Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The Hogwarts Express arrives with a blistering whistle and a billowing cloud of steam. Draco Malfoy, standing tall beside his trunks and one small crate, can’t help but smirk.

It’s all old hat to him now; the muted bustle of platform 9 ¾, the lamplight throwing long, dramatic shadows on the worn stone floors, the powerful engine pulling in as families cry into their handkerchiefs, then wave the damp fabric in the air as they bid farewell to the students for the next three and half months.

But as it’s his seventh and final year at Hogwarts, Draco tries to take it all in. He lifts his head to admire the iron and glass ceiling and fills his lungs with crisp, autumnal air. Idly, he adjusts the snake-shaped pins of his platinum collar chain, keeping his trinity-knotted tie centered between the lapels of his charcoal robes. His chest swells with pride. Most wizards can’t master a four-in-hand, let alone the trinity. But Draco is not most wizards.

This is going to be his year. He’s twenty-one, Slytherin’s best seeker in a generation, and dating the fittest witch at school. By June’s end, he’ll ace his NEWTs, win the coveted potioneering apprenticeship and another quidditch cup, and since seventh year coincides with courting season, he’ll also leave Hogwarts with a fiancée. Then he’ll leave boggy old Scotland behind for good.

His smirk widens. He has it all figured out.

“Malfoy.”

Draco winces as he turns to find Crabbe clapping him on the back in greeting. Built like a bludger—and about as clever—Crabbe has never been one to know his own strength.

“Crabbe. Have you seen Pansy?”

Draco rubs his shoulder as he scans the crowd for his girlfriend, but as usual, she seems to be running fashionably late.

Crabbe scratches his armpit, looking more thoughtful than usual. “Mm, might be with Goyle.”

Before Draco has the chance to hunt for Goyle’s wide frame, his mother appears at his side.

Narcissa Malfoy holds her head high, despite everything their family’s been through the past three years. A veiled pillbox hat sits atop her platinum hair. While her robes aren’t new, she’s brought out one of the sparkliest necklaces from their vaults as a tactical distraction for the gossipy types.

“Good morning, Vincent. I just spoke with your mother. She tells me she’ll be chaperoning with me this season.”

“Yes, Mrs Malfoy,” Crabbe says, dipping his chin in respect. He’s buzzed his dark hair short. “Hoping for a good match.”

“I’m certain you’ll comport yourself well. Draco practised all summer. I trust you did the same?”

Draco sighs and searches again for Pansy. It’s been a long summer without her. She’d travelled back to Vietnam with her family while he’d been stuck at home with merciless French dance instructors, stoic Germans specialising in manners and etiquette, and his father’s solicitors, who required his signature, thumbprint, and far more day-to-day management than Draco expected. It would have been much more convenient if his father had not gotten himself tossed in Azkaban after the disastrous final task of the Triwizard Tournament, but since he has, Draco has not known a moment’s peace.

That will all change once he marries.

As the wealthiest wizard in all of England, Draco will be the prime target this season for those looking to climb the proverbial ladder. But he’s also clever, which is why he decided to sidestep the obvious traps before him and toss his lot in with Pansy far in advance. Pansy is much more suited to the running of the estate. He'll be able to leave matters in her capable hands while he continues to brew potions with his godfather—surely the extra work he's been doing on medimagical applications will make the apprenticeship a sure thing—and play for the national quidditch team. In return, she’ll be set for life.

He’s always known they belonged together. Years ago, when he presented her with his plans for the future, she hadn’t even blinked before saying yes, and a huge weight was lifted off his shoulders. Rather genius on his part, really. He doesn’t know why more people don’t lock something down early.

Of course he still has to go through the motions. According to everyone who’s been through it, including his parents, courting season is fun, but predominantly stressful. Traditionally-minded Purebloods have less than a calendar year to find a suitable partner; it’s just the way things are done. He’s memorised the schedule of events, knows every step of every dance drilled into him by his poncey tutors, and can interpret intentions by the tilt of a fan or the composition of a corsage. Perhaps he can’t recite the entire extended family tree of all the eligible witches his age, but again, he’s anticipated this. All he needed to study was who-married-what-Parkinson for the last three hundred years.

And he knows it, mostly. He’s never been one for long hours in the manor library. Who could blame him, when he has the fastest broom on the market and the clear skies of Wiltshire beckoning?

Reluctantly, Draco tunes back into the conversation.

“Draco’s lucky he doesn’t have to worry about courting,” Crabbe was saying. “He and Pansy are perfect for each other.”

“Indeed,” his mother murmurs. “I look forward to welcoming Draco’s choice of bride to the family.”

Draco offers a polite smile, carefully harnessing his satisfaction. If possible, he’s even more excited for his wedding day than his mother. He’ll marry the perfect bride in his ancestral home surrounded by the most prominent members of polite society.

In addition to locking down a wife, he’ll have unlimited access to his inheritance and permission to finally run the manor as he sees fit.

The train whistles again, and Crabbe makes a hasty goodbye before lumbering off.

“Do you have everything, little dragon?”

“Mother,” Draco huffs. He’s had a full foot height advantage over her since he was sixteen, and yet she won’t let the nickname go.

“If you’ve forgotten anything, I can bring it with me to the first social. It’s only two weeks away.” She reaches up and smooths her thumb across his jawline, then cups his face with soft, affectionate palms. “And I though I suspect you’re tired of me saying it, I’m your mother and I must: you only get one season. This is your chance to explore your options. Even though you and Ms Parkinson are currently intertwined—”

“Mother.” Gently, he closes his fingers around her wrists, the metal of the Malfoy signet ring winking in the light, and while she purses her lips, she drops her hands and steps away.

Technically, his mother is right. Draco has more options than any Malfoy before him. Ever since Potter defeated the Dark Lord in that frigid graveyard and upended societal norms, half-bloods twenty-one and up can participate in the yearly courting season.

Draco would never stoop so low as to marry a half-blood. But he sees the sense in opening up the process.

There aren’t many witches and wizards to begin with, let alone purebloods. The best families, those with massive wealth and pristine bloodlines, make matches immediately, but those with lighter vaults or less secure connections have to shop around a bit, and since the new wave of participants falls into the latter category, the new state of play has the obvious effect of turning the competition between the families of the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight even more fierce. Families prepare for years for the chance to marry well and have their fortunes soar, socially and financially.

His mother’s obvious disappointment twists his stomach, but he remains steadfast. She just doesn’t understand that he can’t risk entertaining other witches. She can’t understand. His mother has never been plagued by fortune hunters, or worse, morally bankrupt witches who don’t value their education and instead attempt to land a wizard by way of a covertly sabotaged contraceptive charm.

He’s known Pansy since he could walk. They used to sneak away during balls and hide under tables draped in silk damask, where they’d strip off itchy lace socks and stiff leather shoes and take turns picking the worst Bertie Bott’s flavours from the bag and daring the other to eat them. When wine-drunk adults asked where they’d been, Pansy could always spare them from any real trouble by batting her lashes and spouting some lie that made them chuckle and comment on her precociousness.

He can trust her.

“If she’s your choice,” his mother nods, worry creasing her forehead.

Draco falls back on his father’s words. “The Parkinsons are a good family. Sacred Twenty-Eight, holdings in England and Asia, no debts or known health issues.”

“Of course.”

“And Pansy’s practically a Malfoy already. You told me yourself how much you appreciated her input when you redecorated the east wing. Good taste is hard to find.”

With a flick of his wand, his belongings take flight, floating behind him in mid-air like ducklings bobbing behind their mother, waiting to see which direction she might sail.

He busses his mother’s cheek, a twinge of guilt plucking at his nerves. They aren’t an outwardly affectionate family, the Malfoys—it isn’t the done thing—but sometimes he wishes he was small again, so he might be permitted a hug. It wouldn’t undo the tension between them, which roils beneath the surface of every interaction they’ve had since he assumed control of the estate. But it might help.

Every decision goes through him. Every purchase, every sale, every investment, because he’s the man of the household now; no longer his mother’s responsibility. The script has flipped. He’s responsible for her, and her future, and marrying well will ensure them both much happier years ahead.

It’s rather a lot of pressure.

Draco shoves the thought away. He’s twenty-one, for Salazar’s sake, and Malfoys have broad shoulders. He can carry this.

He’s the last to board the train. Even the nervous firsties have gotten on before him. As the doors close, the familiar scent of bituminous coal and protective magic fills the air, as if he’s not on a train but standing over his cauldron for the first time again, and for a moment, he closes his eyes and breathes it in. It doesn’t last—a series of discordant, excited squeals from a gaggle of third year girls rather spoils the effect—but he shouldn’t linger this close to departure, anyway. He stows his trunks on the rack and takes the crate in hand as he strides down the aisle toward the seventh year compartments.

“Malfoy, in here,” Goyle calls from a few doors down, waving a meaty hand in Draco’s direction.

