone.”

“Oh, so you don’t have to hear me complain about you sharing a bloody bed with Malfoy?”

“Yes. Merlin, yes.”

Finally, they reached the large stone archway that led to the Slytherin common room.

“Do you know the password?” Harry asked.

Hermione hesitated. “I do.”

“Well? What is it?”

“I shouldn’t really say. It was shared in confidence.”

She could practically hear the scowl in his voice. “Hermione. I’m not going to storm in and hex anyone, I just want to be prepared. In case you need me.”

“I won’t need you.”

“Still. Just in case.”

She shifted on her feet. Then said it very quickly, “Thoyhogotded.”

“What?”

She sighed. “I think Draco may have… adjusted it. Just for tonight. After I mentioned you’d be walking me.”

He exhaled. “Just say it, Mione. Coherently this time, please.”

She bit her lip.

“Theboywhogotdumped.”

Hermione felt Harry’s stare sear into the side of her face as the stone wall began to move, not nearly as loud as she’d feared, and then a voice echoed from the shadows within, sounding far too smug for anyone’s good.

“Hello, Potter.”

Harry’s glare snapped to the opening, where Draco stood leaning against the wall, looking irritatingly pleased with himself.

“You little shit.” Harry bit out, and his hand darted for his wand, but Hermione caught his arm before he could draw, the movement sending the cloak slipping just enough to expose both their faces.

Draco’s eyes found hers instantly.

“Ah, there’s my soon-to-be blanket thief. What took you so long?”

“I had a bit of trouble, um, setting up the illusion.”

He arched a brow. “Lying’s becoming a bit of a habit, isn’t it, Granger?”

Hermione rolled her eyes instead of answering, mostly because he was absolutely on to her.

Draco’s gaze slid to Harry. “Appreciate the escort, Potter. I’ll take it from here.”

Harry gave Hermione a look. “Remember the pillow shield. Full coverage.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response.

Harry narrowed his eyes at Draco. “If you make her uncomfortable, I swear to Merlin, I’ll cave your face in.”

Draco didn’t flinch. “Relax, Potter. She’ll be very comfortable. My sheets are pure silk.”  He stepped aside. “Do come in, little witch. Unless you fancy getting caught.”

Hermione hesitated for just a second, her heart knocking loudly in her chest as she stepped fully out from under the cloak and cast one final glance at Harry, her voice low but steady as she murmured, “I’ll be fine.” Then she walked past Draco without looking at him, spine straight, breath tight, each step taking her deeper into the Slytherin common room for the first time in her life.

The door sealed behind them and Draco turned around, lifting a black robe from the back of a three-person leather couch. The room was larger than Gryffindor’s, she noticed at once, and far more elegant, all dark wood and green accents, minimal in decoration but expensive in feel, with a cold sort of beauty that matched the house it belonged to. Tall arched windows stretched across the far wall, revealing the lake beyond in murky shadows, still in a way that felt more peaceful than eerie.

“Here,” Draco said, holding out the robe. “It’s mine. Just until we get to the room.”

There shouldn’t be anyone wandering around at this hour, but Hermione nodded anyway and let him help her slip her arms through the sleeves, trying not to react when the material practically drowned her, the cuffs hanging halfway past her fingers.

Draco smirked. “Cute.”

His fingers found the hood and pulled it up over her hair, adjusting it so it stopped just short of her eyes, and then, with a light press of his palm to her back, he started leading her forward.

“Did you take longer in the hopes Blaise and Theo would be asleep by the time you got here?” he asked casually as they walked.

She climbed the four stairs he nodded to. “Maybe.”

The illusion she’d cast to make it look like she was still in her bed until dawn had its complexities, yes, but she’d practised it enough times that it really shouldn’t have taken more than five minutes, tops, which meant she’d definitely stalled.

“I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed then,” Draco said, stopping at a door at the end of the corridor that looked exactly like the rest.

Hermione turned to look at him, his eyes all silver shadow in the dark, and frowned. “So they’re still awake, then?”

Draco didn’t bother replying. He just opened the door.

The first thing that hit her was the smell, not bad exactly, just very boy, something like expensive cologne mixed with no-less-expensive aftershave, and then came the sight of them, Theo and Blaise seated comfortably around a small table in the centre of the room, right in the middle of where their three beds curved around it, the floor scattered with playing cards and the table holding a bottle of something amber that she could only assume had a ridiculously high alcohol content, with two glasses, one in front of Theo and the other in Blaise’s hand.

Draco gently nudged her forward over the threshold she’d frozen at, and as he shut the door behind them she felt a silencing spell settle into place. Theo turned first, eyes bright and cheeks flushed enough that she could tell he was tipsy at the very least.

“Golden girl,” he said, beaming at her. “Welcome to the snake pit.”

Blaise tipped his glass in her direction, lips twitching. “Evening, roomie. Hope you don't snore.”

Hermione blinked, and looked over her shoulder at Draco, who only looked back at her with amusement, like this was normal, like this was what she’d signed up for.

Apparently, it was.

Hermione turned back to Blaise and offered a polite smile. “I don’t think I do.”

“Unfortunately for you, neither of these bastards can say the same,” he said. “But I’m sure a drink will help you sleep through it.”

A spell would also work. But she didn’t think it necessary to point that out.

“Have a seat?” Theo added cheerfully, nodding at the empty chair beside him.

“She’s not staying up with you idiots,” Draco bit out, close behind her. “She needs rest. We have class tomorrow, and unlike either of you she has functioning brain cells.”

“But it’s her welcome party,” Theo protested, pouting like a five-year-old denied pudding.

Yes, he’s definitely already drunk.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Actually… I wouldn’t mind joining them.”

She wasn’t a big drinker, well, unless one counted the Dreamless Sleep potion she’d downed every night for the better part of a year. But proper alcohol, like they were having, she’d only ever tried a few sips here and there, usually at holidays and always with a big plate of food in front of her, and never enough for it to do anything other than burn slightly and make her eyes water.

But as she stood in this room, made up entirely of nerves about what would follow if she refused Theo and Blaise, it started to sound like the best idea she’d had in days, mostly because it would buy her a bit more time, and that was all she really needed, just a little more space between now and what she’d come here to do.

She didn’t necessarily think she’d be any more ready for it later… but maybe they’d all be a little less watching, a little less awake, less aware. And it would be easier to ignore that she’d be lying down next to him in the dark, in sheets that probably smelled of mint and crushed leaves, with his large body taking up more of the bed than it should and so close and so warm she honestly couldn’t imagine how she was supposed to shut her eyes and find her way to sleep.

Theo looked instantly triumphant, like a child whose mother had just relented with a sigh and handed over the sweets.

Draco, however, frowned, eyebrows furrowed over his eyes. “Are you sure, Granger?

“Yes.”

He sighed. “You know, something tells me you’re a lightweight. “

She grimaced. “That would be a good guess.”

He walked forward and pulled out the chair for her. When she went to sit down, he leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed the shell of her ear, and murmured, “If you get dizzy, let me know.”

She nodded, not quite able to meet his eyes as she lowered herself into the chair, her fingers curling around the glass Theo slid her way, trying not to think about how gentle Draco’s tone was.

Across the table, Blaise grinned. “Just so you know, Hermione, if he starts kicking in his sleep, I’ve been told I sleep like the dead. And my bed’s always open.”

Theo snorted. “Now you’ll sleep like the dead.”

Hermione followed Theo’s gaze to Draco. He did not look happy. 

Is it a bond thing?

Abruptly, his arm shot out, fingers pressing just above her collarbone to keep her from leaning forward—and on the other side, Blaise’s glass shattered in his hand, splashing liquor and splinters across his lap in an impressive show of wandless magic.

Her eyes widened. Blaise swore.

Draco’s arm lowered. “That was your only warning.”

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“Alright, the rules are simple,” Theo began. “We take turns asking each other questions, and if you refuse to answer or give a boring response, you drink. Got it?”

Hermione nodded.

“Right, let’s kick things off,” Blaise said. “If you had to snog one professor to save your life, who are you choosing?”

Theo let out a chuckle, took a sip of his whisky, and stated confidently, “Aarav Burns. Hell, I’d do it for fun.”

Draco’s face twisted. “You’re joking.”

“Hey, he’s really bloody fit for his age. Got that whole dangerous Auror thing going for him, deep voice, probably rough in bed. What’s not to like?” Theo turned to her. “Back me up here, Hermione?”

She looked between Draco’s scowl and Theo’s expectant grin, then sighed. “Sort of,” she said, cheeks warming. “I think I’d pick the same.”

Theo smacked the table. “Ha. Knew it. Auror daddy for the win.”

Blaise laughed and turned to Draco. “What about you, mate?”

Draco looked sulky as he reached for his glass. “None of them.”

“Well, I’d go with Sprout,” Blaise announced.

Theo arched a brow. “Now you’re taking the piss.”

“Not at all,” Blaise said smoothly, raising his glass with a smirk. “I just reckon she knows her way around a stick.”

Theo burst out laughing, and Draco smacked the back of Blaise’s head. “Fucking behave.”

And even though she’d already given her answer, Hermione took a sip of her drink, as it was the only way to stifle the bubble of laughter climbing up in her throat.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“If you could change one thing about your past, what would it be?”

The way Theo’s question fell into the room felt heavier than the ones before it, and Hermione noticed the way Draco’s expression tightened. But instead of shying away, he was the first to speak.

“I’d erase the mistakes I made before and during the war. There are a lot of things I’m not proud of, people I hurt that I wish I could take back.” His eyes flicked to her for the briefest second before dropping back to the glass in his hand. “But my biggest regret was all the times I did nothing.” He took a long gulp of his drink. “What I wouldn’t fucking give to change that.”

His words made her chest squeeze, knowing fully well which moments he was referring to, and she felt a sudden, almost desperate urge to be closer to him, so she let her leg press lightly against his beneath the table. He glanced at her, eyes dark and intense, and then his arm lifted to rest casually along the back of her chair, his leg pressing back more firmly against hers.

“That question is a bloody trauma magnet,” Blaise grumbled. “Change it.”

“Or,” Theo said, “you could just drink.”

“No. I only drink because I want to, not because I’m avoiding a question. That’s for cunts.”

“But you do want us to skip the question?”

“Yes.”

“So… you’re still avoiding it.”

“I’m choosing not to engage with it.”

“As a cunt would do…”

“N—"

“I have a question,” Hermione cut in, worried their exchange might spiral into eternity.

All three Slytherin boys looked her way.

She tilted her head. “If you were an Animagus, what animal would you be?”

“Oh, that’s a good one. See, Theodore?” Blaise said. “Learn from our little Gryffindor.”

Theo rolled his eyes but answered, “Dog. I’d definitely be a dog.”

At his answer—and considering his friendship with Draco—Hermione couldn’t help but think of Sirius and Remus, two best friends who had once also been a dog Animagus and a werewolf. Her eyes pricked unexpectedly, and a moment later she felt the hand that had been resting along the back of her chair shift to her shoulder, Draco’s thumb beginning to draw slow, absent circles against her skin.

“Well, I’d be a swan,” Blaise said.

Theo choked on his drink. “A swan?”

Blaise glared at him. “They’re elegant, fierce, look stunning while doing sod all, which is basically my brand, and I’m pretty sure they get all the ladies, too.”

“Actually,” Hermione chimed in, “all swans are female. Males are called cobs.”

Blaise shrugged. “A cob, then. Cob Zabini. Sounds posh.”

Hermione shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I think I’d be a dove.”

Draco hummed low in his throat. “I’d have said cat. Considering your emotional attachment to that ugly beast that stalks you around the castle.”

Theo coughed into his fist. “You?”

Blaise snorted, and Draco narrowed his eyes at Theo.

Hermione crossed her arms. “Crookshanks is not ugly. He’s clever and loyal and the best. That said...” She trailed off, trying to suppress the shiver crawling up her spine at the memory of the Polyjuice accident and the furballs she’d been spitting up for a week. “...I would never be a cat.”

“Oh, I’m sensing a story there,” Blaise said with obvious delight.

Draco leaned in. “Is there one, little witch?”

“Nope,” she said firmly. “No story.”

Draco’s smile sharpened, and it felt much too warm against her skin. “That’s just one more secret I’ll be getting out of you,” he murmured.

Her hand flew to her glass. She took a long sip. 

“What about you, Draco?” Theo asked.

He smiled, like the answer should’ve been obvious. “A dragon.”

Even Hermione had to chuckle at that.

Of course.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

As the game dragged on, the room seemed to spin more and more around her, and everything felt just slightly off, like her body was always a beat behind her thoughts, her head too light one moment and too heavy the next. She wasn’t sure when it had started, only that now, as she tried to lift her mostly empty glass to her lips, her fingers trembled so much the liquid had a higher chance of hitting her chin than her mouth, and that was when Draco’s hand was suddenly there, wrapping around her glass and taking it from her.

“I think you’ve had enough.”

She just nodded, because yes, she thought so too.

“Do you want to go to bed?” he murmured, brushing a few strands of hair back from her face and tucking them behind her ear. She was getting used to him doing that.

“Not yet,” she managed to say, and this time, it wasn’t to avoid anything, it was just that the thought of standing made her stomach roll unpleasantly, and staying still felt safer.

“Okay,” he said simply, and then he cleared the table in front of her, moving the glass and other things out of the way, before nudging her gently. “Rest your head for a bit.”

She smiled a little, or maybe a lot, she wasn’t sure, as she folded her arms on the table and let her head drop onto them, cheek turned towards Draco instead of Theo, her lids acting a bit clumsy.

Draco smiled and leaned down so only she would hear him. “You can close your eyes, little witch. I’ll get you to bed if you fall asleep.”

His words sent a wave of warmth over her, and as the boys kept playing, she did try to close her eyes, hoping it would ease the dizziness. But each time she did her stomach gave a warning twist and she had to blink them open again, breathing slowly, trying not to let it get worse, until she eventually gave up and watched Draco instead.

He was on his third glass already, maybe even fourth, she’d lost count, but he didn’t seem the least bit drunk, didn’t slur, didn’t sway, just tipped his head back and drank with the same controlled ease he’d had since the beginning, his throat moving with each swallow in a way that was inexplicably hypnotic, and maybe it was the alcohol in her blood or maybe it was the bond but she couldn’t look away from him.

And he kept looking back too, his gaze flicking to her every few seconds, clearly monitoring her condition, and even through the fog of alcohol in her head she was fairly certain there was a good bit of worry written all over his face.

After a few more minutes the nausea got so bad she couldn’t take it anymore, she’d tried to tell herself she was fine, but even in her mind the words were blurring together, and she ended up lifting her head with a soft miserable sound that barely made it past her lips.

Draco’s attention snapped to her. “Granger?”

She caught his gaze through damp eyes, the way the alcohol felt in her body strange and unfamiliar and scary, and she hated how her voice shook when she whispered, “I’m not feeling so good.” Her stomach rolled again. “I-I think I’m going to puke”

“Shit, I’ll get her a potion,” Theo said quickly, his tone full of concern.

In the same instant, Draco was crouched beside her as his hands slid under her knees and behind her back, lifting her like she weighed nothing at all and holding her close to his chest like she was something delicate and breakable and far too important to risk dropping, and she didn’t fight it, not just because she was so sick but because the second her head fell against his shoulder she felt safe in a way that made her want to cry.

“It’s alright,” he murmured against her hair as he carried her out of the room, his arms tight around her. “I’ve got you, little witch, just hold on, yeah?”

By the time they reached the loo, he was already lowering her down, one arm still firm around her back as he helped her onto her knees, the other bracing her shoulder like he knew she might collapse. The moment her legs hit the floor she lost the battle, retching hard as he held her up, his touch cool against her temple as he swept her hair back with careful fingers, his voice so soft she almost didn’t hear it over the terrible sound of herself losing the contents of her stomach. “Shh, that’s it. Good girl, just let it all out.”

When she was finally, finally done, he eased her back against him, guiding her gently until her head found his lap, and when he looked down at her his grey eyes were warm but his mouth was pulled into a frown. “You’ll feel better soon, alright? I promise.”

Hermione gave the smallest nod, followed by a weak apology, her vulnerability laid bare in the low light of the toilet.

Draco tutted. “Don’t,” he said, his face darkening a little. “I shouldn’t have let you drink so much. You’re small and not used to it. I fucking miscalculated and didn’t take care of you properly.”

So much hadn’t even been a full glass, but that wasn’t the point, the point was—

“It’s not your job to take care of me,” she mumbled, her voice scratchy and slurred.

Draco stared at her for a moment, before he lightly brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “What if I want it to be?”

“I have it, I have it!” Theo suddenly burst into the space with a vial in his hand.

Draco took it from Theo, then helped her sit up, letting her lean fully against him as he held the vial to her lips. “Slowly,” he murmured, tilting it as she drank, her eyes fluttering shut as the world continued to spin. But his hand was steady, his body solid behind her, and she found her anchor in him.

It was only a few minutes after the potion reached her system that she felt safe enough to move from the toilet floor, and Draco immediately scooped her up again like it was the easiest thing in the world and carried her until they reached what she assumed was his bed, shifting her weight in his arms as he opened the covers with one hand while still holding her, then carefully dropped her onto the sheets, which felt deliciously cool against her overheated skin.

He hovered above her, one hand braced on either side of her head as he looked down. “Better?”

“Better,” she rasped.

He nodded and moved down to remove her shoes, tugging them off before pulling the blankets over her properly, and her gaze followed him as he walked around to the other side of the bed, shrugging off his robe and kicking off his own shoes before climbing in beside her with none of the awkwardness she’d expected earlier tonight.

She turned her head to look at him. “This really is silk, isn’t it?”

He huffed a laugh. “From the finest shop in London.”

“Hmm.”

Her eyes were so heavy she could hardly keep them open, and as they fell shut, she thought vaguely that maybe some things really were worth the gold people like him spent.

“Is she okay?” she heard Theo ask from across the room.

Then, from beside her, “You two stir up any more recklessness that ends with her hurt, and I’ll hold you both responsible.” The furious warning cut through the room, aimed at Theo and Blaise. “Don’t fucking test me on this.”

Hermione wanted to speak, to defend them, to say it had been her own decision to drink and she wasn’t a child, but she couldn’t seem to find the energy. Apologies were mumbled, low and very much chastised, and then quiet fell over the room.

