Author: Dramione + Fanfiction + HP
Current stories: Through My Window / The Alchemy Between Us
https://archiveofourown.org/works/60701563
https://archiveofourown.org/works/62142658
The Alchemy Between Us by LthienofDorthonion Inspired Edit
“When two unexplained forces collide, that’s when the alchemy between misunderstanding souls become magic”
- The Alchemy Between US, quote from chapter 2
An edit I made yesterday~
I keep telling myself I will use another actor to play Draco in my story edits but Dane Dehaan is so expressive that I keep using his footage. Anyway, when I heard some of his quotes on I Kill Your Darlings, this edit idea came to mind. It’s inspired in my story The Alchemy Between Us. Chapter 7 to be posted this week on AO3 (writing it now as I type this actually) ✨❤️
I posted a few chapters several weeks ago in this profile, but In case you want to read it all, here's the official AO3 link:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/62142658
Also, I created an Instagram and Tiktok page where I will be uploading chapter previews, edits and more things related to my stories. If you like them and want to follow:
Two souls, drawn together in silence, like elements in a delicate dance—where every glance holds the spark of transformation, and touch becomes the alchemy that turns the space between them into something new.
⚠️Trigger Warning ⚠️ This chapter contains strong mentions of alcoholism/substance abuse. Reader discretion is advised.
Hermione’s hands trembled slightly as she straightened the stack of parchment on the podium in front of her. The sleek mahogany conference room in the Ministry of Magic seemed grander than usual that morning. Sunlight streamed through the enchanted windows, casting a golden glow over the polished surfaces and reflecting off the brass accents. Seated across the table were three representatives from the French Ministry of Magic, their expressions unreadable yet keenly attentive.
She adjusted the enchanted microphone pinned to her lapel, her voice catching for just a moment as she began, “Good morning, esteemed delegates. Thank you for making the journey here today. It’s an honor to present this final report on the proposed International Trade Agreement for Enchanted Artifacts.”
It had been weeks of preparation. Hermione had scrutinized every word, every statistic, every hypothetical scenario. Her meticulous nature ensured there were no loopholes, no weak points. But Roderick, her superior, had spent the last several days peppering her with doubts. “Are you certain the French will go for this? You know how particular they can be,” he had sneered just the day before with a tone dripping with condescension. His comments had planted seeds of unease in her mind, and she had barely slept the night before, replaying her arguments over and over.
But now, standing before the room, she drew a deep, steadying breath and let her instincts take over.
Hermione’s presentation began with a clear outline of her objectives. Her wand flicked toward the enchanted board behind her, and glowing diagrams appeared, each illustrating the current inefficiencies in trade between the two countries. She explained the economic bottlenecks in potion ingredient imports, the barriers to cross-border magical creature handling, and the proposed regulatory adjustments that would streamline operations.
Her voice, though soft at first, grew in confidence. “By reducing these restrictions,” she explained, pointing to a glowing graph that animated a projected 25% increase in trade efficiency, “we not only facilitate smoother economic exchanges but also foster deeper collaboration between our nations—an effort that strengthens unity in the global magical community.”
The French delegates exchanged glances, nodding slightly. Hermione caught this, and her chest tightened in a mix of relief and determination.
As Hermione reached the conclusion of her report, she outlined the projected timeline for implementing these changes. Her wand flicked once more, and a shimmering timeline appeared on the board, each milestone mapped out with precision. “With your approval, we can begin as early as next month,” she finished, her voice steady and resolute.
For a moment, the room was silent. The kind of silence that makes one’s heartbeat feel deafening. Hermione’s fingers tightened around the edges of the podium, her heart lodged in her throat.
Then, Madame Beaumont spoke. “Miss Granger,” she said in a smooth and deliberate voice, “this is one of the most thorough and forward-thinking proposals I have encountered in my tenure. Your attention to detail, coupled with your ability to anticipate potential challenges, is commendable. France would be privileged to collaborate with you on this initiative.”
Hermione blinked, a flush creeping up her cheeks. She cast a glance at Roderick, seated at the far end of the room. His face was a study in forced neutrality, but the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed his discomfort.
When the meeting adjourned, the French delegates shook her hand firmly, each offering words of praise and gratitude. As they departed, Madame Beaumont lingered for a moment. “You have done your Ministry—and yourself—a great service today,” she said. “Do not let anyone convince you otherwise.”
As the door closed behind them, Hermione let out a shaky breath, her knees threatening to give way. She had done it. Against Roderick’s undermining remarks, against her own self-doubt, she had proven herself.
As the last of the French delegates filed out of the room, Hermione lingered at the podium, letting the weight of the moment settle in. A warm glow of pride bubbled in her chest, spreading to every corner of her being. She couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips as she watched them leave.
The silence that followed was broken by Roderick’s presence. He approached her slowly, his usual sharp expression softened into something unfamiliar. “Well,” he began. “Well done, Miss Granger.” He nodded once in a stiff but unmistakable gesture of appreciation. Hermione blinked in surprise and her brow lifted slightly as she registered the uncharacteristic acknowledgment. It wasn’t much, but coming from Roderick, it felt monumental.
“Thank you,” she said simply in a steady voice, though her surprise lingered as he turned and exited without another word.
Left alone in the now-empty conference room, Hermione gathered her notes and parchments, stacking them neatly into her enchanted briefcase. Her mind swirled with the success of the day and the compliments from the French delegation replaying in her head. She had done it. She had truly done it. She could finally sleep.
As she reached for her wand to dim the room’s lights, a light touch on her right shoulder startled her. She turned quickly, only to find a familiar freckled face and a pair of bright blue, smiling eyes.
“Congratulations, Mione! You did amazing!” Ron exclaimed with a warm grin on his face.
“Ronald!” she replied, her surprise melting into a warm smile. “You were here? Thank you for coming!”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said. “I know how hard you worked on this. I’m so proud of you.”
Before she could respond, the freckled boy pulled her into a firm hug. She hesitated for only a moment before returning the embrace.
“You should’ve seen their faces when you were up there. They were hanging onto every word.” Ron said, his grin widening.
Hermione shook her head, though her cheeks tinged pink. “It went well, I’ll admit, but it was a team effort.”
Ron rolled his eyes playfully. “Team effort, my arse. We all know Roderick didn’t do shit. You carried that.”
“Well… I can’t deny that statement.”
They shared a laugh, and the brunette began packing the last of her things. As she secured her briefcase, Ron tilted his head and asked, “Have you had lunch yet?”
Hermione hesitated, already opening her mouth to decline. “Oh, I—”
“Nope,” The redhead interrupted firmly, holding up a hand. “Don’t even think about it. Let’s have lunch. I know the perfect spot, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”
She raised an eyebrow as her lips twitched in amusement. “Ronald, I—”
“You promised we’d meet this week,” he reminded her, his tone insistent but good-natured. “And I’m calling in that promise now. Come on, it’s just lunch. You’ve earned it.”
Hermione sighed, feeling her resolve crumbling under his puppy-dog expression. “Fine,” she said with mock exasperation, grabbing her briefcase.
“That’s the spirit!” The redhead declared with a triumphant grin as he led her out of the conference room.
The air outside the Ministry of Magic had a crisp edge, the kind that stung the nose but didn’t bite too hard. The snow that blanketed London for the past week was finally starting to melt, leaving behind puddles glinting under the faint winter sun. Cobblestones glistened as Hermione and Ron walked side by side, their breath puffing out in misty clouds. Despite the lingering chill, there was something refreshing about the weather, almost pleasant in its fragile warmth.
Ron guided her through the winding streets of Diagon Alley, the faint buzz of late-afternoon activity surrounding them. Witches and wizards hurried past, their cloaks brushing against the melting snowbanks. He seemed in unusually high spirits, chatting animatedly about an incident at work involving a magical exploding quill that had sent his department into chaos. Hermione listened with polite amusement, her attention half-focused on the bustling scenery around them.
As they strolled along, it became impossible to ignore the attention they drew. Witches and wizards passing by turned their heads, their footsteps faltering as whispers began to ripple through the crowd. A child tugged at her mother’s cloak, pointing discreetly at the pair, her wide eyes shining with awe. A young wizard nearly dropped his stack of parchment as he craned his neck for a better look.
They all knew who they were. Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger—two-thirds of the legendary trio that had stood beside Harry Potter, the Boy Who Sacrificed Everything. The wizard who, against all odds, had made their world peaceful once and for all.
Hermione could feel the weight of their gazes, but she kept her stride steady, her chin lifted high. It wasn’t the first time she had walked through this kind of attention, but it never stopped feeling surreal, even all these years later. Ron, on the other hand, seemed less bothered. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat, his ears reddening slightly but not from the cold. “They act like we’ve just saved the world again,” he muttered under his breath, his lips twitching into a small, wry smile.
“They’ll never forget, you know,” Hermione replied softly. “What we did—what Harry did—changed everything for them.”
Ron nodded, his expression becoming more thoughtful. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Still feels weird, though.”
The whispers continued to follow them, like a gentle undercurrent of admiration and curiosity. And though neither of them said it aloud, there was an unspoken understanding between them: this was their life now.
Finally, Ron led her to a quaint little café tucked away at the corner of the alley. A painted wooden sign above the entrance read The Gilded Hearth, its letters adorned with enchanted gold filigree that shimmered softly. The café exuded warmth, with large glass windows fogged up from the heat inside, offering tantalizing glimpses of cozy armchairs, wooden tables, and flickering enchanted lanterns.
Inside, the smell of fresh bread, brewed tea, and roasted coffee beans greeted them. A soft hum of conversation mingled with the gentle clinking of teacups. The interior was snug, with bookshelves lining one wall and a crackling fireplace at the back, casting a golden glow over the room.
Ron strode ahead and pulled out a chair at a small table near the window. “Here you go,” he said cheerfully, gesturing for Hermione to sit.
She raised an eyebrow, slightly taken aback by the gesture, but obliged, settling into the chair with a polite smile. Ron took the seat across from her, leaning back with a satisfied grin.
“This place is lovely,” Hermione remarked, glancing around at the cozy surroundings.
“Figured you’d like it,” The ginger replied, his voice casual but his eyes alight with a certain nervous energy. He watched her intently, as though searching for a reaction that would reassure him. “It’s one of my favorites when I want to get away from all the noise.”
Hermione nodded, her fingers brushing over the corner of the menu. “I can see why.”
A server approached, it was a young witch with a friendly smile, and handed them parchment menus. She seemed to blush at the sight of Ron. He didn’t seem to notice or care.
“So,” he said after the server left with their orders, “you’re really smashing it at the Ministry. That presentation today was—wow. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m proud of you.”
Hermione smiled faintly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks, Ron. That means a lot.”
Her friend’s face lit up at her words and a genuine smile broke across his features. There was a flicker of something unspoken in his expression—hope, perhaps, or nostalgia. He leaned forward slightly as his fingers wrapped around the edge of the table.
“You called me Ron,” he said softly. “That makes me happy.”
The brunette blinked, caught off guard by the sentiment. Their interactions had grown formal since the breakup and her use of his full name was a subtle way to create distance.
He hesitated as his fingers tapped lightly against the table. “You know,” he began, “I think about how far you’ve come, how far we’ve all come, and… well, it’s kind of incredible, isn’t it?”
Hermione met his gaze. She didn’t want to ruin the moment but knew she couldn’t allow it to linger into something more.
“It is incredible,” she replied carefully. “I just hope we keep moving forward, you know?”
Ron’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second but then nodded. “Yeah, of course. Forward.”
Their conversation continued, touching on lighter topics as their drinks arrived—a steaming pot of Earl Grey for Hermione and a frothy Butterbeer for Ron. The warmth of the café wrapped around them, and for a moment, it felt like old times.
But beneath the surface, the brunette could sense the tension he was trying to hide as his lingering feelings manifested in every lingering glance and thoughtful comment. And as much as she wanted to preserve the peace between them, she couldn’t ignore the quiet resolve building in her heart: things could never go back to what they were.
The conversation began light and warm. They reminisced about Hogwarts, joked about shared memories, and debated which was more satisfying: the subtle bite of Earl Grey or the sweet foaminess of Butterbeer. The café’s cozy atmosphere made it easier to forget, even if just for a moment, the complexities that hung between them.
Ron tapped his fingers against the table and a thoughtful expression crossed his face. He glanced at her and said, almost casually, “It’s coming up soon, you know?”
Hermione tilted her head, a small crease forming on her brow. “What do you mean?”
“The Christmas Ministry Ball,” he clarified, leaning back in his chair. “Are you going?”
Her smile faltered ever so slightly, and she shifted in her seat as her fingers brushed the edge of her teacup. “I have to,” she replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “There will be important people present—ministries from all over. I don’t have a choice.”
Ron nodded and his face brightened a little. “Well, we could go together, you know? Like old times. It’ll be fun.”
Hermione looked at him and her lips parted as if to reply, but then she hesitated. “Ronald…” she began. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” he asked, leaning forward, his tone both curious and slightly defensive.
“You know why,” she replied softly.
Ron sighed and his shoulders stiffened. “Come on, Mione, give me a chance. It’s been years. I’ve changed. We’ve changed.”
“Exactly,” Hermione interrupted. “That’s why I don’t want to go back to it, Ronald. I’ve moved on. I don’t think it’s right to pretend we can pick up where we left off.”
“But—” His words caught in his throat, and he reached across the table covering her hand with his. “Please,” he said quietly but laced with desperation. “Please, give me a chance.”
The girl looked down at their hands and felt her stomach twist. She gently withdrew her hand from his grasp and her fingers curled around the edge of her teacup instead. “Ronald,” she said. “I want us to be friends. I really do. But we have to let go of the past.”
“But I love you!” he blurted out, the words tumbling from his mouth sounding like a child throwing a tantrum. His blue eyes searched hers, raw and pleading.
Her chest tightened, and she looked away.
“Ron,” she said finally in a steady voice that was tinged with sadness. “I’m sorry but I can’t give you what you want. I care about you—I always will—but not like that. Not anymore.”
He shook his head. “Why? Why not? Was it something I did? Something I said?”
“No,” she said quickly. “It’s not about that. It’s about me, about us. We were toxic together, Ron. We hurt each other and both said horrible things. And as much as I wish we could rewrite the past, we can’t. I’ve worked so hard to move forward, and I need you to do the same.”
He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration spilling over. “But I’ve changed, Hermione! I’m not the same person I was back then. I can do better, be better—for you.”
“I know you’ve changed,” she said gently. “I can see that. But it’s not about being better or worse. It’s about what’s right for me, for you. And going back… that’s not it.”
“I just… I don’t know how to let go,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hermione reached across the table, resting her hand briefly on his. “You will,” she said, her tone filled with a quiet confidence. “You’re stronger than you think, Ronald. You’ll find happiness—I truly believe that. But it’s not going to be with me.”
Ron stared at her for a long moment and his eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Finally, he nodded, though his expression remained pained. “I just… I miss us,” he said in a trembling voice.
“I know,” Hermione replied softly. “I miss what we had too. But sometimes, missing something doesn’t mean it’s meant to be.”
Ron’s voice broke the silence that had settled between them. “Are you going alone then?” he asked.
Hermione hesitated for a moment and her eyes flicked to the window where the soft gray of the late afternoon light painted the melting snow. “I don’t know… Probably,” she replied. She turned her gaze back to him, offering a faint, polite smile as if to close the subject.
Ron nodded slowly. His fingers played with the edge of his Butterbeer mug, and for a moment, it seemed like he might say something else. Instead, he sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly.
“Well,” he said, attempting a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “I’m sure you’ll be the star of the night, as always.”
Hermione chuckled lightly, her laugh soft but strained. “I doubt that. I’m just hoping to make it through without too much fuss.”
For the rest of their time at the café, their conversation drifted to safer, lighter topics. Hermione could tell Ron was trying to mask his disappointment, and she appreciated his effort, even if it made her heart ache a little. She wished she could ease his pain, but deep down, she knew the kindest thing she could do was remain honest with him—and herself.
After their lunch, Hermione and Ron exchanged polite goodbyes outside the café. The streets of Diagon Alley were quieter than usual. Hermione pulled her coat tightly around her, feeling the cold air bite at her cheeks as she began her walk home.
Her thoughts drifted from the lingering weight of her conversation with Ron to the one thing that had been occupying her mind since that morning: Malfoy’s note. She recalled the faint knock of a black owl at her window before dawn, its sharp eyes gleaming as it waited for her to untie the folded parchment from its leg.
Granger,
So, uh… I don’t even know how this happened, but here I am writing you. Don’t know why, but here we are. I guess I want to see you again. Weird, right? Like… really weird. But yeah, you’ve left a, uh, impression. A strong one. I guess. You’ve definitely got a way of… keeping me, uh, interested. That’s something. And we’re friends now, right?
Look, I know you’re busy. Or, I don’t know, maybe not? But if you ever get a moment—or if you don’t, whatever—come by my place. It’ll be… fun? Or not. Who knows.
It’s just… come by.
You know where. Or if you don’t, you’ll find the address on the back.
D.
Hermione had read it at least ten times since discovering it, and each time, it elicited a new reaction—amusement, curiosity, a faint blush. The tone was so unlike the Malfoy she remembered from Hogwarts, with its hesitant phrasing and awkward sincerity. Was he drunk when he wrote it? she wondered with a soft laugh. The thought of a tipsy Draco Malfoy pouring his thoughts onto parchment was so absurd it bordered on endearing.
But beyond the humor of it, there was something about the note that felt… personal. He had clearly struggled to write it, evident in the crossed-out words and the way his typically sharp handwriting seemed rushed, almost uncertain. She found herself oddly charmed by the vulnerability it suggested—a side of him she hadn’t expected to see.
Still, the invitation itself was bold. Meeting at his place? After only talking twice? It felt sudden, even reckless. Yet, the more she thought about it, the more her curiosity grew. What was his life like now? Where did he live? She realized how little she actually knew about him beyond what he’d shared in their recent conversations. Everything else was rooted in the past—in the boy he used to be. And that boy, she reminded herself, wasn’t who he was anymore.
Did he still live at Malfoy Manor? No. The address in the envelope indicated somewhere else. That actually made her feel relieved. The idea of stepping into that place made her stomach twist with unease. She couldn’t imagine Draco living there alone, surrounded by memories of his family and the war. But if not the Manor, then where? What kind of home would he have built for himself? Would it be grand and imposing, or something more modest? What secrets would it reveal about the man he had become?
As she turned the corner onto her street, the brunette found herself smiling faintly. The note had been a pleasant surprise, and the prospect of seeing him again stirred something in her—a mix of intrigue and a subtle thrill she hadn’t felt in years. She hadn’t yet decided if this was a good idea despite sending a note with her acceptance, but the truth was, she did want to go.
By the time she reached her flat, the decision had settled quietly in her mind. She would go. It wasn’t just about satisfying her curiosity; it was about understanding the Draco Malfoy of now—the man who had sat across from her in that pub and spoken with honesty and depth she hadn’t expected. The man who, against all odds, seemed to want to be her friend.
Hermione glanced at the clock as she shrugged off her coat and boots. It was just after five. She had a few hours before she needed to leave, and the anticipation buzzed faintly in her chest. Whatever awaited her at eight o’clock, she was certain it would be anything but boring.
Malfoy paced the cramped back room of Roscoe’s Rare Rarities, his boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor. The shop, nestled on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, was as shabby as its owner, Roscoe Bramble. Roscoe was a middle-aged man with a face that seemed perpetually twisted into a sneer, as though he’d tasted something foul and never quite recovered. His skin was pale and blotchy, with a sallow undertone that gave him a perpetually sickly appearance. A greasy curtain of thinning, ash-gray hair fell limply to his shoulders, framing his gaunt face in uneven, unwashed strands.
His personality was as unpleasant as his appearance. The man treated him like scum. It was beneath him, all of it, but he’d learned to endure it. What choice did he have? A pure-blood name didn’t mean much anymore, not when it came with his kind of baggage. And yes, Malfoy could buy the wretched place in a heartbeat if he wanted to but something inside him told him he had to endure it as punishment for his sins, so he showed up to work everyday.
He raked a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath. Bloody idiot. That was the third time he’d scolded himself since sunrise. He couldn’t stop replaying the reckless decision he’d made the night before—penning that clumsy, drunken note to Hermione Granger of all people. What in Merlin’s name had possessed him?
He leaned heavily against the table with his silver-grey eyes fixed on a point just beyond the shelves of half-finished enchantments. At first, he’d been mortified by his actions, fully prepared to find the note discarded or unanswered. But then she had responded— she’d said yes. That alone had sent his already anxious mind spiraling into uncharted territory. She was coming to his place tonight.
His home.
Home. The word felt ironic. His place was a far cry from the grandeur of Malfoy Manor. It was a small, secluded cabin nestled in the mountains on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, hidden so well that no passerby would ever stumble upon it. He had built it himself—every plank of wood, every charm that fortified its walls, was his own work. It wasn’t much, but it was his sanctuary, a place where the world couldn’t touch him. And now, for the first time, someone else would step inside. Not just anyone— her.
He resumed pacing, running both hands through his hair now. He was nervous, yes, but there was more to it than that. He was anxious to be alone with her. The last time they’d been alone—truly alone—was at that abandoned house where she’d Apparated them. He’d tripped over his own feet, stumbled into her space, and instinctively grabbed her by the waist to steady himself.
The memory hit him like a gust of icy wind, sharp and undeniable. Her waist had felt impossibly small under his hands, and there had been a moment—a fleeting, impossible moment—when their eyes locked, and the air between them shifted. There was tension, undeniable and electric, and he’d had to summon every ounce of restraint not to lean in, not to kiss her.
Malfoy groaned aloud, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re pathetic,” he muttered. It was absurd to feel this way. He had met her twice— twice. And yet, those conversations had unraveled something inside him. In those fleeting hours, he had opened up to her in a way he hadn’t with anyone else. He’d told her things, shared pieces of himself he’d kept buried for years. It was terrifying—scary in a way he hadn’t felt since he was a boy, hiding from Voldemort’s wrath in his own home.
And then there was the other part, the part that made his chest tighten and his pulse quicken. Granger—Hermione—was beautiful. Not in some superficial way that he could dismiss or compartmentalize. She was beautiful in a way that unsettled him, made him notice things he hadn’t before. The curve of her smile, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking, the fire in her eyes when she argued a point. It was maddening.
He hated how much he noticed. He hated how much he cared. But what unnerved him most of all was the realization that he didn’t hate her—not anymore. Not since Azkaban, not since the war. The boy who had insulted her, belittled her, called her Mudblood was gone. And what remained was a man who found himself utterly captivated by her.
But what did he have to offer her? A broken man with nothing to his name, barely scraping by in a dead-end job. A hermit, hated by the wizarding society. A useless drunk.
He hadn’t been intimate with anyone in years. Not since that clumsy first time with Pansy in their school days—a memory he’d rather forget—and a fleeting kiss with Astoria that hadn’t led to anything more. His life had been consumed by darkness and survival. There had been no time for affection, no room for love.
Draco’s chest tightened as he thought about tonight. What would she think of him? Of his home, his life, his vulnerability? He wasn’t sure what terrified him more—that she would reject him outright or that she might see something in him worth saving. Both prospects felt equally dangerous.
He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the work in front of him. He realized he was overthinking things. But even as his hands moved through the familiar motions of enchanting a set of brass scales, his mind was elsewhere—on her, on the way she had looked at him, and on the terrifying, exhilarating possibility of what tonight might bring.
He took a slow sip of his drink, savoring the taste before returning to his work.
The hours had melted away without her noticing. Hermione had spent the better part of the afternoon trying to focus on her work, yet her mind had drifted constantly to the evening ahead. Now, the clock on her mantle ticked forward relentlessly, and when she glanced up, it was already half an hour before eight. Her heart thudded in her chest, a nervous rhythm that she couldn’t ignore. It was time to go.
She had opted for simplicity tonight, though she had agonized over her choice more than she cared to admit. In the end, she decided on a pair of fitted muggle jeans, a soft purple V-neck sweater, and plain black combat boots—comfortable but understated. Her hair was pulled into a single braid, with a few loose strands framing her face. A small purple bow at the end of the braid added a delicate touch, complementing her silver locket that rested against her collarbone, the kind that opened to reveal tiny, cherished photographs inside.
Ginny had taught her a subtle makeup charm months ago, one that accentuated her natural features without making her look too done up. Hermione had been hesitant at first but was now grateful for it. The charm brightened her complexion, made her eyes stand out just a little more, and gave her lips a soft rose tint. It wasn’t flashy—it was perfect.
Over her outfit, she slipped into her favorite winter coat, warm and well-worn, paired with a pink scarf and matching gloves that her parents had sent her last Christmas. She hesitated for a moment before grabbing a bottle of her favorite muggle wine from the counter. With the bottle in hand and a final glance at the clock, she steeled herself.
The moment she stepped out of her flat, she froze. The same black carriage and magical creatures from the other night stood waiting by the curb. The driver—a tall, older wizard with a graying beard—gave her a slight bow.
“Miss Granger,” he said formally, his voice low but polite, “I’ve been instructed to take you to Master Malfoy.”
Hermione blinked in surprise. “Oh—I wasn’t expecting…”
“Mr. Malfoy said to ensure you arrived safely,” the man interrupted. His tone brooked no argument, but it wasn’t unkind. “Please, allow me to drive you.”
She hesitated, glancing at the carriage and then back at the driver. It wasn’t the arrangement she had anticipated, but she could hardly argue. “Alright,” she said finally, stepping forward.
The driver opened the carriage door for her, and she climbed inside. Once the door shut, the creatures stirred, and the carriage lifted gently into the night sky.
Through the small, frosted windows, Hermione could see the world below. December clung to the landscape stubbornly; patches of snow still covered rooftops and fields, though puddles from the melting snow glimmered in the moonlight. The night was clear, the stars bright and cold, scattered like shards of ice across a deep indigo sky. The air outside was undoubtedly freezing, but inside the carriage, she was warm, her breath no longer misting with every exhale.
As they soared past the lights of Hogsmeade, Hermione couldn’t help but marvel at the quiet beauty of the village. It looked like a scene from one of her favorite Christmas novels, the streets lined with dimly glowing lamps and the shopfronts adorned with garlands of holly and charmed icicles that never melted.
But as they moved farther from the village and into the outskirts, the atmosphere shifted. The warm glow of Hogsmeade gave way to open fields and dense shadows. The carriage descended gently into an area so dark and desolate it sent a chill through Hermione despite her warm coat.
The creatures came to a halt, and the driver stepped down, opening the door for her once more. “This is where I leave you, Miss Granger,” he said.
Hermione stepped out hesitantly, clutching the wine bottle a little tighter. “Wait—there’s nothing here,” she said, looking around nervously. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
“The exact instructions given by Mr. Malfoy, Miss,” the driver replied with a slight bow. Before she could ask further, he returned to the carriage, and with a snap of the reins, it lifted into the air and disappeared into the night.
Hermione stood there, her breath quickening as she glanced around. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint rustle of the wind. The trees nearby cast long, twisted shadows, and there was no sign of any habitation. For a moment, doubt and fear clawed at her chest. Was this some kind of joke?
Before she could act on her unease, a sharp crack of apparition split the air. Malfoy appeared before her, cloaked entirely in black.
She startled, stepping back instinctively. “Granger,” he said smoothly, his lips curling into a small, knowing smirk. “You made it on time.”
“Malfoy!” she blurted, still catching her breath. “I thought you said we’d meet at your place.”
He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his silver eyes. “We are.” He extended his hand toward her. “Take my hand.”
Hermione frowned, her grip tightening on the wine bottle. “But—”
“I won’t bite,” he said with a low chuckle, his smirk softening into something almost reassuring.
She hesitated for a heartbeat longer before reaching out and slipping her gloved hand into his. His hand was warm, surprisingly steady, and the moment her fingers brushed his, a strange current seemed to spark between them.
Without another word, Malfoy turned on the spot, and the world blurred and twisted as they apparated.
When the dizzying sensation subsided, Hermione found herself standing in a cozy cabin. The air was warm, filled with the faint scent of cedar and the crackling of a fire. She blinked, taking in her surroundings—the rustic wooden walls, the simple but sturdy furniture, and the soft glow of magical lanterns casting a golden light. It was nothing like she’d imagined, but it felt…safe.
“Welcome,” Malfoy said, releasing her hand as he stepped toward the fireplace. “This is my home.”
Malfoy leaned against the arm of the couch, his arms crossed casually over his chest, but his gaze was far from indifferent as it followed her. She stood just inside the doorway, her cloak still wrapped around her and her eyes darting around his cabin. She wasn’t speaking, but her reactions were all too telling—the slight parting of her lips, the way her fingertips brushed the edge of her scarf as if she were grounding herself. She took in everything—he could see it in the way her gaze lingered on the fire, on the clean lines of the furniture, on the window that framed the dark woods beyond.
She wasn’t unimpressed, that much was clear, but there was a hint of something else in her expression—uncertainty, maybe, or surprise. She hadn’t expected this. He knew most people assumed anything associated with him would be dripping in opulence, gilded and overdone. But this? This was quiet. Controlled. Intentional.
“You can leave your cloak on the couch,” he said.
Hermione blinked as though she’d been pulled from her thoughts, then unclasped her cloak and slid it off her shoulders. The firelight caught the shimmer of her purple sweater as she folded the cloak neatly and placed it on the back of the couch, and Malfoy’s eyes instinctively followed the movement.
Muggle jeans. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her in them before, but Merlin, they suited her. They hugged her figure in ways her robes never had, accentuating the soft curves of her hips and legs. He didn’t think jeans were meant to look particularly remarkable on anyone—they were, after all, common and unassuming—but on her, they were captivating.
The purple sweater she was wearing was soft, more delicate, the v-neck just deep enough to show the faint line of her collarbone. It was feminine in a way that was both subtle and striking, and he caught himself lingering on it longer that he would’ve liked.
He figured she wasn’t trying to dazzle anyone tonight. That much was obvious in her choice of simple, practical boots, her hair tied back but not in a way that tried to tame every strand. And yet, in her simplicity, she was stunning. Effortlessly beautiful in a way that made it hard for him to look away.
As her eyes moved back to him, he straightened slightly, pretending he hadn’t been studying her so closely. She shifted under his gaze and her hands brushed over her jeans in a nervous gesture.
“Do you always stare like that?” she asked, caughting him off guard though he didn’t show it.
He smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Only when there’s something worth staring at,” he replied smoothly, and the faint color that bloomed in her cheeks told him she wasn’t as unaffected as she was trying to seem.
He stepped away from the couch, gesturing toward the hearth. “Make yourself at home, Granger.”
She hesitated, glancing toward the fire, and he couldn’t help but watch the way the soft golden light played against her skin. If she felt as out of place as she seemed, she wasn’t letting it show entirely. But then again, he thought, this was Hermione Granger. She never backed down, even when she didn’t know exactly what she’d walked into. And neither did he.
Malfoy’s gaze flicked to the bottle of wine Hermione had set carefully on the small table near the hearth. He let a slow smirk curve his lips, tilting his head just slightly as he remarked, “I see you did indeed bring some wine.”
Hermione turned toward him, her hands fiddling with the ends of her scarf before she pulled it loose and folded it neatly over the back of the couch. “Oh, yes,” she said, her tone casual but her eyes betraying a flicker of uncertainty. “It’s muggle wine, though. I hope that’s... okay.”
He raised a brow, surprised by the faint vulnerability in her words. “I don’t mind it at all,” he said smoothly, his voice lower than he intended, lingering somewhere between assurance and intrigue.
An awkward silence fell between them, stretching out like a taut string. She shifted her weight, her gaze briefly darting around the room before landing on the fire. The light from the hearth caught the faint glimmer of her locket, and he found his eyes drawn to it for just a moment before she broke the silence.