The compartment is spacious, and the walls are embroidered with miniature couples dressed in Slytherin green, dancing across an endless parquet floor, moving in time to a song only they can hear. Draco slides past Goyle and onto the hard wooden bench, tucking the crate beneath his seat just as the train lurches into motion. Daphne scoots over to give him more space, tossing her dark blonde hair over her shoulder while nudging Crabbe closer to the window. Draco pays Crabbe’s protests no mind, because across from him sits Pansy.

She’s shed her robe, revealing a starched white button-down tucked in a black skirt, her long pale legs crossed demurely at the ankles. At first, he can’t see all of her heart-shaped face because she’s checking her signature red lipstick in her compact mirror, but when she shuts it, Draco’s heart stops.

Pansy wields her beauty like a weapon, and she stabs him in the chest every time. Somehow she even makes the regulation skirt with the stupid box pleats look sexy. As she tucks her black bob behind her ears, her dark eyes meet his, and his mouth twitches up at the corners. She doesn’t smile back.

That’s Pansy for you. Zabini loves to say she’s the Ice Princess to his Slytherin Prince, born and bred to be a perfect, proper pureblood wife. At Hogwarts, she’s pursued courses in finance and magical law so she’ll know exactly how to handle a noble family’s holdings. She’s stylish, in the way his mother is stylish; she keeps her colour palette black and white, and wears sky-high heels no matter the occasion. She comes with an allergy to timeliness and a high degree of sass, but that’s part of her charm. A less difficult witch wouldn't interest him.

“Hey gorgeous,” Draco tries again to get Pansy’s lips to curve.

“Malfoy,” she says primly.

Malfoy? Since when is he Malfoy? Is this a test? Does she want him to snog her in front of everyone or something? He’d be all for it, but Pansy doesn't go in for public displays of affection. He means to inquire further, but doesn’t want to embarrass himself by asking what’s wrong—they have an audience.

“Seventh year. Last autumn term,” Crabbe cheers, slapping his knees as he turns his attention away from the red and gold foliage outside the window. “And courting season. Can you believe it?”

Daphne snorts. “Courting season. They made sure to give it a benign name, didn’t they?”

“Here she goes,” mutters Goyle.

“Whose bright idea was it to commit young pureblood men and women to an entire year—during NEWTs prep, I might add—of exchanging gifts ascribed archaic meanings? Months of veiled conversation whilst dancing at galas in order to secure a spouse? I’d love to know.”

Pansy’s nose shoots up in the air. “Just because your sister’s considered a better catch doesn’t mean you have to rail against the system, Daph. It’s getting tired.”

“This adherence to tradition is what’s tired.”

“Our magic helps us divine the right match,” Crabbe says. He’s always defended the courting process, probably because he stands to benefit the most from it. As far as Draco knows, Crabbe’s never had a witch give him the time of day. “You don’t trust your magic?”

Daphne’s eyes roll so far toward the back of her head the entirety of her irises disappear. “You sound like Professor Trelawney. If divination was real—and it isn’t—we’d know our entire future because it would be laid out for us at birth. We wouldn’t need a courting season. It’s utter rubbish.”

“Worried no one will choose you?” Pansy sneers. “Why don’t you consider taking a page out of Astoria’s spellbook and, I don’t know, try being ladylike for a change?”

The Greengrass sisters, despite being only two years apart in age and sharing the trademark Greengrass dark blonde hair, could not be more different. Spiky as a weed and twice as stubborn, Daphne is frequently overshadowed by her younger sister, who’d blossomed early like wisteria on the vine. Draco had blinked and Little Greengrass turned pretty. Unfortunately for him, he’ll always remember her as the precocious tadpole he taught to fly. Otherwise, he might’ve considered her.

“Lay off, Pansy,” Goyle glowers, and for some reason Pansy wilts a little, as if she’s ashamed.

Weird. Draco didn’t think shame was in Pansy’s emotional lexicon. She and Daphne always snipe at each other. Draco tries not to take sides, but Daphne’s like a sister to him, and Pansy is so often the antagonist in their little spats.

Pansy clears her throat. “What I meant to say is wizards are only considering waiting for Astoria because you’re, well…”

“Openly hostile,” suggests Draco.

“Kind of a buzzkill. Not as bad as Granger, but, you know, up there,” Crabbe adds, unhelpfully.

“You’re fiery, and some men can’t handle that.” Goyle stretches and lays his arms on the back of the bench, deep in thought. Draco raises an appreciative eyebrow. He’s not checking his best friend out like that, just admiring that he’s clearly been working out. Good thing, too, since they need to pull out all the stops if they want to take down Potter and the Gryffindors this year.

Daphne folds her arms in front of her chest. “Good. I don’t wish to be manhandled.”

“Don’t you want to be married, though?” Pansy retucks a hair that foolishly dared to rebel and trains her gaze on Daphne. “Make a house of your own into a home? Have children?”

“Not really.”

“No kids?” Crabbe’s face takes on a pained expression. For years it’s been obvious to anyone within a ten mile radius that he’s smitten with Daphne. He either can’t interpret her overtly oppugnant signals or refuses to acknowledge that Daphne wants nothing to do with wedded bliss, and he’s so bloody sensitive that no one wants to tell him the truth outright, lest they have to deal with the fallout.

“I’m not about to end up a broodmare for the establishment. That’s all they care about, you know, the Ministry. More magical babies. That’s the only reason they’re letting muggleborns in this year. Too many wix going unmatched.”

“Muggleborns?” Draco jerks back in surprise. “They’re letting muggleborns court?”

He doesn’t share his father’s exact views; it’s one thing to recognise the inherent superiority of purebloods, and quite another to resurrect a monster hellbent on world domination. But Draco doesn’t have to be a fanatic to recognise that muggleborns are wholly and utterly unprepared to participate in the courtship season. Muggleborns typically marry other muggleborns by way of a lengthy, messy process, roughly outlined in his Muggle Studies course. It involves things like a ‘talking stage’ and risky engagements without so much as a basic contract. As far as he knows, they don’t even have rudimentary cotillion lessons. If they match at all, he’s led to believe that it’s usually at a serious social, economic, and magical disadvantage.

“First half-bloods, then mudbloods,” Pansy sneers. “All because of Potter, I suppose.”

Mudblood. Draco winces. Few people use the slur anymore, especially in public. It’s so ugly and obvious. But amongst his set, the term hasn’t been relegated to the history books. Many purebloods claim it’s the only appropriate term, that using it is part of their heritage.

The fact is that despite Potter’s heroics, the hierarchy of the wizarding world remains relatively unchanged. There’d been some minor business about freeing house elves, though most, including the Malfoy elves, stayed on with their families in exchange for clothes and nominal wages. The Ministry made a big show of hiring a half-blood Head of Portkeys. And of course, his father, his mad aunt Bella, and the other Death Eaters who'd helped the Dark Lord become corporeal again received life sentences for their troubles. But that was about it.

His father did wrong, but Draco can’t forgive Potter for his part in putting Lucius Malfoy behind bars, thrusting his obligations into Draco’s lap at the tender age of nineteen. As such, their rivalry endures, though without the political rancor that once fueled it. Both wizards are seekers of the highest calibre, excellent duellists, and have been trained—separately, of course—by Draco’s godfather in the art of occlumency.

Draco had hoped he’d be awarded Head Boy this year, seeing as his marks are far better than Potter’s, but the absence of a letter from Dumbledore this summer had told him all he needed to know. He’d consoled himself with firewhisky and the fact that Potter can’t change his lineage. Even if he marries a pureblood witch—and odds are good—he’ll always be a half-blood; worse still, a half-blood with no sense of style who spends his time rollicking around with muggleborns and muggleborn sympathisers.

Draco is too genteel to use outdated vulgarity, but it doesn’t mean he finds the idea of mixing with the lower classes the least bit palatable.

“Too bad Snape’s not chaperoning this year,” Goyle muses. “He’d have a field day taking house points for that sort of language.”

“He’s not chaperoning?” This is news to Draco.

“How’s he supposed to chaperone if he’s not even at the castle? Apparently he took a sabbatical. My father heard he might be forced to come in and teach a few lessons, in case that cousin of yours with the tattoos can’t handle preparing us for DADA NEWTs.”

“Fucking Black family affair,” Crabbe grumbles, digging around in his pockets and coming up with a few knuts. “Anyone else hear the trolley?”

Draco refuses to be distracted, even by the potential opportunity to temporarily sate his sweet tooth. “Sirius is teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

“Seems more than qualified,” Daphne shrugs as Crabbe brushes past her. “Vince, get me a cauldron cake, will you?”

“So it’s Vince when I’m stopping the trolley, is it?”

It’s undeniably true that Sirius Black, Draco's second cousin once removed and, more recently, Potter’s substitute father, has more hands-on experience going up against the dark arts than most wizards living today. Ironic, since most people thought he was the dark wizard who betrayed Potter’s parents. He’d been offered an Order of Merlin and a position in the Ministry once his name had been cleared, but decided to fuck off to Islington instead, where he reportedly lives with Remus Lupin (his husband), Nymphadora Tonks (Remus’s wife, and also, damnable narrowing bloodlines, Draco’s cousin), their son (all three claimed him), and, who else? Potter.