It was in that silence, and with her on the edge of unconsciousness, that Draco shifted beside her, the mattress dipping with the movement, and she felt the weight of him close, the warmth of him even closer, and then the lightest press of his lips against her forehead, barely there before he pulled back and murmured, “Sleep well, love. Nothing’s going to touch you while I’m here.”

And maybe it was then, no sooner or later than that, that she began falling.

Eyes closed, heart open, hopelessly tumbling into sleep and into something that might just ruin her.

Chapter Text

Draco

She slept in his bed three times a week—Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays—because those were the mornings she’d scheduled with Madam Pomfrey to work on healing potions, which conveniently gave her an excuse to be up and out before her dormmates started to stir and realised the Hermione tucked beneath her covers was nothing more than a cleverly placed illusion charm. She’d told Draco it always faded at dawn and left behind a perfectly made bed, so when the other girls woke, they’d assume she was already halfway through a cauldron in the Hospital Wing.

Honestly, trust Granger to devise a plan that earned her extra credit and landed her in his bed three nights a week without anyone raising an eyebrow. Well, aside from Potter, of course, whose glaring disapproval of their arrangement Draco considered a particularly delightful bonus.

The downside, though, was that having the little witch sleeping next to him turned out to be absolute hell on his sanity. Not because of her. Well, actually, entirely because of her. Because every time she stayed, he had to wake up at an hour no human being should be conscious, and while Draco had mastered many impressive things in his life, willingly separating himself from a warm bed and a warmer witch before sunrise was not one of them.

And what made it a thousand times worse was that every time he opened his eyes, his cock was so fucking hard it hurt, thick and throbbing and leaking like he’d been edged for hours, spilling over the waistband of his trousers, the tip dragging wet over his stomach with each shallow breath while the whole length of him pulsed with need.

He wasn’t even properly awake and he was already so close he could feel his come knotting deep in his spine, heavy and hot and burning to be let out, and he knew that if she moved, if her fucking knee so much as brushed his hip or if he dared take one deeper pull of her scent, he’d come undone in the most humiliating way, making a mess of himself while she lay there fast asleep, completely unaware of the pathetic state she had him in.

So every morning—or maybe he should say every night, considering the bloody moon had yet to leave the sky—Draco lay there for a moment, completely still, jaw clenched, eyes on the ceiling, trying not to look at her, trying not to breathe too fast or move too much, because if he did, he’d lose what little control he had left, because all he could think about was her thigh slotted between his, the curve of her arse pressed right up against his hip bone, and how easy it would be to just rut into her until he blew all over her soft skin, and worse than that, how badly he wanted to slip his hand between her legs and find out if she was already wet for him, just from being near him, just from sleeping in his bed, warm and his without even knowing it. But he couldn’t. 

She was only there to sleep, that was it, he reminded himself over and over, and so he’d lie there with his fingers fisted in the sheets and his cock aching like it was about to split skin, whispering every reason he couldn’t touch her into the dark. And once he’d scraped together enough control not to come untouched in his bloody pants, he’d get up and stumble to the shower, trying not to trip over his own feet as he walked with a fucking time bomb between his legs.

Then he’d plant one hand against the cold tile and fist himself with the other, the head so swollen and sensitive it made him hiss through his teeth as he dragged his hand over his cock in rough strokes, no rhythm, no patience, just filthy need and her scent clinging to him. He came with a snarl bitten into his wrist, thick come hitting the wall and running down with the water as he stood there with his chest heaving under the freezing spray, waiting for his head to clear so he could go back into the room and make her some tea before she left for the Hospital Wing.

And it was as he did this, the grand finale of what had become his fucked morning ritual, that Draco decided to grab an apple from the little basket he kept by his bed and cut it up into a few pieces, just in case she woke up a bit hungrier than usual today, which wouldn’t be surprising considering all the bloody moving around she did during the night.

The first time, she’d fooled him into thinking she was some kind of angel in her sleep, dead still in her corner of the bed to the point he kept checking she was breathing and making sure she hadn’t got sick from the Firewhisky again. But after that? Fuck. The girl couldn’t stay still to save her life. She’d start the night keeping a very respectable distance, pillow between them (Potter’s brilliant idea), back politely turned, but by midnight that same pillow was on the floor and she was everywhere else, leg flung over his, hand spread on his chest, curls in his mouth like she was trying to kill him.

While his leg was nearly healed and the pressure from the bond had finally stopped throttling him during the day, Draco got very little sleep with her around, mostly because all that tension had relocated its energy to pitch a bloody mountain in his cock instead. Granger, however, slept all through the night. She had all nine times she’d stayed in his bed. And even on the nights she didn’t come over, her nightmares were better now, or so she said, though he could see it for himself in the way she looked less tired during the day, in how she laughed more freely and more often, in how she closed her eyes like she trusted the dark again.

Or maybe trusted him. He liked that more.

And so, regardless of how much it turned his nights into an endless exercise in restraint, he’d let her stay every single night if she wanted. Wouldn’t even think twice. If that meant his balls aching and an ice cold shower before sunrise for the rest of the year, fine. He’d make peace with it.

She was safe. She was sleeping.

That was what mattered.

Why it mattered to him that much—why he hated the nights without her, even if those were the only ones he actually slept—he never let himself think too hard about that.

“Granger,” he whispered over Blaise’s loud snoring.

For all his shit, the prick could keep half the castle awake, and every night Draco had to cast a quick muffliato just to make sure she could sleep through it, and to give them a bit more privacy too, because as he’d found out, Granger liked to chat before bed, sometimes for hours, especially in those first few nights when she was still a bit jumpy, poor thing, probably afraid of the big bad wolf.

To be clear, that was him. Not the actual big bad wolf. No, that one she was still keeping like her dirty little secret.

She’d promised to tell him before the next full moon, and Draco believed her, but if she didn’t, if she changed her mind for whatever fucking reason, then he’d have to find a way to force it out of her, because there was absolutely no chance in hell he was turning again without that knowledge on his side. Not when it could put her in danger.

Granger hadn’t stirred at all when he first called her. “Little witch,” he tried again, holding a cup of tea in his hand that was cooled just enough not to burn her tongue.

She groaned.

His lips twitched as he leaned in and brushed her hair from her face with his free fingers.
“Wakey wakey, sleepyhead,” he said cheerily (in pure sarcasm).

Yeah, he was shit at waking up early. But apparently, so was she.

“C’mon, Granger,” he said as he sat down on the edge of the bed and turned back to her. “Your tea’ll get cold.” He moved the cup close to her nose, letting the steam rise towards her face, the scent of cinnamon and apple drifting between them—her favourite, as he’d learned on one of their never-ending nightly talks, the second night specifically, when she couldn’t seem to get comfortable and kept moving around like the mattress wasn’t worth nearly thirty galleons and charmed with pressure-sensitive cushioning, which it absolutely was.

“Do you want to go back to your dorm?” he forced himself to ask, and she startled, then said no, very quickly, and then didn’t say anything else at all for a while.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the sound of her breathing and the way her hair kept creeping onto his pillow, long and soft and smelling like sweet peaches and everything he wanted and couldn’t have, and after a few more awkward minutes, she suddenly blurted, “If you had to choose between flying or invisibility, which would you pick?”

And he blinked up at the dark and muttered, “Is that a serious question?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” He turned his head. “Shall we make a game of it, then?”

“What?”

“Two truths and a lie. The goal’s to find out which one is the lie. I figured I should get some practice in, considering your growing repertoire.”

There was just enough light in the room for him to see her roll her eyes, or maybe it was just his curse-improved senses, but either way, she whispered, “Fine.”

“Good, I’ll start: I once bribed a portrait to insult someone on my behalf. I hate pudding. I cheated on a Potions essay.”

She didn’t hesitate. “The Potions one.”

He smiled. “Correct. How did you guess?”

“You were rather good at Potions,” she said softly. “I was always a bit afraid you’d get a better grade than me.”

“Ah, so you did notice my rather pointless efforts?”

She chuckled a little at that. “Not pointless. You did come quite close.”

“Well,” he said, glancing at the space between them, “quite close never really felt like enough.”

Now he watched as she peeked one golden eye open, slow and suspicious, her nose crinkling as the scent of tea finally reached her.

“Morning,” he said, smirking.

The one eye blinked up at him, and then the other snapped open too, a faint blush blooming across her cheeks. “Um, morning,” she said, her voice still raspy from sleep.

She shifted slightly, leaning back against the headboard and taking the tea from him, lowering her head to breathe it in before taking the tiniest sip, then offered him a soft smile. “Thank you. It’s divine.”

He stood and reached for the plate of sliced apples.

“Here,” he said, tone light, “I figured you might be hungry after all that exercise you do at night.”

She blinked. “Exercise?”

“You know. All the tossing and turning. The wild leg movements. The occasional kick to my ribs.”

Pushing your thigh against my stupidly hard cock and almost making me lose my mind with need, he thought as he handed her the plate.

She took it and frowned. “Am I that bad?”

“Not at all. I find the three a.m. punches surprisingly useful. Good for my reflex training."

She kept her frown as her eyes searched his face. “Is that why you always look so tired in the morning?”

He sighed. “No, Granger.”

That’s not why.

“If you don’t sleep well with me here, maybe I shouldn’t—”

He sat down again, closer this time, and interrupted her before she said something foolish. “It doesn’t bother me that you move in your sleep.”

If she ever let him touch her—really touch her—he’d have no problem finding ways to keep her still. And Merlin, he’d relish it.

One hand on her hip. The other around her throat.
 Pressed up against him, exactly where she fit best.
Under him. Breathing hard.

He stopped that line of thought before he earned himself another cold shower.

“But—”

“Did you have any nightmares?” he asked, cutting her off again.

She shook her head.

“Good.” He smiled. “Eat your apple then.” He glanced at the wild halo of curls spilling over her shoulders. “And maybe fix your hair—don’t want Madam Pomfrey thinking you slept in the owlery.”

She narrowed her eyes as she bit into a slice.

“No wonder I kick you.”

He gave a low chuckle, leaning back on one hand as he watched her chew. “Reckon it’s your subconscious trying to punish me for all those years of being a pompous, narrow-minded arse?”

She snorted. “Please. If I wanted revenge, I’d be awake to enjoy it. Remember third year?”

He almost rubbed his jaw at the memory of her slap. “Felt good, did it?”

Her eyes twinkled. “So good.”

He smirked. “I’ll admit, you got me back then. But now?” He tilted his head. “I think you’d have better luck in the dark. You know it, too.”

She raised a brow. “Are you saying I can’t take you?”

He leaned in, enough to make her eyes widen the slightest bit. “Granger,” he said, all mock-serious, “you could try.”

He had nearly ten inches on her and far more power to draw from now, too much of it dark, too much of it dangerous, but maybe she’d win anyway because when it came to her he’d already decided, he would never hurt her again, not ever, and more than that he wouldn’t let anyone else touch a single hair on her head without having to go through him first.

Her nose scrunched. “You’re not nearly as scary as you think you are, Malfoy.”

He tsked. “That’s a bold thing to say to a werewolf.”

She paused, took a sip of her tea, then met his eyes again. “He’s not all that scary either, you know.”

He released a heavy exhale. “I wouldn’t. Not until someone finally decides to tell me.”

Her eyes held his, but her lips stayed sealed.

He reached out and stole a slice of apple from her plate. “Just don’t forget, little witch, even if it wasn’t a monster to you… doesn’t mean it isn’t one.”

He took a bite and swiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb, chasing the juice before it could drip.

The beast clearly knew how to play tame. Draco did too.

But that didn’t mean they weren’t both monsters.

“Drac—”

“For fuck’s sake, will you two stop flirting so I can sleep?” Blaise groaned from the bed to the left.

Granger flushed scarlet.

Draco didn’t bother to look at the other Slytherin, but it was no mystery how the pillow that had been on the floor by his bed rose into the air before dropping violently onto Blaise’s face.

“Oi!” Blaise shouted, jerking upright. “What the fuck?”

The pillow dropped again.

Hard.

“Ow! Shit!”

Again.

“Hey, alright, alright!” he cried, scrambling out of bed. “I’m sorry! I take it back! I take—Ah!"

Draco might’ve stopped. He really might’ve.

But then Granger laughed.

Which meant Blaise was going to keep running.

Theo suddenly sat up, dragging a hand across his sleep-creased face as he blinked blearily at the scene. His gaze landed on Blaise, who was halfway to the door swatting at the air as the pillow tried to follow. Theo scratched his chin. “Is this a pillow fight or just… the pillow fighting Blaise?”

“That’s incredible control of wandless magic,” Granger murmured, now more serious as she looked at him.

He winked. “Practice makes perfect.”

But then his gaze crossed with Theo’s, and a twinge of something cold twisted in Draco’s stomach, because they both knew that wasn’t entirely true.

Draco had worked hard, that part was honest, he’d earned what control he had through hours and hours of repetition, through his mad aunt’s methods and lessons, through blood and screams and pain, but the kind of power he held now, the depth of it, that had come from something else, something older and more dangerous and not quite his.

And if Hermione ever found out what he was playing with, what he was letting inside him, what the price might be—

He shut the thought down before it could finish forming, before it could show on his face. because if the beast was playing harmless, then so was he, at least when she was looking. If she knew the truth, she’d realise he didn’t need the full moon to become a creature of the dark.

He already was.

“C’mon, little witch,” he said casually, not allowing the shadows crowding his mind to touch his words. “Up you get, unless you fancy being late again.”

The look of horror on her face made him laugh.

Hermione hated being late. Not because mornings were easy for her, because they weren’t. It cost her, same as it cost everyone else. The difference was—she did it anyway. She always did.

So no, she wasn’t different. She was just… better.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Pansy twirled a bit of her fringe between her fingers as she spoke. "Honestly, it's wild. Half the pureblood families are still pretending nothing happened, and the other half are pretending they weren’t involved."

Theo snorted, legs stretched out in front of him. "The Gamp’s threw a fucking masquerade last week. Like that fixes war crimes."

Blaise plucked a blade of grass and let it fall. “Mother’s still in France. Claims it’s for spiritual renewal, but I’m fairly certain it’s just to avoid paying reparations.”

Draco said nothing. He lay back on the courtyard’s stone bench, arms crossed behind his head, eyes fixed on the cloudy sky. What was he meant to say?

My father is in Azkaban. My mother doesn’t leave the manor. And I—well.

There was a moment of silence and then Pansy spoke again, glancing over at him. "Oh, Draco, did you hear about Astoria?”

He glanced down. “What about her?”

“Her parents didn’t let her return to Hogwarts this year. Said it wasn’t safe. Said it wasn’t proper. She threw such a tantrum I’m surprised the house’s still standing.”

"Of course she did," Blaise said dryly.

Draco let out a low hum. "She’ll be alright. Astoria always finds a way to get what she wants."

“Are you guys not, you know… together… anymore?” Pansy asked carefully.

Draco raised a brow. “We were never together.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Fine. Are you no longer shagging?”

Theo let out a soft laugh.

“No,” Draco said flatly. “That ended before the war did.”

And even if it hadn’t, there was no reality in which he’d be with her now. He had tried to entertain it once, back at the start of his condition, thinking it might distract him from all things Granger, take the edge off. But he’d known it wouldn’t work. He just had. And now he didn’t think about it anymore, though that was also due to some… newer developments.

“I… I really miss her,” Pansy said, her voice sounding a bit weaker now.

Everyone knew who she meant. Speaking of Astoria would inevitably lead there—to the sister who wasn’t.

Blaise leaned in, his arm curving around Pansy’s shoulders, while Theo and Draco both moved closer on instinct.

“I know, Pans,” Blaise said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Us too.”

The same day Lord Voldemort was defeated by The-Boy-who-Lived, in the very same courtyard they were in now, Daphne Greengrass had died, and so even if history would record it as a day of victory, for everyone who lost someone they loved, it would always be the day they’d never see them again, the day the world kept spinning while theirs cracked clean down the middle, and that was the truth about war, that even when you won, you still lost.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

The classroom was warm and sluggish after lunch, even with the autumn chill outside, and Granger sat two rows ahead, leaned in over something Potter was saying, while Weasley slouched across from her in that ungainly way of his, listening too, and then she said something that made all three of them laugh.

Draco watched.

And it was strange, wasn’t it, having to pretend he didn’t know how witty she could be, why they laughed so easily at something she said. Strange to act like she hadn’t spent the night tangled around him, stealing his warmth and kicking him in her sleep, like she hadn’t left one of those long curls clinging to the lining of his cloak this morning, another caught in the cuff of his sleeve last week, and one still flattened inside his Transfiguration textbook, pressed between the pages like a flower or a secret no one was meant to find.

Because that’s what they were.

A secret in the dark.

And it should’ve been easy to keep it.

It should’ve been easy to go on like he didn’t know the sound of her voice just before she fell asleep, how quiet she went when something hurt, how unbearably soft she could be when no one was looking.

But then Weasley reached out and curled his fingers around a strand of her hair like it belonged to him and she only laughed and swatted his hand away, and Draco’s chest burned at the sight. He wanted to go over there and rip the bastard’s hand off at the wrist, break every finger that dared touch what was—no. No, that wasn’t right. He closed his fists under the table, something sharp biting deep into his palm.

“They’re just friends, Draco,” Theo said from beside him, his gaze knowing as it moved between Draco and the Gryffindors. “They figured it out ages ago. Too different, apparently.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “And how exactly do you know that?”

“Potter told me.”

Draco turned to him with a look of absolute disgust. “Potter? You’re talking to Potter now?”

Theo shrugged. “What? Can’t I have my own Gryffindor to corrupt?”

“Corrupt?” Draco shook his head. “Theo, you can’t mean—”

“That I want to pin him to the nearest broom cupboard? Cause I totally do.”

Theo had first told Draco he was gay in fourth year and Draco, being the prejudiced little shit he was back then, hadn’t exactly thrown him a party. It’d taken a minute, alright. But Theo had always been his best mate… and Draco had never been one to let go of what was his.

So even if it went against everything he’d been taught to believe, he forced himself to accept it, to get used to it, until there was nothing left to get used to anymore, until he grew up and realised that just like all the other bullshit he’d been raised on, this was never something that needed accepting in the first place. Just like Granger’s blood didn’t make her less, Theo’s love didn’t make him broken.

It wasn’t them who’d been wrong all along. It was him.

So if his stomach turned now, it wasn’t the Theo preferring dick part. It was just… Potter? Of all people? Then it hit Draco, how this was probably exactly how Potter felt about him and Granger, especially knowing they were sharing a bed a few nights a week.