“You have a lovely home, Malfoy,” she said, her voice soft but sincere, her lips curving into a small, tentative smile.
“Thank you,” he replied in a measured tone as his smirk left his face. The compliment felt strangely significant coming from her, as though it carried more weight than he was prepared to examine.
“I, uh…” She hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the couch. “I thought you still lived at the manor.”
At her words, Malfoy froze, the smirk vanishing completely. He flinched—not enough to be obvious, but enough that he felt it in his chest. His jaw tightened for half a second before he forced it to relax. “I couldn’t stand the place anymore,” he said at last, his voice steady, leaving no room for doubt or questions. There was finality in the statement, and he left it there, unwilling to elaborate.
To break the tension, he waved his wand, summoning two glasses from a shelf on the far side of the room. They floated gracefully to the table where the bottle of wine sat, landing with the faintest clink. With a flick of his wrist, he uncorked the bottle and the rich, ruby liquid poured effortlessly into each glass.
He picked up one of the glasses and handed it to her and his fingers brushed against hers for the briefest moment—a moment that felt far longer than it should have. Her lips parted, but she didn’t pull away. He lifted his own glass and locked his gray with hers.
With his free hand, he gestured toward the couch near the fire, the soft leather gleaming in the flickering light. “Sit,” he said in a quieter voice.
Hermione hesitated for a fraction of a second, her gaze darting between him and the couch, before she moved toward it. She sat down, smoothing the fabric of her sweater as her shoulders relaxed slightly.
He followed, taking a seat beside her—not too close, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her.
“To our third time speaking,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. He added, almost teasingly, “...friend.”
Her smile widened, though he caught the flicker of something else behind it—something curious and unspoken. She raised her glass and her warm brown eyes met his with a steady intensity that made his breath catch for a moment. “Cheers… friend,” she said in a soft tone, her hazel eyes locked on his.
He could feel his heartbeat pounding—he was nervous. But there was no way in hell he’d let her notice.
Their glasses clinked together, the sound sharp and intimate in the quiet room. Neither of them moved to drink right away. For a moment, the only movement was the firelight dancing across their faces as their gazes held, unyielding. Her lips curved just slightly, her cheeks faintly flushed—whether from the fire’s warmth or something else, he wasn’t sure.
Then, finally, she broke the spell, taking a slow sip of the wine. He followed suit, letting the rich, slightly tart flavor linger on his tongue.
“It’s good,” he said, his voice lower than before with his eyes still on her.
She nodded, glancing at her glass and then back at him. “You seem surprised.”
“Not surprised,” he countered, the smirk returning to his lips, “just... impressed.”
Her brow arched, and he couldn’t help but notice the faint quirk of amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said lightly, her voice carrying just a hint of challenge.
He leaned back slightly, his fingers trailing lazily along the edge of his glass as he watched her. “You should.”
Draco watched as she set her glass down and her fingers lingered on the stem as though deep in thought. The firelight painted her face in soft golds and reds, but it was the shadows in her eyes that held him captive.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” she said suddenly, breaking the silence.
“What is?” he asked with curiosity.
“Being here,” she replied, her gaze flicking from the fire to him. “Together.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Strange how?”
Her lips parted slightly, and she hesitated as though weighing her words. “We’re not exactly… friends, are we?”
Was she nervous? He thought. Draco’s mouth quirked into a smirk. “You’re the one who wanted to shake hands for friendship the other day, Granger. Wasn’t that supposed to make it official?”
She gave a soft, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “Right. Friendship. That’s exactly what this feels like.”
Something about the way she said it, the faint edge in her tone, made him sit up straighter. He studied her, his grey eyes searching her face for a clue—any clue—about what she was really thinking.
“It’s not friendship you’re after, then?” he asked, the words coming out before he could stop them. His brow arched with curiosity.
Her gaze snapped to his, sharp and piercing, but she didn’t look away. “What makes you think I’m after anything?”
The air between them felt charged, the kind of tension that made his skin prickle. He wanted to say something clever, something cutting, but his tongue felt heavy. Instead, he reached for the wine bottle and poured himself another glass.
“More?” he offered, gesturing to her glass.
“Sure,” she said, holding it out. Their fingers brushed once more as he handed it back to her, and he was acutely aware of the warmth of her skin, the softness of her touch. She flinched when this happened and he couldn’t help but smile at her reaction. She was definitely nervous too.
They drank in silence, occasionally stealing furtive glances at each other. Tension was palpable in the room.
“What are you thinking?” he asked finally, unable to bear it any longer.
Her brow furrowed slightly, and she took a long sip of her wine before answering. “I’m thinking that I never thought I’d end up here, with you, of all people.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended.
She tilted her head, studying him again with that same unsettling intensity. “Why did you invite me, Malfoy?”
He hesitated, his fingers tightening around his glass. “Because I wanted to,” he said simply, though the words felt insufficient even as he said them.
Her lips curved into a faint smile, but there was something almost sad about it. “You’re not exactly the open-book type, are you?”
He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “And you are?”
Hermione didn’t answer right away. Instead, she drained her glass and set it down on the table. “I think we’ve finished the wine,” she said in a light tone.
Draco raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got firewhisky,” he offered.
She raised her brow in return. “Of course you do.”
A flick of his wand summoned the bottle and two small tumblers. He poured generously, sliding one toward her. She picked it up and gave it a quick sniff, wrinkling her nose slightly before taking a cautious sip.
“Strong,” she muttered and he could notice her cheeks were already pink from the wine.
“That’s the point,” he said, leaning back and swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
They drank slowly, the firewhisky loosening their tongues but not quite enough to ease the tension entirely.
“Do you ever think about it?” she asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Think about what?” he asked, though he was almost afraid to hear the answer.
“The war. Everything we did—everything we didn’t do.”
Malfoy’s throat tightened, and he took a long sip before answering. “All the time.”
Hermione nodded, staring into her glass as though it held the answers to all her questions. “Me too.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than before, but this time, it wasn’t entirely unwelcome. It was a shared weight, an unspoken understanding that didn’t need words.
When she looked at him again, her eyes were softer, warmer, and yet there was still that flicker of something he couldn’t quite name.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Her smile was faint, almost imperceptible. “Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to figure me out,” he said in a low voice.
“Maybe I am,” she said softly, her gaze never leaving his.
Malfoy swallowed hard, feeling the firewhisky burning a trail down his throat. His pulse was racing again, and for a moment, he thought about leaning closer, about closing the distance between them.
But then she leaned back, breaking the moment. “You’re impossible, Malfoy,” she said, her tone teasing but her expression serious.
He smirked, though his chest ached with something he didn’t want to name. “And you’re infuriating, Granger.”
They both laughed, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. But as they finished their drinks and reached for the bottle again, the blond couldn’t shake the feeling that this night—this strange, unexpected night—was only the beginning of something neither of them could quite control.
They drank in silence, the only sounds in the room the crackling fire and the faint clink of glass against glass. Draco occasionally stole furtive glances at her, only to find that, sometimes, she was already looking at him. Her warm brown eyes would flit away quickly, but not before something unspoken passed between them, something that made the air feel heavier, hotter.
What the fuck is this? The thought flickered in his mind, sharp and insistent, as he took another sip of firewhisky. He could feel the tension building between them—thick, almost tangible. Was it the drinks? Or was it something else entirely, something that had been simmering beneath the surface long before she’d stepped into his home?
For brief, dizzying moments, he caught himself thinking she might actually be flirting with him. It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? And yet… the way she twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she spoke, her voice soft but layered with something he couldn’t quite place. The way her gaze lingered on him just a beat too long, scanning him as though trying to uncover some secret. And then there was the way her eyes—those maddeningly expressive eyes—would drop to his mouth with the barest hesitation before she looked away again.
He couldn’t deny it: his gaze had done the same. It had drifted, unbidden, to her lips. Soft, slightly parted, tempting in a way that made his pulse quicken. He didn’t know if it was the firewhisky coursing through his veins or the sheer absurdity of sitting here with Granger of all people, but for the first time in years, he felt completely unmoored.
The night had settled into a comfortable haze, the fire crackling softly in the background as the firewhisky bottle teetered dangerously close to empty. Draco’s thoughts were beginning to swim, but there was a strange sense of ease in the air now, a break in the tension that had clung to them since they’d first sat down.
Granger, on the other hand, was clearly well past her first round of tipsiness. Her movements were a little more exaggerated, her words a touch slurred, and her laugh—louder than usual—rang in the quiet cabin. Malfoy found it strangely endearing.
“So,” she began, her voice higher than usual, the question hanging between them. “Why did you always push your hair back like that? It was... perfect. Like you had some magic gel or something.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, dry amusement tugging at his lips. “Magic gel? You honestly think I worried about hair products, Granger?”
She tilted her head, clearly tipsy but still sharp enough to poke fun. “You were so obsessed with it. Always perfect. It was like it had its own magic.”
“Oh, so now you’re a hair expert?” he teased. “You, who couldn’t tame your bushy mess?”
Her cheeks flushed, and she shot him a mock-glare. “Excuse me, my hair was natural. Not some slicked-back monstrosity.”
“Natural?” Draco smirked. “You mean wild and untamed, just like you.”
Granger gasped, hand clutching her chest in mock horror. “How dare you? My hair was always—”
“—unruly?” Draco interrupted with a laugh, leaning back comfortably. “It looked like a bird’s nest half the time.”
She flushed deeper but couldn’t help but laugh, the alcohol making her too relaxed to argue. “Fine, but you must’ve used some spell. There’s no way your hair was that perfect on its own.”
Draco shrugged nonchalantly, his voice dripping with arrogance. “It’s called being naturally magnificent, Granger.”
She snorted. “Naturally magnificent, huh? So you were born with perfect hair and an inflated ego?”
“Exactly,” he replied, leaning in slightly. “Glad you finally caught on.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I always knew you were full of yourself.”
Draco chuckled. “You think you’ve figured me out?”
“I’ve always been good at that,” she said in a soft voice. “You’re complicated. Not what you seem.”
He met her eyes. “And you think you know me, Granger?”
“I do. I know you’re not as perfect as you want everyone to believe.”
The drinks flowed steadily and their conversation grew easier, though the tension never fully dissipated. He caught himself laughing at something she said—an honest, unrestrained laugh that startled him. When was the last time he’d done that? She laughed too, her cheeks flushed and her posture more relaxed than when she’d first sat down.
Hours passed in a blur of slow sips and stolen glances, the bottle of firewhisky nearly empty between them. By now, Granger was drunk—properly drunk. It was there in the looseness of her movements, the slight slur to her words, the way she tilted her head when she looked at him as though studying him from a new angle.
And then, suddenly, she shifted closer.
Draco froze for a moment, his glass poised mid-air. She’d been sitting on the far end of the couch all evening, careful to keep some distance between them. But now, she was close enough that her knee brushed against his, the faintest touch that sent a jolt through him.
“Your fire’s dying,” she murmured, glancing toward the hearth, though her gaze didn’t linger there for long.
“I can fix it,” he replied in a voice lower than he intended.
“Don’t,” she said quickly, turning back to him. Her face was close—closer than it had been all night. “I like it like this. It’s… cozy.”
Her words lingered in the air, and Draco wasn’t sure if it was the firewhisky, the dim light, or the way her voice dipped ever so slightly when she said cozy, but the tension between them felt unbearable now.
He set his glass down slowly and his fingers started brushing against hers as she did the same. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned back against the couch angling her body toward him. He couldn’t help but notice the way her chest rose and fell and the slight flush that crept up her neck. She looked so beautiful.
“Malfoy,” she said softly, almost lazily, her voice carrying the hint of a slur. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He hadn’t realized he’d been staring. His mouth felt dry, and he struggled to find something—anything—to say.
“I’m not,” he lied, his voice a little rough.
She smirked, a slow, knowing curve of her lips that made his heart pound in his chest. “Yes, you are.”
Her confidence startled him, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Her knee was still pressed lightly against his, and now, she shifted even closer, her thigh brushing his. He felt her warmth, smelled the faint, intoxicating mix of firewhisky, vanilla and something undeniably her.
“You’ve changed,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze flicked to his lips again, lingering this time, and he was acutely aware of how his breath hitched.
“So have you,” he replied, his tone low and steady, though his heart was racing.
Her lips quirked into something softer, almost wistful, and then she spoke again in a tender tone. “I like it,” she said, her words threading through the quiet room and wrapping tightly around him. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, holding him captive in her gaze. “Quite a lot.”
He opened his mouth to say something, though he wasn’t sure what, but before he could form a thought, she moved. Her hands came up and her fingers grazed his jaw before settling firmly on either side of his face. The suddenness of the touch made him inhale sharply, but her hands were soft, steady, and impossibly warm.
“I like it very much,” she said in a softer and seductive voice now, more deliberate. Her words sent a shiver down his spine.
Draco’s breath hitched again as she leaned in, her eyes closing just before her lips brushed his. The kiss was soft at first, tentative and slow, but the sheer intimacy of it stunned him. He froze, his eyes wide open in surprise as the warmth of her lips pressed against his.
His heart slammed against his ribs, and he felt heat rise to his face, his body locked in place. He could barely process it— Granger was kissing him and her lips were soft and insistent, delicious. Her hands still cradling his face as though daring him to pull away.
But he didn’t.
After a moment that felt both like an eternity and a single breath, something in him gave way. His eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned into the kiss moving his lips against hers with a growing urgency. He could taste the faint traces of firewhisky on her mouth along with some notes of vanilla, and he could feel the way her hands tightened ever so slightly against his skin as though anchoring herself to him.
For a moment, it was just the feel of her mouth against his, the taste of firewhisky lingering on her tongue as she deepened the kiss but suddenly, his hands moved of their own accord, one tangling in her hair, the other gripping her waist firmly, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. This, he thought, this is what I’ve been trying to fight. But there was no fighting it now. Not when she kissed him like she needed him to breathe.
Her hands slid up his chest, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring herself to him. Every touch, every breath, every beat of his heart was consumed by her. He could feel the heat of her skin through the thin material of her sweater and the way her body pressed against his, and it was all too much and not nearly enough. She let out a soft moan as she pressed herself against him and the sound was like bliss on his ears. It felt maddening. He had to fight every inch of his will not to let himself go. He wanted her. But he knew she was drunk and didn’t want to take advantage of her, although corresponding the kiss felt like that a little, but he couldn’t help it.
When they finally broke apart, it wasn’t abrupt. She pulled back slowly, her eyes opening to meet his, their faces still close enough that he could feel her breath on his skin. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly swollen, and her gaze—steady and unwavering—held something he couldn’t quite name.
He swallowed hard, his own breath uneven as he tried to collect himself. “Granger,” he started, his voice barely audible, but the way her thumb brushed lightly against his lips silenced him.
“Don’t,” she said softly, her voice tinged with something close to a plea. “Don’t ruin it.”
Draco nodded, unsure of what else to do, his chest tight with emotions he didn’t know how to name. For once, he let the silence stretch between them, the tension still thick but now laced with something deeper, something impossible to ignore.
She lingered close, her breath warm against his cheek as her hands slowly slipped from his face, though her fingertips brushed his jaw one last time before falling to her lap. Her eyes, still locked with his, held a strange mixture of confidence and vulnerability, like she was both certain of herself and terrified at the same time.
“Come with me,” she said suddenly in a soft but firm voice.
Malfoy blinked, her words catching him completely off guard. “Go with you where?” he asked, his tone sharper than he intended with evident surprise.
Her lips curved into the faintest smile, and she straightened a little, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “The Christmas Ministry Ball,” she said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
His brow arched, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure if he’d heard her correctly. “You want me to go to the Ministry Ball?” he asked, his tone laced with disbelief.
Her expression didn’t waver, though he noticed the way her fingers twisted slightly in her lap, betraying her nerves. “Yes, you,” she replied, her voice steady but quieter now. “Unless, of course, you’re too scared to spend an evening with me.”
The challenge in her words made his lips twitch and the hint of a smirk threatened to form. He leaned back slightly, studying her. “Why would you want me there, Granger?”
She hesitated for only a second and her eyes dropped briefly before meeting his again. “Because I don’t want to go alone,” she admitted in a softer voice. “And because… I think you’d surprise people.”
Draco’s smirk finally emerged, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Surprise people? Or scandalize them?”
“Maybe both,” she said, her gaze searching his. “But I don’t care about what they think. I’d love for you to go with me.”
He stared at her for a long moment, her words sinking in, the intensity of her gaze making his chest tighten. The idea of attending a Ministry Ball— with Hermione Granger, of all people —was absurd, utterly ridiculous. And yet, as he sat there, his thigh still brushing hers, he couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward her, the curiosity, the tension that buzzed between them like a live wire.
“You’re serious,” he finally said.
“I am,” she replied. “So? Are you coming with me, or not?”
Draco exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping to her lips for the briefest of moments before returning to her eyes. He didn’t answer right away. But something in her eyes—something warm and unyielding—made it hard to say no.
“Fine,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll go. But I warn you, it might cause some trouble for you. People seeing you with me, it’ll be complicated.”
Hermione leaned in just a little closer, her eyes glinting with mischief. “I love complicated.”*
The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You're mad," he said softly, but there was no malice in it. Just a hint of something he couldn’t name.
He leaned back against the couch, his gaze never leaving hers, and for the first time in a long while, he felt the weight of the moment, the pull of something unpredictable and dangerously real.
“Fine," he repeated, his voice quieter now, as if the words were more than just a promise—they were a beginning.
"Then let’s see how complicated this really gets.”
Alchemy is born in the struggle, where friction sharpens understanding and difficulty transforms into something rare and enduring—a bond forged not in ease, but in the fire of becoming.
⚠️Trigger Warning ⚠️ This chapter contains strong mentions of depression and alcoholism/substance abuse. Reader discretion is advised.
Author notes: Hey, everyone! Thanks again for all your support—means a lot! I'm really enjoying working on this story, and I hope it’s something you enjoy as much as I do. Oh, and I’ve added some new tracks to the Alchemy Between Us playlist on Spotify, if you want to check it out! Link below:
The beginning of the week arrived quickly for Hermione, the hours slipping through her fingers like sand no matter how tightly she tried to hold on. By Monday morning, she was already knee-deep in preparations for the arrival of the French Ministry representatives on Wednesday, every detail demanding her full attention.
As the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Hermione was no stranger to high stakes, but this week felt particularly pressing. At the heart of her efforts was a comprehensive report detailing proposed updates to the International Magical Trade and Commerce Agreements—a meticulous document addressing everything from enchanted goods import regulations to cooperative measures against dark artifact smuggling. The goal was clear: to present a united front that strengthened trade relations and bolstered mutual trust between the UK and France.
The report’s importance couldn’t be overstated. Success meant groundbreaking collaboration and a strengthened reputation for her department; failure, however, could unravel months of diplomacy. The French Ministry was known for its scrutiny, and Hermione wasn’t about to leave anything to chance.
She leaned over her desk, the scratch of her quill filling the room as she double-checked a particularly complex clause on regulated artifacts. The faint scent of parchment and ink mingled with the steam from her untouched tea, long since gone cold.
“Miss Granger.”
Hermione startled slightly, her focus snapping to the door. Roderick Panswick stood in the doorway, his angular face set in its usual mask of thinly veiled disdain.
“You’re aware the French are expecting perfection, yes? Not one of your... overzealous essays,” he added, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Hermione set her quill down deliberately, meeting his gaze with calm precision. “I’m fully aware, Undersecretary. If there’s anything specific you’d like to contribute, my team is more than willing to incorporate it.”
Panswick scoffed, muttering something about her ‘arrogance’ before sweeping away. Hermione exhaled slowly, turning back to her work. No matter how often he tried to diminish her, she refused to let him succeed.
By Tuesday evening, her desk was buried in parchment. The office was quiet save for the soft ticking of a clock on the far wall. She dipped her quill into the inkpot and paused.
Her thoughts slipped away from trade agreements and French dignitaries, unbidden, to him. To Malfoy.
Two encounters. That was all it had been—two fleeting meetings across two days. Yet they lingered, sharp and vivid, in her mind. She hadn’t expected to confide in him as she had, to let words she’d kept locked away spill so easily in his presence.
She thought of Harry, as she often did when navigating the uncharted waters of her life. What would he say if he knew she’d spent time with Malfoy? Would he understand? Could she even explain it to herself?
With Malfoy, it was… different. Not comfortable, exactly, but unguarded in a way she hadn’t realized she needed. She had spent years perfecting the art of resilience, of being the one with answers, the one who kept things together. With her friends, her colleagues, even herself, there was always the unspoken pressure to be strong, composed, unbreakable.
But in those two days of conversation, Malfoy had offered something she didn’t know she was searching for: an acknowledgment of the cracks beneath her armor. There had been no pity in his gaze, no expectation for her to explain or justify herself. In his quiet, guarded way, he had simply… seen her. It wasn’t a look of judgment or shock, but of someone who understood what it meant to carry burdens that couldn’t be neatly set down.
He had spoken to her with a candor that disarmed her, shared thoughts that felt too honest to be calculated. In his regrets, she saw echoes of her own struggles, the weight of choices and consequences that could never truly be undone.
It wasn’t forgiveness, not for either of them. It wasn’t quite friendship, either—at least not yet. It was something raw and tentative, like a truce between two people scarred by the same fire.
When she’d asked him to be friends, the words had felt strange, uncertain. And yet, he’d said yes—quietly, without fanfare, but with a sincerity that lingered. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
She shook her head, exhaling softly. It didn’t matter what Harry would think or what she herself thought. What mattered was the truth she couldn’t deny: for two days, in the unlikeliest of company, she had felt the fragile relief of being understood.
/// FLASHBACK ///
Malfoy’s breath was still uneven when he stopped, the bat hanging limply in his hands. He looked at her—not with anger or regret, but with an unexpected clarity that made the chaos around them fade into insignificance.
For the first time, his sharp grey eyes carried something raw and unguarded, a relief that softened his usually rigid demeanor.
Hermione didn’t know what to make of it.
Finally, he broke the silence with a crooked smirk that tugged at his lips. “Now I understand this hobby of yours.” His voice was rough, the wine adding a huskiness that made the words linger in the air. He raised the bat slightly. “I think I could get used to it.”
The remark was so unexpected that she laughed—a sound that came out louder than she intended, unrestrained and genuine. It rang through the room, bright and clear, cutting through the tension like a shard of glass.
Malfoy set the bat down, his smirk softening, and stepped back. But the crunch of glass beneath his feet threw him off balance, and before either could react, he stumbled forward, right into her space.
Instinctively, Hermione reached out, her hands landing firmly against the warmth of his chest. His hand shot out, steadying her by the elbow, but the sharpness of his touch sent a shock through her that felt strangely thrilling.
They froze.
Her palms pressed against him, and she could feel the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. The steady rise and fall of his breath beneath her hands seemed to pull her further into the moment. Each inhale, each exhale, tethering them together in a way she couldn't explain.
His fingers curved around her arm—firm yet cautious—his thumb grazing the edge of her sleeve. It was a small touch, but the slow, deliberate way he did it felt intimate in a way that made her pulse quicken.
For a second, neither moved. She could smell him—woodsy, with a faint note of mint—and the closeness was dizzying.
When her gaze tilted upward to meet his, his stormy grey eyes locked onto hers, darker now, as if something primal stirred within him. There was no smirk this time, no teasing remark. His lips parted slightly, his jaw tight, as though fighting against the pull between them.
Her heart thundered in her chest, and time seemed to stretch into something impossibly slow.
She wavered, trying to back away, but her heel caught on a piece of debris, and she stumbled. His hand shifted—strong, decisive—sliding to her waist. The sudden grip sent a jolt through her, a delicious thrill that made her breath hitch.
His fingers tightened slightly, grounding her against him. The warmth of his touch radiated through her robes, like a brand, marking her with its intensity. Their bodies were impossibly close now, brushing together in a way that set every nerve in her body alight.
Their gazes collided once more, and his eyes—intense and searching—lingered just a moment too long, dipping briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes. There was something unspoken in his expression, something that made her feel both unsteady and undeniably alive.
“Careful, Granger,” he murmured in a low voice, the kind of timbre that made her knees feel weak. The wine had taken the edge off his usual sharpness, but his presence was no less commanding.
“I’m fine,” she managed, though her words were little more than a breathless whisper, betraying the wild pace of her heartbeat.
But he didn’t move. His hand stayed where it was, firm at her waist, as though testing her reaction. His thumb brushed against the curve of her waist—not once, but twice—slow, deliberate strokes that sent a shiver through her spine.
Each pass felt bolder, more assured, like he was silently pushing the boundaries between them. And she let him.
Her chest tightened when his gaze dipped again, and the space between them felt unbearably small. The air grew thick, heavy with unspoken possibilities.
She wavered, her breath catching, her hands flexing slightly against his chest.
“You… uh, you missed that vase over there,” she blurted, nodding toward a cracked but still-intact piece sitting precariously on a shelf. Her voice faltered, and the absurdity of her words made her laugh awkwardly, the sound betraying the whirlwind inside her.
Malfoy’s lips quirked, a faint, crooked smile forming that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He didn’t glance at the vase, his gaze locked on hers instead—unflinching, steady, and impossibly self-assured.
The smile deepened just slightly, as though he were savoring her discomfort, enjoying the way she stumbled over her words and fidgeted under his scrutiny. But he didn’t speak.
The silence pressed down on her like a weight, maddening and intense. She shifted back, her heel brushing against debris once more, and his fingers flexed on her waist, steadying her. This time, he didn’t stop her retreat.
When his hand finally fell away, she exhaled shakily, stepping back and fussing with her robes. The small motions did little to hide the flush on her cheeks or the unsteady rise and fall of her chest.
Even as she tried to compose herself, his gaze lingered—unrelenting and heavy—leaving her skin tingling long after he had let go.
She tried to convince herself it was just the wine, but deep down, she knew that what had just passed between them was more than that.
/// END OF FLASHBACK ///
She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head as though it could banish her memories and thoughts entirely. I must be crazy, thinking about Malfoy this way. Her fingers stopped fidgeting with the quill, and for a moment, she let herself breathe. We’ve barely exchanged more than a handful of civil words before.
But even as she tried to convince herself, the memory of his touch lingered. She hadn’t asked for it. Yet there it was—his hand, steady and firm on her waist. The unexpected warmth of his grip, the closeness she hadn't prepared for, still resonated through her. This isn’t... what it seems. We were bloody drunk, that’s what it was.
Her mind veered to Ron. The breakup had been difficult, but not because of lingering affection—it was the suffocating possessiveness, the constant fighting. She’d wanted space, independence, and she had finally found it. I’m free now, she reminded herself.
But Malfoy— Malfoy —was a different kind of complication. The last person she ever expected to make her feel anything at all. The thought was absurd. She quickly squashed it. He was still Malfoy, after all—no matter how much he’d changed. He was the least likely person to be stirring anything in her. We’re friends now, she reminded herself, as if saying it aloud would make it more real. Just friends.
The ache of loneliness, though, was undeniable. It wasn’t about Ron, but something more. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed connection, intimacy, until now. The absence of it left a gap she hadn't quite known how to fill.
But she wasn’t about to start thinking about Malfoy that way. No. He didn’t belong in that space.
The clock chimed three, bringing her back to the present. She straightened, pushing the thought away as best as she could, and focused on the pile of work in front of her. There was no room for distractions.
Still, as she turned back to her work, a small, involuntary smile tugged at her lips. It was fleeting, but genuine—like the ember of a fire she couldn’t quite extinguish. She tucked it away, deep inside, knowing it would only fuel her for now.
Malfoy found himself on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, away from the bustling streets. The air was colder than usual, but he didn’t mind the chill. He preferred solitude. It was quieter here—fewer eyes on him. No hushed whispers. No pointing fingers. Just the dull scrape of his work boots against cobblestones and the low hum of his magic as he worked.
He hadn’t chosen this life. He hadn’t chosen to be a forgotten ghost in the wizarding world, dismissed by those who once praised his name. But the past has a way of following you, like a shadow you could never escape. The weight of his former life pressed on him every day, heavy and suffocating, and while he never allowed it to show, it was there in the tremble of his hand and the tightness of his jaw.
The Malfoy family estate—the grandeur of it all—was now little more than a relic of a life that no longer existed. After the trial, the Ministry had taken everything, all their family businesses, the old properties, the holdings that spanned generations, all were seized. The government had seen to it that the Malfoys lost their status, their privileges. Their empire dismantled piece by piece.
Still, they were rich. Filthy rich. Rich enough that Draco didn’t have to work a single day in his life and could buy anything he wanted with a flick of his wrist, just like he used to. The inheritance was there—hidden away in trust funds, sprawling investments, countless vaults. But none of that mattered.
He could feel it, the suffocating weight of wealth, every time he stepped foot inside the manor. It was the emptiness that gnawed at him. The gilded walls, the polished floors—they were a mockery of everything he had lost. The family had a history of power, of control, but all of it had evaporated in a single, catastrophic blow.
And now, all he had left was the money—and the hollow ghost of the woman who had once been his mother.
His father had died during the war, cut down in its final days while fighting for a cause that had already crumbled around them. His death had left a gaping hole in their family, forcing his mother to bear the unbearable weight of salvaging what little remained. She had carried them through the aftermath with a brittle sort of strength, her poise masking the devastation beneath. But grief has a way of seeping through even the strongest walls, and over time, the cracks began to show.
At first, it was subtle—moments when her gaze would linger too long on empty spaces, when her responses to him would trail off as if her mind had wandered to some unreachable place. Then came the sleepless nights, the growing isolation. She stopped eating, stopped caring, retreating into the shadowed corners of the manor like a wounded animal seeking refuge.
It wasn’t long before her health began to deteriorate. Her once-impeccable appearance gave way to a frailty that made her seem smaller, more fragile than he ever thought possible. Her voice grew thin and sharp, lashing out in unpredictable bursts. And when she did speak to him, it was often only to wound. It’s your fault, she would hiss, her words heavy with anger and despair. You should have stopped him. You should have done something.
He knew her grief was speaking, not her heart, but that knowledge did little to dull the sting. Each accusation burrowed deep, leaving wounds that refused to heal.
The healers had been no help. Their attempts to reach her—through potions, spells, and therapies—were met with resistance that bordered on hostility. The more they tried, the more she withdrew, her rage at their intrusion burning brighter than the grief that consumed her. They eventually stopped coming, leaving her to languish in her self-imposed prison.
The manor itself seemed to feed on her despair. Its vast, echoing halls had once been a symbol of their power, but now they felt cold and oppressive, filled with the weight of memories too painful to bear. She stayed locked in her room, surrounded by the remnants of a life she no longer wanted.
Draco avoided the manor whenever he could. Seeing her like that—shattered, unreachable—was too much to bear. Each visit left him feeling more helpless, more broken. He hated himself for it, for the way he fled from her pain, but the guilt wasn’t enough to keep him there. He couldn’t face the hollow look in her eyes or the way her accusations seemed to echo in the empty spaces long after he had left.
The house was a mausoleum, a monument to their ruined past, and he couldn’t stand being its only living inhabitant. And so he ran—again and again—chasing distractions, hoping to escape the crushing weight of a family that no longer existed. But no matter how far he went, the ghosts always followed.
And so, he found himself in that dingy, dimly lit room, working with his hands—an enchanter, surrounded by trinkets and knick-knacks, creating magic for pennies on the galleon.
Malfoy worked in the back room of a shop on the outskirts of Hogsmeade—a shop where the wealthy didn’t tread, where the customers barely looked up from their daily lives to care about the name of the person behind the counter. He had no title here. No last name. No history.
The flicker of his wand over another trinket interrupted his thoughts. His hands were steady as he cast the charm. It wasn’t perfect, but it would suffice for the customer who wouldn’t care anyway.