Draco sweeps a hand over his face, but it does nothing to quell his rising irritation. They aren’t even off the damned Hogwarts Express and he’s already thought about Potter more than he wanted to for the entire year. Once they’re finally face to face on the pitch he’s going to crush him; break his stupid spectacles and grind him into the dirt.

Crabbe ducks back in the compartment and shoots Daphne an apologetic look. “Firsties ate all the cakes. Second choice?”

“Figures.” Daphne stands, resolute. “Let’s see what’s left.”

Draco’s heart rate picks up. This might be his best chance to speak with Pansy alone before the feast. He tosses a meaningful look at Goyle, tilting his head towards the door.

Come on, old chum.

“I’ll go, too,” Goyle says smoothly, as if leaving had been his idea. Despite his hulking form, he moves with surprising grace as he steps over Pansy and Draco’s feet and slides the door shut behind him.

For a scant second, Draco studies Pansy. Deciphering her mood is always a challenge, but especially so today. She doesn’t seem to want to meet his gaze.

“Missed you this summer, gorgeous,” he says, lifting his trouser-clad leg and dragging it down the side of her bare calf.

Pansy recoils, and her eyes finally lock on his. She looks… Scared? No, not scared. Nervous?

“Malfoy,” she starts, then swallows her next words. Draco shifts to lean forward in his seat. What’s that about? She’s called him Draco since they’ve been together.

Maybe their last few months apart have her questioning his loyalty. Malfoy men are deeply loyal to their intended brides, but the same cannot be said for other Sacred Twenty-Eight families until rings are on fingers and bindings are sealed. Perhaps he’d been remiss not to reassure her sooner that he won’t entertain other offers this season. By the end of seventh year, they’ll be betrothed, and soon after, he’d make her his wife.

Salazar, he’d almost royally fucked this up, hadn’t he? He should have had one of his solicitors put something in writing. He’ll send an owl as soon as the feast is done. Until then, he’ll reassure her with words of his own.

“I know we’ve spent a lot of time apart this summer, what with your travels and everything I had to attend to at home, but I promise you, Pansy Ngân Parkinson.” He deploys her full name like a trump card, taking her cold hand in his. “I haven’t once thought about changing my mind. You’re the right witch for me.”

She looks as if she might cry. Again, highly unusual, but in her defense, Draco has just been terribly romantic.

Pansy draws back her hand, and that’s when he feels it. A shift. If he had an empty teacup, he feels certain there’d be a grim staring up at him from the bottom of the porcelain.

“I didn’t want to do this now,” Pansy says quietly. “But I don’t think there’ll ever be a good time.”

“To what?” Draco asks, but when he looks back on this moment later, he realises that deep down, he already knew.

Her voice is barely a whisper. “End things.”

Draco reels back. “What?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I… You have to understand, I meant to marry you.” She wrings her hands, half her focus trained on the door, where any minute their friends will burst back in with a largesse of snack foods and no idea of the strained conversation taking place. Draco holds his breath and waits for her to continue.

Pansy frowns when she speaks again. “All this time I’ve been preparing to eventually become your wife. I mean, I know everything there is to know about what it would take to be the perfect Malfoy bride. I could throw a gala wandless with my eyes closed. And when we left things in June my mind was made up. But then I went to Chùa Bái Đính with my cousins a few weeks ago, and it was so peaceful there. I had some time to reflect on what I really wanted out of life. And I realised that I want more than a marriage that makes sense on parchment.”

Having entered a state of shock not unlike being hit by a stunner, Draco can’t think of anything clever to say, and only repeats himself again. “What?”

“I know it’s a massive risk,” Pansy continues. “Everyone’s going to think I’m mad. What girl wouldn’t want to marry you?”

His brain, which until this point has been reading her signals as the opening to a renegotiation of terms—he’d planned to give her unfettered access to everything he had, but maybe there was something he’d forgotten?—suddenly erupts into chaos, jettisoning adrenaline into his bloodstream. He clenches his fists around the lip of the bench, so tight he thinks he might splinter the wood. He feels sick.

“Don’t do this. I—I need you, is that what you need me to say? Tell me what it’ll take, and I’ll do it.”

Pansy looks at him like one might look at a fussy mandrake mid-repotting. “I don’t understand why you’re fighting this so hard. You’ll have your pick of witches.”

“I don’t want them. I want what we agreed to.”

“And that’s just it. You want what we agreed to. You don’t actually want me, Draco.”

She’s finally called him by his name again, but it’s like a thin layer of cheap salve after a nasty stinging jinx. Not the right cure.

“I do,” he implores. “Forgive me if I sound upset but I’m offering you an incredible life in the lap of luxury and you’re threatening to throw me to the wolves. Make it make fucking sense!”

There’s a loud bang, and the compartment goes dark. They’ve entered a tunnel.

Draco keeps talking, words spilling out faster than he can vet them for sensibility. “Look, I’m sorry about this summer, alright? I’ll make it up to you. Courting season starts in two weeks, and I’ll dote on you every second. The freshest flowers, the finest jewels, fucking, I don’t know, Swiss chocolates on your pillow every night before you go to bed. It’ll be the talk of the castle.” He spreads his arms wide. “The courtship to end all courtships. You know I can afford it.”

There, that ought to tempt her out of whatever nonsense she’s fallen into.

Sunlight floods the compartment again, and with horror, Draco turns and sees the half-open compartment door, riddled with the sticky ends of extendable ears, and his friends just outside, cringing as they look on.

“I’m sorry,” Pansy says hurriedly, rising from her seat. She wobbles in her heels, and—are those tears in her eyes? “I just can’t.”

“Pansy.”

“I hope you find the right one.”

She flees, and from his seat in the now-empty compartment, Draco vaguely hears a choked sob followed by the soft, mournful sound Goyle made when they found that injured unicorn that one time. He leaps to his feet and—it is Goyle, scooping up Pansy like she weighs nothing and carrying her off in front of the entire train. Almost all the doors are open, and when he steps out into the aisle, it’s packed. Hundreds of eyeballs watch their departure into another compartment, then swing to him.

Sweat gathers under his arms. He resists the urge to fidget with his collar.

Everyone onboard has just borne witness to his break-up. Dumping, more like. They’d heard his unseemly begging, the way Pansy denied him even after he promised her the world. There’s mortification, and then there’s whatever this is.

The tips of his ears go hot.

“What are you lot staring at? Show’s over,” he shouts. Crabbe and Daphne crouch, hustling themselves into the compartment. Draco stands determinedly, gripping his wand like a lifeline.

What’s his next move? Go after Pansy? Act as if nothing happened? Buy every sugar quill left on the trolley?

He attempts to retreat down the aisle with some semblance of dignity, but instead stumbles backwards into another person. Grand, just grand.

“That was rough, Malfoy,” comes a muffled but distinctly feminine voice from behind him. “Are you alright?”

Draco closes his eyes and nearly growls with frustration. He’d know that uppity speech pattern anywhere.

Of all the people to overhear the total decimation of his relationship—and possibly his life—it just has to be Granger. And she has to ask him, like the kind of precious, pure-intentioned angel she’s fooled everyone into thinking she is, if he’s alright.

He won’t give her anything more than the sight of his back. The so-called cut direct, if she knows anything about purebloods, which she obviously doesn’t, because she speaks again.

“Dreadful luck, and right before the start of courting season. Although, from my limited research, you’ve got time. Not that I’ve read much about courting season—there aren’t exactly many books on the subject, it’s mostly old family journals—but the Weasleys told me Sacred Twenty-Eight families always match the first go-round. Unless you’ve got some sort of horrid disease or some such.”

“What could you possibly want?” He grits out.

“Oh, Snape gave me your Head Boy badge.” He hears her fumble for it.

Head Boy? Not that he’s about to turn the honour down, but what about Potter?

Granger’s still nattering on. “He’d hoped to be here, but, as I’m sure you’ve heard, circumstances have changed, and now I’m meant to give it to you.”

Circumstances have changed, indeed.

He holds his hand out at his side. “So give it to me.”

Draco expects her to throw it at him. Instead, she lays the badge, still warm from her pocket, into his open palm. He senses her hand lingering in the air above his for the quickest of moments before falling away. He curls his fingers around the metal.

“Right. That’s done then,” she says matter-of-factly. “I suppose I’ll see you in our rooms.”

She’s already sailed past him, a thundercloud of hair, before he realises what she said.

No. No no no.

“Now hold on a second, Granger,” he snarls. Before he thinks better of it, he follows her into her compartment and slams the door behind him, trapping them alone together.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger straightens her spine even as she cranes her neck to look up at Malfoy. He’s much the same since the last time she saw him, lurking about the dungeons with his girlfriend—ex-girlfriend, as of two minutes ago. Same slicked-back white-blond hair, same mercurial gaze, same sneer. But there are a few differences. His jawline is sharper, and somehow he’s grown even taller. Not that she’s intimidated by their height difference.