And fuck, he almost laughed. Because wasn’t that a bitch?

“Don’t worry, mate, it’s still very much one-sided. He’s fresh out of something and licking his wounds, so I’m giving him time to catch up. It’s very noble of me. I hate it.”

Draco dragged a hand down his face. “You don’t even know if he’s into blokes, Theo.”

Theo looked thoughtful. “No, but I have a working theory based on the time he stared a bit too long at my frankly excellent arse.”

“That’s deranged.”

Theo cocked a brow. “Is it? At least I’m not the one penguin-waddling at dawn to rub one out in the freezing cold before I can’t stop myself from rutting against the golden girl in my sleep.”

Draco’s jaw locked.

Then, thinly: “Fuck you.”

Theo smirked. “Tempting. But I’ll settle for seeing how long it takes until you don’t even make it to the shower.”

Unfortunately, any hope Draco had of a proper comeback was crushed by the quiet terror of that exact scenario playing out. So he changed the subject instead.

“I’m heading out again tonight. Keep an eye on her until she’s in her dorm, then have Potter take over, same as usual.”

Theo’s voice dropped. “Is it still recon, or are you moving?”

“It’s a hit.”

“Be careful, Draco. You slip up once—”

“I won’t. Have everything ready when I’m back. Blaise is coming with me.”

“Got it.”

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Lovegood sat cross-legged in front of them on the floor of what used to be the musical theatre, though now it was just another space in the abandoned section of the castle. Reconstruction had stalled sometime after the school year began and no one had bothered to pick it back up, so they just closed it off for now. They probably didn’t want the students faced with reminders of the war, as if they weren’t already drowning in them. Maybe that worked for the younger ones. The older students didn’t need ruins to remember. They only had to look around and notice who wasn’t there.

Draco stayed standing, a scowl on his face. “Must we really sit on the floor? There are chairs.”

Granger looked up at him with a look—one that didn’t need explaining—and he sighed, loud and put-upon, before lowering himself beside her, limbs folding with none of her ease. It wasn’t the leg anymore, he hadn’t needed the cane in weeks, not since she’d started staying with him, but Granger clearly wasn’t factoring in that her legs weren’t as long as his and it just wasn’t as bloody uncomfortable for her to sit like that.

Lovegood, completely unbothered, waved her wand and lit a few candles. They hovered in the air like something out of a séance.

“Are we trying to see the bond or summon it from the grave?” Draco grumbled under his breath.

Granger’s mouth twitched. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice. I haven’t said a single word about the hat.”

The curve at the corner of her mouth deepened. She was trying not to laugh.

Lovegood opened her eyes. “The lining’s made from Wrackspurt silk. Helps with perception.”

Draco blinked at her. The hat was shaped like a teapot and had a feather sticking out at an odd angle.

“And the rest?”

“The rest is obvious don’t you think?”

He couldn’t tell if she was serious or just testing him.

“You can’t actu—"

Granger’s bony elbow jabbed into his side, dragging a small grunt out of him.

Draco cleared his throat. “Right. My mistake. How silly of me to question something so clearly self-explanatory.”

Lovegood nodded and took a deep breath. “I need you both to close your eyes now.”

Granger, ever the diligent student, complied without hesitation. She even straightened her spine like they were about to recite something in Ancient Runes.

“Draco,” she whispered. “Close them.”

He frowned.

Does she know me that well already?

He didn’t hate the thought.

He exhaled through his nose, long and slow and overly dramatic, but he did it. Closed his eyes.

“Now,” Lovegood continued, “imagine the space between you as a thread. Think about how it feels. Like a pull or a… pressure.”

Draco’s brow furrowed, but he did as he was told, searching for that place inside him where he always felt it, that constant, heavy tug in her direction. He tried to picture it as a physical thing, stretching from the centre of his chest straight towards her.

Nothing happened.

“It’s not about seeing it with your eyes,” Lovegood said. “It’s about seeing with your mind’s soul. Feel the bond and watch it come to life. Don’t force it, let it show itself to you.”

What. The. Fuck?

His jaw tightened. He focused harder, which probably defeated the purpose, but he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t the sort of person who let things happen. He made them happen. And this? This resulted in nothing. Just darkness and the familiar sound of Granger’s breathing and Lovegood being irritatingly cryptic in the background.

He was just about ready to bark that his so-called mind’s soul or whatever the hell she’d called it must be blind or fucking broken, when he felt it.

A hand falling on top of his where it rested between them on the floor.

His lids lifted and he turned his head, finding Granger still facing forward, eyes closed, and then he looked down at her hand on his, soft fingers resting lightly over his knuckles, right where his Malfoy crest ring sat and the heavier black onyx band beside it.

Draco stared for another moment.

Then he swallowed and rotated his hand until their fingers slotted together, and she didn’t pull away, just let him, and suddenly he couldn’t bring himself to say anything that would stop this.

He closed his eyes again. Kept trying.

To see. To feel.

Quietly.

Patiently.

They sat like that for the full hour, even though neither of them saw a bloody thing, and when Lovegood said that was not unexpected and they should try again, Granger agreed.

Draco did too.

Because ever since they’d started sleeping together, he hadn’t needed her to hold his hand to stave off the fevers. And today he got to do it. But it didn’t feel the same anymore. It wasn’t like all the other times when she held his hand and the bond made it feel like gulping water in the middle of a desert and still ending up parched.

It didn’t feel desperate.

It just felt nice.

Really fucking nice.

And he wanted to do it again.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Draco’s hand flew to his arm, already feeling the blood soaking through his sleeve.

Behind him, footsteps pounded closer, and Blaise appeared, wand raised, breath short, deep brown eyes wide above a faint Lumos.

“Shit. He got you.”

“One of them did.”

“There’s more? Should we turn back, then?”

“Fuck no.” Draco dropped to one knee and tore a strip from his cloak, wrapped it tight around his arm, yanking hard and pulling it taut with his teeth to hold the knot, then murmured a basic healing spell to slow the bleeding until he could sort it properly.

“But you’re the one who says to fall back if there’s more than one.”

“Yes.” Draco adjusted his mask with one hand. Not the silver Death Eater skull his father once wore with pride. This one was black, matte, and made to fit his face like armour. “But I didn’t make that rule for me,” he said. “It’s to guarantee your safety.”

“And what about yours?”

“I don’t need it.”

“Well, if I’m here, I should still follow it, right?”

Draco turned just enough to wink through the eye-slit of his mask.

“Nah. You’re safe with me, mate.”

And then he moved, vanishing into the dark before Blaise could say another word.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Draco was panting, the smell of dark magic heavy in the air, clinging to his skin, coating his tongue, stuck in the back of his throat, as present around him as it was inside him.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he said in a sing-song tone, loud enough for his voice to carry through the trees.

Silence answered him.

The bodies at his feet were cooling fast, twisted and broken and emptied of life, and somewhere out there, not far, one of them was still breathing, hiding behind the foolish hope they might avoid that fate.

They really wouldn’t.

“C’mon,” Draco said, turning slowly, eyes scanning the dark with that borrowed animal instinct that owned him once a month, wand loose in his grip but deadly all the same, “Don’t make me beg.”

He took a step forward, then another, boots crunching through dead leaves and bone fragments.

“Let’s not drag this out, yeah? You’ve already lost. Only thing left is how much it’s going to hurt.”

He raised his wand higher, deciding where to strike—

“Draco!”

Blaise’s voice burst into the clearing a second before he did.

Draco’s head snapped round, a little annoyed at having his fun spoiled. “What?”

“Theo sent an alert. He wants you to go back.”

Draco stilled, tension crawling up his spine. “Why?”

Blaise grimaced. “No details. He just said that she needs you. Urgently.”

There was a pounding in Draco’s ears as the words sank in, panic rising inside him and making the air feel too thick in his lungs. He didn’t stop to think as he raised his wand again and snapped it sideways.

“Laniatus.”

The dark spell whipped through the air with a hiss, tearing through branches and splitting the night open, and somewhere to the right a scream rang out, followed by the solid thump of a body hitting the ground.

Still alive.

But not for long. Magic was busy crushing bones.

Draco had no time and no taste left for the hunt, not with dread rising like bile in his throat and her name hammering against the inside of his chest.

“Get what I need,” he barked, already moving. “Then get rid of the bodies.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” Blaise said, following, “how the hell are you gonna get back inside without being seen?”

They had rules for this. A system. If it was a hit, they stayed out till morning, circled back through the forest, waited until they could blend in with the other students waking up for breakfast, slipped back into the castle with the first light so no one ever knew they were gone.

“I’ll work it out,” Draco muttered through gritted teeth, his mind going a thousand miles a minute.

Theo wouldn’t have sent the alert unless he didn’t think he had a choice, unless it was something he couldn’t handle, and if he said Granger needed him, if Hermione needed him, then Draco was fucking going.

And he was going now.

“You can’t get caught,” Blaise said, more urgent this time, “If they find out—”

“They won’t.”

Draco’s jaw clenched, wand digging into his palm.

“Clean this up,” he ordered again, “every trace.”

“I will, mate,” Blaise assured him. “But—"

Draco didn’t stay to hear the rest.

He Apparated straight to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, landing hard, and then he ran, too fast for the aching wound in his arm, but he didn’t slow. Couldn’t. His mind was already three steps ahead, calculating the closest way in, the quietest, the one that wouldn’t get him caught.

The gates were out. Filch had been hovering there like a vulture most nights, while Hooch had taken up patrols on a broom, flying overhead like she thought herself a bloody Auror, and the east wall had doubled its wards last month for reasons Draco had yet to discover.

The tunnel beneath the lake hadn’t been used in years, and he was almost certain McGonagall had it sealed after the war. The boathouse path was lined with magical tripwires, half of them invisible, and the broom shed behind the greenhouses, once a shortcut into the kitchens, was now layered with detection wards. And the owlery stairs were too exposed, a winding climb in full view of three towers and anyone looking out.

Which left the west, maybe—if he could time it right, keep low, and skirt the courtyard before anyone noticed. But just as he moved along the mossy stone, eyes narrowed on the far wall, a slow curl of smoke rose into view.

Aarav Burns. Sitting there with his long dark robes wrapped tight around him, leaning back as he smoked some clove-stinking rubbish and stared at the stars like he didn’t have a care in the world. But Draco had a feeling it was all for show, a way to mask how closely he was watching everything. One didn’t reach his level of field fame for nothing. And with that, the last of Draco’s hopes crumbled.

There’s no way in.

Normally that would be a comfort, a reason to feel good about Hogwarts’ security and how safe they all were behind its protection. But not tonight, not when he really needed to be on the other side of those fucking walls, not when Hermione needed him and he had no way in and time was bleeding out of him like the gash in his arm.

He forced himself to think, breathing in through his nose and out through his teeth. Options. There had to be a way that didn’t involve knocking out Burns or Hooch or anyone else and risk getting himself caught, because if he was, if they found out he’d left the grounds, the Ministry would know his tracker had been tampered with, and worse, maybe they’d figure out it hadn’t been him who did it alone.

He let out a stream of furious curses and dragged a hand through his hair, feeling the sweat dampening the strands.

If only he could Apparate straight inside, straight to her, he thought, even though it was laughable. The wards had stood for centuries, had kept out armies, had held against everything until Voldemort had broken through them during the final battle, and even then it wasn’t unaided, it wasn’t with his power alone, it had taken coordinated dark magic and months of planning, which was exactly why Draco had been tasked with finding some other way into the castle back in sixth year, because no one got through those wards on their own, no one just popped in like they were slipping into a shop off High Street.

In the morning it was easier for him to get back, because once the gates opened with the sunrise and the rest of the eighth years were allowed out again, it wasn’t too hard to blend in and slip back through with help. Theo and Blaise could’ve covered for him, they’d done it before. But now? Now Draco was fucked.

He threw a hand out, tasting the air, feeling for the magic that wrapped Hogwarts like a net. It wasn’t the same as it had been before the war—no wards were—but these were strong, reinforced by the staff and a handful of expert Ministry workers brought in at the start of term for that exact reason, and it would be mad, arrogant even, to assume he could just work through them on his own,  because no normal wizard could have.

Except… he wasn’t quite that anymore, was he?

What was inside him now wasn’t just normal magic anymore, it was something older and tied to things he didn’t understand and couldn’t always control. Sometimes, he even worried it was alive, as alive as the beast that took over his body every full moon.

But maybe… maybe that meant he could try. Maybe it meant what had been impossible wasn’t so definite now.

Maybe he ought to give it a bloody shot.

Just in case.

Draco took a deep breath behind the mask and closed his eyes, forcing every racing thought out of his mind and concentrating on the Slytherin dormitory, on the feel of the rug under his feet, the scent of the lake water through the windows, the position of his bed in his room, and he held all of that in his mind, held it tight, and let his magic rise as he tried to force himself through the wards, through the impossible—only to feel like he’d been thrown straight into a wall of cement.

The impact knocked the breath he’d taken clean out of him, and the world spun as he doubled over, coughing hard into the inside of his mask. He grunted, trying to shake off the dizziness, and as he straightened it didn’t take him long to realise he was still outside, exactly where he’d been before.

Fuck.

Well, that tracked.

Because really, what had he thought was going to happen? That he’d just twist on the spot and pop straight into his dorm like it was nothing, like he wasn’t trying to force his way through layer after layer of reinforced wards, the kind designed by paranoid war survivors and Ministry-paid experts whose entire job was to make sure no one could do exactly what he was trying to do?

The wound on his arm burned as blood soaked through the makeshift wrap and seeped down his wrist into the lining of his glove, the spell he’d cast no longer able to stanch it, and he knew he’d failed miserably, he had, and yet… Draco could feel it now, his magic vibrating, bold and restless and almost taunting him to go again, and maybe it was the pull of the darkness he’d let root inside him or maybe it was just how fucking desperate he was to get in… but he did.

He tried again.

It hurt even more this time, and something wet and coppery flooded his throat, too thick to swallow, so he tore frantically at the strap behind his head and shoved the mask up just enough to spit blood onto the dirt before it drowned him. He had internal bleeding, he deduced while he gasped for air, which wasn’t great, and then he looked around and saw he’d only shifted a metre to the left from where he’d first started, which was worse.

He angrily wiped his mouth on the back of his glove and let his head drop forward, trying to think through the pounding in his head, through the weight in his lungs, and he knew it was stupid, he did, but he also knew that when he tried just now, when the feeling of Apparition had caught him in its grasp, he’d seen something, not clearly, not fully, but for one second it had felt like he was there, in his dorm, and maybe it was just the image he’d planted in his own mind, maybe it was nothing more than wishfulness and a bit of madness—but he needed to get to her, he needed to be inside, and if there was even the smallest chance he could do it, then he had to try again. Just one more time.

He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, spat more blood out onto the dirt, and tugged his mask back into place, the smell of iron dense in his nose as he planted his feet wide and called for his magic, letting it swell in his chest, flood down his spine, push out through every raw nerve like it was trying to rip its way out of him, wild and ravenous and eager to be used.

And then he released.

It didn’t work.

It didn’t fucking work, and the force of it dropped him to his knees this time, hard enough that he nearly smashed his face into the ground and only just managed to rip the mask up before the blood came again, spilling over his lips as it gushed out of his mouth and soaked the grass beneath him, mixing with the blood already dripping from his arm where the wound had torn even wider, his whole body shaking so badly now he could barely hold himself up. But instead of succumbing to the weakness pushing him down, and before he could think it through or even pause long enough to ask himself what the fuck he was doing, he reached for the well of power inside him again and yanked at everything that was still there, because this time he hadn’t just seen the dorm, hadn’t just imagined the rug or the bed or the high-arched windows—he’d seen her.

Long brown curls.

Trembling shoulders.

And even though every rational part of him knew this was reckless and probably fucking suicidal, the most irresponsible decision he could make in this state, he couldn’t bring himself to let that stop him.

This time, though, Draco didn’t think of the dorm.

He thought of her.

Hermione. Needing him. Wanting him there.

There was a wrench, a brutal squeeze, and his stomach turned and then he hit the floor like he’d been thrown from a height, all air gone from his lungs, his body bruised inside out and completely spent as he blinked up at… a ceiling. Not stars. A ceiling.

And then a pair of familiar green eyes, wide with horror, filled his vision.

“Holy shit!”

Theo.

“What the fuck happened to him?”

Draco’s gaze found the source of the second voice as he tried to sit up, his hand slipping on the floor, wet with—oh, brilliant—his own blood, and his breath came in short bursts. “Why do you keep showing up where you’re not supposed to, Potter?” he wheezed with annoyance. Then, in a very different tone. “Where’s Granger?”

Potter, surprisingly, stepped forward and offered his hand. “She woke her entire dorm screaming,” he said, his face tight with worry. “Ginny brought her to me because she wouldn’t stop insisting she needed me—”

“You?” Draco gasped, nearly dragging Potter forward by the arm.

Potter continued, “I tried to calm her down, but Hermione only said one thing before she fucking shut down.”

Draco’s grip tightened. “What?”

“She said, get Draco.”

Finally on his feet and focusing very hard on not swaying, Draco tried to ignore the way those words made him feel as he said, “Well, I’m here now, so where is she?”

“Take this,” Theo said, suddenly back at his side, holding a vial out. “It’s a blood-replenishing potion. Potter showed up with her about twenty minutes ago asking for you. I told them you were helping Blaise with that… thing,” he added with a look. “Didn’t know it would be quite so fun though, or I would’ve insisted on coming with,” he said dryly, eyes taking in the state of Draco.

“That better not be a Death Eater mask,” Potter snarled, looking down at the floor. He picked it up and quickly realised it wasn’t.

“I also said you might not be back until morning,” Theo went on, voice quieter, “but Hermione… she looked bad, mate. So I figured I should at least try.”

“You lot owe me a real explanation for whatever the fuck is up with this,” Potter cut in, raising the mask in his hand, “but for now…” He pointed towards Draco’s bed. “Over there. Help her, please.”

Draco’s gaze snapped over. At first glance, he saw nothing but a mess of rumpled blankets on his bed, but then he spotted the faint rise of a small shape buried underneath, curled in tight and… shivering?

He ran, stumbling as he went.

“Take the potion first!” Theo shouted after him, still holding it.

Draco didn’t stop.