His flask burned a hole in his pocket, reminding him of its presence. Just a quick sip—no one would know.
Malfoy unscrewed the cap, letting the comforting burn of firewhisky slide down his throat. It wasn’t a luxury. It wasn’t even something he enjoyed. But it was a numbing mechanism, something to keep the worst of the symptoms at bay. The restlessness. The constant itch of self-doubt that crept in when he wasn’t working.
"Malfoy!"
His boss's voice sliced through the fog like a knife. Malfoy didn’t flinch. He never did. His hand instinctively slid the flask back into his pocket, and he lifted his gaze slowly, deliberately. His boss stood in the doorway with an angry scowl pulling at his face.
“You still haven’t finished that bloody batch?” The words grated out, harsh and condescending. “I don’t pay you to stare at them all day. Get moving.”
Malfoy didn’t answer. There was no need to. Words were wasted here, just as his energy was. The boss’s dissatisfaction didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the work in front of him. His hands moved automatically, fluid, precise. His wand flicked with practiced efficiency as the charm settled into place. He wasn’t sure why he still did it. Why he kept showing up to the job, enduring the insults, the exhaustion. The wealth that was once his, that should have been enough, felt like a hollow echo now. He had money, yes, but what was it worth? The Malfoy name had been tarnished beyond repair, and all the riches in the world couldn’t fix that.
The only thing he had left was the tangible. The trinkets he worked on, the enchantments he cast. They were real. They were something to hold on to.
But the tremor in his hand—he could feel it starting. A slight, involuntary twitch of his fingers. He ignored it for now. Just one more sip. It was always the same routine, wasn’t it? Just a little drink, just enough to take the edge off. The firewhisky burned down his throat, leaving a warmth in its wake, and for a moment, the pressure in his chest loosened. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough to keep the withdrawal at bay—for now.
The withdrawal had become a constant companion. The tremors. The restlessness. The cold sweat that broke out on his skin when the alcohol didn’t come fast enough. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let it. Not again.
But even as the warmth of the whisky began to dull the ache, there was something more persistent lurking in the back of his mind. It wasn’t the fear of withdrawal, not entirely. No, it was something deeper. Something gnawing at him from the inside, a realization he couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard he tried to bury it.
Her face flashed into his mind, unbidden. Granger. Hermione Granger.
She was the last person he would have ever thought would acknowledge his existence, let alone come to his defense. He couldn’t understand it. Why had she done it? Why had she testified for him, five years ago, when every bone in her body must have wanted to see him rot in prison?
He could still see it clearly, that moment in the courtroom. Her face, full of conviction, as she stood up for him in front of everyone. He, who had always treated her and her lot like dirt. He, who had called her a Mudblood with venom in his voice, who had stood by as his aunt Bellatrix tortured her at the Manor, doing nothing, absolutely nothing to stop it.
And yet, there she was. Defending him. Not with a hint of hesitation, not with a shred of doubt. She had looked him in the eye and spoken out, unwavering. A part of him had been speechless in that moment, as if the words he had used to demean her, to belittle her, had suddenly become meaningless. It didn’t make sense. How could it? Why her? Why, after all that had happened, was she the one who extended a hand, not to forgive, but to acknowledge me?
But it wasn’t just that, was it? There was something else that lingered in his memory—something from more recently. The Silver Stag’s encounter and then meeting at the Outskirts Brew.
Malfoy exhaled slowly, trying to shake the thought. He couldn’t ignore it. He had seen her there, looking nothing like herself on both occasions. And by that, he meant dressed up . His mind recoiled at the thought of it, but the image was there, sharp and clear—Hermione Granger arriving at the Silver Stag in a breathtaking, form-fitting burgundy dress that hugged her curves in all the right places. He had never noticed how beautiful she was—not until that night. He had never seen her like that. His mind had always been clouded with the same judgment, the same condescending dismissal. But those nights, he had seen her for what she truly was—a woman.
The conversations they’ve had… It was strange. It just didn’t fit. It wasn’t the type of exchange he would have ever imagined with her. They had talked for hours both days, talked about things he thought he had forgotten how to feel. He had shared things with her that, in another life, he would have never dared utter aloud. And she, in turn, had done the same. She had opened up to him in ways that were absurd. It all felt unreal, like a dream he wasn’t sure he wanted to wake from.
But he couldn’t understand it. It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t quite grasp why, after everything, she would willingly spend time with him. Why she would even look at him like that.
He took another swig of the whisky, though the fire didn’t quite burn the way it had before. The ache in his chest didn’t fade as it had before. If anything, it seemed to grow heavier, a tangle of emotions he couldn’t unwind. The manor. The wealth. The life he once had—none of it mattered anymore. What mattered now was the strange feeling that had settled in his stomach, one that he couldn’t drink away. Not even firewhisky could numb it.
He couldn’t let himself think about it. He couldn’t afford to. Not now. Not when he was barely holding it all together.
“Done,” he muttered, his voice thick, as he finished the charm on the trinket. He handed it over to his boss without a second glance, his shaking hands hidden in the folds of his robes.
His boss’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything. He just turned and left, grumbling about inefficiency, his footsteps echoing as he stomped down the hallway.
Malfoy stood there for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, the silence ringing in his ears. It wasn’t the first time he had felt the withdrawal. And it wouldn’t be the last.
But as he reached for the flask again, the dull ache in his chest returned. And in the depths of his mind, he could still see Granger, and the way her eyes had locked with his in the dim light. He had never understood it. Not then. Not now.
He didn’t want to. But he knew, deep down, that things were changing.
It was well past eight when Hermione leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. The desk in front of her was a mess—papers scattered, ink stains, and half-finished notes. She wasn’t done yet, but the report was almost there. She was confident she could finish it on time. She decided to call it a night—for now, anyway. She could always pick it up again at home.
Ginny had suggested meeting for coffee at the Leaky Cauldron, and Hermione could think of no better way to unwind. It had been far too long since they'd had a proper catch-up. Well, it had only been eight days, but when you’ve spent years meeting up twice a week, eight days felt like eight months.
Instead of going home to change, Hermione decided to head straight to the meeting in her work clothes. Her brown trousers and crisp white blouse were a bit too formal for a casual coffee meet-up, but her green coat and burgundy beanie softened the look. She paired it with her trusty combat boots, leaving her hair down—just how Ginny always told her to wear it, "so you don’t look like you’re about to hold a bloody press conference."
The evening air was sharp as she stepped outside. The snow had let up, but the streets were still covered with patches of it. Diagon Alley looked magical in the twilight—fairy lights twinkling in shop windows, casting a soft glow on the cobblestone. The sounds of footsteps crunching in the snow mixed with the occasional pop of Apparition. The smell of burning wood from chimneys filled the air, adding to the cozy atmosphere.
Hermione walked briskly, her breath visible in front of her, until the Leaky Cauldron appeared around the corner. The wooden sign swayed in the wind, and the windows were fogged from the warmth inside. The sound of voices chatting and laughing seeped out as she pushed open the door.
The familiar scent of coffee and butterbeer greeted her. Her eyes scanned the room until they found Ginny sitting at a corner table, absently stirring a cup of tea. Her hair glowed in the soft light, and though her face was neutral, the bouncing of her foot gave away her impatience.
Ginny's eyes lit up when she spotted Hermione. She stood up, smiling, and opened her arms wide as she approached.
“Hermione!” Ginny exclaimed, her voice full of warmth. She gave her a tight hug, holding her like she hadn’t seen her in months, not just a few days.
“It’s so good to see you too,” Hermione said, laughing softly as she returned the hug.
“I was getting so bored waiting for you,” Ginny said with a grin, sitting back down. “I’ve been buried in Quidditch stats all day. If I have to write one more article on the Harpies’ lineup, I swear I’m going to hex someone.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow, signaling for a coffee. “I thought Quidditch reporting was supposed to be glamorous.”
“Oh, it is. When I’m watching the Cannons lose for the hundredth time or dealing with angry fans sending me owls to demand better headlines.” Ginny rolled her eyes dramatically. “And you? Still working on that report?”
Hermione nodded, tapping the side of her cup. “Yep. Almost done. I’ll finish it by tomorrow. I just needed a little break before I went mad.”
“Perfect timing, then,” Ginny said, flashing a mischievous grin. “I was just about to owl you and drag you out of that office. You look like you’ve been buried under a mountain of paperwork.”
Hermione laughed. “You’re not wrong. But I’m almost there.”
Her friend leaned back, taking a sip of her tea. “And I was just thinking, it’s been ages since we’ve had a good chat. Theo’s been buried in work at Magical Inventory, counting enchanted quills or something. And I’ve been stuck covering match after match. It’s exhausting.”
The brunette chuckled. “Yeah, you’re the only person I know who could make Quidditch sound like torture.”
Ginny snorted. “Well, try covering it for a living. After the hundredth interview with a player who’s just ‘really excited for the next match,’ I start dreaming of peace and quiet.”
They both laughed, the warmth of the pub settling around them like a comforting embrace.
“Oh, before I forget,” Ginny said with a sly smile, setting her cup down and leaning in slightly—her posture promising gossip. “We had a family dinner last week.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Family dinner? How’d that go?”
“Well,” Ginny began, “it was… better than expected, actually. The whole family’s starting to warm up to Theo. He was a bit nervous at first, but by the end of the night, he had George laughing.”
Hermione blinked. “George laughed?”
Ginny nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I know. George hardly ever laughs these days. Since Fred…” Her voice trailed off, a shadow passing over her face.
Hermione reached across the table, resting her hand gently on Ginny’s. “It’s tough, isn’t it?”
Ginny nodded, taking a deep breath. “Yeah. He’s not the same, Hermione. He runs the shop, but since he hired someone to do most of the work, he rarely steps in. I think he’s just trying to avoid the memories.”
Hermione’s chest tightened. “I know it’s tough for all of you, but I can’t imagine how hard it must be for him.”
Ginny looked up, her gaze meeting Hermione’s with a quiet intensity. “It is. But I think Theo’s helping. He’s got this dry humor that actually breaks through to George, and I think that’s exactly what we all need.”
“That’s good,” Hermione said softly. “Theo’s got a way with people, doesn’t he?”
Ginny smiled briefly, but her expression shifted quickly, her brow furrowing. “Then there’s Ron…”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”
Ginny shook her head, her tone darkening. “He’s been awful. He showed up to dinner, but barely said two words to Theo. And when he thought no one was listening, I caught him muttering horrible things about him.”
“I’m sorry, Ginny. That sounds awful.”
Her friend sighed, her gaze hardening. “It is. I love Ron, but if he doesn’t stop, I’ll have to cut him off. He’s holding onto something that doesn’t even matter anymore. We’ve all moved on, but he’s stuck.”
Hermione nodded slowly, squeezing her friend’s hand in reassurance.
Ginny looked down at her tea, her expression softening. “I don’t want to give up on him, but I can’t keep defending his behavior, either.”
“I’m not defending him, Ginny, but you know he’s not the only one, right?” Hermione let out a quiet breath, leaning back in her chair. “Everyone’s got their prejudices when it comes to former Death Eaters. I honestly think it’s bullshit. If they admitted to their crimes, served their time, and tried to reintegrate into society, we should forgive them.”
The redhead blinked, surprised by the bluntness of her words. It wasn’t a side of her friend she often saw.
Hermione’s thoughts drifted briefly to Malfoy—his isolation, the cold glares at the Silver Stag when no one had wanted to sit with him, the way people recoiled like he was somehow contagious. She frowned, her voice slipping into a steady rhythm as she continued.
“It’s not fair. It’s like we’re segregating them,” she said, clearly frustrated. “It feels like we’re slipping right back to the way things were before the war, but this time, the tables are turned.”
Ginny’s brow furrowed in thought, trying to grasp the full weight of it.
“During the war, Death Eaters wanted to wipe out Muggle-borns, Muggles—they were all about keeping pure-bloods in power. But now, even though Voldemort’s gone, we’re doing the exact same thing to them. We’re treating them like outcasts just because of who they were, not who they are now. And that’s wrong.”
For a moment, Ginny was silent, her lips parted as though considering the depths of the words.
“Everyone deserves a second chance,” Hermione added, her voice soft but resolute. “But if we keep holding grudges, what does that say about us?”
“You’re right,” Ginny replied as she nodded with understanding. “It’s not fair.”
They continued to talk and after a while the conversation shifted back to lighter matters. Laughter bubbled up between them, easing the tension that had lingered, both of them feeling the comfort of familiar company. For a while, the world beyond their little corner seemed distant, even trivial.
Eventually, the redhead leaned in with a mischievous glint in her eye. “So, are you seeing anyone?”
The question hung in the air, and Hermione let out a soft laugh. “I don’t have time for that.”
A teasing smile tugged at Ginny's lips. “Oh, really? Because Ron told me he’d invited you to have dinner with us but you already had plans, and—well, I couldn’t help but wonder. Who’s the lucky guy?”
A blush colored the brunette’s cheeks, but she quickly dismissed the teasing with a wave of her hand. “Oh, please. It’s nothing like that.”
“I didn’t accept Ron’s invite because he kept flirting with me. Honestly, I felt uncomfortable. He does it all the time, and I just don’t like it.”
The redhead's expression softened, but she was undeterred. “You know my brother still loves you, right?”
The words struck like a spark, but Hermione was quick to respond. “I know. But we were horrible together, don’t you remember? It just doesn’t work.”
Ginny’s gaze softened, but there was a slight insistence in her voice.
“It’s been years, Hermione. Things could be different now. Don’t you think—”
“No,” she interjected in a gentle but resolute voice. “It will never change. I don’t want to go down that road again.”
For a moment, Ginny seemed to accept the answer and her shoulders slumped slightly, but there was a quiet understanding in her eyes. It wasn’t the first time they’d danced around this subject, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Still, she respected her friend’s decision.
The redhead’s lips curled into a teasing grin. “Well, let me know if you need me to introduce you to someone. Theo has some really cute friends—sometimes I think they’re cuter than him. There’s this guy he introduced me to the other day, I can’t remember his name, but I can still remember his chiseled abs. I could see them through his shirt.”
“Ginny!” Hermione exclaimed, laughing in surprise.
“Oh, come on,” Ginny added, still grinning. “I’m married, not blind.”
“Thank you, Ginny,” Hermione replied, shaking her head but unable to stop her smile. “But as I said, I don’t have time for that right now. I’m too busy.”
Ginny raised an eyebrow playfully. “Too busy? So busy you came to meet me today, huh? You liar” she teased.
“Stop it,” Hermione laughed, rolling her eyes.
But as she took a sip of coffee, her thoughts drifted elsewhere. She thought of Malfoy once more. She didn’t understand why, but there it was—his face, the way he’d looked at her when they’d last met. The way her stomach had fluttered, even when she hadn’t wanted it to.
It was past eleven when Hermione stepped into her flat, feeling the weight of the day settle over her. The evening spent with Ginny had provided a temporary distraction, but her mind remained restless. Tossing her bag onto the couch, she headed to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. The cool liquid slid down her throat, but it did little to ease the knot of tension in her chest.
Her gaze landed on the Ministry report on her desk—the same one she’d been wrestling with for days. With a resigned sigh, she moved to her chair, picked up her quill, and began to pore over the dense, bureaucratic language. As the minutes ticked by, her frustration grew. The words blurred together on the page, and her notes became a tangle of crossed-out lines and half-finished thoughts.
Finally, she leaned back in her chair, letting out a heavy sigh. Her mind wandered, searching for an escape from the endless cycle of revisions. And, as if summoned from the edges of her thoughts, an image of Draco Malfoy appeared.
She frowned, but the memory persisted. The way his pale eyes had softened during their conversation at the Silver Stag, how his voice—low and steady—had curled around her like a warm scarf on a cold day. She could still see the faint smile on his lips when he’d shared something unexpectedly personal, the hint of vulnerability in his expression that had caught her off guard.
Her frown deepened. This wasn’t the time to think about him. Yet, as she set her quill down, she felt herself slipping further into the memory.
The dinner they’d shared at the Outskirts Brew came rushing back. The flickering candlelight, the empty restaurant, the way he’d listened to her every word as if she were the only person in the world. She remembered the curve of his mouth when he smiled—genuine, without the usual smirk she’d grown accustomed to hating.
Her pulse quickened, and she hated herself for it. This was Draco Malfoy, after all. The boy who had tormented her, who had stood on the wrong side of everything they’d fought for. But he wasn’t that boy anymore. He wasn’t the cold, sneering figure she remembered from their youth.
She stood abruptly, pacing the room in an attempt to shake off the thoughts. This wasn’t right. He wasn’t worth this kind of distraction.
And yet…
Her steps slowed as she remembered the way his hand had brushed against hers that night. The touch had been fleeting, almost accidental, but it had left her skin tingling. She could feel it now, her palm warming at the memory, as though his fingers were still ghosting over hers.
She sank back into her chair, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Get a grip, Hermione,” she muttered. But her mind refused to obey.
Draco’s face came to her again—closer this time, the way it had been when they’d leaned across the table toward each other, caught up in a shared moment of laughter. She remembered the way he’d looked at her, like he was seeing something he’d never noticed before. Like he wanted to see more.
Her breath hitched, and she sat forward, her head in her hands. No matter how hard she tried to suppress it, her body betrayed her. Her skin felt warm, her chest tight. She couldn’t stop picturing him.
The thought of his lips—soft, just slightly curved—lingered in her mind longer than it should have. What would it feel like if they brushed against hers? Would he taste like the wine he’d been sipping that night? Her stomach fluttered at the thought, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing the feeling away.
But it was too late. The memory of him had planted itself firmly in her chest, blooming in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying.
Hermione let out a groan of frustration and stood again, running her hands through her hair. She needed to do something—anything—to clear her head. She moved to the bathroom, the thought of a hot bath her only refuge.
She ran the water, watching as steam filled the room. Her hands trembled slightly as she unbuttoned her blouse, and she tried to tell herself it was just the stress of the day catching up to her. But even as she slid into the bath, the heat of the water enveloping her, her mind remained on him.
She tilted her head back, closing her eyes. For just a moment, she let herself imagine it—his hand trailing along her arm, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck. The thought sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the water.
Her eyes flew open, and she pressed her palms against the sides of the tub, her heart racing. What was happening to her? This wasn’t just a distraction. This was something dangerous.
Draco stepped into his cabin, the door clicking softly behind him, and he exhaled as the quiet enveloped him like a cloak. The interior was a perfect reflection of his personality: sleek, minimalistic, and elegantly simple. The floors were a polished wood, dark and rich, reflecting the dim firelight that flickered from the hearth. A few strategically placed pieces of furniture added a touch of warmth—a black leather couch, low and modern, a tall glass vase with a single wildflower stem, and a large window that framed the moonlit trees outside. There was nothing extraneous, nothing that spoke of clutter or noise. The space was as refined as it was solitary, a place for only him, his thoughts, and the echo of silence.
He moved toward the shower, shedding his clothes with a practiced ease, the weight of the evening’s alcohol pulling at him like a slow tide. The hot water poured over him as he stepped under the stream, the heat easing into his muscles, dissolving the tension that had been gnawing at him for days. He let it consume him for a moment, the warmth and quietness, like an escape he rarely allowed himself.
His body was a testament to survival—sculpted and lean from the daily routine of exercise, his abs tight and defined beneath the water’s stream. But it was the scars that told the real story. Across his chest and back, the marks of war, Azkaban, and Voldemort’s torture were etched into his skin, reminders of the dark chapters that defined him. The Dark Mark, still vivid against his left forearm, pulsed with a memory he wished he could outrun. His platinum hair, now damp and hanging to his shoulders, framed a face that was undeniably handsome, though it carried an air of exhaustion. His eyes—stormy and sharp—held a weariness that no amount of sleep could erase, and his elegance, though still there, seemed worn, like the finest fabric fraying at the edges.
He stepped out of the shower, his feet unsteady beneath him, the alcohol beginning to cloud his mind further. With a grunt, he sank into the cool leather of the couch, the smooth surface a stark contrast to the chaotic spinning in his head. His breath came a little heavier than usual, a soft laugh escaping his lips as he caught himself, the sound tinged with self-mockery. He’d been drinking more than usual, but his usual was already a lot. Now, drunk, he felt an odd sense of release—a blur between numbness and freedom.
Leaning back into the couch, he closed his eyes for a moment. Her face appeared before him, soft and clear in the fog of his intoxicated thoughts. Hermione. The thought of her was a strange pull, an ache in his chest that hadn’t been there before. He’d never craved anyone’s company, not like this. But with her, he found himself wanting more—more of her presence, her calm. He let out a long breath, eyes fluttering open.
Draco’s hand moved without thinking, reaching for a parchment as if drawn by some unseen force. His mind was swimming, thoughts colliding with the haze of the alcohol. He should have resisted—he should have let the feeling pass. But instead, he summoned the quill. The strokes of ink were uneven at first, his fingers unsteady, yet something deep inside him compelled him to keep writing.
He read over the note with a slow, almost amused smile. There was a sense of mischief in it, sure, but also a bit of something else—something raw that he wouldn’t admit to himself. It was reckless, unrefined, and completely unlike him. And yet, it felt necessary.
“Granger,
So, uh... I don't even know how this happened, but here I am writing you. Don't know why, but here we are. I guess I want to see you again. Weird, right? Like... really weird. But yeah, you’ve left a, uh, impression. A strong one. I guess. You’ve definitely got a way of... keeping me, uh, interested. That’s something. And we’re friends now, right?
Look, I know you're busy. Or, I don’t know, maybe not? But if you ever get a moment—or if you don’t, whatever—come by my place. It’ll be... fun? Or not. Who knows.
It’s just... come by.
You know where. Or if you don’t you’ll find the address on the back.
D.”
Malfoy read over the note, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. But the thrill of doing something so uncharacteristic was too delicious to ignore. He tied the note to his owl’s leg, watching it fly into the darkness with a sense of finality.
Leaning back against the couch, he allowed himself to close his eyes. Hermione’s face lingered in his mind, and he let the pull of exhaustion take over.
He fell asleep.
The morning after was a blur of regret and confusion. Malfoy awoke with a headache and an unease in his chest, the memory of the note creeping back in pieces. His pulse quickened as he remembered. Had he really written that? His stomach churned, and a dark flush of embarrassment crept up his neck.
A knock at the window startled him. His owl returned, its leg carrying the familiar weight of a note, tied with a red ribbon. Her reply.
His breath hitched. What the fuck did I do?
Draco’s hands trembled as he untied the ribbon, his fingers still unsteady from the fog of the night before. His breath caught in his throat as he unfolded the parchment, each movement slow, as if the paper itself might betray him. He glanced at the note, the ink blurring for a moment in his vision, before he could make sense of the words. His heart skipped a beat, then stuttered to a halt when he read the brief reply.
"See you at 8 pm. I'll bring the wine.
G."
The weight of the words settled over him, suffocating in its simplicity. He blinked, staring at the note in disbelief, his stomach tightening as the reality of it sank in. His pulse raced, and a flush of heat spread across his skin. There was no turning back now.
.....................................
"It is in the act of choosing, of moving forward despite uncertainty, that true transformation occurs. Only through action can we turn struggle into something precious."
I’m so thrilled with the amazing response to part one of this story! Honestly, I didn’t expect much interaction, so seeing your comments and support has made me so happy.
Writing this has been such a joy—I wanted to include moments and conversations I’ve always imagined Draco saying or doing at least once.
Thanks to your encouragement, I’m continuing the story, and I’m super excited to dive deeper! I’m not sure yet how long it’ll be or how many chapters there’ll be, but I’ll keep you updated as I figure it out.
Things are about to get pretty emotional, so get ready!
Before I leave you to the next chapter, I wanted to share a playlist I put together just for this story—if you’re into music, you might enjoy it!
These songs remind me of the characters and really help me tap into the emotions I’m writing about. I hope they do the same for you.
Try playing it on shuffle for a different vibe each time you read. I’ll keep adding songs as the story grows. 😊
When two unexplained forces collide, that's when the alchemy between misunderstood souls becomes magic.
The morning light crept into Hermione’s flat with a soft insistence, its golden rays filtering through the curtains to rest gently on her face. She stirred, slightly scrunching her nose as the brightness coaxed her out of sleep. Her hair was a wild halo of curls, tangled from tossing and turning, and her head throbbed faintly—a dull ache left behind by the previous night’s drinks.
She groaned softly, shielding her eyes with one hand as she swung her legs off the bed. The chill of the wooden floor against her bare feet made her shiver, but she didn’t bother grabbing her slippers. The only thought in her mind was water—cold, clear water to soothe the dryness in her throat.
Hermione shuffled into the kitchen with slow, deliberate steps. The soft padding of her bare feet broke the quiet of the morning. She moved with a kind of practiced efficiency, her movements unhurried yet intentional. Reaching for a glass in the cabinet, she filled it with water from the tap. The coolness of the drink was a balm, soothing the dryness in her throat as she gripped the glass tightly, savoring each sip.
Despite having fully integrated herself into the wizarding world after the war, Hermione’s home was a striking contrast to the enchanted, charmed spaces so common among witches and wizards. Her house was entirely Muggle—manual in every sense. No floating teacups, no self-dusting furniture, no magical cleaning spells humming in the background. It was a deliberate choice, a quiet tribute to the world she had come from, a place that still held pieces of her identity.
The kitchen, much like the rest of her home, was beautifully decorated in a way that was cozy and unpretentious. Natural wood tones complemented soft, earthy colors, while sunlight poured through large windows, highlighting the thoughtful simplicity of the space.
The living room, however, was the heart of the house—a library that felt more alive than any room she’d ever been in. One entire wall was taken up by a curved bookcase that stretched from floor to ceiling, spanning ten levels high. The shelves were filled with books of every imaginable kind—different authors, colors, sizes, genres, and ages, some with spines cracked from frequent reading, others pristine and waiting to be discovered. Each one seemed to tell a story beyond its pages, a life touched by her insatiable love for knowledge.
Integrated into the bookcase was a ladder mounted on a moving rail, allowing access to even the highest shelves. It glided smoothly along the curve of the wall, a practical yet whimsical addition. Interspersed among the books were plants—trailing vines of Devil’s Ivy, their leaves spilling gracefully over the edges of the shelves. The vibrant green of the ivy brought a softness to the space, contrasting with the sharp lines of the books.
Dried flowers were arranged in small, glass vases along the lower shelves—lavender sprigs, preserved roses, and delicate bunches of baby’s breath. They added a touch of nostalgia, their subtle fragrance mingling with the faint scent of aged paper.
Opposite the towering bookcase stood a sturdy wooden desk, its surface rich with the patina of age. The desk, clearly antique, bore the marks of time and use—scratches, faint ink stains, and smoothed edges from years of work. It was where she spent countless hours immersed in her writing, research, or correspondence. Above the desk hung a collection of photographs, arranged with deliberate care, each one telling a chapter of her story.
There was a black-and-white photograph of herself as a baby, her curious eyes wide and her wild curls already untamable. Beside it, a photo of her parents, their arms wrapped around her in a warm embrace, radiating the simple joy of their family life. Scattered among these were pictures of her Hogwarts years: laughing with Harry and Ron, sitting by the Gryffindor common room fireplace, and a group shot of the Gryffindor first-years, all impossibly young and bright-eyed.
In the center of the display hung the most distinctive photograph of all. Framed in silver—a stark contrast to the gold frames surrounding it—it was a black-and-white image of Hermione and Harry. They stood side by side, their smiles soft and unguarded, the connection between them palpable even in stillness. Attached to the frame was a dried lotus flower, delicate and preserved. Its placement was deliberate—a symbol of resilience, growth, and finding beauty in the midst of adversity.
This wall, like the library opposite it, was a testament to Hermione’s journey—a tapestry of moments that had shaped her, woven with love, loss, and triumph. Every time she sat at that desk, surrounded by those memories, she felt grounded, reminded of where she came from and how far she had come.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. Past ten. She let out a long breath, leaning against the counter. It was her day off, but the list of things she needed to accomplish was already forming in her mind: groceries, laundry, and more importantly, finishing the report she had promised herself she wouldn’t bring home.
The sunlight streamed in through the windows, wrapping the room in a golden glow. Her gaze dropped to herself, and she realized—she was still wearing the clothes from last night. She looked down at the deep burgundy dress she’d worn to the pub, the fabric now slightly wrinkled from sleep. A faint smudge on the hem reminded her of a spilled drink she hadn’t bothered to notice at the time. Her fingers moved absently, brushing against the fabric draped over her shoulders.
Malfoy’s coat.
The realization hit her with surprise. The coat was heavy and warm, its dark material contrasted against the deep red of her dress. She lifted the collar slightly, inhaling the faint scent that lingered on it—woodsy, clean, distinctly him. It was subtle but unmistakable, and it pulled her back into the night before: the low hum of the pub, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on their faces, the way they had spoken with an honesty she hadn’t expected. Her heart fluttered as she remembered the moments they had shared—his quiet revelations and unexpected humor.
It felt unreal. Malfoy—Draco—sitting across from her, with measured and thoughtful words and a graze that was steady and almost kind. The same boy who had once sneered at her in hallways and hurled insults as naturally as breathing. They had spent years in opposition, and yet, there they were, two adults who had stumbled into each other’s lives again after five years of silence.
Shaking off the thoughts, Hermione reached for her favorite mug—a light pink porcelain cup with delicate stars etched into its surface, its glaze cool and smooth under her fingertips. She poured herself a cup of strong, black coffee, watching as the dark liquid swirled into the cup, the rich aroma spreading through the kitchen like a balm.
She straightened and the coat slipped slightly from her shoulders, and she adjusted it absentmindedly. The scent still clung to her, grounding her in the present moment. She thought of his parting words, his quiet nod, the way he had draped the coat over her as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Shaking off the reverie, she pushed herself away from the counter. There were things to do, and she couldn’t afford to lose herself in thoughts of Draco Malfoy, of all people. But even as she moved about her flat, she couldn’t quite shake the warmth that lingered—not just from the coat, but from the memory of the man who had given it to her.
The warmth of the coffee lingered on her hands as Hermione set the mug down on the counter. She exhaled deeply and moved toward her room with a clear intent on stepping into the shower and washing away the last remnants of sleep—and the strange, electric thoughts of the previous night. But as she reached for the faucet, a dull thud against her living room window made her pause.
Curious, she retraced her steps and opened the window. A sleek black owl was perched on the sill, its feathers glinting faintly in the light. Around one leg was a delicate silver chain with a pendant engraved with the letter "M." The owl’s piercing yellow eyes remained fixed on her, unblinking and eagle-like, as it extended a letter clutched in its right leg.
Hermione hesitated for a moment before taking the envelope. It was blank, with no name or markings to indicate its sender. As she examined it, the owl remained unnervingly still, its eyes watching her as if it were waiting for something. Owls typically departed once their deliveries were made, but this one seemed intent on lingering.
She broke the seal, unfolding the parchment within and began to read:
Outskirts Brew. 8 PM.You’ll be met. Dress with care.Bring your storm, and I’ll bring my resolve.
It was signed with a simple "D."
Her heart stuttered, and she lifted an eyebrow, her gaze moving between the signature and the pendant on the owl’s chain. On the back of the small silver medallion was the unmistakable etching of a serpent.
“Malfoy” she exclaimed in surprise. Her cheeks flushed as memories of the previous evening rushed back.
Flashback
“Coffee,” she had said abruptly, her words tumbling out before she could stop them.
He had raised an eyebrow, his expression one of mild amusement. “Excuse me?”
“Tomorrow,” she clarified, her cheeks burning. “If you’re free. I... I’d like to talk more.”
Draco had studied her for a long moment, his face unreadable, though his silver-gray eyes softened just enough to make her heart skip. Slowly, he nodded. “I’d like that too.”