Hard to be intimidated by someone who’s just been unceremoniously dumped in front of half the student body.

Malfoy’s certainly not intimidated by her. Few people are. She didn’t inherit her father’s impressive presence, or her mother’s ability to cut with a glance. No, Hermione knows how others see her: Brilliant, but too curious, too sincere; overly serious in a manner that elicits discomfiture and, inevitably, dismissal. Cute, but never beautiful. Too much and yet, somehow, not enough.

But intimate knowledge of these facts does not come with the ability to change them. Even with magic.

Malfoy takes a menacing step towards her, but despite the movement of the train, she holds her ground. The compartment feels smaller; stuffier. On the walls, the tiny couples in their embroidered finery up their pace from a basic waltz to a quickstep.

“You’re Head Girl,” he chuckles with derision. “You?”

She can’t believe she tried to be nice to him two minutes ago. God, he’s an arsehole.

Of all the situations Harry’s gotten her into, this might be the worst.

She’d been thrilled to pieces this summer when she received the letter from Dumbledore. Molly Weasley brought it up to the attic, where Hermione was fifth-wheeling it with Fred and Angelina, and George and Lee, working on the latest Wheezes product. Hermione opened it then and there, vibrating with anticipation until she read the pivotal lines and burst into tears of joy. That night, all the Weasleys gathered round the Burrow’s massive oak table with her to celebrate, raising glass after glass of frosty butterbeer in her honour.

There’s never been a muggleborn Head Girl.

It’s a huge achievement; a reward for long hours in the library spent hunched over dusty tomes. An acknowledgment, beyond house points—which don’t do anything for her, the way Harry and Ron fritter them away—that she has the right stuff to make it in the magical world after her school days end.

When she and Ron, arm in arm, visited Harry and Sirius at Grimmauld, they celebrated again, as Harry, to no one’s surprise, was named the Head Boy to her Head Girl. Ron joked about sleeping on the sofa, so they might all room together, and Hermione had wondered, after the not-so-innocent kiss they’d shared in the kitchen one July morning, why he didn’t say he’d be bunking with her.

In hindsight, that’d been the sign she needed. Within the last fortnight, she’s cried more than she ever has in her entire life. Ron got back together with Lavender. Harry won’t be at school this year, after he promised her he’d help her navigate courting season—the first one to ever allow muggleborns. On top of that Professor Snape, who she’d hoped might help her launch her career by awarding her the potioneering apprenticeship, won’t return to Hogwarts for her seventh year, either.

Oh, and to top it all off, if her instincts are right, they’re all in grave danger, so Malfoy will just have to forgive her if she doesn’t have time for his unoriginal jeers.

Hermione plants her hands on her hips, further wrinkling her plaid skirt. “Just say it. I know you want to.”

“Fine. You’re a muggleborn.”

Unlike some of the other purebloods, Malfoy has stopped saying mudblood, at least to her face. That small glimmer of decency, plus the fact that her badge would’ve likely gone to the utterly undeserving Susan Bones, made her dig in her heels and stay Head Girl despite the change in plans. She’s earned it, after all. Still, he doesn’t deserve accolades for following a pro forma Ministry mandate to eliminate a slur from his vocabulary. The bar is already in hell; no need to lower it for cordiality’s sake.

Not that she’s feeling particularly cordial anymore.

“My, what an astute observation. I only regret that we’re not on school grounds yet, so I can’t award you any house points for this miraculous discovery.”

He scowls. “You know what I mean. There’s never been a muggleborn Head Girl.”

“And the revelations keep on coming! You really should’ve waited to tell me that when it would have benefited Slytherin’s house pot. I might’ve sprung for ten, even twenty.”

A satisfied smile creeps onto her face as he tries to reel in whatever he’d been about to say. Something nasty, no doubt. Probably about her frizzy hair, or her big brown eyes that he often accuses of granting her a more innocent look than she deserves. He’s not altogether wrong, but he severely overestimates the halo effect.

Instead, he bites out, “Where’s Potter?”

She’s prepared for this, and the lie slips from her lips like a simple spell. “Auror training. I’m not privy to all the details.”

Malfoy’s brows raise in surprise, but he tamps down the emotion just as fast as it flickers across his face, resuming his cool demeanor. An efficient mask. Despite her best efforts, she’s long admired Malfoy’s mastery over his feelings. Hermione sucks at the corner of her cheek, remembering her last ill-timed outburst.

“Just tell me why,” she’d begged, crying into Sirius’s chest. “I should be there!”

Malfoy interrupts the painful memory with his slow drawl. “I suppose saving the world once wasn’t enough.”

She doesn’t meet his gaze, the pit in her stomach well on its way to becoming an ulcer. She should’ve eaten more than yoghurt with berries this morning. “Suppose not.”

“Second place, as always,” he mutters to himself. “And now I’m stuck with little miss muggleborn herself. Grand, just grand.”

Of course he’s still hung up on her blood status. Malfoy insists on carrying water for theories of pureblood superiority—theories which had been thoroughly disproven in various magi-scientific publications. Not that she’s ever seen Malfoy open a book. It’s what makes his intelligence so infuriating. He barely lifts a finger.

Hermione can only hope he’ll hit a wall at some point. Preferably at one hundred and sixty kilometres an hour, or however fast firebolts ridden by foppish prats can travel.

She expects him to return to his compartment, but Malfoy doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave. Strange, since they can’t stand each other. From the moment they met, when he shattered her picturesque, snowglobe-like view of the magical world by introducing her to the deep-seated bigotry touted by nearly every one of its inhabitants, she’s hated him. If you’d asked her then if anyone from their year would join up with the Death Eaters, she was sure it would’ve been Malfoy. He never missed a chance to taunt her.

But after Harry took down Voldemort, and his cronies, including Malfoy’s father, went to Azkaban, Malfoy has avoided Hermione entirely. He still takes shots at Harry, mostly about his scar or his performance on the quidditch pitch, but any battle with her is smaller in scope, usually limited to academics.

That doesn’t mean she wants to spend her last year at her beloved Hogwarts with Malfoy as her roommate, though. She’d raged to Snape when she heard from Dumbledore.

“Are you saying you can’t handle Draco?” Snape had asked, his stare lancing her while flinty aconite embittered the air. Lupin’s wolfsbane, near-ready, shimmered in the cauldron. “My, my. Times have changed. I seem to remember you setting my robes ablaze with that cold fire of yours.”

It isn’t that she’s lost her fire; far from it. Flames shoot through her veins if she so much as thinks of conjuring them. It’s just the… Malfoy of it all.

He remains where he is, pure male arrogance gussied up in fancy robes.

Hermione spares a thought for her own attire: tight squeeze of a skirt, plain ivory jumper with patches Molly sewed onto the elbows, frilly socks tucked into mary janes. The most expensive thing she’s wearing is her rose gold locket with the tiny diamond in the middle. She never takes it off.

It would’ve really sparkled in the candlelight at one of the courting season’s galas.

“As long as you’re here, I’ve drawn up some ground rules for cohabitation,” she says, rummaging around in her beaded bag. A gift from Viktor right before they parted ways, she isn’t sure why she’s held onto it. A flashy purple handbag is hardly her style. But he’d liked her, really liked her, even though she couldn’t seem to return the depth of sentiment.

Even with Ron, the tears she shed were more for the demise of their friendship than out of any romantic love for him.

Maybe she’s broken. Though she tries not to believe it, the thought plagues her from time to time. Recently it’s taken up a more permanent residence in her mind, masquerading as an inevitable truth; another piece of trivia about herself that proves she’ll never fit in. She feels her jagged edges now more than ever.

Her fist closes around a roll of parchment, and she clears her throat like a royal herald as she withdraws it, letting it unspool down to the floor.

“There is no way,” Malfoy groans.

“Rule one: all shared spaces, including but not limited to the kitchenette, living area, and bathroom—”

“We have to share a bathroom?” he asks, aghast.

“Tradition,” Hermione says with a scowl, thinking of all sorts of unfortunate intimacies it’ll require. She can always sneak out to the prefects’ bathroom, but the very idea of hauling her soaps and sundries through the castle when there’s a perfectly good private bath mere steps away makes her nose wrinkle in distaste. “These spaces are to be maintained to a reasonable level of cleanliness at all times. That means more than a scourgify every week. Rule two: do not use my things. This includes but is not limited to—”

He interrupts again, hooking one long finger over the parchment and giving it two taps. “Granger.”

She glances up. “Yes?”

“How many rules do you have there?”

“Forty. But I reserve the right to add more.”

Malfoy sighs so hard it ruffles the baby hairs at her crown, and a hot wave of pique sweeps through her at his imperious tone. “Fucking ridiculous. Okay, here’s the only rule we need: don’t talk to me unless it’s necessary, don’t eat my food, and don’t get in my way.”