He reached the bed and immediately lifted the blankets so he could peek under them and what he found broke his heart, as in he genuinely could feel the little pieces of it stabbing him inside, because there she was—Hermione—knees drawn to her chest, eyes closed with tear marks down her cheeks, clutching herself like she’d tried to fight whatever this was and lost.

“Hermione,” he breathed, already dropping to his knees beside her. “Look at me.”

Her face was slick with sweat. Her lips were cracked. Her whole body was trembling like she couldn’t even hear him.

Draco reached for her, but his vision swayed.

The room lurched sideways.

He caught himself on the edge of the bed, breathing hard, pulse roaring in his ears.

“Draco!” Theo’s voice rang out behind him, closer now. “Drink the bloody potion!”

“I’m fine,” Draco hissed. “She’s the one—”

“You’ll be useless to her if you black out,” Theo snapped, suddenly at his side, shoving the vial into his hand. “Just take it, for fuck’s sake.”

Draco didn’t want to waste time, not when Hermione looked like that, not when she hadn’t moved or spoken or even opened her eyes, but his vision was grainy and his hands were unsteady and his chest felt tight, and Theo was right, if Draco passed out now, he couldn’t help her.

He uncorked the vial and knocked it back in one swallow.

The burn was instant, and his head cleared just enough for him to breathe again.

“Right,” he said. “That is better.”

He turned back to her, brushing the hair from her face with far steadier hands. “Come on, love. I’m here now. You’re safe.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Potter asked from behind him, voice worried and uncertain.

Draco didn’t look at him. “I’m about to find out.”

“I cast a diagnostic spell,” Theo said. “But it showed nothing except a slightly high temperature.”

Draco’s brows furrowed, eyes fixed on her face like he could will her to stir, like the force of his concern might somehow reach wherever she’d gone inside herself and drag her back out again. He reached for her, ignoring the pain in his arm, and slipped his hands beneath her and lifted her with a soft grunt, not to carry her far, just enough so he could climb onto the bed with her still in his arms, boots and all, clothes bloodied and filthy from his charming little adventure trying to make it back here.

He sat with his back to the headboard and shifted her gently into his lap, settling her with her head against his chest, his arms wrapped tight around her, one hand stroking her hair while the other pressed low against her spine, holding her close like he could keep her together just by touching her.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, barely loud enough to hear. “I’ve got you.”

Her breath caught—just once—and he felt it, the way her ribs jolted against his chest, the way her fingers twitched weakly against his shirt, and he almost shattered with the relief of it.

“Come on, Granger,” he whispered, lips brushing her temple, “come back to me, yeah? Whatever it is, it’s done now. It can’t have you because you’re mine.”

She didn’t speak, but her hand now fisted in the front of his shirt and he closed his eyes for a second at the feel of it, arms tightening around her like a shield, like a promise.

He vaguely heard Theo tell Potter they should leave, and he could tell there was some back and forth before the latter agreed, but eventually they left Draco alone with the girl in his arms.

Granger didn’t say anything for a long time, and he just kept threading his fingers through her hair, his gloves long discarded, which meant her curls were probably getting dirty from the dried blood caked under his nails, and he hoped she wouldn’t mind when she came to, though he also hoped she wouldn’t notice, and he went on whispering to her, saying whatever came to mind, anything he thought might help, sick with helplessness and a simmering rage at whatever had got her in this state.

His head was leaning back against the headboard now, the hurt in his body catching up to him again, exhaustion weighing heavier with each passing minute, and as much as he fought it, his eyes had fallen shut at some point, though he wasn’t asleep, he was just resting, still holding her close to him, still moving his hand.

But then her voice, thin and weak, suddenly broke the silence, and he snapped back into total alertness so fast he nearly jumped upright with her in his arms, his muscles flexing around her without meaning to, his gaze darting down, pulse racing, and there she was looking up at him with glassy golden brown eyes that pulled every tender part of him to the surface.

He adjusted her in his lap so he could see her better, brushing her hair off her cheek with a touch so careful it barely stirred her skin. “Hermione. What happened, sweetheart?”

She looked away, lips trembling. “I had a dream.”

“A bad dream?”

She gave the smallest nod.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

Her voice cracked. “H-He was back.”

“He?”

“Voldemort.”

His blood turned hot. “Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Not me.”

“But someone you care about?”

Hermione’s gaze found his again. “Yes.”

“Who?”

“You.” A pause. “He hurt you, Draco.”

His hand stilled against her back.

“Me?”

She just nodded again.

His chest felt weird. Really weird. Because when had that happened? When had he gone from someone she hated to someone she cared about? And why did the fact she cared feel like a punch that somehow left him standing taller? Like he was bloody floating?

And when the hell had he, bond aside, gone from just feeling guilty and remorseful about their past to feeling like… this. This protective, possessive, sort of insane mess. Fuck, when did he start developing actual feel—oh.

Shit.

He cleared his throat, shoving it down because now wasn’t the time to work through something that big. She needed him, and that took precedence. “Is that what scared you?”

A broken breath left her. “It felt so real, n-not vivid the way nightmares can be… it felt like I was there, actually there, like it wasn’t a dream at all. And he didn’t just hurt you, Draco, he… became you.”

Goosebumps rose along his arms. “What do you mean?”

“I looked at you and it wasn’t you anymore. It was him. And B-Bellatrix was there too, a-and—” Tears slid down her cheeks and her whole body shook harder, like telling it was dragging her straight back into it.

He couldn’t stop the wave of protectiveness that surged inside him, and it didn’t feel like enough to sit there and listen to it, he had to erase it, pull it out of her mind and destroy it.

“Shh, shh. Don’t think about it anymore,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm. “He’s not coming back, and she won’t either. That’s over. I promise.”

He pulled her into him more fully, letting her weight settle back against his chest, his chin brushing her hair. “Everything’s alright. You can sleep. Rest. I won’t let them get to you again.”

He would stay awake all night to make sure of it, but also because despite his own crushing fatigue there was no chance he was turning his mind off tonight. Not anymore. For two other reasons in addition to the first.

One—what she told him, the dream, had created a growing ball of uneasiness inside him, not just because of the effect it had on her, which would have been enough on its own, but because somewhere in it was a truth he hadn’t looked at before. He’d never thought about how close some of his choices came to mirroring Voldemort’s. Mostly because his goals had never been anywhere near the same. Draco had no interest in power for its own sake. He didn’t want to control anyone, or rule anything, or reshape the world into something that suited him.

He didn’t give a fuck about the rest of the world.

He just wanted enough power to protect what was his. To keep his friends safe. His mother.

And… her.

Because as he held her in his arms, her breathing slower now, the tears finally quiet, asleep in his bed, on him, for the tenth time this month, Draco came to a realisation so massive he could barely breathe around it.

He had feelings for Hermione Granger.

Not bond feelings, not magic, not guilt or duty or curse-evoked instincts, but something he had no right to feel and felt anyway, and it terrified him more than anything else had in years, to the point his heart was pounding so loudly he worried it might wake her.

Real feelings.

That was what he had.

What he felt for the little witch curled up in his arms.

And he had absolutely no fucking idea what to do about it.

(Which, obviously, was reason number two.)

Chapter Text

Harry

Harry took a long sip of his drink, the muscles in his face tightening as the alcohol burned its way down. “Is this another one of your little vow-trapped secrets? Is that why you won’t tell me?”

“No, Potter. It’s something much simpler. It’s called loyalty.”

“I wouldn’t take Malfoy as someone who earns loyalty from anyone.”

Theo’s head tilted. “One doesn’t need to be a hero to inspire loyalty, Chosen One. I mean, He-Who-You-Killed had people carving snakes into their arms and the man couldn’t even breathe properly.”

Harry raised a brow. “Are you seriously comparing Malfoy to Voldemort? Is that supposed to ease my concerns?”

Theo leaned forward, a smile tugging at his lips. “Tell me, then, Potter. How can I help you relax?”

Theodore’s eyes were green, but not green like Harry’s, whose eyes were muddied with flecks of brown that tempered the shade. Theo’s were stupidly bright, green with a hint of blue and annoyingly alive against the dull beige of the Room of Requirement. Harry fidgeted, inching back just slightly.

“I want the truth, Nott. I want to know why Malfoy and Zabini were missing from their dorm tonight, why Malfoy came back in that sorry state with some weird arse mask in his hand, and—while we’re at it—how the hell he managed to fucking Apparate into Hogwarts.”

Theo chuckled. “Everything, then.”

“Everything.”

“Well, I can’t give you everything. But let’s start at the beginning… or the end, depending on how you look at it. That might help you understand.”

“And when is that?”

“The war.” Theo set his glass down on the table. “Nothing draws a line in the sand of time quite like one, don’t you agree?”

Harry’s next breath felt heavier, and he had to pull a little harder just to get it in, and as he did, he caught Theo watching him with a look that came off far more knowing than Harry liked, so when he spoke again, his voice was a tad more aggressive than maybe it should’ve been. “Go on, Nott.”

There was no trace of offence in Theo’s face as he began.

“As you know, Voldemort took up residence at Malfoy Manor before the war had even properly begun.”

Harry nodded once.

“You also know that Draco failed to complete his mission back in sixth year, when he didn’t follow through with killing our Headmaster.”

Harry swallowed. “Yes. I was there.”

His fingers curled inward as the memory stirred, the way Dumbledore’s eyes had emptied of life right in front of him, the way his body had fallen down and down and down.

“That failure came with consequences,” Theo continued. “Voldemort thought it necessary for Draco to receive some... re-education. And he chose the person he believed best suited for the task. Draco’s aunt.”

Cold spread through Harry’s chest. “Bellatrix?”

“Yes,” Theo said sombrely.

Evil was awful in any form, but the kind that lived in Bellatrix Lestrange, soaked through with her madness and her taste for pain, it was the vilest form of evil Harry had ever encountered.

He hated Voldemort, hated him for taking his parents, for taking so many others, for tearing his world apart before he’d even had the chance to grow up in it. But after watching Bellatrix kill Sirius right in front of him, after hearing that unhinged, delighted laugh as she cut into Hermione on the floor of Malfoy Manor, Harry wasn’t even sure which of them he hated more.

What he did know was that one of them was dead.

And the other was not.

“What did she teach him?”

Whatever it was, it could not have been… good. She had none of that to give.

Theo looked away then, not at anything in particular, more like the answer was lost somewhere out in the world. “I don’t know. But the results… they’re clear as day.”

Harry thought about that, thought about all the interactions he’d had with Malfoy since the war ended—or at least since part of it had. He would never call the war finished with Bellatrix still out there, still posing a risk to the people Harry cared about.

Before the war, Draco Malfoy had been arrogant and bigoted, someone so sure of his place in the world that he never questioned it, someone who walked like he belonged above everyone else and looked at people like dirt, and usually treated them like it too, especially the easy targets—like Hermione. Her blood marked her as less according to everything he’d grown up hearing, and so he believed it, worse than that, he tried like hell to convince her of it too.

Now though, the way he looked at Hermione was different. So different. And that could probably be chalked up to the bond. And his—Harry tried not to grimace—feelings for her. Plain on his face, especially tonight, when he’d come back half-dead and bleeding and hadn’t spared a single thought for himself, just whether Hermione was alright. The devotion there, it was intense. Maybe even uncomfortably so. (At least it sure made Harry uncomfortable.)

Still, Malfoy had changed. With Hermione, very obviously, but with others too, even if it was more of a subtle shift than a full-blown transformation. Barely noticeable, really. Unless you were watching.

And Harry was watching. He was watching very carefully, determined to make absolutely sure Malfoy wasn’t, in any way, putting Hermione in danger.

And after watching him like that, this was what Harry could conclude: Malfoy definitely didn’t sound or act so sure anymore, which didn’t mean he wasn’t still arrogant (he was), or that he came off as insecure or anything like that, it was more that he no longer felt so locked in place, so cemented in that highborn pedestal he used to treat like a throne. And that made him more likeable but also more unpredictable, because Harry had no idea what to expect from him at this point. Malfoy clearly didn’t hold the Malfoy name in the same regard or put much stock in the power it used to carry, yet when he faced Harry’s threats these days… there was no fear there.

In the past, Harry had seen him flinch, had seen the cower in his shoulders whenever a confrontation got too close.

Now though? Nothing.

And there was something else Harry noticed, too.

“Malfoy feels… stronger,” he said at last. “Not just physically, though I suppose there’s that too. It’s magical. There’s something different in his magic.”

“There is,” Theo agreed simply. “Which might answer your second question—though even I’m not entirely sure how he managed that.”

Harry wasn’t either. However powerful Malfoy had become, Apparating into Hogwarts should’ve been beyond impossible.

He pulled his glasses down and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, where a headache had begun to pulse behind his eyes.
“How does any of this explain what he was doing tonight? And why the hell did he have a mask?”

Masks, to Harry, meant death. Destruction. Pain.

Theo exhaled. “They thought they were building a weapon. Something to help tip the war in their favour—a soldier, a monster.” Theo’s eyes glinted. “But what they actually created was their own reckoning.”

Harry’s frown deepened. “Their?”

“You fought a war and you won, Harry. You had an enemy and you defeated him. There’s closure in that, however brutal. But Draco…” Theo gave a slow shake of his head. “They put him through hell. Voldemort, Bellatrix, the rest of them. And what they did to his mother...” Theo stopped there, letting the silence speak for itself. “And Bellatrix, she tortured him. But she also tortured his mate. The fact that Hermione wasn’t his back then doesn’t matter. He remembers. He remembers the sound of her screaming, and the way he stood there, too weak to stop any of it. He couldn’t protect her. Couldn’t protect his mother either.”

A beat.

“That’s not the case anymore.”

Harry rolled out his shoulders, but the weight in them didn’t lift.  “Theo. What was Malfoy doing tonight?”

Theo held his gaze.

“Getting closer to the one thing he never had…. justice. Revenge. Call it what you like. But he’s not finished. Not until every one of them pays for what they did.”

The breath that came out of Harry came from somewhere far deeper than his lungs. Somewhere darker, filled to the brim with all the thoughts and feelings he tried so hard to ignore.

“Malfoy’s hunting the rest of the Death Eaters,” Harry stated more than guessed, each word pronounced with a snap of teeth. 

That was why Malfoy needed the mask, to keep his identity concealed. And maybe, Harry thought, to spit their own legacy right back at them.

“Not just hunting them,” Theo admitted.

Harry’s hands coiled into fists. “He’s killing them, isn’t he?”

Theo looked to the side, at the bottle of firewhisky they’d brought to the Room of Requirement, both of them walking close together under Harry’s cloak. He picked it up, poured a little more into both their glasses, then took a sip before speaking.

“Yes.”

Harry’s breath fled his lungs.

“And you and Zabini… you’re fucking helping him?”

“We are.”

The tension building beneath his skin made it impossible for Harry to stay still any longer. He shot to his feet, pacing the room in nervous circles, until he swivelled back to face Theo. “And what about his bloody magic? How did it become this powerful? Was it what Bellatrix did or did it come after?”

Theo sighed, still seated.

“I told you, Potter. I can’t give you everything.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Is it dangerous? Besides the obvious?”

Theo sighed. “It comes with risks.”

“Is Hermione safe from them?”

“Yes. Not to repeated myself to you for the hundredth time… he would never hurt her.”

“What about you?”

Theo hesitated. “What?”

“Is he putting you in danger?”

Surprise painted Theo’s face, but it was quickly replaced by amusement and maybe even a trace of something pleased. “Worried about me, Potter?”

Harry crossed his arms. “I’m just trying to understand the situation.”

“You didn’t ask about Blaise, though. Am I special?”

“Just fucking answer the question, Nott.”

Theo’s smile widened briefly, then faded.

“Any risk I’m taking, I chose it.”

Harry blew a breath through his nose. “You’d really risk your life for him?”

“Without hesitation.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I should turn all of you in. Malfoy shouldn’t be the one deciding who lives and dies. That kind of power—he shouldn’t have it.”

Theo’s voice was calm. “Maybe he shouldn’t. But we don’t live in a world where the right people always get the power, do we? And sometimes… sometimes it takes two wrongs to make a right.

“That’s not how it works,” Harry snapped. “If we become like them, we lose. We stop being—”

“Good?”

“Yes!”

Theo got up, walking towards him. “That’s what terrifies you, isn’t it? The thought that you might become the very thing you hate. That maybe the line you cling to isn’t as clear as you want it to be. It’s not just about people dying—it’s about the part of you that could let it happen. That maybe even wants it.”

“Shut up!” Harry roared in Theo’s face.

Hands clamped down on Harry’s shoulders, eyes vivid and green, close enough that every breath shared the same space.

“Stop living your life in his shadow, Harry. He’s dead. You’re free. Let yourself be free.”

Harry swallowed, then shoved Theo’s hands off. “You don’t know anything about it.”

Theo didn’t falter. “You’re right. I don’t. I didn’t fight in the war. I ran. I hid because I was too afraid of ending up with the same mark my father wore proudly. I left my friends behind. I-I saved myself.”

Harry blinked at the crack in his voice. “You were just a kid, Theo.”

Theo gave a hollow smile.

“So were you. But that didn’t stop you from saving the world, did it?”

Harry shook his head, a bitter taste in his mouth. “It’s not like that. I didn’t have a choice. I’m not better than anyone. I was just… chosen.” He looked away. “Cursed by fate.”

Theo studied him the way one might study a Rubik’s Cube, a Muggle toy Harry used to play with to pass the time in the cupboard under the stairs.

It took Harry hours to line up the colours. Theo did it in seconds.

“Exactly,” Theo spoke softly. “You already did it. You already saved the world. You’re already a hero… but you don’t have to keep being one.” He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder again, just one this time. “You didn’t choose it, Harry. It was forced on you. So stop punishing yourself for wanting to put it down. You won’t become him if you let go.” Theo squeezed. “You’re good. Maybe not perfect. Maybe your thoughts go darker than you’d like. That doesn’t make you him. It just makes you human.”

The words wore Theo’s voice, with just enough of a rasp to make it sound like he hadn’t quite slept or had too much to say and nowhere to put it, and maybe that was why they stuck, why they bounced around inside Harry like they’d been shouted instead of spoken, or maybe it was because this strange Slytherin boy seemed to be able to see all of him without even having to try, or maybe… maybe it was because he’d heard it before, not the same words exactly but the same truth in them, right when his heart had been broken down the middle.

Harry’s eyes moved to the hand on his shoulder, then rose again to meet Theo’s.