End of Flashback
She remembered blurting it out, feeling drunk on courage but strangely liberated. She definitely hadn’t thought it through before saying it. They hadn’t agreed on a time or place, so she had convinced herself it wouldn’t actually happen.
But now... the note.
It felt real.
She glanced back at the owl, its piercing gaze fixed on her with an almost unnerving patience. The note felt heavier in her hand now, the weight of his proposition pressing against her thoughts. Should she even consider it? After all, it was Malfoy. They weren’t friends. They had never been friends. And last night? That was the first real conversation they’d had in—well, forever.
She frowned, her fingers twitching as if to dismiss the owl and the idea altogether. It was easier to let it go, wasn’t it? Easier to avoid opening a door she’d never thought to approach, let alone knock on.
But just as she moved to shoo the owl away, her mind pulled her back to the night before.
Flashback
“People like me don’t get to just start over, Granger. No one wants to forgive, no one wants to forget. Even now...” He trailed off, his eyes flickering across the room, where a few wizards were still casting sideways glances at him, their disdain as palpable as the stale air in the pub.
He gestured toward them with a faint smirk. “See? Even now, they still can’t let it go. And I don’t think they ever will.”
End Flashback
Hermione blinked, the memory as vivid as if it had happened moments ago. She looked down at the note in her hand again. What was she doing? This wasn’t just some trivial decision. But as much as she tried to ignore it, the memory of his raw honesty clung to her, his words and the quiet vulnerability in his eyes whispering louder than the doubts in her mind.
She exhaled, the tension easing just slightly. Maybe—just maybe—she owed it to herself, and perhaps even to him, to see where this led.
“You won’t leave until I send my reply, will you?” she asked, meeting the bird’s piercing gaze.
The owl gave the faintest nod of acknowledgement, its sharp, eagle-like eyes never leaving hers.
“Fine,” she muttered.
With a resigned sigh, she crossed to the desk, tore a small piece of parchment from her notepad, and grabbed a quill. Her hand hovered over the blank space for a moment, her mind whirling, before she began to write:
Wear your best shoes and the finest suit, but not in black, green or gray—choose the colors within you, the ones you rarely show.And I, too, will wear the opposite of myself, to reflect the duality within me.See you at 8.
H.
She read it over, the words feeling both poetic and deeply vulnerable. Folding the note carefully, she reached for a thin red ribbon from her desk drawer. With precise fingers, she scrolled the note tightly and tied it with the ribbon, creating a small but elegant bundle.
The owl tilted its head, watching her as she approached. Its sharp eyes followed her every move as she knelt in front of it. Gently, she secured the note to its right talon, ensuring the ribbon was snug but not too tight.
“Make sure he gets this.” she said in a barely audible voice.
The owl ruffled its feathers slightly, as if to say it would fulfill its duty, and then stood perfectly still, waiting. Hermione hesitated, unsure why she felt the need to linger.
Finally, she turned away, her steps quick as she headed to the bathroom. The sound of the faucet turning on filled the flat, but her thoughts remained on the note, the owl, and the man it was meant for. Even as the hot water washed over her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this exchange was the start of something she couldn’t quite define.
It was unexpected, yes. But perhaps the most beautiful things in life always were.
A few hours later, Hermione was walking briskly toward the Ministry Library, her arms full of books and an overstuffed bag slung over her shoulder. Her attire reflected her practicality: muggle jeans tucked into worn, brown, knee-high boots, a beige coat that matched her snug bonnet and gloves. Her hair, tied in a haphazardly high ponytail, had loose curls escaping and framing her face, which was tinged pink from the cold. Snowflakes clung to her coat as the heavy snowfall blanketed the streets, her breath visible in the frosty air.
Pushing through the library doors, she exhaled in relief at the warmth that enveloped her.
"Afternoon, Mrs. Greenspindle," Hermione greeted warmly, shaking snow from her coat. "I’m back."
Mrs. Greenspindle, an elderly witch with silver-streaked hair tied into a low bun, looked up from behind the counter, adjusting her crescent-moon glasses. She arched an eyebrow.
"Miss Granger, I thought today was your day off," she said, her tone carrying a mix of surprise and amusement.
"It is," Hermione admitted with a sheepish smile, shifting the bag on her shoulder. "But I needed to return some books—and I need to borrow a few others."
Mrs. Greenspindle let out a hearty laugh, shaking her head. "You’re going to work yourself into an early grave, you know that? Running to and from the library on your day off!"
"Stop it," Hermione said with a lighthearted chuckle, placing the returned books on the counter. "I’m fine. I just like staying productive."
The librarian smirked knowingly. "Productive, she says. You, Miss Granger, are a force of nature."
The brunette laughed again, brushing away the comment as she turned her attention to the shelves. "And I’m bloody proud of that."
As she moved deeper into the library, the sound of her boots clicking against the polished floor echoed softly, accompanied by the familiar rustle of pages and the faint scent of parchment. For a moment, Hermione felt completely at ease, surrounded by the sanctuary of books and the quiet bustle of the magical library.
She needed very specific books to complete her report, a task that felt as pressing as the snowflakes accumulating outside. The report was crucial—its success would play a key role in ensuring that the upcoming negotiations with the French Ministry went smoothly. With representatives arriving next week, every detail had to be flawless. The Gryffindor refused to leave anything to chance, knowing the stakes were far too high for anything less than perfection.
As she walked deeper into the rows of towering shelves, her mind churned with everything she had to do. She silently mapped out her strategy for presenting the information as her hands brushed over the spines of books until she found the ones she needed.
The weight of her responsibilities pressed heavily on her, but what truly tipped the scales was her recently appointed boss, Roderick. He was insufferable—constantly nitpicking her work, second-guessing her decisions, and micromanaging every detail of her already meticulous reports. His lack of trust felt like a constant slap in the face, and it only added to the ever-growing stress gnawing at her.
Hermione exhaled sharply as she pulled a particularly hefty tome from the shelf, gripping it tightly as if the act could somehow steady her nerves. Her mind raced with thoughts of how to deal with Roderick’s incessant questioning. No matter how flawless her work was, he always managed to find something to criticize, as if his entire purpose was to make her life more difficult.
She glanced down at her ink-stained hands as a faint scowl tugged at her lips. She’d poured herself into this project, sacrificing sleep and time off, and still, it never felt like enough under his scrutiny. As she added another book to her growing pile, she muttered under her breath, “Honestly, the man wouldn’t recognize thorough research if it hit him in the face.”
“Want me to throw a book at him and find out?” a familiar voice chimed in from behind her.
Startled, Hermione turned around and was greeted by a familiar freckled smile. It was Ron.
“Hey, Ronald,” she said as she smiled. “Working on a Saturday and poking around the library? Didn’t think that was your scene.”
“Come on, Hermione. it’s Ron, not Ronald,” he said with a dramatic groan. “Hearing you call me that feels like Mum’s about to give me a lecture about eating all the biscuits again.”
Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. “Who says I’m not about to give you a lecture?”
“Are you, though?” he asked in a playful tone as he leaned slightly closer, taking on a flirty edge. “Because if you are, I might just enjoy it, pay attention… depending on the topic or how close you are.”
Hermione’s expression immediately frosted over. “Don’t,” she said flatly.
The smirk faded from Ron’s face as she straightened and added, “You know I don’t like it when you act like that.” Without giving him a chance to reply, she turned her attention back to the books, dismissing the conversation entirely.
“I just had to come because I forgot something in my office,” Ron said, breaking the silence. “Thought I’d say hi to Mrs. Greenspindle before heading out. Glad I did.”
Hermione nodded, her lips forming a tight smile. “Well, I must head back home,” she said, stepping toward the library’s entrance. “See you on Monday, Ronald.”
“Wait,” Ron called after her, taking a step forward. “Have you eaten? I was thinking we could grab lunch. There’s this new place—”
“I ate 30 minutes ago,” Hermione interrupted smoothly, not missing a beat. “Sorry, I’ll have to pass on that one. But make sure to eat something warm. It’s freezing out.”
Ron frowned but quickly recovered. “Alright, then. How about dinner? We’re all meeting up. Ginny and her... husband,” he added, the word laced with obvious disdain.
Hermione’s brows knit together in frustration. “Ron, really?” she said sharply. “It’s about time you grow up and show Theo some respect. He loves your sister, and he makes her happy. Isn’t that what matters?”
Ron crossed his arms. “I’ll never like him. Or his kind,” he said bitterly. “Death Eaters don’t change, Hermione. You of all people should know that.”
Hermione’s eyes flashed with anger. “He’s not a Death Eater anymore and you’re being unfair, Ron, and you know it. You’re hurting Ginny by acting this way, whether you realize it or not. One day, you’re going to regret this.”
Ron’s scowl deepened, but Hermione didn’t give him a chance to argue further. “And I can’t make it to dinner anyway,” she said in a firm tone.
Ron looked surprised. “What? Why not? What are you up to?”
There was a brief hesitation, a flicker of something unspoken in her expression, before she finally replied, “It’s personal.”
Ron opened his mouth to press further but didn’t argue further.
She glanced at him briefly and caught the flicker of disappointment that crossed his face. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly, and his hopeful expression dimmed.
“Next week then,” he said, fixing his blue eyes on her.
“Maybe,” she replied in a polite but firm tone, as discomfort crept into her demeanor.
“I can work with maybe,” Ron said, his eyes brightening slightly.
“See you on Monday, Ronald,” Hermione said curtly, adjusting the strap of her bag. She turned to Mrs. Greenspindle with a nod. “See you on Monday too, Mrs. Greenspindle.”
Without waiting for a response, Hermione exited the library, the snow crunching under her boots as she stepped back into the cold. The chill on her face was a welcome distraction from the lingering awkwardness of the encounter.
As Hermione stepped away, Mrs. Greenspindle, who had been quietly observing the exchange from behind the counter, raised an eyebrow at Ron. “You don’t give up, do you?” she remarked, her tone was dry but not unkind.
Ron shrugged with his lopsided grin firmly in place. “I know that ‘maybe’ will turn into a ‘yes’ soon enough,” he said confidently, folding his arms.
Mrs. Greenspindle gave a soft, skeptical hum, but Ron didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t care.
Outside, the snow crunched under Hermione’s boots as she stepped into the biting cold. The chill on her face was a welcome distraction from the lingering awkwardness of the encounter, her breath forming little clouds in the frosty air.
The kitchen was bathed in warm light, the scent of herbs and fresh vegetables filling the air. Ginny Weasley, now 26, stood by the hearth, her vibrant energy undimmed by the soft wear of adulthood. Her copper-red hair, cut short to jaw-length, framed her freckled face in gentle waves, with a few unruly strands escaping to brush against her cheeks. Her bright brown eyes, still as fiery and determined as ever, glinted in the glow of the firelight, though they carried a touch of warmth that softened her intensity.
Her left hand, which hovered over the edge of the cauldron to feel for warmth, caught the light of the fire, glinting against the simple yet elegant wedding ring on her finger. The band was thin, made of gold, with a subtle engraving along the edges that resembled intertwining vines—delicate and natural, perfectly reflecting her earthy spirit.
“Honey!” Ginny called, glancing toward the open window. Her voice carried over the sound of birds chirping outside. “Five more minutes, and it’ll be ready!”
“Coming!” Theo’s voice responded from the garden, bright and eager.
Ginny smiled to herself and turned back to the cauldron, stirring the ingredients slowly. Despite her use of magic to handle the heavy lifting, much of the preparation had been manual—a skill Hermione had taught her, calling it a "grounding" way to cook. Washing, chopping, and peeling by hand felt like a meditative ritual now, though it had taken her some time to appreciate the process. It seemed almost prehistoric compared to the convenience of magical cooking, but the results? A taste unmatched.
She leaned in slightly, ensuring the water began to boil, her wand tucked behind her ear. Suddenly, she felt a firm, warm grip around her waist, and before she could react, strong arms pulled her back into an embrace.
"Theo!" she gasped as a trail of soft kisses warmed the base of her neck, sending a shiver through her. “You scared me! I’m cooking here.”
“When you said five minutes, I thought you meant to be ready for me,” Theo murmured, his tone playful and low as he shifted to kiss her jawline. His arms tightened around her, pulling her snugly against him.
She laughed, though her cheeks flushed with heat not from the fire. “Not now,” she said, her tone teasing but firm. “My parents are coming.”
Theo groaned softly, pausing his affection as though hit by a sudden downpour. He rested his chin on her shoulder, exhaling dramatically.
“Oh yeah,” he said, his voice dripping with mock annoyance. “I forgot.”
Ginny turned her head slightly to glance at him, catching the pout forming on his lips. She gave him a light tap on his arm. “Behave,” she said, smirking. “You know how Mum gets when the food’s not ready on time.”
He sighed, loosening his grip but not entirely letting go. “Fine, but I’m stealing you the moment they leave.”
“That sounds like a challenge,” he added, his lips curling into a mischievous grin.
Ginny’s eyes sparkled with playful defiance as she glanced over her shoulder. “You think you can handle me after a whole family dinner?” she teased, stirring the cauldron with an exaggerated motion. “Better start training now.”
Theo’s grin widened, and he pulled her closer, his lips brushing the back of her neck. “Oh, I can handle anything you throw at me,” he murmured in a low and warm voice. “Besides, I’ve had practice.”
Ginny laughed softly, the sound filled with affection and mischief. “You think so, do you?”
“Oh, I know so,” he replied, his hands tracing the curve of her waist under the guise of a casual touch. “But I’ll take my time with you, Gin. All the time in the world, if that’s what it takes.”
She paused, leaning back slightly into him. “You’re really laying it on thick today, aren’t you?”
“Only because I know you’re enjoying it,” he said, his lips grazing her ear as he spoke. “Can’t resist me.”
Ginny shook her head, trying to hide her smile. “You’re insufferable.”
Theo chuckled, the sound vibrating through her as he squeezed her waist playfully. “You love it.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve got a spell on me,” she quipped, eyes glinting with teasing mischief.
“Oh, I do,” Theo said, his tone turning serious for a moment as he met her gaze. “A spell I never plan to break.”
Ginny felt her heart flutter slightly, despite herself. She turned in his arms, narrowing her eyes as she leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his cheek. “Keep talking like that, and I might just believe you.”
Theo smirked, pulling her in tighter. “I’m counting on it.”
Ginny smiled softly, but then glanced toward the clock on the wall. “You should go change. They’ll be here soon.”
Theo hesitated, his playful demeanor faltering for a brief moment. He bit his lip, looking a bit anxious. “Do you think one day they’ll like me?” he asked, voice softer now.
Ginny turned to face him and her expression softened as she placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “I’m certain they already do.” Her smile deepened. “Just ignore Ron. He’s difficult with anyone I’ve dated, but he probably dislikes you more because you’re my husband but If he wants to keep being my brother, he’ll learn to like you.”
Theo’s shoulders relaxed a little, and he gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks, Gin. I’ll try not to let him rattle me.”
Ginny nodded, squeezing his hand gently before stepping back. “I know you will. Now, go get ready. I’ll make sure dinner’s still on track.” She gave him a playful wink.
He chuckled and gave her a quick peck on the lips before heading toward the stairs to change.
It was past 6 when Hermione finally walked through the door of her apartment, and the sky outside had long since darkened, the cold evening air creeping into the hallway. As she stepped inside, the weight of the books she had been carrying shifted, and several of them tumbled to the floor with a loud thud.
"Damn it," she muttered, crouching to gather them. Her arms were full and she made her way to the sofa to set them down with a slight groan of frustration.
She paused for a moment, letting the warmth of her home settle over her before heading toward her bedroom.
Her room was a soft haven of lavender, the walls a pale light purple that gave the space an almost ethereal feel. The scent of fresh flowers lingered in the air, and delicate curtains swayed slightly with the breeze outside. A small vanity sat in one corner, cluttered with a few beauty products, while the bed was neatly made, the comforter adorned with soft lace details. The room was undeniably feminine, serene, and cozy, filled with personal touches that made it unmistakably hers.
Hermione moved towards her closet, running a hand over the various clothes hanging inside. She felt a flutter of nervousness in her chest. Was it a date? No, definitely not. She scolded herself for even entertaining the thought. It was more like a social reunion with an old acquaintance. That’s what it was, nothing more.
He’d mentioned dressing up. But what did that mean? The place he’d invited her to—was it elegant? Casual? Somewhere in between? She had no idea. Never heard about the bloody place before. She let out a long sigh, still unsure as she continued to sift through her clothes.
Then, her mind flickered back to what she had replied to him earlier. She immediately dismissed her usual attire—too laid-back, too predictable. She didn’t want to appear too casual. After a moment’s hesitation, she picked a black, long-sleeved, turtle-neck mini dress. It fit her like a glove, hugging her curves in all the right places. She paired it with sheer illusion fleece-lined tights and matching black black boots just below the knee.
With a quick flick of her wand, she styled her hair into a high ponytail, carefully curling a few loose strands to give it a soft, polished look. She added a ribbon, tying it into a neat bow, and finished with a touch of blush and gloss on her lips, giving herself a final look in the mirror.
Hermione carefully slipped on her light pink coat, the soft woolen fabric feeling warm and luxurious against her skin. It was her most elegant coat, the one she reserved for special occasions, and it hugged her frame just perfectly, finishing at her knees. She paired it with a set of delicate silver earrings—small, tear-shaped opals, their iridescence catching the light with every movement. They shimmered with a soft blue hue, the color reminding her of the calm ocean just after dawn.
Despite the care she’d taken in her appearance, Hermione found herself still debating whether to go at all. She had replied to the owl—was it out of politeness? Or had she simply succumbed to a moment of delusion, thinking that meeting him again would make everything feel more real?
Was what had happened yesterday even real? The thought swirled in her mind as she adjusted the collar of her coat. She was about to meet him again, and for some reason, she was nervously wondering if she looked good enough. She had never cared about that before. But now… now it felt different. She felt different.
With a soft sigh, she grabbed a small, elegant bag to complete her outfit. From the chair by her bed, she carefully picked up Malfoy’s coat. Folding it with precise movements, she made sure it would stay neat until she could return it to him. Before placing it into the bag, however, she paused for a moment. She couldn’t help herself. She lifted the coat to her face, inhaling the familiar scent that lingered on the fabric. It smelled of him—subtle but distinct. And for a moment, she found herself lingering in the memory of that moment, a bittersweet feeling settling in her chest.
Just as she placed the coat inside the bag, a sharp knock at the door startled her.
"Who's there?" she called out, her heart skipping a beat.
"Your driver, Miss Granger," came a raspy voice from the other side. "I was sent to pick you up and drive you to Outskirts Brew at the request of my master."
Hermione quickly turned toward the door and opened it to find a tall, older wizard standing in the hallway. He was dressed in a traditional chauffeur's attire, complete with a black waistcoat and a silver chain dangling from his pocket watch.
"I..." she began, glancing at the clock. She was running a bit late.
"Please, go ahead," he urged, his voice gentle yet firm. "The carriage is waiting."
With a quick nod, Hermione stepped out of her flat, feeling a sudden rush of anticipation. The chauffeur led her down the hallway toward the front door, and there, just beyond the entrance, stood a magnificent carriage. It was unlike any she had ever seen. The carriage itself was crafted from gleaming, polished wood, its frame adorned with intricate silver filigree that shimmered in the dim light. The windows were etched with delicate floral patterns, and the roof seemed to glimmer with a soft, almost ethereal glow.
But what truly caught her attention was the creature pulling the carriage. It was a magnificent magical animal—unlike anything she had ever encountered. Its body resembled that of a large, sleek panther, but with wings—long, feathered wings that sparkled like the night sky. The wings were black, edged with silvery-blue streaks that caught the light as the creature shifted on its feet. Its eyes glowed with a soft, golden hue, and as it spread its wings to lift the carriage, it let out a low, melodic hum.
Hermione frowned, her mind racing as she tried to recall what kind of magical creature it was. The description tugged at the edges of her memory, but frustratingly, she couldn’t place it. She had read about countless magical beasts, yet this one eluded her. The hum resonated in her chest, pulling her thoughts further away from logic and deeper into awe.
The entire scene was stunning—otherworldly and beautiful. Hermione found herself briefly caught in awe before she was gently ushered into the carriage by the chauffeur.
As she climbed inside, she was surprised by how elegant the interior was. Soft velvet cushions lined the seats, and the air was infused with a gentle lavender scent, soothing and calming. The golden chandeliers above glimmered with soft, flickering light, and the carriage seemed to hum with a soft magic that made the entire experience feel dreamlike. The space was more than a mere mode of transport—it was a small, enchanted haven, made just for the occasion.
The chauffeur closed the door softly behind her, and the magical creature let out a soft growl, its wings lifting as it began to soar into the sky. The carriage swayed gently with the rise, and Hermione settled back into the plush seat, feeling a strange sense of anticipation—what would the evening hold?
Hermione watched in awe as the world below her became a blur, the city lights fading into the distance. The stars above twinkled brightly, their shimmer reflecting in the creature's wings as they glided through the cool, crisp air. The full moon illuminated their path, casting a soft silver glow that bathed the sky and the ground below, turning the world into a dreamscape.
The Gryffindor felt the rush of excitement building in her chest, but there was also a flutter of nervousness. What the hell was she doing? Why did this feel so different? She glanced out the window, watching the sprawling landscape below, all while trying to ignore the tightness in her stomach and the anticipation coursing through her veins. She was nervous, but also undeniably excited, unaware of what could happen next.
After a while of flying high above the city, the hustle and bustle of the urban life faded away completely. The streets and signs of civilization were left behind, and soon, Hermione found herself gazing down at a darkened expanse where no more businesses or lights could be seen. The only thing that broke the darkness was a small, glowing patch far below. It was illuminated by soft golden lights, nestled against the backdrop of a mountain covered in a blanket of pure white snow.
The creature descended toward the ground, wings beating softly as it brought the carriage down in a graceful arc. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as they landed smoothly just in front of a small, elegant building, nestled within the snow-covered landscape. The place looked almost otherworldly, like something straight out of a fairy tale. The soft glow from within seemed to call to her, offering warmth and shelter from the cold.
The chauffeur opened the door and stepped aside, allowing Hermione to exit the carriage. As she climbed out, her boots sank slightly into the soft snow, and she adjusted herself, feeling the cold air nip at her face and hands. The snow crunched beneath her feet as she stood still for a moment, taking in the beauty of the snow-covered landscape. But before she could do more than admire it, she heard a voice that made her pulse quicken.
"You came," said Malfoy, his voice smooth and low, the words dripping with an almost amused surprise. "I thought you were joking."
Hermione turned to face him, her breath catching as she finally laid eyes on him. He stood tall, a presence that was impossible to ignore. His outfit was unlike anything she’d ever seen him wear before—there was no black, no grey, and definitely no green. Instead, he wore a deep burgundy coat, the color of rich wine, which contrasted against the crisp winter air. The coat was long and perfectly tailored, the fabric soft and thick, protecting him from the cold. Beneath it, a dark cream-colored sweater peeked out, its warmth apparent. He looked stunning—elegant, effortlessly handsome. His silver blond hair, usually perfectly styled or left to fall carelessly, was tied back in a low ponytail, the sleek strands catching the moonlight as they framed his sharp features. The understated elegance of the look only added to the overall refinement of his presence, giving him an air of effortless sophistication that was impossible to ignore.
As he shifted slightly, the moonlight caught on his neck, and she noticed a faint glimpse of his tattoos curling just above the collar of his sweater. Black ink against pale skin, the lines were intricate, deliberate, and hinted at stories untold.
Hermione held his gaze, trying to steady her breath, and couldn’t help but feel the tension between them. He had always been attractive, she realized that now, but now, in the stillness of the snowy night, he seemed to carry a magnetism she couldn’t ignore.
"Didn't seem that way," she said, her voice steady but with a hint of teasing. "Sent a chauffeur for me and everything."
Malfoy smirked, taking a small step closer. "Just in case," he said as he laid his eyes on her.
Hermione raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "What would've happened if I didn't answer the door?"
"But you did," he replied in an even tone, but his eyes were intense, scanning her features as if searching for something deeper.
She stared at him for a moment as her breath formed visible clouds in the air as she responded. "But what if I didn’t?"
Malfoy’s smirk deepened, and his gaze darkened with something like amusement—and maybe a little something more. "Then it would’ve been a boring and lonely night," he said decisively.
Hermione’s cheeks flushed, and she quickly averted her eyes, feeling the heat of his gaze lingering on her.
"Let's go in, okay?" she said slightly breathless with her arms instinctively wrapping tighter around herself to fend off the cold. "I’m freezing out here."
Malfoy’s smile widened, his eyes never leaving hers. "Thought you'd never ask," he replied.
With that, he led the way toward the entrance, and Hermione followed closely behind. As they entered the Outskirts Brew, the warm glow of the interior enveloped them.
The moment the brunette stepped inside, she was greeted by an atmosphere that felt almost ethereal, like stepping into another world entirely. The Outskirts Brew was far more than just a restaurant—it was an experience, a beautifully crafted space where magic and elegance intertwined seamlessly. The air inside was warm, carrying with it the soft scent of delicate flowers and an underlying hint of something sweet, like the promise of a dessert yet to come.
The floor was made of polished stone tiles, each piece smooth and cool beneath her boots, reflecting the soft light of the lanterns that floated just above, glowing with an iridescent sheen. The walls were draped with sheer, sparkling curtains that shimmered with a faint, otherworldly glow, their movement gentle, as if caressed by an invisible breeze. Twisted vines, made of what appeared to be living crystal, snaked up the walls and across the ceiling, their edges sparkling as if dusted with stardust, giving the whole place a fairy-tale ambiance.
The long dining tables were crafted from polished wood, their surfaces rich and dark, adorned with intricate carvings of mythical creatures and flowers that seemed to come to life in the flickering candlelight. Each table was set with fine porcelain, gold-trimmed plates, and delicate glassware, but there were no customers in sight. The restaurant was perfectly still, a quiet elegance filling the air, as if the place was waiting for something special—perhaps, for her arrival.
Near the far end of the room, a large fireplace crackled softly, casting a warm golden glow across the room. The hearth was flanked by two tall, slender statues that looked like guardians, their stone faces serene yet watchful. The firelight flickered off the glass baubles suspended above, catching the light and reflecting it in a thousand delicate rainbows.
In the center of the room stood a grand staircase, spiraling upward toward a second floor, where faint voices and the soft clink of glass could be heard, though no one could be seen. The walls surrounding the staircase were adorned with vines that seemed to move in the light, and magical chandeliers hung delicately overhead, their lights casting an enchanting, warm glow on the entire room.
As Hermione marveled at the breathtaking beauty of the place, a soft, yet confident voice broke the silence.
"Welcome to the Outskirts Brew. Always a pleasure to greet you, Mr. Malfoy."
She turned to see a tall, dark-haired host standing near the entrance, dressed in elegant, flowing robes that were deep indigo, embroidered with silver threads that shimmered like moonlight. His face was sharp and handsome with welcoming eyes, and he carried himself with an effortless grace, as though he were born to command attention.
Malfoy smiled slightly at the host's greeting, nodding his head in acknowledgment, though his attention never wavered from Hermione. The host's eyes flickered briefly to her, but he remained composed, maintaining the dignified, serene air that seemed to be the essence of the Outskirts Brew itself.
Hermione, still taking in the beauty of the restaurant, couldn't help but feel a little overwhelmed. The place was exquisite, and the fact that there were no other diners only made the experience feel even more intimate, almost surreal. She glanced at Malfoy, who seemed perfectly at ease, and for the first time that evening, she wondered exactly what she had gotten herself into.
The host, Marco, stood tall and elegant as he led them through the restaurant, his dark robes flowing as he moved. The soft glow of hanging chandeliers bathed the room in a warm, ethereal light, casting long shadows against the walls adorned with intricate paintings of far-off places. The air smelled faintly of fresh flowers and wood polish, mixing with the aroma of the hearty meals from the kitchen.
He guided them to the table at the center of the restaurant, a large and opulent piece draped in white fabric that shimmered in the soft lighting. The table was set for two, with fine china, crystal glasses, and polished silverware gleaming under the light. The silver cutlery gleamed like stars, perfectly placed, waiting for the meal to begin. The seats were plush, with deep burgundy cushions that invited them to sit and relax, though there was a certain tension in the air.
As they settled into their seats, Malfoy across from Hermione, his eyes studied her silently. His gaze, piercing and intense, lingered longer than necessary, making Hermione feel a subtle heat rise in her cheeks. It was impossible not to notice the way his eyes skimmed over her, the sharp, appreciative look making her heart race a little faster.
“Your coats, please,” Marco said, interrupting the moment in a smooth and courteous tone.
Hermione nodded, swiftly removing her coat and handing it to the host. She felt the cold air of the winter night briefly rush against her skin, but the warmth of the restaurant soon enveloped her. As she adjusted herself in her seat, she caught the way Malfoy’s eyes scanned her again, this time slowly, as though measuring every detail. His eyes traveled from her face down to her boots, before slowly returning up to her face, making her flush under his gaze.
“As requested,” Marco said with a slight bow, “the restaurant is reserved in its entirety only for you two. No one will bother you.”
“Thank you, Marco,” Malfoy replied smoothly, his tone as composed as ever.
The host nodded once more and excused himself, leaving the two of them in the solitude of the empty restaurant.
Hermione finally broke the quiet, unable to suppress her surprise.
Her brows furrowed slightly as she processed his words. “You... reserved the whole restaurant?” she repeated with a note of disbelief in her voice.
Malfoy met her gaze with a cool, unwavering look. “Yes,” he said in a quiet and firm voice. “I don’t feel like dealing with anyone’s stares or their unwanted attention tonight. Just you and me.”
Hermione blinked, trying to make sense of it. The idea of Malfoy reserving an entire restaurant for the two of them felt... odd. He wasn’t the type to do things like this unless it served his own interests, and yet, there he was, sitting across from her with that same calm, collected expression.
“I didn’t expect this,” Hermione said in a soft voice, betraying the confusion swirling in her mind. “This isn’t what I thought our meeting would be.”
Malfoy’s lips quirked into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. “I don’t do things halfway, Granger,” he replied with a shrug. He leaned back in his chair, stretching out comfortably. “Not when it comes to avoiding... people.”
Before she could ask more questions, the host returned with a decanter of deep red wine, setting it down carefully along with two glasses. With a courteous bow, Marco placed them on the table and began to retreat.
“Your wine, Mr. Malfoy. Miss Granger,” he said smoothly before excusing himself.
Malfoy didn’t hesitate, immediately reaching for the decanter and pouring the wine into both glasses. His movements were precise, confident. He glanced at Hermione with a barely noticeable smirk. "To a quiet, distraction-free night," he said, his voice carrying a light edge of amusement.
Hermione, unsure of how to respond, took the glass from him and her fingers brushed against his for the briefest moment. She could feel a small shiver run down her spine at the touch, but quickly tried to push the sensation away, bringing the glass to her lips. The wine was rich, smooth, with layers of flavor that lingered long after she swallowed.
"It’s exquisite," she remarked, lifting her gaze to meet his.
Malfoy studied her for a moment.
“Just like the company,” he murmured as he took a sip from his own glass.
Hermione felt her pulse quicken slightly at his words, unsure of whether he meant to compliment her or simply tease her. Either way, she couldn’t ignore the tension that was slowly building between them.
"I thought we were meeting for coffee," she said, trying to deflect, seemingly nervous.
"They have the best coffee here," Malfoy replied, without missing a beat.
"But you just ordered wine," she countered, unable to resist. "Malfoy, this is a fancy restaurant."
"And it has the best view," he replied smoothly, not at all perturbed by her surprise.
Hermione exhaled softly, glancing around the empty room, her voice quieter now. "It’s just us."