“That’s three rules.”

“What-fucking-ever.”

“I’m only trying to help,” she says, injecting her words with honey-sweet venom. “It’s not my fault you can’t count.”

“Would you like to test that theory? I believe I bested you in Arithmancy last year.”

He had, damn him, and they’d both aced Potions. But she’d edged past him in Curse-Breaking and Astronomy.

Malfoy steps towards her again, but in the cramped compartment, she has nowhere to go. Her duelling skills are excellent, but he’s leaving her very little room to manoeuvre. Her back hits the wall, sending the charmed dancers scattering.

Up close like this, his eyes are molten silver. But they can’t distract from that awful cologne he wears. It smells like someone poured rubbing alcohol over macerated pine needles, swished it around, and at the last minute threw in an old lemon peel. Probably costs a hundred galleons a spritz.

She raises her chin in a show of defiance. “I’m adding three rules of my own then.”

“Fine. Let’s have them,” he seethes.

“You have to be nice to Crookshanks.”

“Who?”

“My familiar. Big orange cat? Surely you’ve seen him. He rode in with Sirius on his motorbike. Hates trains, tinned fish, and blond wizards who hold themselves in too high regard.”

Malfoy’s mouth twitches, but as quickly as it registers on his face, it disappears. “And the other two?”

“Never go in my room.”

“Obviously.”

He says it like his godfather. Slowly, and full of contempt.

“And no overnight guests. No one after midnight.”

She can justify the rule. First of all, ‘nothing good ever happens after midnight’ is an adage for a reason. It’s worth heeding, especially if you’re the only muggleborn witch in your year. The amount of times she’s been cornered by pureblood supremacists only to be saved by Harry and Ron… Hermione doesn’t like to think about all the close calls in her younger years. The events at the quidditch world cup gave her nightmares for weeks.

Malfoy had tried to warn her. But he didn’t try to stop them.

Coward.

Will she be fine now that she’s nearly twenty-two? Of course. Probably. She’s a dab hand at disarming spells and semi-lethal hexes. But the real reason for the rule is that the last thing she wants to hear is Malfoy entertaining witches—well, wix, she doesn’t want to assume his sexuality (or think about it at all, thank you very much)—through any shared walls. And since she isn’t participating in the courting season, she doesn’t have any reason to believe this rule will impact her own sex life or, rather, the lack thereof.

“I’m not following that,” Malfoy snorts. “Pansy will want to stay over.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Au contraire, Granger. You’re the delusional one. Pansy and I are meant to be. Everyone knows it. This is but a mere hiccup along our way to the altar.”

His smirk is carefree, completely unbothered, and it burns her up inside that he might be right. Pansy is one of the most selfish, cruellest people Hermione’s ever met, but also stop-you-in-your-tracks beautiful with style beyond her years. Vibrant and poisonous, like a wicked stepmother from a fairy tale: It’s fitting that she’d marry Malfoy, not to mention something of a public service.

“Seems like more than a hiccup to me, considering the timing.”

He’s still so close to her. The compartment feels overwarm, but she doesn’t push up her sleeves. She can’t be distracted.

“I’ll have her back by the end of the week. A thorough shag should do it.”

“You’re foul,” she replies. “That doesn’t work. It’s not that simple.”

Hermione cringes with embarrassment, then quickly comforts herself with the knowledge that Malfoy doesn’t care about anyone but himself, and so, fortunately for her, he won’t unpack her retort.

“I’d explain all the ways you’re wrong, but I’m afraid I’d shock you, and that hair of yours has been through enough without adding electricity.”

He’d done well in Muggle Studies. It still rankles.

She resists the urge to check her hair’s current voltage and instead decides to hit him where it hurts. “You think so highly of yourself, don’t you, Malfoy? If you’re so knicker-meltingly good in bed, why would she break things off at all? Maybe she’d rather take her chances on the open market than commit herself to a lifetime with a man proud of mediocre...” Hermione flicks her eyes down to his trousers with faux pity. “...Conjugal relations. Ah, well. Money doesn’t buy everything.”

Malfoy runs his tongue along his teeth, pure hatred in his eyes, but before he can return fire, the compartment door flies open. Quick as lightning, he steps aside, hand hovering over the wand holster on his hip. Seeker reflexes.

Three familiar witches hover in the doorway, and Hermione’s shoulders drop with relief.

“Hermione,” Luna Lovegood says airily. Her dangly silver earrings tinkle as she tilts her head to one side, her thick plait cascading down her navy robes like a blonde waterfall. She ignores Malfoy.

The Patil twins, Padma and Parvati, peer over her shoulders, two sets of deep brown eyes assessing the situation. As a firstie, Hermione learned to tell them apart by their fringe—Padma wears hers blunt and straight across, where Parvati’s frame her face like curtains.

Luna’s smile is serene as she continues. “We thought you might like some alternative company.”

“I would, thanks.” Hermione glares at Malfoy, willing him to leave. She can finally breathe properly again now that he’s not almost-touching her, but this also means she can smell his offensive cologne clinging to her jumper. While no one’s looking, she casts a silent, wandless scourgify. There’s a vainglorious satisfaction in it—she’d bet Malfoy can’t do that.

“Ladies,” Malfoy bows slightly, and damn him, Padma’s forward sway tells Hermione everything she needs to know about the power of his charm. He pulls witches in like a black hole.

“Sorry to hear about you and Pansy,” Parvati says, fingers stroking the gold Lakshmi pendant hanging from her bracelet.

Malfoy chuckles, and it’s almost jolly, as if ten minutes ago the whole Hogwarts Express hadn’t heard him plead with Pansy to stay with him; as if one minute ago he hadn’t been spoiling for a row. “Word travels fast, I see.”

What’s his problem? How can he act this way? Everyone knows Malfoy and Pansy are attached at the hip. He should be devastated.

Ordinarily she wouldn’t care, but knowing she has to live with him and manage prefects alongside him for the entire year, she supposes she ought to pretend to care. If she pretends to—ugh—tolerate him, maybe he won’t hog the bathroom in the mornings.

Not that she’s any good at pretending. There’s no fake-it-til-you-make-it when it comes to being Hermione Granger. It’s the main reason Harry offered to guide her around the ballrooms this courting season, as a trial run for the real deal. As her best friend, he’s always understood her dislike for crowds, loud noises, and most of all, the unknown. Odds are good no one will make a match with the muggleborn girl right out the gate, but with enough time and practice, she can blend in enough to stand out.

And it’s crucial for Hermione to stand out in the right way. She wants to marry someone magical, and this courting business seems to be the only path to doing so (unless she wants to marry another muggleborn, and considering Justin Finch-Fletchley isn’t interested in witches, and there aren’t other unattached muggleborn men around her age…). That’s why when the decision to let muggleborns court came down a few weeks ago, she’d pleaded with Molly Weasley to tell her everything.

Molly did her best, but since the events change every year, there’s no way to prepare for all the eventualities. Purebloods take years and years of manners and dancing, and study languages of flowers and jewelry. A month isn’t nearly enough time to play catch up.

Harry knew only a little more than she did, but he had Sirius in his ear and fame on his side, so he could steer any negative focus away from Hermione. No one would dare breathe a word against Wizarding Britain’s saviour.

She misses him terribly.

It’d be nice if Ron would step in and help her, but he’s achieved his long-held dream and taken up with Lavender Brown. After he confessed to Lavender that they’d snogged—once!—she won’t let Hermione within ten feet of him, for fear that her Won-Won might be tempted to stray. And as Ron told her (gently, via letter), he can’t mess things up with his future wife.

So that’s her two friends, gone. Luna’s nice enough, and she appreciates the thought behind her rescue mission, but again, Hermione already made her peace with the fact that she’ll have to handle Malfoy’s irksome presence all year. As for Padma and Parvati (who everyone mostly refers to as ‘the twins’ since the older Weasley twins are long gone), well, they’re as beautiful as they are mysterious. Potential friends, but Hermione has never been very good at having friends.

Ron, coming from a big, loud family, is immune to her quirkiness, which helps. Harry, though… Harry loves her like the sister he never had. Their bond transcends friendship.

Now, she’s on her own.

“Aren’t you upset?” Luna asks Malfoy. “I would be, if my intended bride broke up with me right before courting season kicked off.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Malfoy replies. He doesn’t even flinch as he pushes past the trio of witches, affixing his Head Boy badge to his robes as he goes. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again before the season begins, but if not, I wish you all successful betrothals.”

“And the same to you, of course,” Padma titters, watching him walk away.

Luna shuts the door with a bang and wipes her hands. “Ugh. He’s awful.”

“Awfully dreamy,” Parvati sighs as she melts into a seat, dragging Padma down with her. “The hair’s bad, though. I don’t know why he wears it slicked back.”