“When Ginny… when she ended things… the reason she gave was that I needed to figure out who I am outside of… the Boy Who Lived.”

Theo’s hand fell.

“And how did that make you feel?”

“Angry.”

“Only that?”

Harry swallowed. “No.”

It had scared the hell out of him. Still did. But maybe… maybe she’d been right. Maybe he really did need to figure some things out. Like why the fuck his heart was pounding so hard right now, just because Theo was standing too close and not saying anything, just watching him, while Harry felt like the floor might give way beneath his feet.

He remembered feeling like this before. Sort of. When Cho had smiled and his throat had closed. When a pretty girl looked at him too long and he forgot what he was supposed to say. When Ginny kissed him and his thoughts just… disappeared.

But it had never happened with a b—

“You were famous before you were even a person.” Theo’s voice cut through the spiral in Harry’s head. “They wrote your story before you had a say in it. But this next part? This bit’s yours. So I say write it for yourself. Not for them.”

Write it for myself?

It sounded nice. It sounded… freeing. The thing was, he had no idea who he was. He knew his name. He’d known his fate. He’d fulfilled it.

What now?

The question was so overwhelming that Harry decided to focus on what was right in front of him first.

“I won’t turn Malfoy in. I wouldn’t risk Hermione like that.”

The thing connecting them, it might harm her if they were forced apart.

Theo smiled, that irritatingly knowing smile he always seemed to have at the ready. “Thank you.”

“Does she know? What he’s actually doing with the freedom she gave him?”

Theo shook his head. “He doesn’t want her anywhere near it.”

Harry nodded. “Good. Neither do I.”

A pause, then—

“And you’re really not going to tell me what’s going on with his magic?”

Theo let out a soft breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “No. I’m afraid I won’t budge on that, so it’d be really lovely if you didn’t keep asking. I’d be forced to start ignoring you… and I quite enjoy looking at you.”

Harry fidgeted awkwardly as his heart kicked in his chest, his cheeks suddenly warm. Then he cleared his throat, far too loudly. “Fine. I won’t ask.” He crossed his arms, because he didn’t know what else to do with them. “But don’t think for a second that this makes us allies. I’m in this to keep Hermione safe. That’s the line. What Malfoy’s doing… what you’re helping him do… it’s not right. I—” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Don’t you think I’d like to be out there too? Finishing what the war didn’t? But I… fuck.  I’ve got morals.”

Theo just smiled again. “That’s good.”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “Is it? You do understand I’m criticising you?”

Theo laughed. “Oh, I get that, don’t worry. But it’s fascinating… watching you wrestle with it. The part of you that wants to stay good… and the part that doesn’t.”

Harry blinked, lips parting.

“It’s very Gryffindor of you. All that internal agony. Tortured by principle, and just principled enough to find it torturous.” Theo’s smirk stretched a little wider.

Harry’s gaze thinned and he hissed, “Am I a bloody joke to you?”

To his credit, Theo managed to look genuinely perplexed. “A joke? No. Whatever gave you that idea?”

He stepped closer. “I think you’re… wonderfully complex. You’re so convinced that right and wrong are separate things, and that if you keep them far enough apart, they’ll never overlap. But they do. And that’s when most of us figure it out, how far we’re willing to go, what we can live with, and what we can’t. Draco knows his limits… if he still has any. I know mine. But you, Harry… you never had the space to find out yours, did you?”

He looked up at the lightning-shaped scar on Harry’s forehead. “I wonder… if evil hadn’t touched you first, maybe you wouldn’t spend so much time trying to prove you’re untouched by it.”

Heat crept up Harry’s neck until it prickled behind his eyes, not tears, just that thick sort of pressure that meant something was splintering, and then the shiver came, all at once, rising from somewhere in his chest and rippling outwards to the edges of him, his fingertips, his scalp, like his whole body had caught the shock.

He didn’t know what to do with himself. Part of him wanted to yell at Theo, to shame him, to deny all of it, to rage at the accusation and keep hiding all the pieces of himself he thought were wrong, but while the anger was ready and sharp, another thing was even louder. Harry was tired. And not just four-in-the-morning-on-a-Wednesday kind of tired.

It was the kind of deep fatigue that made him clench his jaw and simply brush past Theo without a word, caught somewhere between inhale and exhale, slumping down onto the edge of the sofa again, his legs heavy and his head heavier still.

He reached for the glass he’d left behind, found it half-full, and drained it in a single mouthful, the burn welcome in his throat and chest. It wasn’t until he lowered it again, hearing Theo’s quiet steps from behind, that Harry finally spoke.

“I thought it would die with him. With the part of him that was in me. I thought once he was gone, once that was gone… the darkness would be too. But some of it…” His voice wobbled. “I-It stayed.”

He thumped his chest with his fist. “It’s right here, Theo. And it’s not him anymore. It’s me.”

He felt something wet slip down his cheek and moved to wipe it away, fast, embarrassed, but a hand closed around his wrist, stopping him. Theo crouched in front of him, gaze steady and gentle, a small smile on his lips.

“You know,” Theo whispered, “maybe it stayed because that bit wasn’t his to begin with. Maybe it was always yours. Maybe it came from surviving everything you were put through. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Your scars—both the ones inside and the really hot one outside—they don’t make you tainted. They make you strong.”

He reached forward and wiped the tear from Harry’s cheek himself, fingers warm against Harry’s skin, and Harry’s pulse jumped so hard it knocked the air right out of him. Theo noticed the reaction, Harry could see it in the way his eyes lingered, and that only made Harry more anxious and flustered and so very confused.

“How about this, Harry Potter… I’d very much like to get to know you properly. The messy bits included. Actually—especially those. So maybe we figure it out together, yeah? Who you are when you’re not busy saving the world.”

Harry leaned away. “I—Theo, I don’t…I don’t think I like… um—”

Theo laughed. “Oh, you do. Trust me. But there’s time for that.” He let go of Harry’s wrist. “This isn’t me trying to snog you on the sofa at four in the morning. Tempting as that may be.” He winked. Fuck. “I’m saying I’d like to be your friend. I think you need one.”

“I have friends.”

“You do, and they’re good friends, even when Weasley’s being a complete idiot, which is, you know, always, but anyway. The point is they’ve been seeing the same version of you since you were, what, twelve? Maybe you need someone who doesn’t have that picture in their head, someone who doesn’t see what’s expected, someone who just sees… you.”

Theo gave a crooked smile. “And if that someone also happens to be charming, devastatingly attractive, and terrifyingly insightful… well, lucky you.”

He straightened and rounded the small table between sofas, grabbed his own glass, then wandered back over and tipped half of the liquid into Harry’s without asking, their fingers brushing briefly as he handed it over. He then lifted his own, eyes locked on Harry’s, and clinked them together with a grin that could only be described as trouble.

“To Voldemort being dead, to all of us pretending we’re even remotely stable, and to my beautiful arse, which I’ve definitely caught you eyeing more than once.”

Harry coughed into his drink, mortified. “I wasn’t—what—no.”

Theo grinned. “Relax. It’s flattering. A strong aesthetic appreciation is a sign of intelligence, you know.”

Harry groaned. “Fuck. Off.”

He took another sip of the Firewhisky, eyes fixed on the bottom of his glass like it might open a portal and swallow him whole, when a memory, a fraction of a memory, barely enough to count, rose in his mind. A moment he hadn’t thought twice about until now. The way Theo had walked ahead of him the other morning. The way Harry’s eyes had drifted without meaning to.

He scowled harder.

Okay. Maybe he had looked. Once.

Briefly.

Maybe twice?

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“I’m telling you, it curved right past Davies like it knew where the hoop was,” Seamus said. “It was bloody poetry.”

“Davies is useless,” Ron scoffed, slouching further into the armchair. “You could’ve lobbed a Quaffle blindfolded and still scored.”

Seamus snorted. “Yeah, well, you say that now, but you weren’t the one flying with a broken buckle and a cracked handle.”

“Maybe don’t sit on your broom when it’s still wet from a storm, then,” Ron shot back.

Harry sat nearby, half-curled into the corner of one of the big red sofas in the Gryffindor common room, his eyelids stinging from lack of sleep as he failed to follow the conversation around him. He had one hand over his mouth, muffling a massive yawn, when the portrait hole creaked open and Hermione stepped through, Ginny close behind her. Their hair was slightly windswept, cheeks flushed with cold, and Hermione was tucking something into the sleeve of her jumper.

Ron looked up from where he was now explaining Seamus’s poor flying posture using a biscuit as a prop.

“Oy,” he called to Hermione. “You alright? Someone said you woke up screaming last night.”

Hermione flushed instantly. She glanced around, clearly hoping fewer people had heard. “I’m fine,” she said, voice tight. “Just a dream. It’s nothing.”

Ginny gave her a quick look but didn’t say anything, only squeezed her arm.

Hermione’s eyes shifted to Harry. “Can I talk to you for a second, Harry?”

Harry blinked the sleep from his eyes and sat up straighter. “Yeah. Of course.”

He hadn’t had a proper chance to check in with her since last night, and he’d been worried about her all morning through their classes.

As he walked towards the girls, his chest tightened the way it always did when Ginny was near. She gave him a small smile, then turned and joined Ron and Seamus, plucking the biscuit from Ron’s hand mid-sentence.

“Hey!” Ron cried. “That was my last one!”

Harry turned away from the laughter behind him and followed Hermione across the room. She led him to the far corner near the window, where the cushions were older and the light was low, a little bubble of quiet in the middle of everything.

“How are you doing?” Harry asked her gently.

She bit her lip, then let it go. “Truthfully, I don’t remember any of it.”

Harry’s brows lifted. “Nothing at all?”

She shook her head. “Draco said maybe it was the bond again… or maybe it was just that I didn’t want to remember it… whatever it was that caused me to, you know, embarrass myself.”

“Hey, don’t say that. It’s not embarrassing. We’re all your friends. We just want you to be okay.”

She nodded and smiled a little. “I’m okay. But… I think Ginny suspects something, and I feel so awful keeping it from her, but you know why I have to.” Hermione let out a sigh. “She said I asked for you, and that she brought me to you last night. Can you walk me through what happened after that? Ginny thinks you took me to the infirmary…” Her voice trailed off as she gave a slightly awkward laugh. “But that’s not exactly where I ended up, is it?”

Harry frowned.

Hermione not remembering… he didn’t think it had anything to do with the bloody bond. It didn’t seem like a trauma response either, even if she’d been in a rough state yesterday. If Harry had to guess, he’d bet every last Galleon in his vault that what actually happened was a certain tall, blonde prat didn’t want her asking the same questions Harry had asked Theo last night.

And fuck, Harry was going to plummet him for it.

Tampering with someone’s memory was a complete violation. It was wrong. There was no justifying it, and Malfoy knew that as well as anyone. The fact he’d gone ahead and done it anyway made Harry’s teeth ground together so hard it hurt.

“Harry?”

He looked up. Hermione was watching him with those big, brown eyes, waiting for an answer.

And there it was again. That miserable familiar feeling. The place he always seemed to end up in lately. Torn between what he believed was right and the fact that, even if he hated it, he couldn’t pretend that he didn’t see it, that he couldn’t somewhat understand the reasoning behind what Malfoy had done.

Because if Hermione started asking questions, even if Malfoy didn’t say a word, she’d figure it out eventually. She always did. She was too bloody clever not to.

And if she did… if she found out everything…

Then what?

She had already lived through so much  during the war, and the idea of dragging her back into it now, when she was still waking up shaking and screaming from dreams she wouldn’t talk about… that felt wrong, too.

“You asked for Malfoy,” Harry said. “So I grabbed the cloak and snuck you into his dorm. He, um… He helped you.”

“Oh,” Hermione murmured, her cheeks colouring. “I… Thank you. And I’m sorry you had to do that.”

Harry sighed. “I just want you to be alright, Hermione.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. “You too, Harry. I want you to be alright too.”

Harry smiled into her curls as he hugged her, trying to ignore the guilt twisting violently in his chest.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“I feel like you’re hiding something from me,” Ron murmured suddenly from the bed in front of him, the two of them sitting on the edge of their mattresses, facing each other.

Harry’s pulse picked up. “What?”

“You and Mione. What did she want the other day? When she pulled you to the side?”

“Ron, she just… she wanted to talk about Ginny.”

“That’s even worse. What are you both hiding about my sister?”

Harry dragged a hand down his face. “Mate, come on. You’ve always said you’d rather not know anything about me and her.”

“Wait, are you two getting back together?”

Harry released a tired breath. “No.”

Ron paused, then muttered, “Ah, bollocks. Sorry, mate. She’s being a right twat.”

Harry frowned. “She isn’t. Maybe… Maybe she was right all along, you know?”

Ron flopped back onto his mattress with a groan. “Honestly, Harry, you want my advice? Don’t try to make sense of girl logic. There’s no logic. That’s the whole problem.”

At that, Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

A few quiet moments passed, both of them staring at the ceiling, when Ron said, “I saw Malfoy looking at our table this morning.”

Harry’s body went still. He kept his voice calm. “You did?”

“Yeah… I think he was looking at me,” Ron said darkly. “Probably plotting something, slimy Death Eater scum.”

“Easy, Ron,” Harry said, even as his mind pulled up the image of breakfast, the angle of the Slytherin table, Ron’s seat near the end, his plate piled with eggs… and the curly haired witch sitting right at his side.

Harry almost laughed again. Malfoy hadn’t been looking at Ron.

Not at all.

“I don’t get you, mate,” Ron snapped. “You used to be the first to call him out. Now you’re sticking up for him every time his name comes up. And I saw you this morning, having a full-on chat with bloody Nott, of all people. What’s that about, then?”

Harry met his eyes. “I’m just trying to move on, Ron.”

“Yeah? Must be nice,” Ron muttered, turning his back.

Harry sighed and took off his glasses, setting them down on the table beside his bed. “Theo’s actually alright, once you properly talk to him.”

Ron turned just enough to glance over his shoulder. “Theo, is it?”

“Yeah. Theo. We’ve spoken a few times. He’s sound.”

Ron let out a humourless laugh. “Sound. Right. That what we’re calling Slytherin filth these days?”

“Bloody hell, Ron,” Harry said, sitting up straighter. “When did you turn into such an arse?”

“If you’re palling around with snakes now, I’m not the only one who’s changed, am I?”

Harry didn’t even dignify him with an answer. He turned his back too, jaw tight.

Maybe he had changed.

Maybe that was a good thing.

Maybe that was exactly what he needed.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Harry grunted as he wrestled with the Bludger, trying to force it back into the box without taking another hit to the ribs. His gloves were slick with sweat, and the box’s metal clasps refused to catch properly.

“Need help?” came Ginny’s voice from above.

He looked up just as she descended, her broom slicing clean through the air before she landed beside him in a smooth, easy arc, cheeks flushed, hair stuck to her forehead beneath her helmet after two solid hours of Quidditch practice.

“Thanks,” Harry muttered as she crouched beside him, pressing down on the rogue Bludger just as it jolted against the case again. They shoved it down together and snapped the latch shut with a satisfying click.

Both of them leaned back, breathing hard—partly from practice, partly from wrestling that stubborn little bastard of a ball—and when their eyes met, Harry’s stomach lurched in nervousness.

“So… how’ve you been?” he asked awkwardly.

Ginny’s brows lifted. “Um, fine. You?”

Harry just shrugged.

They looked at each other for another weird moment before Harry blurted out, “I miss you.”

Ginny’s eyes softened with something sad. “Harry…”

“No—I—shit, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean… I do. I miss you like that too. But mostly… I miss being your friend.”

The sadness didn’t leave her eyes as she replied, “I am your friend, Harry. I’ve just… been giving you time.”

“To stop being in love with you?”

Ginny exhaled and sank down onto the grass. “I loved you for so long, Harry. Long before you even noticed I was there. At least as a woman, not just Ron’s little sister. And when we finally got together, I really thought that was it—that I’d never want to walk away from any of it.”

She paused, running her fingers through the grass.

“But we were kids, and the world was falling apart, and maybe we made sense in the middle of all that mess. Not so much after. I think… part of loving someone is knowing when to stop chasing what doesn’t fit anymore.”

“When did that happen, though?” Harry demanded roughly “When did we stop making sense? Because I didn’t feel it… I still thought we were forever.”

His heart felt small. So painfully small.

Ginny took off her helmet, her red hair catching in the weak sunlight.

“I—I don’t have a perfect answer,” she said quietly. “I just… I think what we want and what we need are different things. And at some point, as much as I wanted you… I don’t think we’re what each other needs.” She let out a breath, slow and shaky. “You love gently, Harry. You watch more than you speak. And I think that’s beautiful, I truly do. But it always left me feeling like I was the one doing all the chasing. And after a while… I started to resent you for that. I didn’t mean to, but I did. It built and built until I finally realised I couldn’t keep blaming you for simply being who you are. You weren’t loving wrong. It’s just… the way you love isn’t the way I need you to. And that’s not your fault. And it’s not mine either.”

She looked down, then back up at him.

“I think you need someone who speaks your silence, someone who doesn’t need you to explain it. And I need someone who meets me in the loud. I know you’d try, I know you would, but I don’t think that’s fair on either of us. You’d get tired. And I’d feel it.”

Harry had to press his hand into the grass to keep himself from toppling over, her words crashing into him like a whispered Avada.

“We won’t ever get back together, will we?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Ginny wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, then shook her head.

Harry swallowed, throat tight, the sky suddenly too wide above him.

“I still love you,” he said, and it wasn’t a protest, wasn’t a plea, just something that needed to be said aloud.

Ginny gave him a soft smile and looked down at the grass between them. “I know. I love you too.”

And that was all. No raised voices, no promises left behind, no final kiss. Just two people sitting still as the wind swept across the emptying pitch, quietly carrying away what was no longer meant to stay and making space for whatever might come next.

The love remained, though—different now, a little bittersweet, but still there, safely tucked into the memories they’d always share between them.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“What the fuck is this?”

Harry looked from right to left, from a grinning Theo to a relaxed Zabini and then to a scowling Malfoy, several bottles between them on the same table where the Firewhisky had sat a few nights back, the Room of Requirement now apparently promoted to full-time piss-up venue.

“Hermione said you were fighting with Weasley,” Theo said, “and figured you might need a friend to distract you from, well, the other Weasley.”

“And she went to you?”

Theo beamed. “Of course. We’re mates now aren’t we?”