Malfoy’s expression darkened slightly, a flicker of something deeper crossing his features. “Yes,” he said, his voice dropping a notch. “Pretty rare, don’t you think?”
She blinked, her mind racing to keep up. “You reserved the entire place for us tonight?” she asked again, unsure whether to be impressed or confused.
“I wanted to avoid distractions.” Malfoy leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. “I want to listen to you, Granger. Only you.”
The flush in Hermione’s cheeks deepened at his words. It felt oddly personal, but not in a way she could immediately comprehend. Was he doing this for her—or just because he didn’t want anyone else around? It was hard to tell, and even harder to decide what it meant.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them grew heavy, filled with unasked questions and unspoken truths, leaving them both caught in the moment.
After a while, Hermione looked up at him with a steady gaze. “I thought you wouldn’t do it,” she said in a soft voice and her eyes fixed on his.
“Do what?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in amusement.
“Wear anything other than green, grey, or black,” she replied, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
He smirked, the expression almost teasing. “Well, I’m supposed to do my best tonight and be good,” he said with a mockingly playful tone. “Though I’m not sure I can be good.”
The comment sent a strange flutter through her stomach, and she couldn’t help but blush again.
“Well, burgundy and dark cream colors suit you,” she said quickly, trying to deflect the tension that was beginning to build between them.
“And black fits you perfectly,” he replied smoothly, as his eyes scanned her slowly, taking in every detail of her appearance.
Her breath caught slightly, a wave of warmth spreading through her chest as she felt butterflies stir in her stomach at his words. It was the way he said it, as though the words held more weight than she could easily decipher, that made her heart race just a little faster.
"Shall we order? Excuse me!" Hermione called for the host nervously, her voice slightly shaky as she tried to regain her composure.
Malfoy’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile as he watched her. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving her as she fidgeted with the edge of her napkin, avoiding his stare.
Marco appeared almost immediately, a soft swish of his robes as he approached the table. "Yes, Miss Granger? Mr. Malfoy?" he asked politely, his hands folded neatly in front of him.
Malfoy, however, made no move to look at the menu. "The usual," he said simply.
Hermione looked at the menu briefly, still flustered, and then back at Marco. "The same as he," she said
Marco nodded and bowed respectfully. "Very well. I’ll have your orders ready shortly."
Hermione straightened in her seat, her fingers grazing the stem of her wineglass as she gathered her thoughts. She could feel the weight of Malfoy’s gaze, steady and unwavering, but there was a softness to it that unsettled her—not because it was unwelcome, but because it was unfamiliar.
“Why tonight?” she asked after a moment, tinged with genuine curiosity.
Malfoy tilted his head slightly, considering her question. His fingers traced the edge of his glass, the movement slow and deliberate.
“Why not?” he countered with a faint smirk. “We had a proper conversation yesterday, and you said you wanted to talk more. So here we are.”
Hermione blinked, caught off guard by his straightforwardness. She felt a faint blush creeping up her cheeks but quickly brushed it aside.
His smirk softened into something less guarded and his silver eyes catched the warm glow of the room’s light. For a moment, she found herself captivated by them, their color unlike anything she’d ever really noticed before. They weren’t just silver—they were flecked with hints of stormy grey, framed by lashes that softened their intensity.
Beautiful , she thought fleetingly, before shaking the idea away. But the realization lingered, as undeniable as the man himself.
“I’d like to think this counts.” He continued. “Though, I admit, I didn’t expect you to agree to meet me.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t expect you to ask.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the hum of their surroundings fading into the background. Finally, Hermione leaned forward slightly and her expression turned serious. “Malfoy… I need to ask. Azkaban…”
Malfoy’s demeanor shifted almost imperceptibly. The playful glint in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something heavier—something raw. His hand tightened briefly around his glass before he let out a slow breath. “What about it?”
His jaw tightened and his hand paused mid-movement around his glass. For a moment, he didn’t reply and he dropped his eyes to the table. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost hoarse. “It’s exactly what you’d imagine, Granger. Cold… bone-deep cold that doesn’t just seep into your skin but seems to crawl inside you, like it’s trying to hollow you out.” He hesitated, the flicker of something raw passing through his expression.
“Empty,” he continued in a quieter tone now. “So empty that you start forgetting what it feels like to be… anything. But it’s loud, too. Loud in the way silence can be. Just… unraveling.”
He finally met her gaze and his silver eyes shadowed, haunted. “It’s the kind of place that strips you bare, makes you face everything you’ve ever done—no lies, no excuses, no escape.”
Hermione’s throat tightened as she watched him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t be,” he said as his lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. “It was deserved.”
Hermione’s heart ached at his words, but she stayed quiet, giving him space to continue if he chose to.
He didn’t. Instead, he shrugged, a bitter smile ghosting his lips. “It’s not a place anyone comes out of whole. But you already know that, don’t you? You’ve read the reports. You testified.”
“As I said yesterday, I testified because I believed you deserved a second chance,” she said firmly.
He looked at her then, his expression unreadable, but his eyes spoke volumes—tired, remorseful, and tinged with gratitude he seemed hesitant to voice.
“I know,” he said finally. “And for what it’s worth… thank you. I don’t think I ever did say it. Not that I deserve it though.”
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but his gaze shifted, and she followed it to the faint black ink peeking from the collar of his sweater.
“I’ve been meaning to ask…” she began, hesitating as she studied him. “Your tattoos. I noticed you have several.”
Draco’s lips curled into a small, guarded smile, though she didn’t miss the flicker of discomfort in his eyes. “Perceptive as always, Granger.”
“What do they mean?”
He leaned back slightly, the shadows playing across his face as he considered her question. “They serve as a reminder,” he said in a quiet voice.
Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”
“A reminder of who I am,” he replied. He reached for his wineglass, taking a sip before adding quietly, “A reminder of what I’ve done.”
The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. Hermione wanted to press him for more, but the look in his eyes stopped her. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t tell her—it was that he couldn’t. Not yet.
She settled back in her chair, her gaze lingering on him. “And what are you now?” she asked softly.
His lips twitched into that faint, self-deprecating smile. “That,” he said, lifting his glass in a mock toast, “is a question I’m still trying to answer.”
The brunette watched him feeling her thoughts like a storm of questions she wasn’t sure she had the right to ask.
For a moment, silence settled between them. Then, unexpectedly, Draco leaned forward slightly and his sharp gaze locked onto hers. “Now tell me, Granger,” he said in a softer voice but no less intense, “who are you?”
Hermione blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?” she asked with caution.
He tilted his head, studying her as though she were a particularly intricate puzzle. “You’re not the same girl I used to know. Ten years ago, you were all rules and certainty. Now…” He gestured vaguely with his hand. “There’s something different. I see it in your eyes.”
She hesitated, feeling her pulse quickening. “People change,” she said, deflecting, though her voice wavered slightly.
“They do,” he agreed with an unreadable expression. “But the question is—what did you change into? Or maybe… who did you have to become?”
Her breath hitched at the bluntness of his words, she could feel the weight of his self-loathing tangible. “Malfoy…” she began, but he shook his head slightly and a humorless smile tugged at his lips.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” he pressed, his tone calm yet edged with vulnerability. “Back then, I wasn’t worth your time—or anyone’s, really. But here you are, sitting across from me, giving me… what? A second chance? Or is it just curiosity?”
Hermione straightened in her seat.
“I’m here because people deserve a chance to prove they’ve changed. You’ve changed. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that.”
Malfoy’s eyes softened. “You’ve always cared too much about people, haven’t you?” he murmured, though there was no malice in his tone.
“Maybe,” Hermione replied, her lips curving into a small, tentative smile. “But I think it’s working out so far.”
The bottle of wine between them seemed endless, their glasses never staying empty for long. With each sip, the liquid's warmth spread through Hermione’s veins, loosening the tension in her shoulders and softening the sharp edges of her thoughts. The effect was familiar—she’d felt it the night before as well—but tonight, it was different. It wasn’t the wine alone that made her feel at ease; it was the quiet presence of the man across from her.
Just as the conversation lulled into another comfortable silence, the host arrived, carrying two plates of food. The aroma of freshly cooked steak filled the air, accompanied by tender potatoes and a colorful medley of vegetables. It was simple yet exquisite, and the warm plates were a welcome distraction from the intensity of their conversation.
They spoke, yes, but not constantly. There were silences—more than the night before—but she didn’t mind. In fact, she found comfort in the lulls between their words. The pauses were not awkward but deliberate, like a shared understanding. As she looked across the table at Draco, she thought about a line she had once heard in a Muggle film, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind : “Constantly talking isn’t necessarily communicating.” It felt true, here, in this space between them, where words weren’t needed to fill every second. Just being present was enough.
And in that moment, the truth of it struck her. Silence sometimes spoke louder than words, carried more weight than a conversation. It wasn’t about filling the space; it was about sharing the space. That’s what they were doing now—sitting across from each other, wineglasses in hand, exchanging occasional words but mostly allowing the quiet to stretch between them, binding them in a way neither of them could explain.
The candlelight flickered, its glow reflecting in their glasses and casting soft shadows across the table. She watched as the blond poured another measure of wine, his movements unhurried, as though they had all the time in the world. He handed her the refilled glass without a word, their fingers brushing briefly and he looked at her in the eyes, making her blush.
Her thoughts felt lighter and her mind hazy but clear in the ways that mattered. The silence felt like a conversation in itself, as though they were saying, I’m here. You’re here. And for now, that’s enough. It wasn’t forced or filled with the need to impress. It was two people who had once been enemies, now sharing a bottle of wine and the quiet understanding that sometimes, being present was the best gift they could give each other.
When she glanced up, she found Draco looking at her—not with expectation or judgment, but with something softer, something unspoken. She gave him a small smile, and though he didn’t smile back, the slight relaxation of his features told her he had understood.
But as the evening wore on, she couldn’t help but notice something else. It was in the way Malfoy’s smile never quite reached his eyes, in the way his gaze lingered on the table when he thought she wasn’t looking. There was a weight to him, a heaviness he carried, and she could tell it stemmed from a profound loneliness, an alienation that was understandable after everything he’d been through.
He shared, cautiously but genuinely, about how he avoided people these days. “I prefer the quiet,” he admitted in a low voice. “The solitude of my home, or sometimes I go to this lake by the forest. You can hear the wind in the trees, the water lapping against the shore… It’s better company than most people.”
Hermione listened, her heart aching at his words. It didn’t seem like he had friends—not real ones, anyway. And she realized that he had no one he could truly confide in, no one to help shoulder the burden he carried. The sadness in him was palpable, a deep, unrelenting sorrow that hung over him like a shadow.
“You don’t talk to anyone?” she asked softly, hesitant to pry but unable to stop herself.
He shook his head, a faint, humorless smile crossing his lips. “Not really. It’s easier this way. People… they tend to expect things. Judge things. I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.”
Hermione met his gaze.
“You’re talking to me now.” She paused, letting her words settle in the air between them. “I’m here.”
He took another sip of wine, letting the glass settle in his hand as he glanced at her. “You know,” he began in a quieter voice now, “you’re the first person who’s asked me anything in years. Most people... they wouldn’t care. Or they’d just want to fill the silence with their own noise.”
His silver eyes met hers, and this time, his gaze held her in a way that made her breath catch. There was a flicker of something softer there, something that made her heart beat just a little faster. The intensity of his stare seemed to see through her, unraveling her in a way she hadn’t expected. She tried to look away, but it was impossible to pull her eyes from his. She felt as if she were caught in the weight of his silence, and yet, in that moment, it didn’t feel suffocating—just raw, like they were standing on the edge of something neither of them fully understood.
“But you...” he continued in a softer voice now, almost as if he were confiding in her. “You’re different.” He let out a breath, almost a quiet laugh, but it was tinged with something heavy. “Maybe it’s because you’re not expecting anything. Maybe it’s because you’ve seen enough to know what really matters, even if you don’t say it.”
There was a weight to his words, like he was saying more than he intended, but he didn’t press further. He simply let the moment hang there, the silence between them feeling a little less heavy than before.
He didn’t look away, his gaze intense, as if searching for answers in her eyes. Then, his voice lowered, taking on a more serious tone. “I noticed it even back at the trial, when you testified. Hell, maybe even before that. But I didn’t want to admit it. And to be honest, it scared me a bit—realizing I’d noticed those things about you back in Hogwarts.”
"I was worried about you, you know? When we were in sixth year." She said hesitantly, and her eyes dropped for a moment before lifting again to meet his. "I knew something was different about you. You looked troubled, and I tried telling Harry and Ron, but... they wouldn’t listen. And I didn’t dare to approach you… I regret it now. I could’ve done something."
Malfoy’s expression flickered and something unreadable passed through his silver eyes. He leaned back slightly, as if weighing her words. For a brief moment, silence hung between them, charged with unspoken memories.
Finally, he broke the tension with a laugh, though it was laced with a bitter edge. "I probably wouldn't have let you, either way."
Hermione felt a knot tighten in her stomach. His words stung more than she expected, but she couldn’t quite place why. There was something almost... resigned in his tone. She bit her lip, unsure of how to respond.
His smirk faltered slightly as he studied her in a quieter voice now.
"I wasn’t exactly... easy to approach back then, was I? I built walls. I pushed everyone away.”
"But... there's something I don't regret." She said with hesitation, taking a steadying breath and tracing her fingers on the rim of her wine glass.
Draco’s brow furrowed slightly, intrigued, as he leaned forward with his silver eyes fixed on her. "What?" he asked, as if he wasn’t entirely ready for her answer.
Hermione’s lips quirked, then a small, almost imperceptible smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. She met his gaze, unwavering. "Stumbling upon you at the pub yesterday."
The room seemed to grow quieter, the air between them thick with something unspoken. Malfoy took a moment with his expression unreadable, before he let out a soft chuckle. There was no malice in it, just a hint of something warmer than usual.
"Really?" he asked, raised an eyebrow, though there was no mockery in his tone. It was genuine, something different from the teasing she’d come to expect from him. "Well, I suppose I can’t say I regret it either."
He leaned back in his chair with a smile lingering on his lips, though it was softer than it had been before. His gaze softened just a fraction, but the tension remained between them felt thick and palpable.
Hermione’s lips quirked again, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she met his gaze, unwavering. She stood from her seat with steady movements yet slightly uncoordinated from the alcohol. Malfoy’s brows furrowed in surprise as she moved toward him, her steps purposeful, yet with a lightness to them that caught him off guard.
She could feel her heart beat a little faster as she stood there, so close to him. She didn’t have a plan for this, not really. But she was tired of the distance, of the old animosities, of the past that clung to them both like a shadow.
"Let’s start over," she said softly despite the thudding in her chest.
He watched her closely and a flicker of uncertainty crossed his expression as she stopped right in front of him, standing close enough that he could feel the subtle warmth radiating from her. The air between them felt charged, thick with something unsaid, something delicate.
"Granger. Hermione Granger," she said, holding out her hand to him, mirroring the way Draco had introduced himself to Harry all those years ago, but this time, it was her turn.
There was no mockery in her voice, no edge, just something genuine, like the weight of everything between them had led to this simple but significant moment. She didn’t wait for him to make the first move. This time, she was the one extending the olive branch.
Malfoy's eyes flickered between her hand and her face, surprise evident in his features. The memories of their past, of Hogwarts and everything that had come before, seemed to rise to the surface all at once. His chest tightened slightly, but this time, the tension felt different—more like a door opening, however cautiously.
After a beat, he reached out and his fingers brushed against hers. It was a simple gesture, but one that carried more weight than either of them had anticipated. As he gripped her hand firmly, his voice was quieter than usual, but there was a depth to it that made her heart skip.
“Malfoy,” he said softly as his eyes locked onto hers. “Draco Malfoy.”
The words were so familiar, so reminiscent of their past, but they also carried a new meaning now. Something unspoken passed between them in that moment, and despite everything, it felt like a beginning.
“Now come with me,” she said. “There’s something we need to do. Don’t let go of my hand.”
Draco’s brow furrowed in confusion, but without thinking, he followed her with his fingers still wrapped around hers. The gesture was instinctive, almost as if he were anchoring himself to her in a way he couldn't fully explain. They apparated, and when they landed, he found himself standing before an abandoned house, isolated and forgotten. It looked as though it had been untouched by time, with ivy creeping up its crumbling walls and windows that had long lost their glass.
Hermione smiled softly.
“This is one of my favorite spots to vent,” she said. “Come on.”
She tugged at his hand, pulling him forward without hesitation. Malfoy allowed himself to be led. He couldn’t quite figure it out, this pull he felt toward her, this quiet certainty that even though he didn't know what was coming, it was exactly where he needed to be. His grip tightened slightly, grounding him, but he followed her into the house.
Inside, the air was heavy with dust and the scent of long-abandoned memories. The brunette did a quick charm and he could now see faint beams of light filtered through the cracks in the walls, illuminating the space with a dim, melancholic glow. The place felt both eerie and familiar, as though it had witnessed countless stories—some forgotten, some never told. Hermione moved effortlessly through the space, unbothered by the disrepair, until she stopped in the center of the room.
With a flick of her wrist, a bat appeared in her hand, its worn handle smooth from years of use. She handed it to Malfoy and her eyes met with a quiet urgency.
“Here,” she said in a soft but firm voice. “Your turn.”
He blinked, taking the bat as if it weighed more than it should. His confusion was palpable. "What’s this about?" he asked in a low voice, but there was no edge to it, no sarcasm. It was genuine confusion.
Hermione’s gaze softened and her lips curved into a small, knowing smile.
“Let it all out. It’s your turn.”
He didn’t understand. But she was right, wasn’t she? There was something in him, something gnawing at him, that begged for release. He shook his head slightly, as if trying to shake off the thoughts that clouded his mind.
“Break the window,” she instructed in a steady voice.
“But—” he started, but she cut him off before he could finish.
“Just do it,” she said, her tone gentle but unyielding. “Trust me.”
For a moment, he stood frozen and the bat in his hands felt heavier by the second. He could feel the weight of the years pressing against his chest, the anger, the bitterness, the hurt, all coiling within him. The whole situation felt foreign. But something in Hermione’s presence—something in her quiet understanding—made him feel like he should do as she said.
He swung the bat and the crack of glass broke through the air. The sound rang in his ears in a violent release, and for the first time in years, he felt something shift within him. The tension, the tightness in his chest—gone, if only for a moment. His breath came out in a ragged exhale as he swung again, and again.
Each strike of the bat against the window was like a release of all the things he had kept buried for so long—things he hadn’t been able to say, things he hadn’t even allowed himself to acknowledge. Anger, regret, frustration—all of it, pouring out in one violent motion. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. His body moved instinctively and his muscles burned as he continued to swing, each impact a small act of liberation.
Hermione stood silently, watching him with an understanding gaze, a softness in her expression that conveyed more than words ever could. She wasn’t judging him, wasn’t expecting anything from him. She simply watched, knowing exactly what this moment was for him. For both of them, perhaps.
Malfoy’s breath became ragged, and his body trembled with the weight of the release, but he didn’t stop. Every swing of the bat felt like it was breaking something within him, something heavy he hadn’t known how to carry. The tension, the anger, the things he had never said, they all poured out with each strike. His muscles burned, sweat dripping down his face, but in the chaos of it, there was a clarity that made everything else fade away.
He didn’t notice the passage of time, too absorbed in the rhythm of destruction. The sound of shattering glass was like music to him now, echoing through the room, through his chest. His arms grew leaden, his breath shallow, but still he kept going, until the air around him seemed to hum with the aftermath of everything he had let go of.
He stopped, finally, panting, the bat still heavy in his hand. The wreckage around him felt symbolic, like a physical manifestation of all the weight he’d carried inside. Broken glass, splintered wood, the remnants of something that had needed to be undone.
And then, as his breath slowed, he turned to Hermione. She had watched him without judgment, without expectation. There was a quiet understanding in her gaze, something steady and constant. It wasn’t just the shattered house that connected them in that moment. It was the shared experience, the unspoken recognition that they both understood what it was like to carry burdens, to hold things inside, and to need a release.
For a moment, there was nothing more between them than the silence, thick with the weight of what had been let go. But in that silence, there was something beautiful. Something delicate. An unspoken bond, woven from the smallest of moments.
There is a word in Korean, In-yeon, that carries with it the weight of countless lifetimes. It speaks of connection—not the grand, sweeping gestures of destiny, but the quiet, intricate threads that bind us to one another in ways we might never fully understand.
In-yeon is not about love alone. It is about every shared moment, every glance, every word that passes between two people. Each interaction, no matter how small, is a thread. And with enough threads, woven over time, a bond begins to form—a tapestry of connection that may stretch across years, or even lifetimes.
Some threads are fleeting, delicate strands that brush against us and drift away. Others are strong, enduring, and impossible to ignore. They pull us together in ways that feel inevitable, as though the universe itself has conspired to make us collide, over and over again.
The beauty of In-yeon lies in its mystery. It doesn’t demand understanding, nor does it promise permanence. It exists simply as a reminder that we are never truly alone in this vast and chaotic world. Even the briefest of encounters leaves an imprint, a mark on the soul, as if to say, You were here. We were here. And it mattered.
Draco and Hermione would not have known the word In-yeon. But somewhere, in the quiet spaces between their thoughts, in the stillness that followed the wreckage of shattered glass, they might have felt its truth. In the unspoken understanding between them, in the shared silence, there was something that transcended mere coincidence. Something that spoke of a connection not defined by the past, but by the present—the threads that had woven their paths together, thread by thread.
The idea that every moment, every glance, every shared breath, carries with it the weight of possibility—whether we recognize it or not. Perhaps it was not love they shared yet, but in that moment, amidst the quiet aftermath, there was the unmistakable sense of a connection that had always been there, subtle but undeniable. A bond formed not through grand gestures, but through the smallest of actions—the weight of their presence, the shared quiet, the shared understanding.
The universe had conspired in its own way, bringing them to this point. And though they might not fully understand it yet, they both felt the pull of it—of the threads that had tied their fates together, gently, over time.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It is long, I know, but I hope I made your time worthwile.
This is a slow burn but don't worry, it will turn into something deeper with each chapter.
Any comments are more than welcome ♥
In-yeon concept idea from Past Lives (2023), A24, directed by Celine Song.
I highly recommend it. Beautiful, sad, filled with love movie.
Ten years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger is a shadow of her former self. With Harry gone and her failed relationship with Ron behind her, she throws herself into her work at the Ministry of Magic, avoiding the lingering emptiness that threatens to consume her. One cold winter night, seeking a reprieve from her relentless routine, she stumbles into a quiet pub—and into the unexpected presence of Draco Malfoy. It's been over five years since their paths last crossed, and the man she meets now is nothing like the boy she once knew. As their lives intertwine in ways neither anticipated, old wounds, unspoken truths, and unexpected feelings begin to surface. In the wake of war and loss, can two former enemies find solace—and maybe even love—in each other?
In response to a prompt by iwasbotwp in the SlytherinHouseStories collection.
(Archive of Our Own/AO3)
Prompt:
A hug from a tall man who smells good and has tattoos would make me feel better right now.
This story is born thanks to the best group of Slytherin housemates I've ever met.
We share something in common: the beauty of writing.
Everyday, we share about our lives and then encourage each other to write.
Having difficulty finding things in my life that make me smile, this is truly a blessing.
I feel fortunate.
And today 1/10/2025 they encouraged us to write a short story.
The pairing could be random but I knew it had to be Dramione.
Inspired on "Something in the rain (2018)" both soundtrack and TV series, "The Beauty inside (2015)", "Pride and Prejudice (2005)", "The Notebook (2004)", the beautiful music of Carla Bruni and a generous dose of corny love stories—because, well, I’m hopelessly corny.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, inspired by the Harry Potter universe and the characters I love so much. I am not trying, under any circumstances, to take authorship of J.K. Rowling's original work. All rights belong to the creator of this incredible saga.
“Happiness only real when shared.”
― Christopher McCandless
Ten years had passed since the war that shattered and remade the wizarding world. The scars of those turbulent times lingered, etched into both the magical and the mundane. For many, life was measured in "before" and "after" the Battle of Hogwarts. It was a new era, shaped by sacrifice and loss but also by resilience.
Voldemort had fallen, but not without taking Harry Potter with him. Their final duel was as devastating as it was decisive, and Harry’s death had left an unfillable void. The Boy Who Lived became the Man Who Sacrificed Everything, immortalized in statues, stories, and an annual day of remembrance. The world mourned him as a symbol of bravery, peace, and the ultimate cost of freedom.
Hermione Granger, now 27, had rebuilt her life through sheer determination. As the head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, she was a force to be reckoned with—brilliant, relentless, and utterly devoted to her work. But behind the polished exterior lay a woman carrying the weight of what she had lost. Her bushy hair, now tamed into long, cascading curls, framed a face that bore the quiet strength of someone who had endured more than most could imagine. Hermione was beautiful in a way that came not from vanity but from the confidence and purpose that defined her. Yet, she was a workaholic, finding solace in diplomacy and treaties instead of in personal connections.
The loss of Harry had carved a deep wound into Hermione’s heart, one that time could not fully mend. He had been her constant—a brother in all but blood. Harry’s bravery and kindness had been the anchor that kept her steady during the darkest days of the war. Without him, the world seemed quieter, emptier. She missed the way he always knew what to say to make her feel understood. His absence lingered in every corner of her life, like a quiet ache she carried like a shadow.
In the immediate aftermath of Harry’s death, the brunette had thrown herself into her work. Grief had a way of making the familiar unbearable, and the places they used to frequent felt haunted by his memory. She rarely allowed herself to cry, fearing that if she started, she might never stop. Instead, she channeled her emotions into action, pouring her energy into rebuilding the wizarding world he had sacrificed everything to save. Harry had always believed in her, and she worked tirelessly to honor that belief, even when it left her drained and isolated.
Her love life was a testament to her struggles. In the aftermath of the war, she had tried to build something with Ron. What began as a refuge of shared grief and familiarity soon turned toxic and possessive on Ron’s end. Their fights were loud and frequent and it just became too much. After almost a year, Hermione made the painful decision to end it. Though they remained on amicable terms, Ron struggled with the shift from lovers to friends. He made genuine efforts to reconnect with Hermione, but his lingering feelings often bled through. He was flirty, occasionally asked her out under the guise of "just catching up," and seemed to hope that time would rekindle something between them. Hermione, however, kept firm boundaries, navigating their friendship with patience and clarity despite his persistence.
Even now, ten years later, Hermione found herself reflecting on Harry’s absence. There were moments—quiet evenings at home or during celebrations of his legacy—when she could almost hear his voice, offering words of encouragement or gently teasing her for overworking. The weight of his loss was a reminder that even peace came with a price, and she carried that burden as she tried to build a future worthy of his sacrifice.
Ginny Weasley’s grief had been a wound she could never ignore. Hermione remembered the days after the war when the redhead had retreated from the world, shrouded in the unbearable pain of losing Harry. Their relationship had been full of love and promise—a rare source of hope in the dark times they all endured. But Harry’s death had shattered that future, leaving her adrift.
Hermione had been there for her friend, though she often felt helpless in the face of Ginny’s sorrow. She knew what it meant to grieve for Harry; she carried her own loss like a quiet ache. But Ginny’s pain was different—sharper, more immediate. Hermione had done her best, providing a steady presence as her friend navigated the impossible path of healing.
When Theodore Nott entered her friend’s life, Hermione had been skeptical. The quiet Slytherin with a murky past seemed an unlikely match for the redhead’s fiery spirit. But over time, Hermione watched the way Theo treated her friend—with patience, understanding, and an unwavering respect that allowed her to find herself again. He didn’t see Ginny as a woman defined by her grief. He saw her, truly and completely, and that made all the difference.
Now, years later, Ginny and Theo’s love was one of the brightest parts of Hermione’s life. The redhead had transformed into someone stronger, freer, and full of life again, and Hermione couldn’t help but feel grateful for Theo’s role in that. Her best friend’s happiness was infectious, and the time they spent together had become a cherished escape from the rigors of her own life.
Hermione and Ginny met at least twice a week, whether for dinner, coffee, or long chats that often stretched late into the night. These moments were Hermione’s lifeline, pulling her out of the constant demands of her job and reminding her of what truly mattered. Ginny’s laughter had a way of filling whatever space they were in, and her mischievous wit could draw even the most reluctant smile from her.
Yet, there was a bittersweet undercurrent to her joy for Ginny and Theo. Watching them together, so at ease in their love, warmed her heart but also stirred something else she couldn’t quite ignore. Don’t get me wrong, Hermione was happy for her friend, truly, but seeing Ginny and Theo’s quiet intimacy, the way they shared glances and small touches, reminded her of what she didn’t have.
She buried herself in work, yes, but there were nights when the loneliness pressed heavily on her. Hermione longed for someone to come home to, someone to share her triumphs and frustrations with, someone whose arms she could fall into when the weight of the world became too much. There were times when she almost caved to Ron’s attempts to get back together. He was persistent, and the familiarity of him was tempting in those moments when the solitude felt overwhelming.
But each time, she stopped herself. Did she really want to go back there? The answer was an immediate no. She had ended things for a reason. She didn’t want to make decisions based on loneliness, to settle for something that wasn’t right simply because it was easier than being alone. Hermione wanted something real, something that moved her, something that made her feel alive.
And so, she waited, telling herself that if such a connection was meant to happen, it would. Until then, she carried on, finding solace in her work, her friendships, and the hope that one day, her own story of love and connection would unfold.
Winter had arrived with an undeniable presence, casting the magical world in a blanket of pure white. It was December, and snow covered every rooftop, lamppost, and cobblestone street. Hogsmeade was picturesque, its shops adorned with enchanted fairy lights that blinked like stars. Even Diagon Alley was transformed, its bustling lanes dusted with snow that melted only slightly under the warmth of charmed lanterns. The air carried a crisp chill that turned every breath into visible puffs, and the streets hummed with the quiet joy of the season.
At the Ministry of Magic, however, the festive atmosphere did little to alleviate Hermione Granger’s mounting stress. She was in the thick of negotiations with the French Ministry, attempting to finalize an international trade agreement involving enchanted artifacts. The work required precision, diplomacy, and endless patience—all things Hermione typically excelled at. But her boss, Roderick Panswick, was making things unnecessarily difficult.
Panswick was the sort of man who thrived on asserting authority. He had a penchant for micromanaging, swooping into Hermione’s meticulously prepared plans with unnecessary changes and half-formed ideas that left her scrambling to keep the agreement from falling apart. The stress was wearing on her; even her usually pristine desk was cluttered with scrolls and half-empty teacups. By the time she left the office, her shoulders ached, her head throbbed, and she felt like she’d been wrung out like a dishrag.
Ginny had promised they would meet after work for a drink at the pub—a much-needed escape. Hermione had dressed for the occasion, feeling a rare flicker of excitement. The redhead had insisted they make a proper night of it, and together they’d chosen Hermione’s outfit the weekend before: a form-fitting burgundy dress with a modest slit at the side, paired with heeled boots and a stylish wool coat that hugged her figure. The dress was simple but undeniably flattering, a step outside the brunette’s usual workwear. She put on a matching red lipstick, also her friend’s gift. Ginny had even added her signature touch by teaching her how to enchant her curls to frame her face perfectly.
But just as the lioness finished getting ready, she received an owl from the redhead. The note was hurried, apologetic—Theo needed her help with something urgent, and she couldn’t make it. Hermione’s heart sank as she read it. She had been looking forward to the evening, to a chance to vent, laugh, and perhaps drown her stress in a few too many glasses of Firewhisky. Now, the prospect of going alone felt daunting, but the thought of staying home was worse.