“It was terrible at fifteen, and it’s terrible now,” Padma agrees. She pops a stick of gum in her mouth and begins to chew before offering the pack to the other girls. “Pansy told me he’s a total slob, too. Used to being picked up after.”

“Lovely,” Hermione says with a grimace. She really should’ve stuck to her original list of rules.

The compartment falls silent except for the chug of the train and intermittent popping of bubblegum. Unsure of what more to say, Hermione stares out the window.

She’s always loved the autumnal scenery on the way to Hogwarts. Every year, it’s like the world drapes itself in Gryffindor colours, just for her. It’s not lost on her that this is the last time she’ll ever have this view. But without Harry next to her chomping down cauldron cakes and cracking bad jokes, it’s just not the same.

“Are you joining us this year? For the season, I mean,” Luna says after about twenty minutes of relative quiet. “My father’s been preparing me forever. I can’t imagine how it must feel for you to go in without the benefit of familial knowledge.”

Padma scans Hermione with her perceptive eyes. “No manners. No grooming. No formal training.”

“Don’t be such a twat.” Parvati elbows her twin. “You make her sound like livestock.”

Hermione keeps her focus on the ethereal Scottish landscape and clears her throat before responding. She won’t let them see how deep their words cut her. “I’m aware of my shortcomings, thanks ever so.”

“Not shortcomings,” Padma rushes to say. “Just, erm, well, you know.”

“Deficiencies?” Hermione offers coolly. “Inadequacies? Failings? Lack of purity?”

No one says a word.

“You should do it,” Luna says finally, voice soft like rain.

“You should,” echo the twins, nodding at breakneck speeds.

She doesn’t know why she tells them the next part. “I thought about it. Harry was going to show me the ropes, but he won’t be at school this year.”

Padma sighs. “Married Ginny early? That’s another wizard off my list. Damn.”

Hermione thinks of Ginny, kneeling in the garden in full sun, her hands tearing up every weed and when there were none left, starting on the flowers.

“No,” she says. “Ginny’s doing a year abroad. Harry’s got Auror training. They’re not together anymore.”

“I suppose if you’re the Chosen One, you can have your courting season whenever you bloody well please,” Parvati shrugs.

“Yes, well,” Hermione redirects her attention towards Luna. “I don’t think this season is my season.”

Luna’s lips scrunch to one side, but she nods, her earrings tinkling again. “If you change your mind, I’d be happy to loan you a gown.”

It’s a genuinely sweet offer. Hermione has a gown, purchased on a shopping trip with Harry and Sirius this summer, with the courting season in mind. Crimson satin, strapless, with a slightly scooped neckline. And of course there were the matching shoes, gloves, ribbons, barrettes…

But then Harry was suddenly gone, and there’d been no time to learn what to do once she was actually in the dress. So she left it hanging in his closet at Grimmauld, shimmering satin spilling out like liquid stardust, scattering light on his black dress robes. A dream deferred.

She considers taking Luna’s hand and giving it a squeeze, but she isn’t sure if they’re close enough that Luna would welcome her touch. Instead, she whispers, “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

“Who’s still on your list, then?” Luna asks Padma. Hermione is grateful for the way the attention shifts away from her. “Seamus?”

“Seamus, Dean, Anthony, Eddie, and…” Padma trails off, looking sheepish. “Maybe Goyle?”

Hermione is flabbergasted. “Goyle?”

Greg Goyle? The same Goyle who used to wear his robes backwards and had to take remedial Potions after somehow destroying a double-reinforced cauldron? That Goyle?

Impossible. Of course, Hermione isn’t blind. All the hours she spends with her nose in books have not yet necessitated the need for spectacles. Anyone can see that Goyle is big in the way Scottish highlanders of old were big, and a lot of women are into that. But if she has a type, it isn’t Goyle.

Parvati jumps out of her seat with a squeal. “I told you, he got so fit!”

“Speaking of fit,” Luna giggles. “Has anyone seen Nott?”

Hermione has, in fact. Last year, she spent a great deal of time with Theodore Nott. He’d been an excellent potioneering partner, which to Hermione meant that he let her manage the entire process without complaint. Half the time he entertained himself by peering over Harry’s work with Ron, making snide remarks as their projects turned to ether or, worse, burnt sludge. Nott is Slytherin in the sneaky way, where he disarms you without you knowing it, and only later do you realise he’s nicked your wand—and your galleons.

But for all his dimpled charm, Hermione isn’t certain what to make of him. His father, next in line for Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, is a notoriously “reformed” Death Eater, though according to Snape, Nott Sr is the furthest thing from recalcitrant; he merely calculated that it would be better to appear chastened and keep his seat, and he was right. All his associates are in Azkaban while he holds court.

Does Nott share the same beliefs? He’s never called her mudblood aloud. But she’s not a legilimens.

She settles on a safe compliment. “He has nice eyes.”

“Neville looks good too,” Parvati adds, brushing her fingers through her fringe. “I’ve no idea how. Maybe all those hours in the greenhouses? Doesn’t matter. He’s my number one. He’s got loads of money since his parents passed, and if he can take care of all those high maintenance plants, he’ll definitely know how to spoil me.”

Padma rolls her eyes at her twin. “Don’t be gauche.”

“We shouldn’t only be thinking about potential matches in terms of money and looks,” Luna says firmly, though she doesn’t scold. Luna isn’t like that. “What about the things that make someone a good husband?”

Finally, some sense.

“I’d like a gentle husband,” Padma declares. “Someone who’d be a good dad.”

“Someone who’s willing to stray from the beaten path would do it for me,” Luna muses.

Parvati huffs. “I didn’t say I didn’t want anything beyond money and looks. I’m just saying chemistry is important. Don’t you agree, Hermione?”

Hermione knows a great deal about muggle chemistry. She memorised the periodic table by the time she was five. She understands ionic bonds, covalent bonds, and metallic bonds. But human chemistry, human bonds? Those remain a mystery to her, even after her adolescence, when attraction caused reaction after reaction.

“Of course. Chemistry is a must,” she says blithely. “But there are other things, like Luna’s saying.”

“Like?” Parvati presses, scooting to the edge of the wooden bench.

Shit. Hermione didn’t expect to be asked. She blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Challenging. He should…” She falters a little, feeling the weight of the other witches’ eyes on her. “He should challenge me. And himself. He should want to be the best version of himself he can possibly be.”

Padma stifles a laugh. “Oh, Hermione.”

“What?” Heat blooms across her cheeks. Clearly she’s said the wrong thing.

She always seems to say, and do, and want the wrong thing.

Parvati reaches across the compartment and pats her knee. “Pureblood men don’t want to challenge their wives, let alone themselves. They’re mostly soft, spoiled princes who’ll play at marriage for a bit while they still need to produce a legitimate heir, and then they’ll pop off again as soon as you give them a boy.”

“The next soft, spoiled prince,” Padma groans.

Luna spits out her gum and folds it up in the foil. “That’s why I’d like someone—or someones, I’m open—who’ll do something different. My mother and father loved each other very much. After she died, he didn’t do what some men do and abandon me with one of my female relatives. He didn’t even remarry. He raised me himself. I’d like to think any wizards I chose would do the same for our children.”

“You’d have a poly marriage?” Parvati asks.

“I’ve always been a bit unconventional. I know they’re rare, but as an only child, it might be nice to learn how to share.”

Luna says it wryly, like she knows it’s funny, but Hermione covers her mouth to hold back her laugh anyway. But it’s impossible when Padma and Parvati start giggling, and soon the conversation naturally flows into safer waters, like their opinions on the new Celestina Warbeck album, and what everyone did over the summer.

An hour passes, and the train rocks in a steady rhythm that lulls Hermione to sleep.

When she wakes, deboarding is nearly through, but Luna’s waiting for her.

“Hello, sleepyhead. We’re here.”

Hermione gathers her things and follows Luna off the train. Hogsmeade glows in the sunset, and just beyond the outskirts of the cosy village, thestral-drawn carriages wait to fly them off to Hogwarts.

“Go ahead, I’ll see you in the Great Hall,” she says. “And thanks again for the rescue earlier.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Luna’s smile radiates kindness, or maybe sympathy. Hermione always finds it hard to read other people’s emotions. Well, except Harry’s, and maybe Malfoy’s, when he’s baiting her.

“I’ll see you at the prefects’ meeting? After the feast?”

“After the feast?” Luna echoes, and her smile doesn’t fade, but it changes somewhat. “You don’t waste time.”

Hermione wishes she hadn’t said it; wishes she could be more casual about things—everything. But she’s not like that, and she can’t pretend to be. If she and Luna are going to become friends this year, and she hopes they will, despite her misgivings about Luna’s proclivity for conspiracies, it’s better for her to know what she’s really like.

“Yeah. I guess I’m just ready to get started. Close to, anyway.”

There’s one more thing she has to do. It’s tradition.

Luna bids her farewell and starts down the cobblestone streets. Hermione waits two minutes, then follows the same path, focusing on her feet. Her heart rate picks up when the stones turn to mossy hillside, and doubles again when she senses the undiluted presence of raw, ancient magic. When she finally reaches the top, she takes a deep breath, and slowly lifts her head.