“Fucking hell,” Malfoy grumbled, looking between Theo and Harry before his eyes fixed on the latter. “I don’t want to be here any more than you do, Potter. Trust me. So stop being a whiny little bitch and forcing Granger to worry about you.”

“If you don’t want to be here, why are you?” Harry growled.

“It’s Friday,” Zabini offered.

Harry cocked a brow.

“It’s Golden Girl night,” Theo chimed in cheerfully. “Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.”

Harry exhaled. “Yeah, I know the schedule. I still don’t get why he’s here.”

“Because Granger asked,” Zabini said simply. “And if she’s in a good mood, she’s sweeter. And he does like her like that. Well, he likes her any way he can g—”

Theo elbowed him hard.

“Watch it,” Malfoy snarled.

Harry leaned forward, mood souring even further. “I wonder how sweet she’d stay if she knew you were tampering with her memories.”

Something in the air changed, the tension becoming sharper than before, Malfoy’s grey eyes locked on Harry in a way that felt a bit more uncomfortable than he wanted to admit.

“I did what I had to do to protect her,” Malfoy finally said, voice flat.

“Yeah. I’m sure it had nothing to do with you not wanting her to find out about your little extracurricular activities.”

Malfoy shrugged, smirking. “What can I say? I’m great at killing two birds with one stone.”

“Not just birds, though, right?” Harry said coolly. “You’re good at killing.”

The smirk on Malfoy’s face faltered for a second. Then turned venomous. “I was wondering how long Saint Potter could keep it bottled up. Having a bit of trouble, are we?”

“Accepting that my best friend’s sharing a bed with a killer?” Harry snapped. “Yes. I guess I am.”

“Okay…” Theo quipped, reaching for the nearest bottle. “Time to start drinking.”

Not even a minute later, everyone had a full glass in hand—though the air still felt like it might explode.

Malfoy swallowed a mouth-full before speaking, every word drawled bitterly. “Tell me, Potter… you ever wonder what might’ve happened if that bitch of an aunt of mine had died the first time around? If she hadn’t been tossed into Azkaban just to crawl back out years later like the rabid dog she is?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. He could guess where this was going.

“Maybe Dobby would’ve lived. Maybe Sirius Black wouldn’t have been thrown through a veil like he was nothing. Maybe your best friend wouldn’t wake up crying in the middle of the night or walk around with a slur cut into her arm.”

Malfoy’s voice didn’t waver, but it was shaking with something deeper now. Something that sounded a lot like hate wrapped around guilt, wrapped around memory.

“And maybe,” he spat. “I wouldn’t have the sound of her fucking screams burned into my head a thousand times louder than any of mine.”

The glass in his hand suddenly shattered, breaking under the pressure of his fingers and sending liquid and shards raining all over his lap, but he didn’t even look down. His eyes teetered on wild and his chest was heaving like his body couldn’t keep up with the intensity of his rage.

And Harry saw it there. A glimpse of the beast.

“Shit,” Zabini cursed, drawing his wand. “Scourgify.”

Harry knocked back three solid gulps of his drink, his eyes catching Theo’s for a moment before returning to Malfoy.

“You want to talk about what ifs?” he said. “What if Sirius had been killed instead of chucked in Azkaban? What if no one had given him a chance to prove he was innocent? What about you? What if you were only judged by the dark mark on your arm?”

He leaned forward again, agitated. “You don’t get to be judge and executioner, Malfoy. You don’t get to decide who lives and who dies!”

Malfoy let out a laugh that was anything but amused. “Do you really think every crime needs a trial? Did Voldemort deserve one before you killed him, then?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “That was different.”

“Why?”

“It was during the war.”

Malfoy tilted his head. “And you really think that war’s over?”

Harry’s mouth opened. Then closed.

As if he was a bloody fish out of water.

Feeling like he hit a wall, his chest a mess of emotions and his head a storm of thoughts, he downed the last of his drink and grasped at the question that screamed the loudest. “How do you live with it? The deaths?”

Malfoy raised a brow. “Wrong person to ask.”

“How come?”

“Because you see blood and think guilt. You lose sleep over the stains on my hands. But that’s never kept me up at night. If anything, it helps me sleep.”

He swirled the drink in his fresh glass, eyes fixed on it as though speaking to something in the depths.

“It’s proof. Proof that I’m not the boy I used to be. That I’m not weak anymore. That I’m willing to do whatever it takes to protect the people I care about.”

A faint smile touched his lips as he looked up.

“I like the blood, Potter. The smell of it. The weight. Even the colour. It calms me.”

“Bloody hell, Draco,” Theo muttered, refilling Harry’s glass. “Brilliant job sounding like a right psychopath.”

Zabini chuckled. “What else do you expect him to sound like?”

Harry was still staring at Malfoy, heart hammering behind his ribs. Harry pressed his palms into his knees, squeezed, and took a long breath through his nose.

“I need a limit, Malfoy,” he said through gritted teeth.

The Slytherin studied Harry. 

“What type of limit?”

“Something. A line. Something that convinces me not to go straight to the Ministry and tell them exactly what you’ve been doing.”

He would find some way to keep Hermione from paying the price for whatever the bond would do to her if Malfoy was locked away.

Malfoy didn’t answer at first.

“He’s her best friend, Drakey,” Zabini said lazily. “Might want to remember that.”

Theo topped up Malfoy’s drink generously.

Second passed, maybe even minutes, until Malfoy said, “I won’t stop until every motherfucker who took a turn with my mother is dead. And my aunt. She dies the second I get my hands on her.”

Harry froze.

Took a turn?

It hit him. Slowly. Then all at once.

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

His chest tightened. The drink in front of him looked suddenly insufficient. He picked it up, drained it all in one go and tried to breathe through the liquid flowing like lava down his throat as he clumsily set the empty glass back down.

“Alright.”

Malfoy scowled. “Alright?”

“No Ministry. Under one condition.”

Malfoy sighed. “Go on.”

Harry hesitated.

“I want you to take me with you. Next time.”

Malfoy released a sound that was too dark to be a laugh. “So you can bloody stop me?”

Harry shook his head.

“No.”

“What then?”

You’re so convinced that right and wrong are separate things, and that if you keep them far enough apart, they’ll never overlap. But they do. And that’s when most of us figure it out, how far we’re willing to go, what we can live with, and what we can’t. Draco knows his limits… if he still has any. I know mine. But you, Harry… you never had the space to find out yours, did you?

Theo’s previous words bounced around in Harry’s head.

“He wants to discover what his limits are,” Theo cut in, looking at Harry with curved up lips and reading him as easily as a first-year spellbook.

Then it was Ginny’s voice that came back, clear as if she were whispering in Harry’s ear. I think you need someone who speaks your silence, someone who doesn’t need you to explain it.

“Oi, hang on,” Zabini suddenly said, frowning at Harry and Theo. “Where’s my Gryffindor?”

Malfoy glanced over. “What the fuck are you on about?”

“Well, you each got one. I want one too. Why am I the only one left Gryffindorless?”

A pause followed as they all tried to make sense of Zabini’s words.

Then, languidly, in a way that felt eerily predatory, Malfoy smirked. “You know what? You’re right, mate.”

Zabini smiled. “Thank you. Now—what options do I have, Potter?”

Harry glanced between Theo and Malfoy, completely lost.

Malfoy crossed his arms. “C’mon, Blaise, what options do you think? There’s only one left to complete the special set.”

Zabini frowned. “I’m not following.”

“Oh,” Theo said, grinning. “Yes. Makes sense. Say Blaise, who’s left to make the Golden trio?”

Zabini blinked. Then again. Then once more, like his brain was buffering. Finally, his eyes widened.

“Weasley? You’re trying to give me Weasley?”

”He’s the only one left.” 

Zabini shook his head in disgust. “No. I don’t want him.”

Malfoy shrugged. “Why not? I even remember you saying you’ve got a thing for redheads.”

“Girls! And besides, he’d hex me in my sleep!”

“You can play with him or stun him, whichever works first,” Malfoy said. “Either way, I stop getting glared at across every corridor, and Potter stops sulking every time the Weasel has a tantrum.” He winked. “Two birds. One stone.”

It night have been the generous amount of alcohol already swimming in Harry’s blood, but fuck it, he laughed.

Chapter Text

Hermione

Her leg bounced restlessly as she sat alone in the empty Gryffindor common room, the clock edging past one in the morning, a hundred thoughts tumbling through her head. When she’d asked Theo to help cheer Harry up, it hadn’t been on a whim. He was the right person for the job, not just because he possessed some of the richest emotional intelligence Hermione had come across (to the point it sometimes left her feeling a little exposed around him), but because she’d seen the two boys talking here and there over the past month, and it never looked tense or hostile. If anything, they seemed at ease, like they were… friends.

And with Ron being as difficult as he was these days, so clouded by grief and anger he could barely see past his own pain, and with Hermione constantly torn between trying to be there for both Harry and Ginny and also Draco and the bond and everything complicated that came with it, maybe what Harry really needed was someone new. Someone who wasn’t his ex’s brother or girlfriend. Someone who could listen without bias, and who was emotionally mature enough to actually give him advice worth hearing.

And Theo, for that, was definitely the right choice.

But maybe—maybe—when she insisted on the others tagging along, thinking strength in numbers might help when cheering up a boy with a broken heart, she’d made a gross miscalculation. Draco and Harry might be civil now, sure, and Draco might have reined in the worst of his snide comments, though he still liked to needle Harry whenever he could—but civil wasn’t friendship. Not even close. And asking them to spend time together outside the safety net of her presence might have been naïve at best and foolish at worst.

And so, the longer the clock ticked on, the more her leg bounced, the more her stomach twisted, and the more her thoughts turned dark and spirally and dramatic, because maybe they had fought, maybe Draco said something he shouldn’t have or Harry lost his temper or Blaise egged them on for fun, because the twat would, he absolutely would, and Theo might be good at navigating feelings but he didn’t exactly stand a chance if Harry and Draco really went for each other, not physically or magically anyway, and what if the reason they were late to come get her was because they were still out there arguing or worse, bleeding and hexed into unconsciousness somewhere just because she thought it would be a good idea for all of them to, she didn’t even know what to call it, hang out or—

A sound.

Hermione’s head snapped up so fast her neck cracked, which left a wince on her face as she stared at the portrait hole opening, heart leaping straight into her throat, ready for anything, and then she saw him, Harry, walking through the doorway, and she immediately shot to her feet, a sigh escaping her lips so fast and shaky it felt like deflating.

He looked fine.

His face was unmarked, no blood, no bruises, no signs of a fight, even his glasses were straight, and for one glorious second she was sure she’d overreacted.

Then he stumbled.

“Harry?” she whispered, mindful of the hour, a frown stretching her lips as she stepped closer and tried to get a better look at him in the dim firelight. “Are you alright?”

He caught her eyes with a look that was far too happy for one in the morning and grinned. “Mione!” he said loudly and went to move in her direction, only to stumble again.

She lunged forward, catching his arm before he could hit the edge of the couch, fingers wrapping around his sleeve, and hissed, “Quiet, Harry! You’ll wake someone.”

He giggled.

Actually giggled.

“Oops.”

She stared at him.

And now that he was this close, it was all too obvious. The flushed cheeks, the glazed eyes, the way he swayed just a little even while standing still, the smell of something sweet and sharp on his breath that definitely wasn’t pumpkin juice.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake. Are you drunk?”

Harry winced. “… Little bit.”

She cocked a brow.

Little bit?

He was absolutely, unmistakably plastered.

Hermione ran a hand through her hair, muttering under her breath, then said, “Be honest. Can you get to your room without waking anyone up?”

Harry didn’t answer. He dug around in his pockets and pulled something out, a small vial with dark liquid swirling at the bottom, which he held up and wiggled proudly in front of her face.

She squinted her eyes at it. “Is that a sobering potion?”

He nodded with far too much enthusiasm and tipped the contents into his mouth, swallowing it in one go before letting out a deep sigh like he’d just saved the world again.

“I stole Malfoy’s,” he said cheerfully. “Good luck.”

Her brows drew together, confusion replacing the relief that yet again barely had time to settle. “Stole his? What—where is he?”

Harry blinked at her, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Outside. With the cloak. Waiting for you.”

“Oh.”

Harry yawned. “I’m going to crash, Mione,” he mumbled. “Remember. Pillow wall.”

And just like that, he turned and trudged off towards the boys’ staircase, already pulling off his jumper as he went, leaving Hermione frozen on the spot, still staring at the now-empty vial in her hand, heart suddenly pounding again for an entirely different reason.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Hermione tried to ignore the Fat Lady’s offended glare as she murmured, “Silencio Memorare.”

A soft purple light flashed across the canvas, and as soon as it faded, Hermione lowered her wand.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I really am, but we both know you’d tell on us if I didn’t.”

Even though eighth years weren’t legally minors, they were still subject to Hogwarts’ curfew rules, and avoiding trouble sometimes meant relying on the kind of creative rule-bending and ethically grey spells Hermione had, admittedly, become rather skilled at over the years.

With that done, she turned around, ears straining for the sound of approaching footsteps, trying to stay alert to any professors or staff wandering the corridors, all while scanning the darkness for a head of blond hair that normally wouldn’t be hard to spot, except, of course, when it was hidden under a bloody Invisibility Cloak.

“Draco?” she whisper-hissed.

No one answered.

She rocked back and forward on her heels, the corridor too quiet, uncertainty starting to rise in her chest, until an arm slid around her waist and pulled her back into the heat of a body, strong and big and familiar, the weight of fabric falling over them and sealing them in.

His nose brushed the curve of her neck.

“Relax, Granger. I’m right here.”

Her pulse jumped at the sound of his voice filling the cramped space they shared beneath the cloak, too calm for someone who had just crept up on her in the dark, his breath warm and laced with the same sweet trace she’d caught on Harry earlier. She didn’t have the room to turn around, but she lifted her chin slightly as she turned her head to the side.

“Harry’s really drunk.”

Draco let out a low chuckle at the first thing she chose to say, the sound rumbling against her back.

“I’m aware. Apparently being a lightweight is a Gryffindor trait.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, not that he could see it.

“He said that he, um, stole your sobering potion,” she continued.

Draco laughed again. “If by ‘stole’ he means I handed it to him and told him not to fuck up and get you in trouble, then sure. He stole it.”

Hermione felt her lips twitch. “So you don’t need it?” She hesitated. “You’re… not drunk?”

He shifted behind her, his hand brushing her hip as he adjusted their footing beneath the fabric. “Oh, I am. How do you think I survived an entire evening with bloody Potter?” She felt his head lower behind her again, and then his voice slid into her ear. “But I can handle my liquor, little witch. No need to worry.”

She gulped silently. “Are you sure?”

He pulled her even closer, the press of his chest firm against her back, then nudged his leg forward against hers, guiding her first step. “I’m sure.”

They walked quickly and quietly beneath the cloak, both of them well-practised at it by now with how often they’d been sneaking around like this, and Draco didn’t trip or sway or fumble, just like he hadn’t slurred a single word outside the Gryffindor common room earlier, and if she hadn’t caught the smell of Firewhisky on his breath, she might not have believed he’d had any at all.

It wasn’t until they were nearly at the dungeons, the stone walls darker and damper here, just shy of the turn towards the Slytherin section of the castle, that he suddenly bumped into her a little harder than expected, like he’d misjudged the space or his step, a muttered curse flying from his mouth as the impact knocked her forward.

They fell together, her feet slipping out from under her as the cloak tangled around their legs, but just before she hit the floor he twisted them hard, dragging her into him so it was his back that struck first, not hers, her body landing half on top of him as she heard the breath being punched out of his lungs.

Draco didn’t stay down long.

He sat up fast, bringing her with him, one hand coming up to her cheek, thumb pressing in as he searched her face, eyes darting fast and frantic.

“Hermione. Fuck. Are you alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

She blinked at him, still half caught in the Invisibility Cloak, her hands braced awkwardly on the cold floor as the chill of it crept into her skin, but the only thing she was truly aware of was the warm, worried pressure of his palm against her cheek.

She stared at him a moment longer, eyes adjusting to the dim light, watching the way his brow pulled tight and his mouth stayed just slightly open, like he was waiting for her to flinch or panic or say something, anything. Hermione should have been quick to reassure him, to tell him he hadn’t hurt her, because he really hadn’t, but when her lips parted, what came out wasn’t that.

Instead, she… laughed.

Soft at first, barely a breath, and then harder, forcing her to bring her own hand up to cover her mouth so no one would hear it and come looking for the source of the sound.

Draco frowned and let his fingers slip from her face, glancing down the corridor before tugging the cloak back up so it covered them properly, holding it securely around them, still sitting with her pressed against his chest.

He tugged at one of her curls. “Why the hell are you laughing?”

She giggled again, tucking her chin into her shoulder, just for a second, long enough to collect herself, and when she finally spoke, her voice dropped low and gruff and deliberately serious as she mimicked, “I can handle my liquor, little witch,” the words coming out in the worst impression of him she could manage.

Now, Hermione couldn’t see much beneath the cloak, but she could swear she felt it, the worry draining out of the space between them and being replaced by the full force of a grey-eyed glare.

Then his hand was back on her face, not soft this time, not rough either, just firmer, his thumb and forefinger catching her chin to stop her from turning away.

“You think you’re funny, do you?”

She grinned, unrepentant. “I’m hilarious.”

He let go of her face with an exaggerated sigh and muttered, “Next time I’ll just let you hit the fucking floor.”

“Will you?”

He hesitated, like he hadn’t expected the question (which was fair, because why the hell had she asked it), and she felt the slight flex of his arm where it rested behind her, the way his chest rose a little slower than before.

“No, Granger.”

She bit her lip. “Why not?”

He tutted, but it didn’t sound annoyed, not really, and then his lips brushed her temple as he spoke, soft and smug right against her skin.

“Have I really not made it clear yet, silly girl? You don’t get hurt when I’m around.”

The solid weight of his thigh shifted beneath her, just enough to remind her where she was—practically in his lap.

“Not while I’m watching,” he added, raspier now, the alcohol finally showing in his voice. “And I can’t seem to take my eyes off you, can I?”

Hermione kept very, very still, like the stillness might buy her more time, might help her figure out a way to react to that, to him, because even though she knew there was a reason he said these things, a reason he watched her, and it had everything to do with the bond linking them together and nothing with her directly, his words still made her brain lag, her brain, which was a perfectly fine, high-functioning brain—so Merlin knew what it would do to someone with an average one.