The pub was buzzing with the low hum of conversation as Hermione stepped inside, brushing the drizzle from her hair. The warmth of the Silver Stag was a welcome reprieve from the damp chill of the December evening. Tucked away on a quiet street in Diagon Alley, the Silver Stag had a reputation as a cozy yet lively spot for those looking to escape the winter cold with a warm drink and good company.
She had planned for a quiet night—just one drink to unwind before heading home to the mountain of parchment awaiting her review. But the place was packed.
Hermione scanned the room, noting with mild irritation that every table was full. Her usual corner booth, a snug spot near the enchanted window that showed falling snow even on clear nights, was taken by a group of young witches laughing over Butterbeers. Even the bar was packed, the stools occupied by rowdy wizards animatedly discussing the latest Quidditch match.
With a sigh, she turned her attention back toward the entrance, thinking she might try another place, but then decided against it. The Silver Stag had been her comfort zone for years, and tonight, she needed comfort.
Instead, Hermione approached the bar, weaving through the bustling crowd until she reached the counter. The bartender, an older wizard named Benwick with a thick salt-and-pepper beard, looked up as she approached.
“Evening, Miss Granger,” he said, setting down a polished goblet with a smile. “What can I get you tonight?”
“Hi, Benwick,” Hermione said, returning his smile with a faint one of her own. “Honestly, I could use a Firewhisky—or two. But before that, is there anywhere I can sit? It’s absolutely packed tonight.”
Benwick poured a generous amount of Firewhisky into a glass and slid it toward her with a knowing grin.
“You’ve got that right. Winter nights always bring a crowd, and with the snow picking up outside, everyone’s huddling in for the evening.”
Hermione sighed, leaning her elbows against the counter. “I just need a quiet spot. Anywhere, really. It’s been one of those days.”
Benwick chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. “I might have just the place. Follow me.”
“Thank you,” Hermione said, her relief evident as she trailed behind him through the maze of tables. Her thoughts wandered as they moved—she thought about the stack of work waiting for her at home, Ginny canceling on her at the last minute, and the ache of loneliness that seemed sharper in the cold of December.
They reached the far side of the room, and Benwick stopped.
“Here you are,” Benwick said, gesturing to a small table tucked in a quieter corner. “There’s a seat with this gentleman.”
Hermione looked up—and her breath caught in her throat.
It was Malfoy.
The blond was seated there with his chair slightly angled away from the crowd, one hand wrapped around a glass of amber liquid. His hair, once meticulously slicked back, now fell to his shoulders—slightly unruly, but it looked good. Ridiculously good . His long, lean frame was clad in a dark shirt and his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms inked with magical runes that shimmered faintly in the flickering light of the lantern above. His neck, too, was partially tattooed, the dark ink snaking up from his collar, adding a dangerous edge to his already imposing figure. He was surprisingly tall, even while seated, and his scent—a subtle combination of ciderwood, parchment, and mint—clung to him like an invisible aura. He looked... different. Pleasantly different.
And yet, entirely himself.
Malfoy’s gaze lifted from his drink and his silver-grey eyes locked with hers. She had forgotten how piercingly deep his eyes were. His expression shifted from mild surprise to something unreadable.
“Benwick, I—” Hermione began and her voice faltered as she realized where he’d brought her.
“No need to thank me,” the bartender said with a wink. “Enjoy your evening, Miss Granger.” With that, he turned and disappeared back into the crowd.
Hermione stood frozen, feeling her stomach twisting as Malfoy’s gaze remained fixed on her. For a moment, she thought about leaving, walking straight back to the bar or even Apparating home. But the room was too crowded, and retreating would only make things more awkward.
She hadn’t seen Malfoy in five years, not since his trial. Even then, their interaction had been brief but strangely memorable—a surprising nod of gratitude from him after her testimony, and nothing more. Yet the memory of that moment prickled at her now, though she couldn’t quite place why.
After the war, Malfoy was sentenced to 20 years in Azkaban for his involvement with Voldemort and the Death Eaters. While he hadn’t been one of Voldemort’s most active followers, his name alone was enough to warrant a harsh sentence. However, following an appeal, the wizarding world watched with bated breath as he faced a public trial that would decide whether he could reintegrate into magical society and whether the five years he had already served—marked by good behavior and clear efforts to improve—would be enough to grant him a second chance. In a surprising turn of events, Hermione had testified in his favor.
She stood before the Wizengamot and argued that Draco Malfoy had been a victim of circumstance, a boy thrust into a war he hadn’t chosen, forced to bear the weight of his family’s decisions. She spoke of his hesitation in carrying out Voldemort’s orders, of the way he had lowered his wand in the final battle, unable to take a life. And she reminded the court of his mother, Narcissa Malfoy, whose small act of defiance—lying to Voldemort about Harry’s death—had ultimately turned the tide of the war.
It was a controversial stance, one that drew whispers and raised eyebrows, but it worked. Malfoy was granted his freedom, albeit under intense scrutiny.
The Malfoys had suffered enormous losses by then. Lucius Malfoy had died in the war, leaving Narcissa to salvage what remained of their family’s fractured reputation. Although she was absolved of all charges, the family’s once-imposing presence in society had crumbled. Their name, once synonymous with power and influence, became one shrouded in disdain and mistrust.
Even so, they remained wealthy—an irritating truth that only seemed to intensify the public’s resentment. But money couldn’t shield them from the weight of social exile. Few wanted anything to do with the Malfoys. Gossip swirled that Draco had become a recluse, retreating to the vast emptiness of Malfoy Manor or some distant property to live as a hermit.
That image lingered in Hermione’s mind as she sat across from him now. The man before her looked so far removed from the boy she had known at Hogwarts, yet something about him was hauntingly familiar. His nod of gratitude all those years ago had been silent, fleeting, but it had carried a depth that had stayed with her longer than she cared to admit.
The fact that the pub was so full made Malfoy’s empty chair all the more noticeable. He was a figure who couldn’t easily slip into the background—his pale blond hair, sharp features, and unmistakable presence were hard to miss. Despite the crowded pub, no one dared to approach his table. It explained why the seat was vacant when all others were occupied.
Hermione could feel the eyes of the other wizards and witches lingering on him as she sat down. She was keenly aware of the stares—some curious, some filled with disgust. It was clear that many knew exactly who he was, and their disdain was palpable. She could almost hear the unspoken judgments in the silence that followed her decision to sit across from him.
But Malfoy didn’t seem to notice. Or, if he did, he didn’t care. His attention remained fixed on his drink, as if the world around him didn’t exist.
“Granger,” Malfoy said at last, in a calm voice but tinged with curiosity. “Are you planning to stand there all night, or…?”
Her cheeks flushed, and she straightened her posture. “Apparently, this is the only seat left,” she said briskly, stepping forward.
Malfoy’s lips curved into a faint smirk. “Lucky me.” He gestured to the empty chair across from him.
With a steadying breath, Hermione sat down and placed her drink on the table, reminding herself that it was just one drink. She could endure one drink.
If Malfoy noticed her approach, he gave no indication and his attention was seemingly fixed on the glass in his hand. She hesitated briefly, debating whether to say something or simply turn and leave, but the growing ache in her feet from a long day at work had already made the decision for her.
Once seated, she unfastened her coat and draped it neatly over the back of her chair, revealing the form-fitting burgundy dress she had chosen—or rather, had been coerced into wearing. The fabric hugged her frame in ways that made her feel both daring and uncomfortably exposed, with a modest slit at the side that displayed more of her legs than she would have liked. She silently cursed Ginny for suggesting the dress, swearing she’d have a word with her about it later.
Malfoy’s eyes shifted to her then, and she caught the faintest flicker of surprise before his expression returned to its usual indifference. He scanned her slowly, his gaze sweeping from her tousled curls to the hem of her dress and back up again. His appraisal was subtle but thorough, lingering just long enough to send a flush creeping up her neck.
Hermione shifted in her seat, tugging the hem of the dress down slightly as though to shield herself from his scrutiny. But before she could say anything—or gather the courage to meet his gaze—he turned back to his drink, dismissing her presence as though it were of no particular importance.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Hermione said finally, breaking the silence.
“Likewise,” he replied. “I thought you’d be at work, as usual.”
Hermione bristled slightly. “And I thought you’d be... well, somewhere else.”
He smirked, but it was faint, almost self-deprecating. “I suppose I deserve that.”
She studied him more closely now and her initial discomfort gave way to curiosity. He seemed... settled, in a way she hadn’t expected. The tension that used to coil in his shoulders was gone, replaced by something quieter, more reflective.
“So, what are you doing these days?” she asked, trying to sound casual but not entirely succeeding.
Malfoy’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before he answered. “Enchanting,” he said simply.
She frowned, not understanding.
“Magical enchantments,” he clarified. “Objects, artifacts, even spaces. It’s... a living.”
“Enchantments,” she repeated, the word rolling off her tongue with mild disbelief. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for that.”
He shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. “It’s precise work. Requires focus, skill. And it keeps me out of trouble, which I imagine is what you’re really wondering about.”
Hermione flushed. “That’s not—well, maybe a little.”
Draco chuckled softly, the sound low and unguarded. “Honesty suits you, Granger.”
This exchange surprised her. It was the longest conversation they had ever had, and certainly the first time they’d spoken without their usual barbed insults. What was more startling was the way he was acting—kind of... nice? Definitely not like him. But there it was, in the calm way he spoke, in the faint laugh that seemed to warm the room. She didn’t quite know how to process it.
Silence fell between them again, and Hermione found herself glancing around the pub. She was hyper aware of him—of the way his fingers tapped idly against his glass, the faint shimmer of magic in the tattoos on his arms and the subtle but intoxicating scent of his cologne.
“Why did you testify for me?” he asked suddenly, in a quieter voice now, almost hesitant.
Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the question.
“You were a victim of circumstance,” she said after a moment. “You were young, manipulated. I thought you deserved a second chance.”
His eyes searched hers, and she felt the weight of his gaze. “Most people wouldn’t have bothered.”
“I’m not most people.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No, you’re not.”
They lapsed into silence once more, but this time, it felt less strained. Hermione sipped her firewhisky, letting its warmth seep into her, and stole another glance at him.
“You’ve changed,” she said softly.
“So have you,” he replied in an equally quiet voice.
She looked down at her hands, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “I suppose we’ve all had to, haven’t we?”
Malfoy nodded.
“War does that to people.”
The mention of the war hung heavy between them, bringing with it the ghosts of those they had lost—Harry and so many others. Hermione felt the familiar ache rise in her chest, but she pushed it down, unwilling to let it consume her tonight.
When she looked up, she found Malfoy watching her and his gaze was softer than she remembered.
After a moment of contemplation, she spoke again in a lighter tone this time. “I must admit, I’m surprised to find you here. There were rumors, you know. That you’d become a hermit.”
Draco laughed, a bitter edge to it, and took another drink. “Kind of did,” he said. “No one really wanted to have anything to do with me after all that.”
He paused and his eyes flickered over to a group of wizards across the room who were staring at him full of disgust. He leaned back slightly in his chair and added, almost under his breath, “Even now.”
As if on cue, the wizards who had been eyeing him turned their backs with almost exaggerated speed, as if afraid to even acknowledge his presence. Malfoy didn’t seem to care.
Hermione shrugged, her voice calm but resolute. “You did your time, and you did good. You’re free now. People should move on.”
He regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he set his glass down and leaned forward slightly. “You’re not wrong. But it’s hard to move on when no one’s willing to let you.”
They both fell into another moment of quiet and the air between them felt comfortable but heavy with the weight of unspoken things. They both reached for their drinks again, and took a larger sip.
The burn of the firewhisky hit her throat immediately, sharp and fiery, and she couldn’t help but wince. Her face scrunched up comically, and she quickly set the glass down, trying to hide her reaction behind a forced cough.
Draco’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he caught the look. He chuckled, low and genuine. “I didn’t take you for someone who couldn’t handle their drink, Granger.”
Hermione shot him a look, trying to regain her composure. “I can handle it,” she said, but her voice was a little strained from the lingering burn. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”
Malfoy leaned back with a small smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Right,” he said. “Well, next time, maybe ease into it a bit more.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of amusement in her own gaze. “Next time, I think I’ll just stick to something milder.”
They both took another sip, each in their own way processing the comfort of the moment—the strange, unexpected camaraderie that had developed between them tonight. Neither seemed eager to break the silence, but the words seemed to flow easier as the minutes passed.
They lingered for a while longer, not yet ready to break the spell of the unexpected calm they had found in each other’s company. The firewhisky had dulled the edges of their usual sharpness, and the usual banter was replaced by something far more raw and open.
Malfoy shifted in his seat and his eyes studied the now empty glass in his hand for a moment before he spoke. “You know… I never really thought I’d be here—sitting across from you, talking like this.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “No?”
“No,” he muttered, letting out a bitter laugh that sounded more like a self-directed sneer. “I was a bloody idiot back then, wasn’t I? Immature, selfish, impulsive... I thought I had it all figured out, but I didn’t know a damn thing.”
His words took her off guard. She had expected sarcasm, even a hint of the familiar arrogance, but instead, his voice was flat, almost... regretful.
“None of us knew anything back then,” Hermione replied softly, her tone genuine but hesitant, unsure of how to respond to the sudden vulnerability in his words.
He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I should’ve known better. I should’ve seen through all of it—the lies, the manipulation. I should’ve… done something. Instead, I followed blindly. I’ve been paying for it ever since.”
His eyes flickered to hers, and for a fleeting moment, Hermione saw something that made her heart ache—a kind of self-loathing that seemed to weigh him down.
“I didn’t even realize how much of a prick I was until after the war,” Draco admitted. “Everything I thought was important—blood, status, power—it didn’t matter. In the end, none of it did. And now... now I just hate myself for it.”
His voice was quieter now, raw, as though he were speaking his confessions aloud for the first time.
Hermione felt the sting of sympathy but didn’t know how to offer comfort. What could she say? What could she do to make him feel better about himself after everything he’d been through? But then, she realized, maybe this was his way of reaching out—letting someone see the version of him he had long buried.
“I don’t think you’re a lost cause,” she said carefully, choosing her words. “People change. We all do. You can’t undo the past, but you can start fresh.”
Draco let out a bitter chuckle, though it lacked humor. “Fresh? I wish it were that simple. It’s not like I just get a free pass. People like me don’t get to just start over, Granger. No one wants to forgive, no one wants to forget. Even now...” He trailed off and his eyes flickered across the room, where a few wizards were still casting sideways glances at him, their disdain as palpable as the stale air in the pub.
He gestured toward them with a faint smirk. “See? Even now, they still can’t let it go. And I don’t think they ever will.”
Hermione followed his gaze, and for the first time, she understood just how much weight he was carrying. There were no comforting words for moments like these.
“You know, you’re right,” she said, her voice taking on a slightly somber note. “It’s not easy. People judge quickly, and it’s hard to let go of the past when it’s constantly shoved in your face.”
She shifted, leaning back in her chair.
“But I think you’ve done enough. You’ve done the work. People should just move on, and they should let you move on too.”
Malfoy didn’t reply immediately, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.
“Maybe... maybe you’re right. But I’ve been so used to being the villain, I don’t know how to be anything else.”
He chuckled bitterly, the sound carrying a trace of sadness. “I didn’t ask for any of this—this life, this reputation. But it’s mine now. And I’m stuck with it.”
For a moment, Hermione didn’t know what to say. It felt strange, hearing Draco Malfoy speak this openly. It was as if she was meeting someone new—someone who wasn’t the arrogant, snide Slytherin from Hogwarts, but a man who had been humbled by his own mistakes and the world’s harsh judgments. She was still trying to process it when he spoke again, in a softer voice now.
“Anyway... enough about me,” Malfoy said, with a weak attempt at deflection. “What about you? Has life been kind to the Golden Girl of Gryffindor?”
Hermione snorted, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Not exactly. But I guess I can’t complain.”
She leaned forward. Her elbows were resting on the counter, looking at him thoughtfully. “It hasn’t been easy for me either. After everything… it took time. I thought I had everything figured out too, you know? But the war changed all of us. And I’ve lost people. Good people.”
Her voice faltered, just for a second, as she thought of Harry, Fred, and all the others they’d lost.
“I get it,” she continued in a steadier voice now. “You feel like you’re stuck with the person you used to be, and people expect you to be that person forever. But the truth is, we’re all just doing the best we can. That’s all any of us can do.”
The words seemed to linger in the air, and for a brief, almost surreal moment, they were just two people—two flawed, imperfect people—trying to make sense of the wreckage left behind.
They drank in silence for a few moments. And then, as the last of their drinks were gone, Draco glanced at her with an unreadable expression.
A few beats of quiet passed before he finally spoke and he seemed suddenly nervous.
“Want another drink? My treat.”
Hermione hesitated, surprised by the offer. But then, with a resigned sigh, she glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, Ginny made me dress up and come out tonight. I’m already here... I suppose another drink won’t hurt.”
She smiled faintly with a glint of mischief in her eyes. “But you owe me one for getting me into this.”
Malfoy raised an eyebrow and a familiar smirk returned to his lips. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay me.”
She could feel the tension in the air, the subtle shift that had nothing to do with the conversation but everything to do with the space between them. The words they had shared had peeled back layers of things they didn’t usually reveal—and now, it was almost like they were on the precipice of something else, something unspoken.
They both ordered another round, and as the minutes bled into hours, the conversation meandered through unexpected territories. The firewhisky continued to flow, its warmth seeping into their bones, dulling the sharp edges of reality. Every sip was another step down a path neither of them had anticipated when they first sat down.
The conversation took on an almost intimate air, the kind that only alcohol and the passage of time could create. They spoke about what they enjoyed doing in their quieter moments—those little things that made them feel alive when the world seemed too heavy.
Draco’s voice was thoughtful as he spoke, his eyes locked on the amber liquid swirling in his glass. “You know, I’ve always liked painting,” he said, a small, almost nostalgic smile tugging at his lips.
Hermione blinked, surprised. “Painting? Really?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of sincerity. “I started back at Hogwarts. It was… well, it was the only thing that made sense to me, at the time. I was never any good at Potions or Transfiguration. But with a brush in my hand, things felt different. I could create something, you know? Something that didn’t feel dictated by anyone else.”
She watched him closely, a hint of curiosity piquing her interest. “I had no idea. You’ve never mentioned it.”
“No one ever asked,” Draco said, his words tinged with bitterness, though not directed at her. “I guess I didn’t think anyone would care. It was always easier to lean into the family business—the Death Eater shit. Everyone expected that. They didn’t expect someone like me to want to paint, to make art. They wanted a Malfoy who could follow orders, who could uphold the family’s 'honor.' And I was too stupid and arrogant to know any better.”
He took a long sip from his glass, his eyes shifting towards the empty space in front of them, as if lost in thought.
Hermione was taken aback. The Draco Malfoy she’d known—hell, the Draco Malfoy everyone knew—would have scoffed at such a revelation. Yet here he was, a man disarming himself piece by piece, revealing the raw core of someone who had been suffocating under expectations for far too long.
“That’s... that’s kind of beautiful,” she said quietly. “I never would’ve guessed.”
Draco gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “You probably shouldn’t. Most people think I’m a lost cause.”
Hermione smiled, the warmth of the whisky giving her the courage to speak her mind. “I don’t think you're a lost cause. You’ve changed. You’re different from the person I remember.”
He raised an eyebrow at her and a spark of something—curiosity, maybe—flickered in his eyes. “What about you?”
Hermione paused, considering the question. Her fingers traced the edge of her glass, contemplating how much to reveal. She hadn't expected to share anything personal tonight, certainly not in this way. But something about the intimacy of the moment—combined with the alcohol—made her feel like the truth was the only thing left to offer.
“I’ve... developed a habit of smashing things,” she said, her voice low and almost sheepish. Draco’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Smashing things? Like what, exactly?”
“Abandoned houses,” she said, the words slipping out before she could fully stop them. “It’s not as crazy as it sounds. After the war, everyone expected me to be perfect—someone who’d helped take down Voldemort, who was supposed to be this beacon of hope, in the loss of… Harry. They wanted me to carry his message and become a public speaker to share his philosophy. But I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t healed, and I didn’t know how to deal with everything that happened. So, I started going into abandoned houses—places no one cared about—and I bashed things. Glass, walls, chairs, whatever I could find. It was a way to let out the anger, the frustration. A way to tell the world to leave me the hell alone. I’m just a normal witch. I don’t have to be anything else.”
She met his gaze, trying to gauge his reaction. The silence between them was heavy, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… understanding. As though he knew exactly what she meant.
“You do that in secret?” Draco asked quietly and softly.
Hermione nodded. “I didn’t want anyone to know. If they had, I think they’d have been disappointed. They expected me to be some kind of hero, a symbol. I never asked for that.”
Malfoy sat back. “I get it. The pressure to be something you’re not… It’s suffocating, isn’t it?”
She nodded, feeling her heart strangely lighter now that she had shared a piece of herself. It felt almost absurdly freeing to admit it out loud, to finally let someone see the cracks in her perfect façade.
Hermione took a deep breath, feeling a lump form in her throat as she tried to push through the weight of her emotions. "I miss Harry," she said quietly with her voice thick with nostalgia. "He was so real. So pure, you know? There was no pretending with him. We had something... so simple, so honest. A real frienship. And now it feels like everything's changed since he's been gone." Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, the ache of his absence was still so fresh after all these years. "He never asked for anything. He just... gave."
Draco’s gaze softened and his usual aloofness replaced by something more vulnerable. "I think about him, too," he admitted quietly. "Almost daily, actually. Sometimes, I still can't believe he's gone."
Hermione looked up in surprise, not expecting that admission from him. "Really?" she whispered.
He nodded, staring down at the table for a moment before looking back at her. "When I first met him—at Hogwarts, in first year—I wanted to be his friend. I thought he was... well, a badass." His lips curved into a rueful smile. "I’d heard about him, about how he survived. Everyone was always talking about Harry Potter, the boy who lived, and I thought—maybe I could get close to him, you know?"
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as the blond continued. "I remember complaining about him to Dobby, after first year, about how annoying he was. But when I was alone, I’d confess to Dobby—I... I was jealous. I was jealous of you, of Weasley, of how you had real friendship, something I never had." He paused. His eyes were distant. "My friends... they were only there because I had the cool toys, the money, the status. Not because they really cared about me." His voice trailed off.
Hermione sat in stunned silence for a moment, letting the surprise of his words slowly sink in. She never imagined that Draco Malfoy, of all people, had ever felt that way. It made her heart ache for him, for the things he must’ve kept hidden away.
She shook her head softly and a tear slipped down her cheek as she spoke. "I never knew," she whispered, feeling her voice breaking. "I never knew you felt that way."
Malfoy looked away. "Not something I ever wanted anyone to know," he muttered. But then he glanced back at her, offering a small, almost sad smile. "But Harry... he was different. I didn't understand him then, but I do now. And I miss him too."
They both fell silent for a while. Finally, Hermione spoke again, her voice lightening just slightly. "Do you remember that time he... caused a Snake to appear when you both were in the Duelling Club? God, that was a mess." She smiled through the tears.
Draco let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "I think I nearly died watching him do that. He didn't think before he act, did he?"
Hermione chuckled softly, wiping at her eyes. "He always did that—acted before thinking. Like when I turned myself into a cat... after drinking that bloody Polyjuice Potion because we wanted to spy on you." She laughed "We thought you were the heir of Slytherin. I still don’t know how we didn’t get expelled for that."
Draco raised an eyebrow at her. "A cat, you say? I don't think I’ve heard that one."
She smiled sheepishly, her eyes glinting with the memory. "It was an accident. The potion, it was a mess. But I guess it’s just what we did back then—got into trouble without ever meaning to. Harry always worried, though. Worrying about everything... but never relaxing."
"Yeah," Draco muttered, looking lost in thought. "That was Potter. He was never really free, was he? Always carrying some weight on his shoulders."
Hermione looked down at her hands, blinking back tears. "It’s like he never really had a moment of peace in his life."
Draco nodded, his voice softer now. "But even with all that... he still smiled. He was... remarkable."
They both fell into a quiet moment, lost in the memory of Harry Potter. Slowly, tears began to fall from Hermione's eyes and Malfoy felt his eyes getting surprisingly teary, neither of them trying to stop it, just letting it happen. The grief, the shared memories—it was a catharsis, something they had both needed but hadn’t realized until now.
And as they talked, laughed, and cried over their memories of Harry, a new kind of understanding began to form between them—one built on honesty, vulnerability, and shared loss.
When the conversation finally tapered off, it wasn’t just the memory of Harry that filled the space between them; it was something else too. Something unexpected. They had started talking as enemies, but now—just for a moment—they were something else entirely.
They both fell into silence. Their drinks were now long gone, leaving only the ice clinking in the bottom of their empty glasses. They were no longer just two people from the past—they were two people, meeting each other anew, in a world that had changed them both.
And yet, despite the vulnerability of the conversation, despite the heavy truths, the air between them was thick with something else. Something that neither of them could ignore, something that neither of them had expected. Sexual tension, curiosity—an unspoken question lingering in the space between them.
The quiet stretched on, the freezing December night outside making the warmth of the pub feel all the more comforting. And as Draco’s gaze flickered to hers once again, Hermione realized they were standing on the precipice of something—something neither of them could quite define yet.
Eventually, as the last of the night wore on, they found themselves standing outside the pub, the cold night air biting at their skin. The bar had long since closed, and there was no one else around. It was just the two of them, surrounded by the quiet of the empty streets and with snow falling gently around them, blanketing the cobblestones in a shimmering white. They had kept talking until the bar closed at 3 in the morning, their words still flowing as if time hadn’t passed.
Malfoy stood with his hands tucked into his coat pockets, watching her quietly, his breath kept forming faint misty clouds in the freezing air.
Hermione tilted her head back, her eyes lifting to the sky. Small flakes landed on her flushed face, and she smiled—a soft, unguarded smile that made something twist in his chest. The alcohol painted her cheeks a rosy hue, and her eyes, illuminated by the stars and moonlight, seemed a brighter hazel than he remembered. There was something arresting about the way she stood there, so at ease, so unlike the Hermione Granger who always seemed burdened by the weight of the world.
She leaned back against the wall and turned her head toward him to make her gaze meeting his. His heart thudded faster in his chest, a sensation he couldn’t quite place but didn’t entirely dislike.
“Coffee,” she said abruptly, surprising even herself.
He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Tomorrow,” she clarified, her cheeks flushing even deeper. “If you’re free. I... I’d like to talk more.”
Draco studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, though there was a softness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Slowly, he nodded. “I’d like that too.”
As they left the pub, the snow grew heavier, swirling around them in the night air. The freezing temperature was unrelenting, and Malfoy, without a word, slipped his coat off and draped it over her shoulders before she could protest. She hesitated, but the warmth of the fabric—and the faint scent of him, woodsy and clean—was comforting in a way she hadn’t expected.
And for the first time in years, Hermione felt as though the world, once weighed down by grief, might just surprise her again.
And for the first time in years, Draco felt as though he wasn’t as lost as he had once believed, as if a quiet sense of belonging had begun to take root inside him.
Neither of them could say what the future held, but in that fleeting, silent moment, they both sensed the whisper of something new, something delicate and full of promise—something worth exploring, together. Like Alchemy between them.
Thank you for reading my story. This is response to a prompt and it was a challenge, It was supossed to be a short story. However, I realize I can't make short stories haha, I like long, complex stories filled with emotional moments and strong character development. Still, I did my best to make this story a sort of One Shot. I just posted it today so if the response is good and you want to read more, I can continue writing chapters and develop this story further.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, inspired by the Harry Potter universe and the characters I love so much. I am not trying, under any circumstances, to take authorship of J.K. Rowling's original work. All rights belong to the creator of this incredible saga.
—Hermione?— said two voices in unison, their tones familiar and warm, causing her to stop dead in her tracks.
She immediately turned, a slight tremor of excitement running through her body. As she spun around, her eyes lifted, and she saw the two figures calling her name.
In front of her stood two young men, two faces that, though marked by time, were still unmistakable. One of them had messy, jet-black hair, swept to the side to reveal his forehead, framing deep green eyes that were as penetrating as emeralds, veiled by a subtle hint of sadness. He wore a dark blue t-shirt and brown pants that highlighted his athletic build. He was still slender, but no longer the skinny boy from Hogwarts—he was a man with broader shoulders and a commanding presence, like someone who carried the weight of a constant battle inside. The scars on his arms and wrists, remnants of the past war, peeked out subtly, lending him a distinguished air that made him appear even more handsome, without a doubt.
When they finally entered the room, Hermione noticed how several people recognized Harry immediately. They murmured and shot him admiring glances, as always happened when Harry, The Boy Who Lived , made an appearance. His history with Voldemort and his current work as an Auror had made him more than just a wizard; he was a legendary figure, almost a celebrity, and even though he seemed to pay little attention to it, the attention clung to him like a shadow.
The other boy, taller with reddish hair that reached his neck, had a face dotted with freckles and intense blue eyes that carried a trace of innocence. His black t-shirt, fitted over a broad chest and strong shoulders, emphasized his sturdy physique, while his dark pants highlighted his natural bulkiness, the result of someone used to physical labor. He was handsome, no doubt, though there was an awkwardness about him, a carefree air that made him seem less polished, yet his unmistakable energy and enthusiasm radiated a warmth that drew people in.
There was no doubt about it: it was Harry and Ron. Harry, always identifiable by the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, and Ron, with the same innocent look in his eyes that time had not fully erased. Without hesitation, Hermione ran to them and embraced them so tightly that she nearly knocked them off balance.
—Harry! Ron! Is it really you?— she exclaimed, her voice full of disbelief and joy. —I can't even tell you how much I've missed you both!
Unable to contain herself, she wrapped them in such a warm hug that both boys were momentarily speechless. When Hermione finally let go, she realized that a few people around them were watching curiously, which made her feel a bit embarrassed.
—I missed you both so much,— Harry admitted, his eyes shining as he looked at his friends.
—Yeah, and you think I didn’t? I’ve thought about you every single day, wondering what you were up to,— Ron added with a warm, genuine smile.
Hermione bit her lip, feeling the weight of their words.—I’m so sorry... really,— she whispered, unable to meet their gazes. As she looked at their faces, full of expectation and sincerity, she felt the walls she’d built around herself start to crack. The fear of being vulnerable, of revealing her insecurities, made her heart ache. She wasn’t sure she could handle it.
Harry and Ron exchanged a look that didn’t escape Hermione’s notice. The air between the three of them was thick with palpable tension, as if the words were hard to form, as if everything left unsaid over the years weighed heavily on them.
The lioness swallowed hard, feeling a growing pressure in her chest. Two years. Two years without seeing each other. But not just that, those two years had been a time of emotional separation, when words became harder to speak, when everything between them slowly crumbled under the weight of discomfort and unspoken pain. The friendship that had once been so strong now felt fragile, barely held together by memories. Guilt gnawed at her, because she was the one who had distanced herself first, the one who hadn’t known how to deal with everything she had felt, with the emptiness of the war and her own insecurities.
“No, I can’t!” she thought silently, closing her eyes for a moment, trying to push away the guilt that nearly suffocated her. She had immersed herself in her own world, isolated in her pain, without writing to them, without telling them how she felt. She hadn’t dared admit it to herself, let alone to them, but now, seeing them there, her heart broke a little more. Harry and Ron seemed to notice her struggle.
—Hermione...— Harry said gently, stepping a little closer, as if he could tell what she was thinking. —You don’t have to apologize about not writing us. It wasn’t just you.—
Ron nodded in agreement, though there was a hint of pain in his eyes, hidden just beneath the surface. —No, Hermione. We’ve all been idiots. We all were,— he said quietly. His simple words struck Hermione in a way she hadn’t expected.