Dusk paints the sky in hues of pink and purple as the sun dips beneath the horizon, abdicating her throne. A westward wind, just this side of chilly, whistles in her ears, carrying with it the soft hoots of owls headed home. At the edges of Hermione’s vision lies the Forbidden Forest, tendrils of fog beckoning her to discover the mysteries within.

But those things aren’t what commands her attention now.

It’s the castle.

Hogwarts.

It’s both in time and out of time all at once. Bathed in fading light, towering spires reach towards the heavens. Stained glass windows, lit by torchlight, wink at her merrily, dotted along the stone walls like a hundred homing beacons. If she squints, she can see the vines creeping up the turrets, and the gentle waves on the lake, pushing ever-towards the place she’s called home the last seven years.

This might be the last time she ever sees it like this.

Tears spring to her eyes, but she wipes them away as quickly as they appear. They only distort the view. She waits a few more moments, and when there’s a shift in the wind, she clutches her locket, as if it’s a tiny pensieve where she can tuck the memory away. She doesn’t ever want to forget this feeling; the deep sense of belonging she feels when she’s alone here, the magnificent castle in the distance calling to her magic.

This can be Hermione's year. Even without Harry and courting and the potioneering apprenticeship. It’s up to her to make the most of it.

Now she’s ready to start.

Chapter Text

The feast drags on forever.

Another year, another rambling speech from Dumbledore, followed by familiar foods whipped up in the castle’s kitchens by the now-handsomely-paid elves. The fare tastes the same as ever, down to the spiced pumpkin chocolate mousse for dessert.

Pumpkins line the Great Hall; floating candles infuse the air with their scent; they’re even on the tablecloth, forked-tongued snakes coiled around their stems. Draco doesn’t understand the world’s obsession with the preposterously-shaped gourd. Chocolate is perfect as is, and need not be adulterated. Lacking appetite, he pushes the offending mousse around the bowl with his spoon, just as he did when it appeared on his plate seven years ago.

Not everything is the same. From his position at the end of the Slytherin table—Draco’s usually in the middle, the centre of attention, but at present he’s still too stunned to be social—he shoots furtive glances at Pansy. She ignores him, doing that thing she does at parties where she exaggerates her laugh, throwing her head back and pressing her hand to the base of her throat. At one point Goyle whispers something in her ear that is apparently so hilarious she has to wipe away fake tears.

He knows they’re fake, because Pansy doesn’t cry. Earlier, he thought she might, but…

And since when is Goyle funny?

It’s too loud in the cavernous hall. To his left is Millicent Bulstrode, who prefers to be called Milly now—a softer, more feminine rebranding done seven years too late. She’s waxing poetic in her put-upon, sing-song voice about her summer in Vienna when he finally snaps, banging his fist on the table.

“For Salazar’s sake, can’t you find someone who cares and tell them instead?”

She jerks her head back, amber eyes wide. He’s nastier than he means to be, but he’s thinking. He needs to say something to Pansy, and it has to be the right thing. What he said on the train was decidedly not the right thing, even though he promised her the moon.

Milly shrinks away from him, focusing her storytelling efforts on Crabbe, and Draco runs his tongue over his teeth, whispering spells to freshen his breath and dewrinkle his shirt. He has to look the part of prince charming while speaking the words of a regretful ex-boyfriend.

Unless that makes him look weak.

And what is he supposed to regret, anyway?

Draco spends the sorting flip-flopping between sending his eagle owl to the manor for her namesake pansies from the greenhouse, or a few gold bars from the study, currently employed as paperweights. He’s off both as the last student’s house is bellowed from the hat—GRYFFINDOR!—deciding as he rises from the table that a gift would be more appropriate after they’re back together. Getting the talking bit out of the way first is probably best. But when he scans the room, it’s as if she’s disappeared into thin air.

He follows the trail of green-tied students down to the dungeons, but Nott stops him, grabbing at his sleeve before he can give the portrait the password.

Shit. He doesn’t actually know the password. Why would he? He hadn’t had to race for a prime bunk this year. Of course, he’d been in a hurry to get to the feast when he left his things in the Head Students’ quarters. He didn’t even get a good look around, but he assumes the rooms are well-furnished. They’ve almost certainly got a much better view than murky lake water and the odd giant squid tentacle. The only thing Draco made certain of was his handling of the crate, gently lowering it to the floor and slipping dinner inside before he left.

“Give Pansy some space, yeah?”

So Nott knows, too. Grand, just grand.

Draco bites the inside of his cheek. If he could only talk to her, they could patch things up. He isn’t sure why she decided today of all days was the time to throw in the towel—

The portrait swings open, and before it shuts again, he glimpses Pansy, on the sofa by the fire with a cup of tea—the fine china kind, with the pictures painted in blue—with Little Greengrass’s arm around her shoulders. Romilda Vane budges up as well, leaning in to hear Little Greengrass’s soft encouragement.

“Girls do this sort of thing after a breakup. Hold a postmortem, etcetera,” Nott continues, leaning his lanky frame against the wall. A sconce lights his delicate features; long eyelashes lining deep blue eyes, high cheekbones, winged brows made for arching. All of it enhanced by his inky, close-cropped curls. In short, Nott is pretty. If Draco wasn’t so deeply into witches, he’d probably fancy him.

“And what would you know of girls?” Draco snorts. He knows he’s being rude, but he isn’t feeling particularly charitable at the moment.

Nott seemingly takes no offense, chuckling good-naturedly. That’s the thing about Nott; he’s nearly impenetrable in both mood and mannerism. The other Slytherins can bait him all they like and he’ll never take it. Apart from his opinions on quidditch kits (should be tighter), lemon drops (should be sweeter), and sex with women (no, thank you), the wizard is an enigma.

“Perhaps you have the advantage of intimate anatomical knowledge,” he muses. “But when it comes to the inner workings of the female mind, I believe my romantic preferences have allowed me a front row seat.”

“Fine,” Draco allows. “But I know Pansy.”

Nott pierces him with a stare, and there it is. The arched brow.

Draco is about to parry with an arched brow of his own when Zabini saunters up, imperious as usual. He’s always ridden the line of propriety, but he’s taken it even further since his mother married her latest husband, the magical lead singer of a muggle punk band. Zabini is the embodiment of the punk rock aesthetic: while he still wears his hair in twists, both ears are pierced, and he has too many tattoos to count. Gone are his preppy jumpers, traded in for a studded jacket. “Well if it isn’t the Head Boy. Deigning to grace us with your presence already? Private rooms not good enough for you?”

The trio ducks into an alcove, cold seeping through the dark stained glass window. They’ve always been friendly, but slowly drifted towards each other at the start of their fifth year when it became clear that, despite generations of the Dark Lord’s servants canopying their family trees, none of them desired to continue that particular legacy.

They don’t advertise it, of course. One never knows when power will shift again. It’s less of a big deal for Draco. His father and his aunt are never getting out of Azkaban. Nott’s father, on the other hand, still wields quite a bit of influence, both within his house and outside of it.

“I came to see Pansy.”

Zabini exchanges looks with Nott before rolling his deep brown eyes. “Think that ship’s sailed, mate.”

“In the span of, what, a few hours? We’ve been together for two years.”

And they’d been friends for far longer. That has to count for something.

“How often did you see her this summer?” Nott inquires mid-stride. He leads them away from the dungeons, out of the range of anyone curious enough about the conversation to conjure up a pair of extendable ears.

Draco shudders, half from the dank air and half from the memory of the dozens of ears stuck to the compartment door, broadcasting his breakup to the entire train. Those bloody things are going to haunt his dreams tonight.

Recovering, he takes a moment to consider. “Twice, towards the beginning. She spent most of it in Vietnam. She sent letters.”

Nott inclines his head meaningfully. “And did you write back?”

Heat blooms at the base of Draco’s collar. “I was busy with the manor.” It’s an excuse, but it’s also true, and it irks him that they can’t understand the pressure he’s under. Though a high-ranking Death Eater, Nott Sr evaded justice by virtue of his Wizengamot seat, and Madame Zabini’s reputation somehow continues to remain spotless, despite her many ‘missing’ ex-husbands. “And what’s there to write about? Wiltshire hasn’t changed in a thousand years.”

“You poor idiot,” Zabini tuts. “Set aside the fact that it’s a sign of good breeding to write back even if you’ve nothing to say. You couldn’t muster up some pretty words for the witch you intend to marry? Not even an ‘I love you’?”

“I never—” Draco stammers, suddenly and inconveniently unable to meet his friends’ eyes. “Pansy and I don’t say that sort of thing to each other.”

He hadn’t, anyway. There’d been that one time, six months ago, when he and Pansy got terribly sauced and snuck into the astronomy tower. Draco had kissed bruises into her throat while they watched the sky, his deep knowledge of divination drawing his attention to the constellations where he hunted for signs of—well, he didn’t know. When he asked, mostly sarcastically, if Pansy saw anything, she looked up at him, licked her lips, and uttered those three little words.