And then that made her wonder, briefly, how any girl survived this, girls certainly with worse brains than hers, the ones he said these things to for real, and she didn’t entirely understand why the thought made her stomach twist like that. But faced with a collection of variables she couldn’t solve and a brain that seemed more interested in melting down than analysing, Hermione defaulted to the most obvious response available.

Retreat.

She tried to move. Tried to slide out of his lap, where she was all too aware she still was, quickly, hopeful it might make the heat in her cheeks, in her entire body, disappear.

But he moved first, arm suddenly curling under her thighs as he rose, lifting her clean off the floor with him, and she nearly shrieked, caught herself at the very last second, her breath hitching into a strangled hiss instead as her arms flew around his shoulders for balance.

“What are you doing?” she snapped, nearly knocking the cloak askew.

He didn’t answer right away, just hooked one arm more securely under her and tugged the cloak back into place with the other, all while leaving her legs no choice but to wrap around his waist.

Then, casually, as if it was obvious and maybe even normal, “Preventing more falls.”

“And this helps how, exactly?”

“If I let you down, we’ve got a heavy cloak, too much Firewhisky in my system, and my much longer legs trying to keep up a reasonable pace for your short ones. Not exactly a winning combination, is it?”

“First, my legs are perfectly average. And second, I’m sure we can come up with a much more reasonable solution to our vertical mismatch than you playing pack mule.”

“Hmm,” he said, adjusting her higher on his waist, fingers splayed far too comfortably against her back, the hard metal of his rings pressing into her through her jumper. “I don’t know. This feels pretty perfect.”

“Just let me down, Draco,” she grumbled in his ear.

He chuckled instead and started walking, and Hermione didn’t bother arguing again, not wanting to risk any more noise. She just stayed quiet for the rest of the short walk to his dorm, radiating irritation as he carried her, arms looped tight around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist.

It wasn’t until they were in front of the door to his dorm that he finally let her down, the cloak falling with her, and it was as her feet touched the floor that he suddenly said, “We’re not mismatched, Granger.”

He stepped back just enough to look at her, but not far enough to give her space, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“You wouldn’t be mine if we were.”

Mine.

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard him say it, not even the first time he’d said it like that, so obnoxiously possessive, but something about this moment pulled the word into sharper focus, dragged it out from the haze of noise in her mind and demanded she look at it properly.

Because they’d spent weeks—months, really—believing that whatever was happening between them was wrong. A curse. A punishment. Something cruel and sinister that was meant to torment them with its presence. And then they’d discovered it was a bond. A mating bond. And aside from it being completely nonsensical and unprecedented, they’d both agreed it had to be a mistake—a severe, aberrant misfire of fate.

They’d built their entire understanding of it on the certainty that what existed between them wasn’t meant to be, that it was wrong and dangerous and had to be undone, that they needed to get rid of it before it got worse.

And with that in mind… what he’d just said made absolutely no sense.

Because what did it matter if the bond said they matched if they believed the bond was a mistake?

What did it matter if it thought they were compatible?

Why would he use it to justify their rightness when they’d both agreed that it was all wrong?

Maybe she was doing that thing she always did, reading too much into everything, weaving meaning out of scraps, maybe he was just teasing her, maybe it meant nothing, maybe there was no change in thought at all, just words, just mischief, just Draco being Draco.

But what if… what if she wasn’t imagining it?

And why did that unsettle her this deeply?

No, that one… that one she knew.

It was because, in some dark, shameful, traitorous corner of her brain (or heart), the more she listened, the more she watched, the more she weathered his proximity, the more she could maybe… sort of… see it.

How they could, hypothetically—entirely hypothetically—match.

Fit.

Be compatible.

Hypothetically.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

“Hermione, are you even listening to me?”

Her head jerked up at the sound of Ginny’s voice, eyes snapping back to the girl in front of her who had turned around, half-twisted in her seat as she tried to follow Hermione’s gaze.

“Yes, sorry,” Hermione said quickly, heart lurching as she realised Ginny’s line of sight might land on Draco if she wasn’t careful.

Thankfully, Ginny turned back with a frown. “Seriously, what’s going on with you? You’ve been acting odd all day.”

Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it again, her lie still not all the way ready, she really should be better at it by now, but then there was movement at the Slytherin table that caught her attention again and her words got lost somewhere between her throat and her brain.

“I’m sorry, Ginny,” she said, already standing. “I really do have to go. I’ll explain later.”

But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

Hermione turned before Ginny could say anything else and made her way out of the Great Hall, slipping into the corridor just as the three Slytherin boys disappeared round the corner. She quickened her walk, trying to stay a few steps behind without being obvious about it, but then she saw Draco picking up his pace, the bastard, like he knew she was following, and gave up all pretence.

“Malfoy!” she called down the corridor. “Can I speak to you?”

Theo turned first, throwing a look over his shoulder and grinning at her, and Blaise followed, slower, folding his arms and leaning leisurely against the wall as if settling in to watch a show.

Draco was the last to turn, and when he did, it was with the kind of deliberate slowness that made her want to smack him in the head, and then their eyes met, and she felt a jolt of electricity hit her chest, like someone had pressed a bloody Muggle defibrillator to it and shouted clear.

“Malfoy, huh?” he said. “Not sure I enjoy you calling me that anymore.”

Hermione glanced around quickly, noting that the corridor was, thankfully, still empty, and rushed forward to grab his arm.

“Come with me,” she said, trying not to sound breathless.

He looked down at her hand, then back up, brow lifting slow. “No please?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Draco.”

Something shifted in his expression—the smallest flicker—and he nodded.

Behind them, Blaise let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something else. “Just like that.”

Theo glanced at Blaise, amused, then looked at Hermione and said, “Potter’s coming with me to the Shack to set up the things you asked for, since I’m not exactly keen on being nearly murdered by that deranged tree again.”

Hermione offered a weak smile. “Thanks.”

Draco didn’t say anything, just stood there in silence, his body tense like he was holding something barely in check.

And he was.

The full moon was only hours away. 

Blaise looked between the two of them. “Right, if you’re planning to finish that argument from this morning, could you at least let us know how it goes?” He sent Hermione a crooked smile. “I’ve got my bet on you, pretty freckles.”

Draco gave a sudden jolt forward, his arm pulling hers with it, and the noise that came from his throat was low and guttural, unfinished, not quite a growl but not far from it either, dangerous enough to make Blaise take a step back and for Hermione to place herself between them on instinct, her hand still gripping Draco’s sleeve.

“For fuck’s sake, Blaise, not today,” Theo said. “Come on, let’s get you away before she lets him eat you.”

Blaise let out a shaky laugh.

“Yeah. I don’t think I’m a fan of being dinner.”

She heard retreating footsteps, quick, almost a run really, and when the sound of them faded down the corridor, she let out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding and focused back on Draco. His eyes looked brighter somehow, more alive, like there was something behind them, something not quite his, and it made her wonder if he was entirely alone right now, looking at her.

“Are you alright?”

Draco shook his head, like he was trying to shake something off, and closed his eyes for a second. When he looked back at her, his voice was rough.

“I’m fine.”

She frowned but nodded, then let go of his sleeve. She swallowed and looked down. “I… I’m sorry for this morning.”

He sighed, and she felt his finger gently lifting her chin. “Does that mean you’ll stay at the dorm tonight?”

When they fought this morning, it was because Draco had been insisting (demanding) for days that he wanted her in his dorm during the full moon, with Theo and Blaise watching over her and making sure she didn’t go to the Shack like last time.

Hermione shifted on her feet. “Let’s talk somewhere more private, okay?”

Draco looked around. “I’m not sure you want to be alone with me right now, Hermione. I’m feeling a little… off.”

His hand flexed at his side, and she could see it in his eyes again, a hint of something else, something dark and wild and watching.

And how was she supposed to tell Draco that that didn’t make her afraid… that it made her feel the opposite?

No. She couldn’t just tell him.

She had to show him.

It was the only way he’d understand.

It had taken her a full month to gather the courage for it, and maybe it had been wrong to keep it from him for so long, maybe it wasn’t fair that she kept deflecting every time he insisted, maybe it was even unforgivable that she was doing it now, in the last few hours she had… but if she was going to let him inside her head, then selfishly, she was glad she’d waited.

Because after everything they’d shared over the past month alone, she wasn’t afraid anymore. Not even a little.

Letting him in didn’t feel scary.

It felt inevitable.

Perhaps because, at this point in her life, there wasn’t a single person in the world who knew her the way he did. Or saw her the way he did. Or could reach the parts of her he already had.

“Come on,” she said, walking away.

And his footsteps followed not even a second later, like she knew they would.

The bond was acting ruthless today, trying to pull them together like it had claws… because it did.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

The Room of Requirement was too risky because of Ron, and she didn’t want to do this outside, because while there were plenty of hiding spots at Hogwarts, neither of them would be on alert for passersby while it was happening.

So… a broom cupboard it was.

Hermione lowered her wand after finishing all the privacy spells they could need, then turned to face Draco. He was watching her with an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs, his presence even more imposing in the tight space, broad shoulders nearly brushing both walls.

She let out a shaky breath and adjusted her thick braid to rest over her shoulder, fingers lingering at the end, and forced herself to speak.

“I can’t stay in your dorm tonight.”

Not this full moon… or any other.

Draco exhaled sharply. “Granger—”

“There is a reason for it,” she cut him off. “A good reason. And I’m going to show it to you.”

That made him pause, though it didn’t ease away any of the tension so visible in his body, the way his shoulders stayed locked and high and the way his jaw tightened as if biting down on the instinct to argue.

“You’re going to show me now?”

She nodded.

“You’re going to show me everything that happened that night?”

She nodded again.

He suddenly closed the already barely there distance between them, stopping right in front of her and forcing her to lift her chin even higher to keep meeting his gaze.

“Good,” he said, grey eyes flashing closer to silver, like they’d been doing all day. “I’ll be careful. But still, if I somehow hurt you, even just a little, at any point, just…” He reached for her hand, unexpectedly gentle. “Squeeze hard. Squeeze, and I’ll jump out straight away. Understand, Granger?”

His skin was very hot, but so was hers, and when their palms met it was like something lit between them. It felt like holding fire, but it didn’t burn. At least not in a bad way.

Hermione smiled. “I trust you.”

That made his brows arch, and he held her eyes for a long moment, something unreadable shifting in his face like the words had done something to him, then he leaned back, and his wand was out, and her heart was pounding, and he was still holding her right hand in his larger one when he muttered,

“Legilimens.”

*

The night is cold against her skin as she moves through the Hogwarts grounds, Harry’s cloak pulled tight around her shoulders, and she feels trapped in a state that is both awake and asleep, like she’s drifting just beneath the surface of her own body, not quite in control as she dives for the trunk of the Whomping Willow and presses the spot she knows will lull the angry thing into its own sleep. So yes, Hermione is vaguely aware that she’s no longer in her bed, that she’s walking straight into a place she really, really shouldn’t dare approach when the moon is hanging so bold and full and watchful above her, that something is waiting for her at the end of this strange pre-dawn pull she’s answering without quite meaning to, something dangerous.

But even though she knows all of that, even though she can reason through every wrong step she’s taking, even though logic still exists somewhere in her mind, she can’t hold onto it properly. Not long enough to do anything about it. It’s like one of those strange, vivid dreams where you know you’re dreaming but still can’t change the course of what’s happening, still can’t stop yourself from following wherever it’s going.

Her breath feels shallow, her pulse is ticking in some odd rhythm, and still her feet keep moving, after a voice that is calling her by something other than her name, low and rough and not human.

The tunnel that leads to the Shrieking Shack wraps her in darkness, but she doesn’t reach for her wand. She simply lets the thing in her chest pull her forward, guiding her steadily until her hand is pushing open the wall on the other side.

There is a burning candle on a low table, left there by Hermione herself with an enchantment over it to make sure it would stay lit through the night, and it helps her find the stairs to the left, and down she goes, one step at a time, her heart picking up pace until it feels like it might tear right through the wall of her chest.

With the tiny bit of logic she has left, the faint trace of awareness surviving somewhere in the background, she knows this is her last chance to escape, to turn back and run far away from here, from the monster beckoning her forward.

But she doesn’t.

She lets her foot fall until it lands on the ground, finally free of the stairs, and she instantly feels its presence to the right, the heavy breathing in the room, the predator watching her. Slowly, so slowly, she turns her head, her stomach lurching, her fingers stiff as they let go of the cloak covering her, and as it slips from her shoulders and pools on the ground at her feet, she trembles as her eyes finally meet another pair, so like the ones she’s getting more and more familiar with, only sharper and larger and wilder.

Thump-Thump. Thump-Thump.

Her legs give a little, her head light and ringing, and she stumbles back with a flinch as she takes in the shape before her. And there’s so much of it to take in.

The beast is massive, towering over her even with all four paws planted firmly on the floor, the back ones chained in thick silver cuffs that dig into fur, and its coat is dark in the dim light, a shadowy blue-black that swallows half the room, not at all what she expected, given Draco’s white-blond hair. But it creates a contrast that doesn’t exist in the human, the inky darkness of the werewolf’s fur throwing the pale silver of its eyes into impossible focus, almost as if they’re lit from within, glowing brighter for being surrounded by so much black.

Hermione still recalls the hunched, skeletal form of Remus’s werewolf, and how even that had sent her running for her life. But Draco’s is anything but spindly, it looks powerful in the same way he does, broad and solid, with lean muscle layered generously along its limbs. The hair on her nape lifts with the tension building under her skin as the creature lowers its giant head slightly, eyes unblinking on her, then sniffs the air around her, and when it suddenly jerks against the chains to get closer, a startled cry falls out of her at the same time her legs finally give out and she lands flat on her arse.

The werewolf reacts instantly, yanking hard against the chains again, a guttural sound ripping out of its throat as it stares down at her on the floor, but the chains hold fast, spelled by Hermione herself, and maybe it’s the weight of that reminder, the feel of her own magic humming in the metal, that tells her she isn’t just some defenceless prey waiting to be killed.

Her hand shoots to the waistband of her pyjama trousers and fumbles for her wand, tugging it free from the elastic, and then it’s in her grip, pointed straight at the werewolf, her arm shaking just a little. She swallows thickly at the sight of those huge, sharp teeth, but she doesn’t let it stop the spell that flies out of her mouth, “Stupefy!”

The magic bursts from her wand in a flash of red and hits the werewolf straight on. Chains clank loudly as the beast is thrown back, but it only takes it another second to shake her attack off, like it was nothing more than a shove. She grimaces, lungs overworking, and fires another spell.

“Impedimenta!”

Maybe she should use something stronger, something that would buy her more time if the beast manages to break through the magic in the shackles, but she doesn’t. She… doesn’t want to hurt it. Not when it’s going to turn back into Draco at dawn.

She turns and stumbles for the stairs, her legs trembling so badly she’s not sure how they’re even holding her up, her chest pulled tight and burning, and there’s this horrible feeling right in the centre of it, like an elastic being stretched too thin, and it hurts more and more with each step she takes, hurts in a way she can’t explain, like a thread that’s supposed to stay tied is being ripped in the wrong direction.

Come back.

Hermione nearly trips.

Her hand shoots out to catch the rail and she grabs on like it’s the only thing keeping her upright, because it is, and she stands frozen halfway up the flight, heart pounding in her ears, her whole body still except for the shallow, panicked breaths that don’t feel like they’re doing anything at all.

Slowly, like she’s moving underwater, she turns her head over her shoulder, not because she wants to but because she can’t help it, and when her eyes find the werewolf again it’s still watching her, only it’s no longer standing, no longer towering the way it had been and no longer using all that impossible height to loom over her.

Its front paws are bent, folded in beneath its chest, the massive frame dropped low so its belly rests against the mattress she’d laid out that morning, like it’s some overgrown puppy that got tired of playing and decided to rest, and for a moment so long it stretches her mind, all she can do is stare, blinking like her vision might be lying to her, because that’s not right, that’s not how it’s supposed to look, that’s not what monsters do, just like monsters—at least monsters like this one—aren’t supposed to… speak.

Especially not inside her bloody head.

And it’s just as she thinks it that it happens again, that voice, reverberating through her skull.

Come back.

If she had to describe it, she’d say it sounds like something from a story, the voice you’d choose for a cartoon villain, low and gravelly and meant to frighten children, made for shadows, rough and wrong in all the right ways, the kind of voice that should send a chill down her spine, and it does, just… not in the way it’s supposed to.

Hermione gulps, still frozen halfway up the stairs.

Come back, it says again, and this time it sounds a little more impatient.

Hermione is a rational person. More rational than most, in fact. She knows werewolves do not possess the capacity to form words, not like this, not with language, not with thought. She also knows it isn’t Draco speaking to her right now. The beast is in full control.
And she knows that because… she just knows it. She can feel it, deep in her chest, beneath the panic and the disbelief and all the parts of her trying to make sense of this.

Come back.

Now.

It no longer sounds like a request. It sounds like an order, a proper command, and it’s the sheer audacity of being ordered around by a creature that isn’t even supposed to be able to speak that finally breaks through the absolute mess in her head, and she can’t help it, she fully turns around and snaps furiously, “Why? So you can kill me?”

Its head tilts.

Not in a threatening way, she thinks. Not in that predatory way that means it’s about to pounce, but almost… unsure, like it’s confused, like it’s trying to figure her out, like it genuinely doesn’t understand why she would even ask that, which only makes her more confused.

And then it—it… laughs?

The sound echoes strangely in her head, and Hermione crosses her arms, breathing through her nose. “Was I funny?”

The laughter stops, and the wolf begins to rise, unhurried as it stretches to its full height again, and even from halfway up the stairs she finds herself eye to eye with it.

For a second, she forgets how to breathe, her throat sticking, while nerves prickle all through her body like static.

Kill you? I would not kill you.

Now it’s her turn to laugh, if you can even call it that. It’s a short, bitter sound that leaves her lips without humour. Partly because she’s apparently having a conversation with an actual beast, and partly because— “Then what were you trying to do before?”

The werewolf’s head tilts once more.

Smell you. Closer. Wanted closer.

Hermione blinks. “Why?”

You smell good.

She scoffs before she can help it. “Right. So you weren’t trying to hurt me?”

No.

Not… you.

There’s intention there—in the phrasing, in the pause before the last word—and it makes her brain kick into overdrive.