Hermione finally lifted her gaze, meeting Harry’s eyes first, then Ron’s. The fragility she had felt moments before seemed to melt away, replaced by a sense of warmth and relief. Despite the years and the distance that had come between them, something deep, something unspoken, still held them together.
—We…— Ron started, his voice shaking slightly. —We’ve missed so much. But… do you think we could try again? To see each other again, to be like we were before, even if we’re not quite sure how?
Hermione took a slow, steadying breath, a rush of relief mixed with a flicker of fear washing over her. She wanted to pour out everything she’d kept inside all this time, every feeling, every thought, but the words seemed to stick in her throat. She wasn’t sure she could be that open, that vulnerable, after all this time. But seeing them there, right in front of her, stirred something inside her that she had almost forgotten: hope.
—Yes,— she said at last, her voice firm but warm. —I’d love to.— She smiled, her face lighting up. —Let’s start with something simple… What’s been going on in your lives?
The Golden Trio smiled.
Ron, proudly, spoke first about his new life in Romania, working with dragons, following in his brothers' footsteps. Hermione listened with admiration, smiling and laughing at the anecdotes of the incidents he had encountered, especially when Norbert, Hagrid’s dragon, decided to set fire to his pants. As they spoke, Ron remained slightly flushed, casting furtive glances at Hermione. He couldn't help it; he was captivated and a bit surprised at how beautiful she seemed. His thoughts intertwined with the nostalgia and affection he felt for her, making it hard for him to focus on the conversation.
Unaware of this, Hermione occasionally looked at Harry, who was watching her with an unusual intensity. She felt his gaze fixed on her, a subtle but constant scrutiny, as if he was discovering something new in her. There was something different about Harry, something in the way he looked at her that made her feel a mix of nervousness and confusion. His gaze had always been intense, seeming to convey many things, but this time there was something different.
Inevitably, the conversation shifted to the past, to the war and the losses it had left them with. They remembered those friends and loved ones who were no longer with them: Colin Creevey, so young and brave; Tonks, always with a ready smile even on the darkest days; Moody, who, until the end, showed the strength and determination of a true Auror; Dumbledore, the most determined and wise person. Ron, with a broken voice, could barely mention his mother, who had given her life protecting him and Fred; that sacrifice still tormented him and kept the wound open, despite the years that had passed. They also spoke of Ginny, how she had suffered so much but remained strong, and how it brought them peace knowing she had survived.
They looked at each other with teary, sad eyes, recognizing the scars they carried in silence. And yet, there was a sense of relief in being able to talk about it. They remarked that in the first two years after the war, they couldn’t even bring it up; the pain was too recent, too raw. But now, with time, they could remember without feeling like they were breaking. They shared a shy smile, acknowledging how much they had changed, but also what still united them. Hermione felt, more than ever, the importance of being there, of being able to reconnect, and understood that being able to talk about it, even though it hurt, was a sign that they were finally beginning to heal.
After a while, Ron excused himself to use the bathroom, leaving Hermione alone with Harry. It was then that she realized he was quietly watching her, his gaze almost studying her, as if he were taking in every detail, every movement. Harry hesitated, his eyes locking with hers for a moment before he spoke.
—Hermione… you’ve changed,— he said finally, his voice softer than usual, full of sincerity. —I mean, you’ve always been beautiful, but now… you look… stunning.
Hermione felt her cheeks burn, and she quickly looked away, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. Harry’s nervousness was almost contagious.
—Thank you, Harry…— she murmured, her voice soft, still feeling the warmth of the smile that had crossed her face.
Harry seemed uneasy, but his determination was clear as he hesitated once more before asking, —Are you seeing anyone?
His voice was quiet, uncertain.
Hermione blinked, caught off guard, and immediately shook her head. —No, no… I’ve been too focused on my studies to think about that,— she answered quickly, hoping to hide the blush that was rising again.
Harry gave a small smile, as if an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Hermione noticed that expression of relief, and something in her sparked with curiosity. However, she decided not to say anything, letting the air fill with a strange tension, a suspended feeling that made it harder to ignore the direction the conversation seemed to be heading. Yet Harry didn’t look away. His gaze was intense, as if he were searching for something—something beyond words, beyond the casual conversation they were having.
Hermione felt her stomach tighten. That look—so steady, so penetrating—was different from the Harry she knew. It unsettled her. She shifted her gaze to the side, trying to escape the weight of his scrutiny, but his eyes remained fixed on her. She couldn’t understand it. What had changed? Why did everything feel so different now?
The silence grew thicker, but finally, Harry broke it, his voice taking on a more serious tone. —You know… I went out with Ginny for a while after the war…— he began, his words thoughtful, almost reflective. Hermione nodded, listening intently, though the news didn’t surprise her. She had seen the chemistry between them at Hogwarts. —But it was still too fresh for both of us… we were both dealing with our own grief. I needed time. She needed time. And eventually, we realized it wasn’t going to work. But I’ll always appreciate her. I’ll always remember what we shared. We’re still friends.
Hermione nodded in understanding, sensing the quiet respect and nostalgia in Harry’s voice. His words brought a sense of peace to the moment, though that strange feeling of something unspoken still lingered in the air, like a distant murmur that neither of them could quite reach.
She was about to respond when Ron returned to the table, and the trio resumed their conversation. The magic of their memories and laughter filled the air, as if all the time they had spent apart dissolved in that moment. They talked until the night began to fall, and when they realized it, the Three Broomsticks was almost empty, with the last light of the day disappearing on the horizon.
Hermione looked at both of them, and an inexplicable emotion overtook her, causing her eyes to fill with tears she couldn’t hold back. The warmth and love she felt for these two friends was so overwhelming that words didn’t seem enough.
—Hermione, are you alright?— Ron asked, his brow furrowed as he leaned closer.
—Why are you crying?— Harry added softly, his green eyes full of concern as he took a small step toward her.
Hermione quickly wiped at her cheeks, letting out a shaky laugh. —Oh, don’t worry about me,— she said, her voice trembling slightly. —I suppose I’m just feeling a bit sentimental.
Without a word, both Harry and Ron stepped forward, pulling her into a warm, reassuring hug. In that simple, familiar embrace, Hermione felt the pieces of her world falling back into place, as if everything that had once seemed lost was finally coming together again.
When the clock struck 9:30 pm, Ron jumped, remembering that Fred and George would probably be worried about him, and the three friends made a pact, a new promise to stay in touch, this time without letting years pass between them.
As they left the Three Broomsticks, Hermione lingered, watching her friends walk away, feeling that the joy of that night would stay with her for a long time. The sky darkened, and a light rain began to fall. She quickened her pace, enjoying a sense of freedom and intoxicating satisfaction.
However, the calm didn’t last long. The rain intensified, and as she ran to take cover, she awkwardly stumbled and fell into a puddle, getting covered in mud. With a sigh of resignation and some humor, Hermione scolded herself quietly when, in her hurry, she bumped into someone. The stranger’s umbrella fell to the ground, and she barely managed to raise her eyes before hearing a growl of disapproval.
—Watch where you’re going, you idiot!— a gruff voice muttered, bending down to pick up the umbrella.
The girl stood up, somewhat annoyed, and, as she looked up, she met cold, piercing gray eyes staring at her with disdain.
It couldn’t be… That face was unmistakable.
—M-Malfoy?— Hermione murmured, a mix of surprise and confusion in her voice.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, inspired by the Harry Potter universe and the characters I love so much. I am not trying, under any circumstances, to take authorship of J.K. Rowling's original work. All rights belong to the creator of this incredible saga.
Author Notes: While Draco does not appear in this chapter, it plays a crucial role in setting the stage for future character development. Please be patient—he’ll be making his entrance soon, and once he does, his presence will be featured just as much as Hermione’s in the chapters to come.
The wind was blowing hard as the rain began to become almost a storm. The drops that had previously fallen timidly now hit the ground furiously, bouncing off the puddles that had begun to form. The brown-haired girl, drenched and breathing fast, decided it was time to head home. The sound of her hurried steps on the cobblestones echoed in the cold, humid night.
When she got home, the first thing she noticed was the silence. No sign of her parents.
—It’s already after eight…— she whispered to herself, trying to hide her growing concern. —Maybe they decided to stay a little longer.
She sat resolutely on the armchair in the living room, turning on the television without much desire. That device had never caught her interest; She found the hustle and bustle of empty programs monotonous, even irritating. Soon, the background noise began to stress her out, and with nothing better to do, she headed upstairs to seek refuge in her favorite place: her room.
That corner of the world had always been her refuge. The walls filled with shelves containing books piled up in a haphazard manner, the soft aroma of old paper... In her room, she felt like she could disconnect from the world, find solace among the pages of her novels, where heroes and magical creatures lived together in harmony. There, she could lose herself for hours, immersed in stories that seemed to understand her better than anyone else.
As she lay in bed, her mind wandered to those times when adventures were not only in books, but also in her own life. Friends. That word resonated in her head with a distant echo. Two faces appeared in her mind, clear as if she had just seen them: piercing green eyes behind round glasses, and a carefree smile accompanied by messy red hair. Memories of them, of those endless afternoons of laughter and mischief, enveloped her in a mixture of nostalgia and warmth, but also a touch of sadness.
There was something in that nostalgia that now made her feel emptier, more alone. What once seemed like an eternal friendship was now a distant memory. The distance had been created without her doing anything to prevent it. The unspoken words, the looks they no longer shared, the lack of contact… it felt like a weight on her shoulders.
She sighed, closing her eyes tightly, as if she could squeeze her memories in an attempt to hold them in just a little longer. But when she opened his eyes, she realized that, although the memories would still be there, reality was now different. Her room, her refuge, no longer offered her the same peace as before. Now, instead of comfort, it seemed like a reminder of what she had lost.
Harry and Ron.
—I miss you both so much…— she murmured to herself, with a heavy sigh that seemed to carry all the weight of the time she had spent without seeing them.
She remembered their jokes, the endless talks in the Gryffindor common room, the complicit looks when they planned something together. She missed them so much that it sometimes hurt her to think about how far apart they had been for the past few years. Two years had passed since they had last seen each other, each one following their own path. Hermione had continued her academic career in the Muggle world, while Ron and Harry had gotten lost in their own worlds, perhaps so entangled in their own problems that it hadn't even been easy to keep in touch.
Ron always made her smile, a mix of affection and sadness tugging at her heart. Always so loyal, and a little impulsive—sometimes too much. The afternoons they spent in the Great Hall or the moments when Ron would lose his temper over the smallest things felt like an integral part of who he was, a cornerstone of their friendship. Yet, over time, something had shifted in him, and although she had never said it out loud, Hermione had sensed that the tension between them went beyond mere differences in personality.
Ron had also been possessive of her in ways that were subtle but also glaringly obvious. At times, when they talked about Harry, Ron couldn’t hide the irritated expression that crossed his face—a look Hermione never fully understood. He was so protective, but not in the same way he was with Harry. It was different, a kind of protectiveness that made her feel stifled, even trapped.
/FLASHBACK/
It was the beginning of their seventh year at Hogwarts, a time when everything seemed on the brink of irreversible change. Hermione and Ron walked together through the castle’s stone corridors, the distant sounds of laughter and footsteps filling the air. Light streamed through the high windows, casting long, almost melancholic shadows, as though the castle itself could sense what was coming.
Ron came to a sudden halt, making Hermione stop short behind him. There was something in his face—something tight and unreadable—that made her frown.
—Hermione— Ron said, his voice unusually serious. —What’s going on between you and him?
Hermione stared at him, bewildered by the question. Her mind raced to find some context for what he was saying, but none of it made sense.
—Who are you talking about?— she asked at last, frowning as she tilted her head slightly. Her eyes searched Ron’s for a clue, some sign of what he was really trying to say.
Ron took a step closer, his blue eyes darkening with a mix of frustration and something sharper. —Harry,— he said bluntly, too quickly for it to sound casual. —It’s always Harry, isn’t it? Last night, I heard you two talking in the common room. After hours. You didn’t even tell me. What was that about?—
Hermione frowned, taken aback by the accusation. —What? Ron, we’re friends,— she said, her tone confused but edged with irritation. —He was upset about something, and I just happened to be there. I’d gone back to grab a book I forgot, and he needed someone to talk to. That’s all. You’re being ridiculous.—
But Ron wasn’t backing down. He crossed his arms tightly, his jaw tense, eyes narrowing as if piecing together a puzzle that didn’t fit. —It’s not just that, though, is it?— he said, his voice quieter now but laced with something possessive. —It’s like… he always turns to you. Like you’re the only one he trusts. The only one who really gets him. And where does that leave me, Hermione? What’s my place in all of this?—
Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, unsure of what to say. The way he was looking at her, the frustration and vulnerability mixed in his gaze, was something she hadn’t seen before. It felt... different. Heavy.
—Ron…— she began, but he took another step forward, and the distance between them seemed to shrink.
—I don’t know, Hermione,— Ron said, his voice soft but tight with frustration. —Sometimes it feels like I’m just… not part of this. Like I’m invisible, or I’m not enough. I try, but it’s like no matter what I do, it’s always him. You’re always there for him. And I don’t know how to fix it. How do I compete with that?—
Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. —Ron, you are enough,— she said quickly, trying to reach out to him. But the tension in the air was thick, and it was hard to know what he needed to hear. —You’re being ridiculous. Harry and I are friends. That’s all there is to it. You don’t have to compete with anyone.—
Ron’s eyes flashed with frustration, though he tried to mask it. —But that’s just it, Hermione. You always defend him. You’re always with him. And I— I’m right here, but it’s like I’m not the one you turn to. Like I’m not the one you rely on.—
Hermione felt her pulse quicken as Ron’s presence grew more overwhelming, pushing her back against the wall without him even realizing it. The air felt thick with something unspoken, a pressure that made it hard to think. Ron’s eyes were locked on hers, searching, waiting.
—Ron,— she said again, but her voice faltered, not sure how to handle the intensity of the moment.
Ron’s gaze shifted for a second, and then it dropped to her lips. The silence was deafening, and Hermione’s heart hammered in her chest. “Why was this happening? Why did it feel so wrong? So unfamiliar?”
He didn’t move. He just stood there, watching her with that same intensity, as if her words were being weighed against something he’d never said out loud. His shoulders relaxed, but there was still an edge to his gaze, something she couldn’t quite place.
Hermione felt her throat tighten. She had no idea what was happening, but she had to break the silence. —Ron,— she said softly, her voice trembling, —You’re not… you’re not being pushed out. You and Harry are both my best friends, and I need you both. You mean the world to me, both of you.
For a moment, Ron didn’t move. His expression softened, and he exhaled, as if letting go of a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The tension in his shoulders eased, and a small, relieved smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
—Yeah?— he asked with a low voice, almost casual, but strange with a hint of something more under the surface. —You really mean that, Hermione? Because, you know… you can tell me anything. And I’m always here for you. Always. I’m not going anywhere.—
There was something in the way he said it, the way his eyes softened yet didn’t quite leave hers, that sent a strange chill down her spine. But Hermione couldn’t put her finger on it. Instead, she nodded, her own unease passing over her as she smiled weakly, unaware of the tightening grip Ron seemed to have on the situation.
—Of course, I mean it, Ron. We’re a team, always.
Ron looked at her for a moment longer, and then he gave a little nod, his face breaking into that shy, grateful smile she knew so well. He didn’t need to say anything more—his look said it all.
The space between them felt easier now, and the air that had been so heavy a moment ago was finally clear. Hermione sighed, feeling the weight of the tension lift.
—Thanks, Hermione,— Ron muttered, still a little awkward, but it was genuine. —I just… I don’t know, sometimes.—
Hermione gave him a reassuring smile, and for a moment, they both just stood there, the understanding between them simple but solid. The unease was gone, replaced by the comfort of their friendship, reminding them both that no matter how complicated things got, they were in this together.
/END OF FLASHBACK/
At that moment, she thought of Harry, her other best friend, and a pang of pain shot through her chest as she remembered everything he had endured. From the very first day she met him, she knew there was something different about him, something that went far beyond being The Boy Who Lived. It was the weight of the losses he had experienced since he was just a baby.
First, his parents, taken from him before he could even remember their faces. Then his godfather, Sirius, a spark of hope that had been cruelly snatched away. And later, Dumbledore, a figure of guidance and wisdom who had also been lost in the unending fight against darkness. After the war, there were even more deaths—more people Harry cared about, taken too soon. Each loss felt like another blow, leaving invisible but indelible scars on his soul. She couldn’t even imagine the level of suffering Harry faced every day. All that pain, all that loneliness, and, as if it weren’t enough, the constant shadow of Voldemort haunting him relentlessly until he was finally defeated.
Yet despite it all, Harry was still Harry: someone with a pure heart and selfless kindness that shone through even the darkest adversity. There was something profoundly admirable about his ability to keep going, to care for others even when it seemed like the whole world was against him.
From the moment she truly grasped the enormity of what Harry carried, Hermione made a decision. She would be his unwavering support, his family, the person he could trust without hesitation. She would be his shelter in the storms that never seemed to end. And no matter how dark his life became, she would be there for him—not because it was her duty, but because she cared for him deeply, with a love that went beyond words. Harry was her friend, but he was also like a brother—a bond she couldn’t and wouldn’t break.
She had always felt protective of Harry, not because she thought he was weak, but because she saw his strength and knew how much it cost him to maintain it. She wanted to be the pillar that held him up when everything else threatened to collapse. And although Harry rarely spoke about his feelings, she understood, with an almost magical intuition, how much it meant to him to have someone who was simply there for him.
Their friendship was something pure, a bond built on trust, respect, and a deep love that didn’t need labels or explanations. She had never wanted anything more than Harry’s happiness. She always advocated for him, for his right to find some peace, to be happy after so much suffering. Because if anyone in the world deserved happiness, it was Harry.
/FLASHBACK/
The night was quiet, yet heavy. Hermione had finished her nightly routine, preparing for bed in a pink pajama set—pants and a shirt with small embroidered details on the sleeves. Her hair was tied up in a high ponytail, secured with a ribbon in the same soft shade, and her expression revealed the exhaustion of a day full of studying and responsibilities.
As she carefully placed her books in her trunk, her gaze lingered on one of the empty shelves.
Her Transfiguration book was missing.
—Oh, Merlin!— she muttered with a sigh of frustration.
She realized she had left it in the common room. Resigned, she adjusted her ribbon and descended the stairs with quick but quiet steps, wanting to retrieve the book as soon as possible so she could finally rest.
When she reached the common room, she saw him.
Harry was sitting alone by the fire, staring at the flickering flames. His posture was slumped, and the shadows on his face made him look even more weary than usual. But it was the streaks of moisture on his cheeks that stopped Hermione dead in her tracks.
He was crying.
She’d seen him upset before, but not like this. Harry rarely let anyone see him vulnerable, and to see him like this made Hermione's heart ache.
For weeks, she’d noticed the weight he was carrying—Voldemort was constantly on his mind, and the pressure was taking a toll on him. The dark circles under his eyes and his distant attitude were more than just signs of exhaustion—they were signs of someone who was at the breaking point.
Quietly, Hermione walked over to him, her footsteps barely making a sound on the carpet. When she reached him, she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Harry jumped, quickly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he turned to face her.
—Hermione?— His voice was hoarse, and he quickly tried to pull himself together. —What are you doing up at this hour?
She looked at him, her heart heavy. He was trying so hard to hide it, but she could see through it all.
—I left my Transfiguration book on the table,— she said softly, pointing to where it was. She kept her tone calm, like she didn’t want to disturb him any more than she already had. —And Harry nodded, his eyes still shining with unshed tears. There was something in his gaze that she’d rarely seen—a vulnerability he kept so carefully hidden.
—I had a vision,— he confessed after a long pause. —Voldemort… he came to the castle. He killed so many people.
His voice faltered, and the tears began to fall again.
—Hermione… I can’t… I can’t keep doing this,— he whispered, his hands shaking as he covered his face. —I don’t want anyone else to die.
Hermione felt her own throat tighten as she watched him crumble. Without thinking, she moved forward and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. She stroked his hair, as if her touch could somehow shield him from the weight of the world.
—I know it’s hard, Harry,— she said quietly, her voice trembling. —But you’re not alone. You’ve got me, and Ron, and we’re going to keep fighting. We’ll defeat him, I promise.
Harry’s forehead rested against her shoulder. They were close—maybe too close—but Hermione didn’t pull away.
—I can’t lose you or Ron,— he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. He pulled back just slightly to look at her, his green eyes full of pain. —I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.
Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. Harry gently cupped her face with one hand, and the warmth of his touch sent a jolt through her, though she didn’t move away.
—You’re so important to me, Hermione,— he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His smile was faint but full of pain, and he stroked her cheek with the lightest touch.
Hermione froze, her thoughts a jumbled mess. Her heart raced, and she wasn’t sure what to say.
Before she could gather her thoughts, Harry pulled her into a tight hug, his arms around her like a lifeline. He held her close as though he feared she might vanish.
—Sorry,— he mumbled into her hair. —I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just… I don’t want to be alone.
Hermione, caught off guard by the rawness of his words, didn’t misunderstand. Harry was always so guarded, so seeing him like this, so open, only made her heart swell with affection for him.
—You’ll never be alone, Harry,— she whispered, her hand gently rubbing the back of his neck as she ran her other hand through his hair. —We’ll get through this together. Always.
As the fire crackled in the hearth, the Gryffindor common room became a haven for the two of them, offering a brief respite from the looming threat they faced.
/END OF FLASHBACK/
—Would it be too late to...?—
She left the sentence unfinished, but an idea began to form in her mind. A slow, sincere smile spread across her face. Without wasting any time, she got out of bed and headed to her desk. With trembling hands, she pulled out two pieces of parchment, a quill, and an ink bottle. She couldn't wait any longer.
Dear Harry and Ron,
I know this letter is long overdue, and I’m truly sorry for not reaching out sooner. It’s been far too long, and I can’t help but think about both of you constantly. Seven years of friendship… I still can’t believe it. Despite everything we’ve been through, I know none of us have kept the promise we made to each other. I can’t help but feel a bit guilty about that.
We’ve faced so much, and it hasn’t always been easy. There are still difficult memories that linger, but I keep coming back to the good ones, the moments we shared, and how much they mean to me.
Two years have passed, and I haven’t tried to reconnect, and that’s something I deeply regret. I often wonder if you still think of me, if you remember everything we went through together. I hope you do, and I truly hope you know how much you both still mean to me. I think of you every single day, and it makes me long for the days when we were together.
I would really love to reconnect, to find a way to bridge the distance that has grown between us.
Please forgive me for not writing sooner. Life has been overwhelming, and I let that get in the way. But I don’t want to be distant anymore. I need you both.
Sending all my love,
Hermione
She stared at the parchment for a few seconds, smiling as she imagined her friends' expressions when they received the letter. Without a second thought, she rolled it up, stood up, and went to find her owl. As she watched the creature take flight with her letters, a sigh of relief escaped her lips.
The night passed in the blink of an eye. The next morning, Hermione woke up earlier than usual. She descended the stairs full of energy, almost floating with happiness.
—Good morning, Dad! Good morning, Mom!— she greeted with a smile that lit up her face.
Her mother looked at her in surprise, noticing that, for the first time in a long time, her daughter seemed genuinely happy.
—Good morning, dear,— her father replied, delighted to see her so cheerful.
—Would you like some breakfast?— her mother asked.
—Of course! I'll be right there!—
Suddenly, a noise from her room caught her attention. Hermione jumped, and her eyes lit up with excitement.
—It's here!— she shouted, running up the stairs.
She entered her room, and there it was: an owl with two letters on its talon. With a smile that illuminated her face, she thanked the owl and took the letters. She immediately recognized the first handwriting.
—Harry, your handwriting is still the same,— she murmured with a laugh, her eyes sparkling with emotion.
She opened the letter and began to read:
Hermione,
It was such a relief to get your letter. I’ve been thinking about you and Ron a lot too, more than I probably let on. Please don’t apologize, we’re just as much to blame. I can’t really understand why we never wrote to each other; looking back, I think we were all a bit foolish. Even after everything we went through, I still care about you both, and I always will.
I think we’ve been avoiding seeing each other because it feels like there’s so much we haven’t talked about, but maybe it’s time we finally did. We’ve been through so much together, and we also have so many good memories. I want you to know that you’ve never been forgotten—not for a second.
I’d really love for us to reconnect, to catch up properly. Maybe we can plan something soon.
With love,
Harry
Hermione smiled with tears in her eyes. Before she could fully process the emotions, she grabbed the second letter. She opened it quickly and read eagerly:
Hermione,
Blimey, it’s been ages! I was really glad to hear from you. And as soon as Harry got your letter, he wrote to me straight away. I’ve already told Ginny, and everyone’s thrilled to hear from you, especially Fred and George. You probably already know, but their shop in Romania’s doing so well that they’re expanding like mad. Even the shop in Diagon Alley’s getting bigger.
I’ll be in London for a few months, working with dragons, a job I got through Romania, so I’m planning to visit Fred, George, and Ginny while I’m there. It’d be great if we could all meet up. Harry and I were thinking of getting together at the Leaky Cauldron next Saturday. What do you think? Can you make it?
You’re always going to be our friend, Hermione. Don’t feel bad about not writing sooner. We all should’ve done better. But we’ve never forgotten you, not for a second.
Ron
Hermione let out a deep sigh, but this time, it wasn’t one of sadness—it was pure happiness. With an even wider smile, she quickly wrote a reply accepting the invitation.
The rest of the week passed in the blink of an eye, and the long-awaited day finally arrived. Eager, she put on a simple black dress that reached just above her knees. The cut was basic, perfect for a casual day, but the way the light fabric gently hugged her waist accentuated her slender figure. The dress gave off a relaxed vibe, while the classic white and black Converse shoes she had chosen added a carefree, youthful touch to her look.
As she left the house, a soft breeze tousled her curly hair, which fell gently down her back and shoulders. She decided to wear it loose, and without realizing it, looks began to follow her. Men of all ages turned their heads to watch her as she walked down the sidewalk, drawn to her natural beauty. She, absorbed in her thoughts, never noticed the attention she was attracting, walking calmly, unaware of the eyes that followed her every step. For her, the outfit was simply a comfortable choice, but for others, her presence was impossible to ignore.
Despite waking up early, she was running late by the time she arrived. She found a table and sat down, biting her lip in impatience. Time seemed to drag on, and after half an hour, discouragement began to settle in. She stood up to leave, when suddenly, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
—Hermione?— said two familiar voices in unison.
Her heart skipped a beat. She turned on her heels, hope burning in her chest, and there they were: the faces of those she had never stopped missing…
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, inspired by the Harry Potter universe and the characters I love so much. I am not trying, under any circumstances, to take authorship of J.K. Rowling's original work. All rights belong to the creator of this incredible saga.
Chapter III: Thruths that hurt
It had been a long time since Hermione left her house just to walk. Since the day she left Hogwarts, she had preferred seclusion, as if the walls of her home could protect her from the outside world. However, something drove her to go outside that morning to breathe the fresh air. As she walked through the park, everything around her seemed to have taken on a new life: the trees swayed gently in the breeze, the birds sang melodies that seemed full of hope, and the landscape, although lacking the presence of the sun, shone with a beauty she did not remember having seen before.
"I don’t understand how I let myself shut everyone out for so long," Hermione thought, watching as the leaves drifted lazily from the trees around her.
In the distance, children played among the fallen leaves, laughing with that pure, innocent joy that had eluded her for so long. "Joy, " she thought to herself. That word, which used to be so familiar to her, now seemed foreign, like a memory of a life she had left behind. Its absence was not for lack of reason, although to others it might seem insignificant or even trivial. But to Hermione, the reason was clear and painful: love.
Love, a feeling, which, people said, was so sublime, so perfect, had been for her nothing more than an inexhaustible source of pain. For many, love was synonymous with happiness, shared smiles and warm touch. But to Hermione, love had taken a cruel form, filled with silences and doubts. It awakened something in her that she should never have felt, or at least that's what she thought.
The rain started falling harder, but she didn't care. She continued walking, her steps slow, as if the weight of her thoughts were keeping her anchored to the ground. After a while, she found a solitary swing under an old tree and decided to sit down allowing the rain to soak her brown hair, not worrying about finding shelter. She couldn't stop thinking about him: Draco Malfoy.
For years, Hermione's hatred of Draco Malfoy had been so deep and visceral that it surprised her at times. He represented everything she despised: remorseless cruelty, arrogance that seemed ingrained in his every gesture, and a ruthless coldness that followed his every step. His words, always sharp as razors, found the perfect way to hurt her, to make her feel small and insignificant. "Mudblood," he called her with a contempt that resonated in her mind long after Malfoy's voice had faded. Those insults didn't only affect her; It also involved his friends, Harry and Ron, to whom Malfoy also showed no mercy and with whom he was often worse. With each passing year at Hogwarts, he seemed to grow meaner, becoming even crueler, more ruthless, until his hostility became an impenetrable wall and a barrier of poison that Hermione felt she could never break through.
—Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter, —smirked Malfoy—. It’d be worth more than his family’s whole house. (From Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets). And even though the comment had been directed at Ron, it had been Hermione who had felt it as a blow. With every word, with every mocking laugh, Malfoy pushed her deeper and deeper into the abyss of contempt.
As time passed, Malfoy's cruelty was not just limited to words. As if his hatred and resentment had found new ways of manifesting themselves, he began to become more violent, more ruthless. Hermione could see how his gaze darkened, how his temper became unpredictable, as if at any moment he could burst. Malfoy, no longer content with insults, started culminating provocations in acts of aggression. There were days when, with the slightest provocation, he would physically attack Harry, Ron, or anyone who dared to challenge him or simply irritate him. He pushed them, hit them or even cursed them, blinded by a rage that not even he seemed to understand and that seemed to eat him up inside. Each encounter with him felt more dangerous, more charged with an explosive tension that kept everyone on constant alert.
How could someone like Malfoy, with all his power and privilege, find joy in cruelty? Instead of letting his words get to her, Hermione had begun to ignore and avoid him. However, over time, something began to change within her. She no longer felt the same hatred towards him. What had previously been intense rage had now cooled, turning into silent pity. "Poor Malfoy," she often thought. "Maybe his life is not as perfect as it seems and that's why he is the way he is," she said to herself. "People aren't like that just for the sake of it."
But pity wasn't the last thing she felt. Inevitably, that pity transformed into curiosity. Hermione couldn't help but wonder what Malfoy was really hiding behind that facade of coldness. There was something in his gaze, in those piercing gray eyes, that she had always found disturbing and somewhat intriguing. Now, every time she looked at him, she thought she saw something else. Was it Sadness? Pain? Loneliness? She wondered if, behind that mask of arrogance and hatred, was a human being so broken and trapped, waiting to be seen.
/FLASHBACK/
It was mid-term at Hogwarts, 6th year. Hermione walked through the school corridors, her backpack heavy on her shoulders, towards the library. It was a gray day, with the sky covered in clouds, giving the entire castle a calm, almost melancholic atmosphere. When she entered the library, she noticed that it was relatively full, which was unusual for that time. The students, immersed in their tasks and conversations, almost did not notice her. As always, Hermione found a secluded corner, one where she could focus, and chose a table by the window. In front of her, a tall bookcase covered the wall, filled with books in disarray. She settled into her seat, took out her parchment and quill, and began working on her homework.
Silence was almost absolute, interrupted only by the rustling of pages and the whispers of the other students. But in the midst of his concentration, something caught her eye. Through the small gap between the shelves, Hermione could see someone sitting on the other side of the bookshelf. It was Draco Malfoy. He was alone, like her, but he didn't seem to be doing any homework. He was just there, looking at the sky through the window, with a lost gaze. Something about his posture seemed strange. He wasn't the arrogant, self-assured Draco she always saw. He seemed vulnerable, even sad.
Hermione couldn't help but take a closer look. There was something about the way he had slumped into his chair, his shoulders hunched as if the heavy burden of his own existence was too much to bear. His eyes, usually cold and disdainful, were now cloudy, almost glassy. His lips were pressed into a thin line, as if trying to contain something that was tormenting him. The lioness frowned at the sight. What was going on with him? She couldn't help but be drawn at the sight, not only by the vulnerability he was showing, but by an inexplicable feeling that took over her every time her gaze met him.
Time passed slowly, and she couldn't stop watching. Something about him, in his fragility, kept her mesmerized. She felt a whirlwind of emotions in her chest, a mix of worry and something else. Something deeper. It wasn't the typical shallow attraction she might have felt for someone. No, this was different. There was something about his sadness that spoke to her in a much more personal way, something that touched her soul.
Suddenly, Draco murmured quietly, so quietly that Hermione could barely hear him, "I have to… I have no choice." The words were like a whisper in the stillness of the library. They seemed filled with fear, desperation. Hermione felt a shiver run down her spine. What did he mean by that? Why did those words sound like a confession, aimed at no one in particular?
Hermione's heart beat faster, and without being able to stop herself, she leaned forward a little, as if her body was responding without thinking to an invisible force that was pulling her towards him. A desire to get closer, to understand, invaded her strongly. She wanted to go up to him, ask him what was wrong, why he looked like that, why he seemed so… sad. But she knew she couldn't. Malfoy would never speak to someone like her.
It was then when, for a second, their eyes met.
The lioness froze in place. Draco's piercing gray eyes looked at her, shining with a mixture of surprise and… something else. An instant recognition, a fleeting connection, as if the two of them could see each other through the facades they normally maintained. He hadn't expected her to be looking at him, and she, in turn, hadn't expected to find that vulnerability in him, that side of Draco he'd never shown to anyone. The eye contact was so strong that she felt a pressure in her chest, as if the air around them had become dense. She felt her face turn completely red and she couldn't help biting her lower lip as a sign of nervousness.
For a moment that seemed like an eternity, Hermione and Draco didn't say anything. They only looked at each other. It was as if the entire world had completely stopped, leaving them both trapped in that moment. Something inexplicable was happening between them, a palpable tension, as if a spark had jumped between their gazes. It was as if, for a second, everything between them disappeared. But, just as the Slytherin's vulnerability had appeared for a moment, it also disappeared quickly.
Draco stood up suddenly, nervous, as if he had been caught in an act he didn't want anyone to see. Hermione watched as his face reddened for an instant, and he licked his lips quickly, as if trying to calm himself down. His expression instantly changed. Draco Malfoy's façade lifted again, and in the blink of an eye, the vulnerable person she had observed vanished. The attraction, the magnetism of that moment, became discomfort.
Without another word, Malfoy turned away and quickly left the library, leaving only the echo of his footsteps behind. Hermione stood there, unable to move, her heart beating faster than normal. Her mind was filled with confusing thoughts, questions she couldn't answer. “What the hell was that? Why did I feel that way?” For a second, she felt as if she had touched something within him, something that he didn't even want to recognize, but that she had perceived without even wanting to.
With a deep sigh, Hermione looked back at the window, the cloudy sky outside, trying to remember what her duties were, but she couldn’t concentrate. Her mind was far from all that. The tension between them, although not understood even by themselves, hung in the air, persistent and unbreakable.
/END OF FLASHBACK/
She knew very well what kind of family Malfoy came from. Lucius Malfoy did not bother to hide his contempt for anyone who did not belong to his “pure blood” world. The fact that his father was a Death Eater was a well known fact, something that Malfoy never spoke openly about but that everyone knew. It was a big part of why everyone feared him. Hermione had understood this long before everything fell apart with the war. She knew the brutality of the world Malfoy had grown up in, and having seen Lucius in person, she couldn't imagine the kind of pressure he must have put on Draco. Not only was Lucius tough; he seemed like an amplified version of his son's cruelty, triply cold and ruthless. Hermione had noticed it in the few interactions she had witnessed: the constant disapproving looks, the cruel words, and the way Malfoy seemed to cower before him, even if he tried to hide it.
She couldn't conceive what it would be like to live in such an environment. What kind of childhood could someone who was raised in a home where hatred and contempt were instilled as values have had? Over time, Hermione began to understand that Malfoy's behavior was nothing more than a reflection of what he had known all his life. He just… did not know how to be otherwise. He had grown up in the shadow of a tyrannical father, in a home where kindness was seen as a weakness and cruelty as a strength. “Perhaps,” Hermione thought, “this cruelty he showed towards others was nothing more than an armor he had forged to protect himself from the world, or worse, from his own family.”
Her curiosity consumed her. Every time she bumped into him in the hallways or when, as always , Malfoy took any opportunity to insult them, Hermione scanned him with a precision that sometimes frightened her. Her eyes roaming over his face in search of some sign, something that would give her a clue as to what was really going on inside of him. As the cruel words left his mouth, she forced herself to see beyond the facade. Draco might act like a jerk, but in those moments, when hatred dripped from his lips, there was something that unnerved her. She had noticed, in certain notes of his voice, a touch of sadness, as if, despite his coldness and contempt, something inside him was not right. Even his body language, that haughty posture he always tried to maintain, sometimes broke, revealing something vulnerable, something broken.
She cared. She couldn't stop thinking about him. Draco Malfoy was occupying her thoughts in a way she never would have imagined. And soon, that curiosity, that need to understand, became something much deeper. Hermione didn't want to admit it, not even to herself, but her heart pounded at the sight of him. It was love. That strange, contradictory love, which was mixed with wounds and contempt, and which, despite everything, continued to grow in the shadows of her thoughts.
Hermione knew that Draco Malfoy was following in his father's footsteps. They all knew it. As the years passed, Malfoy's absences from class became more frequent, and it was no secret that during those periods he had been seen lurking around Knockturn Alley, always accompanied by shadowy and suspicious individuals. You didn't have to be a genius to understand what that meant. It was only a matter of time before he became a Death Eater, one more in Voldemort's ranks.
And finally, her fears were confirmed. During the war against Voldemort, he was seen on the enemy side, as they had predicted. Malfoy, carrying the dark mark, fought mercilessly against those who had once been his schoolmates. Hermione couldn't believe it when she saw him raise his wand and cast the Cruciatus curse for the first time with a shrill, almost deranged laugh. The same person who had been a spoiled, arrogant, cruel child at Hogwarts now seemed to enjoy the suffering of others in the midst of battle. It was as if the boy she had known, no matter how despicable he was, had completely disappeared, replaced by someone broken, someone who had completely surrendered to the darkness that had surrounded him all his life. That Draco Malfoy, who had always used his words like daggers, now wielded dark magic just as coldly. The boy who had insulted her friends, who had made fun of their families, had now become something much worse than Hermione had ever imagined.
Two years had passed since she left Hogwarts, and in that time she had not seen Malfoy again. Even so, his shadow remained present in her life, her thoughts, her dreams. Her love for him was constant torture, a reminder of how incomprehensible human feelings could be.
Raindrops continued to fall heavily on her face, but she barely noticed it. She got up from the swing and began walking again. The leaves continued to fall around her, and the children, oblivious to her internal torments, continued playing, happy.
Hermione knew that what she felt for Malfoy would never make sense to anyone else, maybe not even to herself. But, somehow, that painful love was a part of her, something she could not erase or ignore. As she continued walking through the rain, she realized that her love for Draco Malfoy, as absurd and painful as it was, was part of the person she had become. And although sometimes she wished she had forgotten it, she knew that the truths that hurt are the ones that stay most deeply in the heart.
Through My Window
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, inspired by the Harry Potter universe and the characters I love so much. I am not
✨Chapter II:
Through My Window
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, inspired by the Harry Potter universe and the characters I love so much. I am not
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✨Read all chapters (full story) in AO3 here:
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, inspired by the Harry Potter universe and the characters I love so much. I am not trying, under any circumstances, to take authorship of J.K. Rowling's original work. All rights belong to the creator of this incredible saga.
Chapter II: Memories
After several hours of restless dreams, Hermione woke up slowly, feeling the sunlight filtering through the curtains of her room. The warm rays illuminated the space, highlighting the soft purple walls adorned with posters of her friends and memories of the past. A faint smell of toast and coffee reached her, drawing her toward the kitchen. It was time to eat.
As she went down the stairs, she noticed her parents weren’t home. On the kitchen table, she found a small note written in her mother’s familiar handwriting:
"Hermione, we've gone to your father's work meeting. We'll be home by 8:00 p.m. There's some meat in the fridge for you. Love, Mum."
A faint smile crossed her face. Her parents had always been a pillar in her life, but right now, she felt an emptiness she couldn’t ignore. She headed to the fridge, prepared some food, and found each bite heavier than the last. After what felt like a flavorless breakfast, she climbed the stairs back to her room with slow, heavy steps.
When she arrived, she pulled a book from her shelf, trying to immerse herself in the pages she had always loved. However, halfway through, she stopped upon finding a photograph she’d been using as a bookmark. The image filled her with melancholy, taking her back to a distant time when laughter and friendship were her part of her life.
“It feels like it’s been forever,” Hermione thought to herself, her mind drifting back. “I can still remember the last time we were together... everything felt so much simpler then.”
/ FLASHBACK /
Ron, Harry, and Hermione were in a quiet corner of Hogwarts, far from the commotion of the reconstruction. The castle, though battered, was beginning to regain some of its former glory, but the three of them still felt the weight of the war in their hearts.
The war was over, but the scars it left behind ran deep and showed clearly in each of them. Ron, taller and more robust than before, looked exhausted. His red hair, once so full of life, was messy and dull. The freckles on his face, which used to highlight his cheerful nature, now seemed to emphasize a weariness that went beyond the physical. Harry, always shorter and leaner, carried the marks of countless battles. His green eyes, once bright with hope, were dim, burdened with pain and memories impossible to erase.
Hermione, standing between them, tried to be the strong one. Her curly hair fell softly over her shoulders, and her smile, though strained, remained warm. She had a quiet beauty, almost ethereal, that was more apparent in the depth of her gaze than in her appearance. She faked cheerfulness, hiding her sadness well. But her eyes sometimes betrayed her, becoming teary for brief moments. Although she always managed to keep the lump in her throat at bay, melancholy overwhelmed her when her friends weren’t looking.
She knew this farewell wasn’t what it seemed. For weeks, they had barely seen each other, and if they were meeting that day, it was more by chance than intention. A bitter thought crossed her mind: Perhaps this isn’t a “see you later,” but a goodbye.
—We’ve been through so much together. I don’t know, it just feels like there should be more,— Harry said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His voice was steady, but there was a lingering sadness in it, the weight of memories he couldn’t escape. His green eyes, always searching, seemed to be looking for something—anything—that might offer a glimpse of hope.
Ron nodded, his gaze dropping to the ground. —Yeah, I agree. But... I’m really going to miss you, you know? A lot. We’re off to Romania next week, and honestly, I don’t know when we’ll be able to see each other again.
Hermione, feeling her emotions on the verge of overflowing, managed to speak before tears gave her away.
—Then we’ll go to Romania, won’t we, Harry?— she said with a forced smile, trying to lighten the moment, though her voice trembled slightly.
Harry tried to play along. —Of course we will. It’ll be an interesting vacation. Dragons and all that.
Ron smiled faintly but said nothing. Hermione knew their words were just that—words. A promise that would never be fulfilled. They would drift apart, like leaves falling from trees, and nothing could stop it.
As she pretended to listen, her mind betrayed her, taking her back to the darkest days of the war. Flashes of memories overwhelmed her: the sound of curses tearing through the air, the screams of those who fell, lifeless bodies scattered on the cold ground. And among all those horrors, a pair of gray eyes shone with coldness.
Those eyes had watched her from the shadows, filled with hatred—the kind of hatred that would have once made her tremble. But in recent months, that hatred seemed tinged with something else, something she couldn’t quite decipher, but which, on some level, had shaken her in a different way.
She vividly remembered seeing him there, in the midst of chaos, his wand steady as he pointed it at defenseless people. The sound of his voice, cold and assured, echoed as he pronounced unforgivable curses with impressive agility, taking lives as if they were mere pawns in a cruel game. Each word that came from his mouth felt like a dagger to Hermione’s chest—a reminder that the boy she had briefly thought she knew had turned into something far darker and more dangerous.
But then, something happened that left her in shock: as he pointed at another victim, his gray eyes met hers. Their gazes locked, and for a moment, everything stopped. His wand wavered, his lips parted as if he was about to say something else. It was a fleeting hesitation, a moment that might have gone unnoticed if not for the fact that Hermione felt it in the depths of her being.
“He hesitated,” she thought. “For an instant, he doubted.”
But the doubt disappeared as quickly as it came. His eyes hardened again, and without further hesitation, he continued casting the same spells, wreaking the same destruction. Hermione, not knowing what else to do, seized that moment to escape. She ran without looking back, her heart heavy with what she had just witnessed.
Now, that memory haunted her. Hermione didn’t know why, but she couldn’t shake the strange weight that moment had left on her chest.
/ END FLASHBACK /
A brief smile crossed Hermione’s face as she thought of those days, but it quickly faded into a sigh of nostalgia and sadness. Two years had passed since then, and the promise to stay in touch seemed more like an illusion than reality. She felt the weight of the truth: that promise had been a lie. She had always known it.
—What became of them?— she wondered, feeling alone in a world that seemed to have forgotten her. The thought that her friends might have left her behind cut her deeply. But she couldn’t understand why she had never tried to contact them. Perhaps, as Harry had said, they had been through so much together—so much pain—that remembering was unbearable. Perhaps even now, they wondered the same about her. Perhaps they, too, questioned if she had forgotten them.
A dull noise interrupted her thoughts, pulling her out of her reverie. Nervously, she stood up and began searching for the source of the sound, only to find, to her surprise, that it was the book she had thrown into the wardrobe.
—What a scaredy-cat I am,— she laughed softly, feeling slightly embarrassed.
She picked up the book and stared at it, her fingers tracing its worn cover. The title: Potions. That subject had always been the most challenging for her in that school full of magic, a place where the impossible became reality. Memories of her previous classes assaulted her, but what saddened and angered her most was the memory of one person: an insensitive person who had left an indelible mark on her heart.
Those gray eyes had always unsettled her. At first glance, they seemed as cold as steel, hard and calculating, revealing only disdain. Yet when she found herself under his scrutiny—because he always seemed to be watching her as though assessing her, searching for something she didn’t know she possessed—she felt that in that icy gaze lay labyrinths of thoughts.
Hermione sighed almost imperceptibly as her mind betrayed her again, lingering on details she tried to ignore. His angular face, with its sharp lines that gave him a severe air, seemed sculpted with precision. There was something about his features that made him stand out, as if every detail of his appearance was crafted to attract attention without trying.
And then there were his lips. For some reason, her thoughts returned to them more often than she cared to admit. Frequently curled into a smirk, they seemed to have a personality of their own, capable of adding an extra edge to every word he spoke. But there were also moments—rare and fleeting—when that expression vanished, leaving something disconcerting, almost... alluring. His lips were well-defined, neither too full nor too thin, and when he spoke, every movement seemed deliberate, as if even in his cruelest words there was an intentionality, something impossible to ignore.
But it wasn’t just his face that lingered in her memory. His distinguished demeanor, the way he walked with his squared shoulders and his head held high, exuded a confidence that sometimes bordered on arrogance. He was tall, taller than she remembered from their early years at Hogwarts, with a build that, while not muscular like some of their classmates, had a lean elegance that she couldn’t help but notice. There was something about his presence, a mix of power and control that always left her feeling uneasy and on edge, and he acted like he knew it.
Hermione slammed the book shut, trying to drown out the thoughts swirling in her head. It was absurd, almost insulting, that her mind allowed itself to focus on those details after everything he represented and everything he had done. But as much as she tried to convince herself those thoughts were irrelevant, she couldn’t deny that they lingered—persistent and painfully vivid.
Frustrated, Hermione threw the book under her bed, feeling her anger raise.
—For heaven’s sake! Why can’t I get this out of my head? I’m so sick of it!— she shouted, her voice echoing in the solitude of the room.
She sat on her bed, trying to calm herself, to find some air amidst the storm of emotions. But then a memory surfaced—one of many she could never forget.
/ FLASHBACK /
—Granger!— heard a voice calling her, dragging out the words with a tone of disdain that made her freeze.
She turned around and her eyes met Draco Malfoy's gray eyes, those eyes that always seemed to carry a hint of malice. Tall, slender, blond, insufferable, and always with unbearable superiority.
—What do you want, Malfoy?— Hermione replied disdainfully, barely concealing the anger in her voice.
—Can I tell you something?— Malfoy asked with a mocking smile.
—What?— she replied back, her patience quickly wearing thin.
—Someone like you will eventually show their true colors… nasty ones, though I think you’ve done that from the start. You’re just a filthy Mudblood, and that will never change,— Malfoy sneered, his grin widening as his friends, Crabbe and Goyle laughed like a pair of idiots.
Hermione glared at him with contempt, feeling a burning sensation in her chest.
—Drop dead!— she spat, turning on her heel to leave, trying to put that vile interaction behind her.
But the echo of her words had barely faded when she heard mocking voices behind her. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle began mimicking her, their exaggerated tones dripping with derision.
—Drop dead?— Malfoy drawled, his tone laced with smug amusement. —Really, Granger, that’s the best you’ve got? What’s next? Sticking your tongue out?—
Crabbe and Goyle snickered, their laughter low and guttural as Malfoy’s mocking continued, his voice carrying a smug confidence that made her blood boil. —Truly, you’ve outdone yourself this time.—
—Oh yeah, real scary, Granger!— Crabbe snorted, his voice thick and clumsy as he tried to keep up with Malfoy’s mockery. —Better watch out, or she’ll, uh… throw a book at us or something!—
—Oh, heaven forbid she loses points, right, Granger?— Malfoy drawled, his voice dripping with theatrical sarcasm. —But don’t worry, I’m sure you could just bat your eyes at that old fossil Dumbledore and he’d hand you a hundred for, I don’t know, existing.—
His smirk deepened, sharp as ever. —Must be nice, being the teacher’s pet of a walking antique. Tell me, does it come with a shiny badge or just a lifetime supply of condescension?—
Hermione turned around and starting walking, trying to reach the exit, but Malfoy was faster. He stepped in front of her, blocking her path with a defiant expression on his face. The cool breeze from outside stilled, as if the air itself held its breath in anticipation. Malfoy crossed his arms, his mocking smile daring her to react.
—And where exactly do you think you’re going, Mudblood?— Malfoy sneered. —Did I say you could leave? No, I didn’t. Funny how people like you always seem to forget their place, thinking they can just walk away from their betters.—
Hermione felt cornered, her heart pounding as anger and humiliation boiled within her. It was as if every word Malfoy spoke released a venom that burned.
—What do you want, Malfoy?— Hermione snapped, her tone sharp as she squared her shoulders, willing herself to appear braver than she felt. Her heart was pounding, but she refused to let him see it. —Is this some new hobby of yours? Cornering girls? You must be so proud.—
She clenched her fists, drawing on every ounce of courage she could muster with a steady voice despite the nervous energy buzzing in her chest. —And don’t forget, Malfoy, I’ve already punched you once. I’m more than capable of doing it again.—
Malfoy moved a little closer, closing the distance between them with calculated slowness. His gaze, sharp as a razor, traveled through every corner of her face. There was something about his movements that made the air around them feel thicker, more suffocating. A sneer spread across his lips as he spoke, his tone dripping with venom.
—Pay attention, Granger, — Malfoy drawled, stepping closer, his gray eyes fixed on hers with a sharp intensity that made her stomach twist. His voice was low, laced with that infuriating mix of disdain and something darker, something unspoken. —Just thought you might need a reminder of where you stand. A little clarity about your... position. After all, you’ll never be anything more than a Mudblood to people like us.—
The words rang through the air, full of contempt, and Crabbe and Goyle joined in with a stupid laughter, creating a chorus that amplified the tension of the moment. But Hermione was barely listening. There was something in Malfoy's eyes that had thrown her off.
As he leaned slightly toward her, his grey pupils captured hers for a moment longer than necessary. As he scanned her up and down carefully, as if searching for something beyond her defiant words, there was a strange glint in his gaze. A glint that faded almost as quickly as it had appeared, but it did not go unnoticed by her.
The scrutiny made her feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that couldn't be explained. Her heart raced, not from fear, but from an unfamiliar feeling that made her deeply uncomfortable. Was it curiosity? Something else? She didn't know, and she didn't want to know.
She forced herself to regain control, to not allow that moment to disarm her. But at the same time, she couldn't ignore the feeling that there was something about him, in that look, that made him seem less confident than he appeared. That slight crack in his mask of superiority confused her more than she was willing to admit.
Hermione felt anger take hold of her, but she knew she couldn't let Malfoy intimidate her. With a great effort, she gathered her courage and decided to push him with all her might, causing him to stagger.
—I don’t need your approval, Malfoy, and I’m certainly not interested in whatever game you think you’re playing,— Hermione said, her voice steady despite the furious pounding of her heart. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with unwavering defiance. —You’re pathetic, just like your father. And if you think you can rattle me, you’re wasting your time. I’m not that easily shaken.—
Malfoy smiled coldly, but his eyes held a spark of frustration and an expression she didn’t know how to interpret. Hermione felt proud of herself for standing up for herself. With one last glance at Malfoy, she turned to run, determined to find shelter in the nearby park. However, in that fleeting moment when their eyes met again, Hermione noticed something disconcerting again. He observed her carefully, not just her face, but all of her, as if he were trying to decipher something that not even he himself fully understood, he also seemed... sad? The look was intense, loaded with a weight that seemed too much for the short moment they shared.
The sensation made her trip slightly over her own feet as she walked away, her heart beating even faster. There was something in those gray eyes that she couldn't ignore, something that didn't fit with the mask of indifference and contempt that he always insisted on showing.
/ END OF FLASHBACK /
As she walked, echoes of her past resonated in her mind, but there was also a spark of hope that guided her. Maybe, one day, those memories wouldn't be a burden, but a part of the story that had made her what she was.
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✨See chapter I here:
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, inspired by the Harry Potter universe and the characters I love so much. I am not trying, under any circumstances, to take authorship of J.K. Rowling's original work. All rights belong to the creator of this incredible saga.
Chapter I: Secrets
Sunlight filtered through the curtains of the room, shining with an intensity that seemed to illuminate every corner, while birds sang cheerful melodies outside. Yet, for Hermione, that sunny day only deepened her melancholy. Reclining on her purple bed, surrounded by books and notes, she tried to read, but the words dissolved into meaningless murmurs in her mind.
Frustrated, her gaze wandered around the room as if searching for answers among the objects that surrounded her. Eventually, it settled on one of her Hogwarts books, her heart weighed down by memories she could not escape. With a sudden motion, she grabbed it and hurled it toward the wardrobe, feeling a mix of anger and sorrow. She sank back onto the bed, her pulse racing, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts.
Looking out the window, her heart felt heavy with nostalgia. Painful memories overwhelmed her, shadows of a past that refused to fade. Each image was an echo in her mind—a flash of laughter, arguments, and farewells that pulled her into an abyss of sadness. A tear slid slowly down her cheek, then another, and another, until her pillow became a refuge for her grief.
The door opened softly, and her mother, a warm presence with chestnut hair, stepped into the room. Concern was etched into her expression.
—Hermione, are you all right? Why are you crying?— she asked gently, her voice almost fearful.
Hermione quickly wiped her tears away, as if trying to erase the sadness before her mother could see it.
—I’m fine,— she said, though the words came out a bit too quickly. She forced a smile that was almost convincing, but her eyes betrayed her, flickering with uncertainty.
Her mother, unconvinced, sat down beside her and studied her intently, trying to unravel the truth.
—You know you can tell me anything,— she said tenderly.
Hermione averted her gaze, afraid that if she met her mother’s eyes, she would crumble, and she couldn’t allow that.
—It’s nothing, Mum, really. I’m fine, honestly,— she said quickly, though her voice trembled slightly. She lowered her head, pulling the covers up to her chin, and let her thoughts drift, heavy and silent, as she sank back into the solitude of her mind.
Despite her concern, her mother left the room to give her space. Hermione wasn’t usually like this; she was known for her warmth and joy. But for a while now, her mother had noticed a shadow in her daughter’s eyes, a distant quality as if part of her weren’t really there. At first, she dismissed it, convincing herself it was her imagination. “She’ll be fine,” she’d think. But it kept happening, growing more constant until it could no longer be ignored. She didn’t want to admit it, but seeing Hermione this way confirmed her fears. Still, she knew pressing her daughter wouldn’t help. Whatever weighed on Hermione’s heart was tied to the magical world, and she had explicitly asked them not to discuss it after her final year at Hogwarts. Whatever had happened during those seven years had changed her deeply. Closing the door quietly, her mother left her alone.
Outside, the sunlight dimmed as dark clouds gathered, and the birdsong gradually faded. Soon, raindrops began to fall, turning the bright day into one of gray melancholy.
Hermione watched the rain through the glass, her thoughts as heavy and dark as the sky collapsing around her. After the war, she had made a decision that surprised even those closest to her: she had distanced herself entirely from the magical world. To many, Voldemort’s defeat was a victory, but for Hermione, it marked the beginning of an endless internal struggle. The horrors she had witnessed, the lives lost, and the sacrifices made had left deep scars on her soul.
She couldn’t return to that world. She couldn’t face the halls of Hogwarts, now haunted by absences, or the familiar faces that reminded her of all she had lost. She couldn’t even see Harry or Ron. Harry and the others had tried to include her, but each meeting turned into a procession of memories that left her breathless. She avoided all contact, coming up with excuses to stay home.
But it wasn’t just the echoes of war that tormented her. There was a constant presence in her mind—a face that appeared with painful clarity, accompanied by emotions that overwhelmed her. Him. Every time she thought of him, her heart filled with a mix of longing and guilt. She remembered fleeting moments, whispered conversations, and stolen glances that felt like eternity.
She couldn’t face him—not after everything. She had tried to convince herself that her feelings didn’t matter, that they were a mistake, a passing illusion. But the emptiness she felt when she thought of him told her otherwise. He was someone who, by all logic, should never have mattered so much. Yet he was imprinted on every corner of her being.
Hermione sank into a darkness she didn’t know how to confront. The weight of everything she had experienced dragged her into a depression that felt unshakable. The nights were the worst: dreams filled with screams, flashes of green light, and familiar faces disappearing into nothingness. She would wake up drenched in sweat, her heart pounding wildly, trapped in terror as though she were back in the chaos.
The panic attacks came soon after. At first, they were brief flashes of anxiety she thought she could control. But they soon grew into debilitating episodes. She could be sitting at the dining table with her parents, trying to enjoy a family meal, when a sound, a word, or even the scent of a magical object would send her spiraling into sheer terror. The air would vanish, her vision would blur, and all she could do was shake and cry, consumed by an irrational but undeniable fear.
Her parents, worried but unsure how to help, did what they could: they offered her a safe haven. Hermione clung to the Muggle world, seeking solace in its simplicity. She returned to her childhood bedroom, covering every trace of magic with mundane objects, trying to erase any connection to the world she had left behind. She locked her wand away in a box, vowing never to use it again, and avoided any contact with her old friends.
—This is how it has to be, I know it,— she murmured to herself, her brow furrowed in frustration. —So why does it feel so wrong?—
She closed her eyes, trying to escape reality, but the images pursued her. Memories of defining moments, of a life that had worn her down, refused to let her go. She opened her eyes again, attempting to focus on her book, but exhaustion overwhelmed her. The tears from the previous nights had drained her. Finally, she closed the book and allowed herself to drift into a world of dreams where sadness couldn’t follow her.
But even in her sleep, the memories persisted—unyielding and painful, intertwining with her being. They were part of her now, indelible marks of a life she longed to leave behind, secrets that followed her like shadows in the night.
Draco and Hermione have been enemies since they met at Hogwarts and they've lead very different lifes. There was always a spark between them, a silent care for each other although it was something they couldn't admit even to themselves. With time, Malfoy followed his father footsteps and became a Death Eater, pledging his alliance to Voldemort.
It's been 2 years after Hogwarts and the war and Hermione cut off ties with the magical world, losing touch with her friends and everyone, suffering from PTSD and depression. However, after struggling with painful memories for a long time, she decides to write her friends Harry and Ron and reunite with them but what she doesn't know is that he will meet him again and things will become complicated once more. Will it be different this time?
The Draco in my story is a person who is struggling with whether or not to lose his humanity by serving Voldemort and following his father's legacy. He is physically, mentally and emotionally tired, almost drained, and he is extremely unhappy. It is becoming increasingly difficult for him to hide the sadness he feels. He is a person who seems cold but is actually very sensitive.
I always think of Dane Deehan as Draco when I describe him in my story because he has an intensity in his gaze that I find unique, deep and very beautiful. He may not look like the typical Draco Malfoy but he has something special in my opinion-
In the story both Ron and Harry have special feelings for Hermione, which also complicates things. There's a lot of stuff happening with Voldemort and additional characters. In the video I could not go into much detail about it but in the written story I could, as well as other important information.
Inspired in "Por Mi Ventana (Through My Window)" Fanfiction by LthienOfDorthonion.
Link to the story in AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60701563
Currently 19 chapter published and more to come :)
Hello! Nice to meet you. You can call me Luthien. That’s my fictional first name. I’m a Fanfiction author, I love writing, Harry Potter and I specially love Dramione stories.
When I was 13, I came across Fanfiction.net and I discovered Fanfiction. It changed my life and was able to read so many stories, wonderful ones that blew my mind. That’s when I decided to start writing Through My Window. It is a special story for me and have a deep love for the characters: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. I want more people to read it so I’ve translated it to English (yeah, English is not my primary language) and I’ve rewritten it and will complete it this time. I came back to it 20 years later more motivated than ever to take it through its completion. I am currently posting it on AO3 and I will be posting the chapters here for you to read, I will also leave you the link below in case you feel more comfortable reading it on AO3.
What is Through My Window about?
This is a slow-burn fic that delves deep into the intense, emotional journey between Hermione and Draco. While it takes its time to unfold, it will eventually lead to moments of passion and connection that I hope will make the wait worthwhile.
Two years after Voldemort's supposed fall, Hermione hides in the Muggle world, distancing herself from her best friends and trying to forget a blond boy with grey eyes. But fate has other plans, dark and full of mysteries. An unexpected reunion unleashes hidden feelings and secrets that threaten to change everything. Will they be able to resist the attraction that unites them?
What to expect from this story:
* Intense character development (takes its time) * Depressed, insecure Hermione * Draco is bad at feelings, a lot of internal struggles, he really needs a hug * Malfoy's POV and Hermione's POV, sometimes both POVs simultaneously * Good Friend Harry Potter, kind noble Harry * Intense Jealous possesive Ron, kind of an assh*le too (though you might like him at first) * Lot of sexual tension Dramione * Assh*le Lucius Malfoy * Lots of focus in thoughts and feelings, and a looooot of non verbal communication through eye contact to build tension lol ♥ * Ft. Remus, Severus, Luna, Neville, Ginny, Pansy (not like the one usually depicted in Fanfics, she's selfish and insensitive), lot of Weasley twin humor content and other HP related characters, assh*le Blaise Zabini. * Ft. Lot of HP lore and Golden trio content
***** Intensity and more intensity And yes, there will be spicyness, just be patient :)
Trigger Warnings: Rated E (Explicit)
This story contains graphic depictions of violence, rape/non-con, sexual content, abuse, mentions and depictions of depression, PTSD, intrusive thoughts, Anxiety, Major Character Death.
Please read at your own discretion.
Link to the full story on AO3:
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