She studies it the way she studies difficult texts, looking for patterns in expression, for anything that might tell her this is a trick, but there’s nothing, just those bright silver eyes watching her eerily.

“W-Why should I believe you?”

It doesn’t answer straight away. For a moment, it just stares at her, and the silence thickens.

Come here.

“No.”

I will tell if you come.

Another dry laugh escapes her, sharper this time, but still tinged with nerves. “Yeah, not really selling it.”

The werewolf lets out a breath, and while it’s nothing but a guess, it really feels like a sound of annoyance. But then it surprises her—shocks her, even—with what it says next.

Please.

The voice is still rough, still strange in her head, but also, somehow… softer?

Hermione shifts slightly on the step, her weight tipping forward, then back again, like she’s caught in some strange gravity, like her own body doesn’t know whether to run or move closer.

“H-How are you speaking?” she mutters. “Werewolves aren’t meant to be able to do that.”

I learn from human.

“Draco?”

It doesn’t answer, but it doesn’t deny it either, and the silence that follows feels just as clear.

She narrows her eyes. “Wait. You two… talk?”

Draco had never mentioned being able to communicate with the werewolf. Not once.

I do not need to talk to human.

I learn because I listen.

Hermione can’t help but notice something in its tone. A certain note of… distaste?

She steadies her breath. “So you’re just… there? Inside him?” A pause. “All the time?”

If the werewolf has a conscious presence beyond the full moon, is it always watching? Is it there every time she looks into Draco’s light grey eyes?

The thought alone makes her shiver.

No.

I sleep long.

Hermione stares, heart ticking loudly inside her, mind struggling to process what it’s telling her. None of this makes sense. Nothing in any of the accounts she’s read about lycanthropy has ever recorded anything even remotely close to what she’s witnessing right now, and she’s read hundreds of them, truly hundreds, from dry, Ministry-approved research to obscure, half-banned texts that barely made it past translation, and even straight-up gibberish that had taken an insane amount of patience and Draco’s help (just once or twice, though he keeps throwing them in her face, the prat) to understand.

Nothing described this.

Just like nothing described anything like their bond.

And suddenly she’s thinking about it, the bond, the one they’ve barely scratched the surface of, the one that’s sitting heavy on her chest right now, and the one powering the pull that got her out of bed and led her here to… it?

If…If the bond connects her to the creature, too, if the lycanthropy factor plays an important role in the connection, just like Luna suggested, could the bond… could it somehow alter it? The beast? Could it change the very nature of the creature itself, folding an unknown amount of human complexity into something that should have been nothing but wildness and darkness?

Could the werewolf in front of her be… different?

Be... more?

The thought catches fire in her head, and before she even fully finishes developing it, a question jumps out of her mouth. “Why did you say you wouldn’t kill me?”

The werewolf’s ears twitch in attention.

But it simply says, Come here.

Again. The same words. The same strong tug.

She clenches her jaw. Every single part of her that still believes in reason, in logic, in some sort of survival instinct, is screaming at her to stay back, to keep her feet planted and her wand ready, to remember that she is standing in front of something that could tear her apart in seconds. And she should listen to it, listen to the smart, sensible version of herself, and get the hell out of here right now.

She really, really should.

But the bond is urging her forward, a gravitational pull between her and the creature, she can feel it like it’s an arm stretching from her chest straight to the werewolf, a magnet reaching for its missing piece, aching to be whole, and Hermione… she’s curious. Very curious. And that, if she’s being honest with herself, has always been the thing that gets her into trouble more than anything else.

Besides, even though she’s afraid, she’s not as afraid as she should be. Not nearly. And maybe that means she’s lost her mind. Or maybe… maybe it’s just that she thinks, almost confidently, that it wouldn’t really hurt her. Not if—

Hermione releases the thought and takes a step. Then another. Right foot, then left. Repeat. No more thinking, no more second-guessing. There’s only one path to finding out. Down she goes, one stair at a time, slow and steady, until she’s at the bottom again and has to look up to meet the werewolf’s large gaze.

Her wand is still clutched tightly in her hand as she moves forward, further than she ever got tonight, past the place where she froze before, and the werewolf stays put, simply watching, even though there’s some give left in the chains connected to the shackles, she can see the slack, see the length it could use if it wanted to, but it doesn’t, it just stays exactly where it is and lowers its head the closer she gets, and it happens gradually, carefully even, like it’s trying not to… like it’s trying not to scare her.

And then, out of nowhere, Hermione’s right there, so close she can feel the air shift as the creature pulls in a breath through its nose, just like it had before, only deeper this time, and she stays very still as the head of the werewolf hovers above her shoulder, sniffing the space around her like it’s trying to drink her in, her wand pressed against the creature’s chest as she forces herself not to tremble.

When its nose brushes against her curls, she pokes its chest harder with it, wand digging into fur, ready to fire a spell if she has to—

But before she can react, faster than something so massive should be able to move, the werewolf snaps its head back and lunges, teeth clamping down on her wand and ripping it straight from her hand, flinging it across the room where it skids into the corner and disappears from sight.

Hermione lunges after it immediately, war reflexes still burned into her muscles, and tries to dart past the creature, but it steps into her path, blocking her completely. She doesn’t stop, she fakes left, a sudden twist of her body, and then cuts right, aiming for the open gap on its other side, but the werewolf is faster than she expects again, and it moves in front of her a second time.

She’s panting now, every part of her buzzing with adrenaline, skin too tight as she stares up at it.

“Y-You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” she says, voice thinner than she wants it to be.

And yes, it does cross her mind that that must be in the top ten of most common famous last words.

I won’t.

“You took my wand!” she accuses, fingers curling into fists.

You don’t need it.

“I need it to protect myself!”

The werewolf’s head drops until it’s right in front of her, huge silver eyes holding her gaze from terrifyingly close.

No.

I keep safe. I protect.

She tries to swallow, but her throat is stupidly dry, so she has to do it again, harder this time, just to be able to speak.

“It’s you I need protecting from,” she finally manages.

The eyes in front of her move, not from side to side, not like they’re trying to focus on anything in particular, they just move in a slow, idle circle, and Hermione refuses, flat-out refuses, to entertain the idea that this bloody creature might have just rolled its eyes at her.

Don’t be stupid, it says.

Now, there are plenty of insults Hermione can stomach. Merlin knows she’s heard her share. Swot. Know-it-all. Annoying. Bitch. She can even handle mudblood—has handled it, more times than she cares to count—handled it to the point she doesn’t bother to cover the scar on her arm anymore, unless it’s cold or practical.

But stupid?

That, she cannot abide.

“Look, I understand soaking up bits of language from Draco is bound to make your vocabulary marginally as colourful and charming as his,” she snaps, “but don’t call me stupid, you’re still a werewolf who could hurt me without even trying, and you’ve just taken the one thing I had to defend myself, so tell me, why should I trust you not to do the one thing your kind is famous for and kill me where I stand?”

Is my theory right? Or am I about to die?

Even though this wasn’t the time or the place for humour, she suddenly has to grit her teeth to stop herself from laughing, because how tragically ironic would it be for her to die on the same day she’d finally realised she wanted it again?

Life.

The werewolf takes a step closer, and then, without warning, the side of its head is pressing against hers, huge and warm and heavy where it nudges her temple, the contact startling enough that she forgets to breathe, not for the first time tonight, and a small tremble shakes her legs.

Because.

It inhales languidly, dragging in the scent of her hair with a noise that makes every inch of her skin prickle, a sound that’s almost, almost… familiar, and she realises, with a strange jolt of her heart, that it’s nearly identical to the way Draco sometimes buries his nose into her curls and groans.

You

Are

Mine.

Each word lands with perfect clarity—and it hits just as clearly too. Hermione places a hand on her chest, right above the pressure blooming from inside, dead centre between her breasts, demanding to be felt and acknowledged as she struggles to form any words in return, because…

holy shit.

“I…” she exhales, the sound caught between a gasp and a breathless laugh, strangled and unsure. “I’m your mate, aren’t I? You feel it, too?”

The mating bond… it hasn’t just connected her to Draco.

It has connected her to… this.

No… not this. That’s too simple, too empty. The creature standing before her is too aware for that, too sentient, too present. It has thoughts and words and a sharp, human intelligence behind those silver eyes.

She doesn’t even refer to Crookshanks, who is far more animal than this, the grumpy thing, as it.

So no. This is wrong. It is wrong.

The bond has also connected her to him.

To the werewolf Draco transforms into every full moon.

Its snout brushes her cheek.

Yes, little one.

All mine.

Gods, her legs feel weak, her head fuzzy, and without really thinking it through her hand darts towards the closest steady thing around her, which just happens to be the werewolf’s neck, and she grips it as she tries to keep herself from falling.

The fur beneath her hand is softer than she expected, not coarse or bristly the way she imagined, but fine and strangely silken, and as her fingers tighten slightly, the werewolf lowers his body a fair amount, so she doesn’t have to keep her arm raised if she doesn’t want to.

Hermione can’t help the way something inside her reacts to that, how it settles a fraction of the tension in her muscles, softens it into something warmer, though maybe it was that very tension that was still keeping her going because now her body feels so heavy and spent and done, the pull of the bond and the aftermath of too much adrenaline washing over her all at once. Her legs begin to fully give out for the second time tonight, and she starts to sink, slowly and without resistance, towards the floor—or rather to the mattress laid out right in front of her —loosening her grip on the werewolf’s fur as she goes so she doesn’t tug or hurt him on the way down.

But the moment he realises she’s going to fall, he moves, using the broad weight of his chest and shoulders to help guide her down gently, and when her knees hit the mattress, he gives her a small nudge with his nose like he’s trying to say there you go, stubborn girl, without needing any words.

“Thank you,” she says politely, tucking her knees in closer to her chest.

Rest, his voice murmurs in her mind. You are tired.

She exhales. “I… I need to go back soon.”

No.

You stay.

He’s watching her, silver eyes locked on hers, posture squared in a way that doesn’t look threatening but still feels distinctly… domineering.

“Well, I suppose I can stay a little longer,” she says, tucking a curl behind her ear, “but—”

Stay until moon leaves.

Her brows knit, and she shakes her head, almost a reflex. “What? No, I have to—”

But the werewolf shakes his head too, and maybe it’s because he’s so massive, but when he does it, the movement carries more weight.

You not go back alone.

Hermione lets out a small snort. “Merlin, you sound like him,” she mutters, thinking of Draco grumbling earlier about Theo walking with her. “Bit hypocritical of you though, considering I came here alone.”

I would come get you if I felt danger.

Hermione’s eyes flicker to the shackles still clasped around his back legs. The werewolf must notice, because he adds,

Your magic is strong.

A beat.

But I am stronger.

She narrows her eyes at the faint trace of cockiness in his tone, subtle but definitely there. Still, if it’s true, if the werewolf can break the shackles, and if the Wolfsbane, which she knows Draco takes religiously, isn’t enough to stop the creature from stealing control, then she needs to find another way to keep him here.

Maybe…

“I’ll stay,” she says carefully, voice steady, “if… you promise me you won’t leave the shack during the full moons.”

He watches her in silence for a moment, as if weighing her words, considering the offer in that quiet, unreadable way he has—and then he leans in.

If you are here, I have no reason to leave.

Be here, and I always stay.

Heat spreads across her cheeks at the simplicity of the answer, and her arms tighten around her legs as she thinks it through.

It’s… a good deal.

It would help keep Draco’s condition hidden by keeping the werewolf itself hidden on the nights it takes over, decreasing the risk of someone finding out what Draco is and using it to expel him or register him or punish him in ways many are eager to simply because they are hurt are revenge speaks louder and feels good even if it isn’t landing where it should.

And more than that, it keeps the beast—no, him—away from everyone else.

She doesn’t know for certain whether the werewolf would hurt someone… he hasn’t hurt her… but there’s a feeling in her chest, a reasonable doubt, a suspicion, that whatever protection the bond gives her, it might not extend to the world beyond her.

And if all she has to do to make sure no one gets hurt is come here once a month, sit with him, maybe talk, maybe just be present, if that’s all it takes to keep him here, to keep Draco and everyone safe, then it sounds almost too easy.

And oddly enough, she even finds herself… a little excited.

There’s something about the werewolf that draws her in, something that makes her want to understand not just how he’s different from other werewolves, but how his mind works, what he feels, how far his emotional awareness stretches, how much rational thought exists beneath instinct. It’s fascination, yes, and curiosity, of course, but there’s something else there too…. a near yearning for connection.

That last part must be the bond, she tells herself, pulling her towards the creature the same way it pulls her towards Draco.

They are the same, but not.

Two beings who exist as one at the same time they exist separately, both halves of something whole and yet distinct.

And Hermione wants to know them both, the thoughts that belong to the boy and the ones that belong to the beast, and where exactly the line is drawn between them.

Or maybe want is too weak a word.

Because as she answers the werewolf, the feeling that sneaks in through the words is something much closer to need. “All right. Then I’ll be here. Every full moon.”

She’s not sure she can call the change in his expression a smile—it’s far too animal for that—but there’s a glimpse of very sharp teeth, and a tail movement that might not be a full wag but still reminds her, absurdly, of the way Fang, Hagrid’s dog, greets her when she brings him scraps from the Great Hall.

She doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because suddenly she feels a firm nudge against her knees.

“Oi—what—?” she starts, but the werewolf pushes again, more insistent this time, and she lets out a startled shriek as she falls backwards onto the mattress, elbows scrambling to catch her weight, hair tumbling messily around her face.

“What are you doing?” she huffs, trying to push herself up again.

Lie down.

She blinks, somewhere between indignant and baffled. “You can’t just—”

You feel tired. Sleep. I watch.

Hermione passed the limit of tired a long time ago. She hadn’t slept at all the night before, too afraid of what she might dream, and today had only pushed her further, with the discovery of a mating bond, the rising dread of Draco’s impending transformation, and now… this.

And yet even with her body aching and her head fogged, she isn’t sure she can sleep. Not here. Not with him watching her.

Would the little stick make you feel better?

Her brow furrows. “The little stick?”

The werewolf prowls towards the far corner of the room and picks something up gently between his teeth. It isn’t until he pads back over and lowers it at her feet that she realises what it is—her wand.

She immediately reaches for it, grabbing it from the floor and wiping the saliva off on the mattress before pointing it directly at him.

“It’s not a little stick,” she says dryly. “It’s my wand. And it can kill.”

The werewolf’s gaze doesn’t shift.

So can I. Faster. Bloodier. For you.

Air slips from her lungs like it’s been knocked clean out of her, and she blinks once, slowly, as the words settle in her mind. She should be horrified. Any sane person would be. She should feel scared, or at the very least, wary.

But she doesn’t.

And once again, she wonders if whatever broke in her during the war is just beyond fixing.

Her thoughts splinter as she notices the werewolf’s eyes narrowed on the wand she holds between them.

She lowers her hand. “Did I hurt you before?” she asks. “With my magic? Is that why you took the wand?”

Not hurt. Annoying. Pokey.

The answer is so blunt, so completely unexpected, that Hermione lets out a laugh, short and sudden.

“Well, excuse me for trying to defend myself,” she says, smiling despite herself. “Next time I’ll poke a little gentler, shall I?”

The werewolf leans closer without warning, and before she can react, a warm, rough tongue drags across the side of her face in one long, wet stroke.

“Hey!” she squeaks, jerking back and wiping her cheek with her sleeve, half laughing, half horrified. “Did you just lick me?”

You laughed. I like it.

She’s still wiping her cheek when he nudges her gently, the side of his head pressing against her shoulder in a way that isn’t aggressive at all but still persistent.

“What now?” she mutters, and he nudges her again, a little firmer, until she gets the message.

With a sigh and a small shake of her head, Hermione lets herself lean back, easing down onto the mattress, the tension in her limbs loosening as she sinks into the softness. She stays propped slightly on one elbow, still a little stiff, still half expecting something strange to happen, but the moment she’s settled, the werewolf simply lowers himself right beside her, only half his body fitting on the mattress, the rest likely on the floor, though she can’t see it from where she is.

And then he’s just… there. Massive and nerve-wrackingly close, his body curved protectively around her back, heat radiating off his fur and sinking into her skin like a living blanket, and she stays perfectly still, too aware of him, of the way he coils around her without quite crowding her, just lying there in silence, standing guard.

And after a few minutes—even without closing her eyes—Hermione can feel herself begin to relax. Her body starts to let go, inch by inch, and if it weren’t for the dozen pressing thoughts clawing their way forward in her head, she’s fairly sure she would already be asleep.

But her mind refuses to shut off.

So she decides, cautiously, to sate her curiosity instead.

She turns her head just a little, not enough to look at him, but enough to let her voice carry.

“Do you know how the bond works?” she asks. “Why it exists?”

The werewolf doesn’t make her wait for an answer.

It connects.

It exists because you are mine.

“Can…” she hesitates. “Can it be broken?”

She can feel the sudden tension in his body.

No, little one. I not let that happen. Ever.

A flicker of guilt flares in her chest. Does he know? About her and Draco, about the hours they’ve spent trying to understand the bond, trying to undo it, trying to untangle themselves from something they never wanted to accept could be permanent?

“Can you only speak to me?” she asks. “Or if you’re… awake outside the full moon, could you speak to Draco too?”

The response comes fast, and it’s flat.

I have no desire to speak to him.

She blinks. “Why not?”

I do not like him.

Her brows lift. “What? Why? I mean… he is your human.”

No. You are my human.

Her lips twitch. “Right. But you’ve just decided you don’t like him, then? You must have a reason.”

He is a fool.

Hermione huffs a laugh. “A fool?”

He resists the bond. He fights what is ours. A big, stubborn fool.

“Ours?” she echoes, eyebrows raised.

Mine.

A pause.

And his. But mine more.

There’s something in the tone that catches her attention, something possessive, not quite hostile but definitely reluctant, like he doesn’t like having to share her with Draco, but knows he has no choice.

“How long do you sleep? Outside the full moon?” Hermione asks, changing the subject.

Very long. For now.

There’s a silence before he adds,

Will be less with time.

“Oh.”

Speaking of sleep, she yawns before she can stop it, lifting a hand to cover her mouth, and the moment she does, she feels his head come to rest on top of hers, his breath warm through her curls.

Sleep now, little one. We will meet again soon.

Hermione tries to fight it a little longer, she does, but it’s like his words have nudged her from the edge, and down she goes, with nothing to hold on to, falling unstoppably and unnaturally and way too fast into unconsciousness.