He’d blinked in surprise, and Pansy immediately backtracked. “You don’t have to say it back.”

“I thought we’d wait for… All that,” Draco told her.

“Of course,” she said, running her fingers along the purpling marks on her neck.

It only now occurs to Draco that perhaps she doesn’t like when he’s rough. But it’s the only way he knows how to be. Malfoys aren’t gentle with their things.

Perhaps this is because they can always be replaced. Most things, anyway.

His father had advised him that love had to grow. That had been the way for him and his mother, and his parents before him, and their parents before them. After the marriage vow is complete and they’re bound to one another, he will come to love Pansy, and probably in that pathetic, worshipful way his father loves his mother. It isn’t Draco’s style, but perhaps such simpering is inevitable: Pucey turns into an utter fool when Lisa Turpin floats into a room, and Romilda twists herself into knots trying to get Millicent—Milly’s—attention.

His brain points out, unhelpfully, that none of those couples are married, and yet they already display the tell-tale signs of besottedness. Draco straightens his shoulders and sets that inconvenient thought aside. Would it have killed him to tell his future wife he loved her, knowing that one day, he would?

Nott lets out a low whistle.

“As I said, you’re an idiot.” Zabini sighs and tucks his hands in his pockets. “You want her back, right?”

“Obviously,” Draco grumbles, kicking an imaginary rock with his shoe. Even in his annoyance, he’s careful not to scrape the dragonhide against the flagstones.

He not only wants her back; he needs her back. As per hundreds of years of tradition, Draco can’t receive his inheritance until the ink on his marriage certificate dries. To further complicate matters—and, he suspects, to incentivise Malfoy men to marry quickly—if he remains unbetrothed after his twenty-second birthday, his inheritance, including the estates in Wiltshire and Provence, will go to his cousin Teddy Lupin, who is, quite literally, a sticky-fingered toddler.

Fortunately, thanks to Pansy and his foresight in choosing her, none of those horrors will come to pass.

Zabini’s deep voice is firm. “You need to show her you care.”

Pansies and gold bars it is, then.

“And I think she needs some space,” Nott says in rebuttal.

Or not?

“Time to process,” Nott continues. “She just dumped him—”

Zabini barks a laugh. “Pansy doesn’t do things by halves. Ten galleons says she’s been planning this for months, sorting through the pros and cons. If you want to change her mind, you’d better start now. Make a grand gesture, do something. Don’t sit around.”

Draco weighs the advice, shifting on his feet.

The castle’s grown cold, and it’s been a long day. Is he supposed to meet with the new prefects? Probably. Granger’s likely handling it. A smile curls across his face, thinking of her cursing his name while she does all the work. It’ll do her good to earn the badge, he thinks. Maybe she’s already stomped to bed, and he can sneak in without invoking her ire. The last thing he needs is a signature Granger scolding. He once saw her yelling at Ron Weasley in the library, her tiny finger poking into his chest. Though she was so small she would ultimately be harmless, she made good use of her lung capacity, and Draco immediately knew he did not want to be on the receiving end of one of her tirades.

Exhaustion hits him all at once, and he blows out a long breath. Perhaps Nott is right and he should give Pansy some space for now, which will give him time to come up with a grand gesture, as Zabini suggested. Best of both worlds.

“Let me think on it,” Draco says. “Thanks, gents.”

“Don’t ask me how my summer was or anything,” Nott calls as Draco walks away.

“Or who we plan to court,” Zabini adds.

Draco scrubs a hand over his face. He’s apparently been a shit boyfriend, but he isn’t about to be a shit friend, too. With a sigh, he retraces his steps.

“How were your summers?”

“Busy,” Nott says, twirling his signet ring around his finger.

“Same,” Zabini agrees. “Went to a few shows, started a mosh pit at Glastonbury. Spent the rest in Italy with Mother. Hosted a few foreign dignitaries, the usual. Think I saw Malfoy’s mum once or twice. Where were you, Nott?”

“Here and there. Unfortunately not gallivanting up and down the Amalfi Coast with the enchantress Narcissa Malfoy.”

“Nott,” Draco scowls. It’s not as if Nott’s serious about his interest, but no one wants to hear about how hot their mother is, even from an openly gay man. Nott, however, is well-known for having far too good of a time taking the piss, and Zabini joins in.

“Unquestionably lush, and… questionably married? You may yet have a chance.”

Nott shakes his head, the portrait of regret. “My father warned me Malfoy bonds compel fidelity as long as they both shall live. Pity it’ll never work between us, Draco darling. I do so like to keep my options open.”

Draco suspects this isn’t true, either. Nott mastered the art of misdirection in their youth. After one memorable, raucous dinner party at Nott Hall, when the adults got sloshed and things got a little too real in the dark magic department, he side-alonged Draco all over the estate, keeping their parents guessing on their whereabouts and avoiding joining in on the ‘fun.’ He somehow sensed, even then, Draco’s lack of appetite for cruelty.

“Will Narcissa grace us with her presence during the season?”

In Draco’s (unfortunate) case, his mother, longtime chairwitch of the courtship committee, will indeed serve as chaperone for his season. She’s promised not to interfere, to be discreet. But when has Narcissa Malfoy, patron saint of Witch Weekly, ever been discreet? His mother is elegant, yes, and she’s toned it down since his father’s imprisonment, but if ever she doesn’t like the topic, she steers the conversation in a new direction—by any means necessary.

He wishes the talent had been passed down.

Nott grins, seemingly immune to Draco’s souring mood. “As it happens, I’m spoken for.”

Both Draco and Zabini draw back in shock. Nott is notoriously single.

“Wood?”

“Boot?”

“You’d have me spoil it for you?” Nott asks, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Yes,” says Draco. He despises guessing games. He considers them an insult to his intelligence.

Nott shrugs. “Shan’t.”

Typical.

“Lovegood agreed to dance with me,” Zabini says, puffing out his chest.

It’s quite the boon. Whilst participants are expected to mingle throughout the courting season and 'listen to their magic,' they are also encouraged by their families to set their sights on a preferred candidate sooner rather than later, as some eager pairs choose to become betrothed—or even married—before the official ceremony in June.

Draco’s stomach sinks like a stone. Unless he gets his act together, and quickly, Pansy won’t be by his side for the first event. Other wizards will toss their wands in the summoning circle to win her affections.

He shakes his head to banish the sickening thought. That won’t happen. He’ll make certain of it.

“Sure she’s not only in it for your earrings?”

Lovegood—another blasted cousin—resembles a magpie as much as a witch, and while not Sacred Twenty-Eight, her family has a well-established history and an increasingly popular periodical. She’ll make a good match, but not with Zabini, if his mother has anything to say about it. Madame Zabini, much like Slughorn and others of their ilk, values fame most of all, and drops hints left and right that her son should be with another Slytherin.

Draco smirks, elbowing him in the side. Zabini shoves him back, but not with his full strength. He might not be a quidditch player anymore, but he’s still all muscle. “Sod off, Malfoy.”

“Watch it,” Draco warns jokingly. Well, semi-jokingly. “I’ll take house points.”

“Alright, alright. We should head back. We don’t all have official swot badges,” Nott says.

“Ha, ha.” Draco does not tell them that the badge was originally meant for Potter, who is the furthest thing from swotty.

Nott surveys Draco one last time, and Draco divines his question before he speaks it aloud. “What do you plan to do if Pansy’s decision stands?”

Zabini opens his mouth as if to make a suggestion, but Draco holds up a silencing hand. He rolls his eyes but slinks away.

“Don’t waste your breath. I’ll have this sorted before the week’s out. When I show up to the tea or gala or whatever unique brand of torture they’ve decided to inflict on us, Pansy will be on my arm and this entire mess will be put to bed. Long forgotten.”

“And you’ll be happy?” Nott asks, walking backwards towards the dungeons.

Draco frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Nott says nothing, returning the frown before rapping his knuckles twice on the wall and rounding the corner, leaving Draco alone in the draughty corridor.

He has plenty of time to think on his way back to the dorm. A staircase shifts while Draco is mid-flight, and when he jumps—quite athletically, it’s a shame only the ghosts see it—to another, it decides to bend at the middle, intending to lead Draco back from whence he came. When he tries to circumvent the sentient stonework, he finds himself in a diabolical spiral of steps that seem to go up, but ultimately go nowhere. Peeves finds the whole ordeal highly entertaining.

After a time, a portrait of a knight takes pity on him and directs Draco to a staircase that both leads to his new quarters and isn’t actively planning his demise. He lifts his chin at the knight in gratitude, and takes the stairs two at a time. He’s broken a sweat, and his shirt chafes at the neck and wrists.

“Thanks for the workout,” he mumbles as he loosens his tie. He’s already seeker-fit, but he’s exceptionally lazy when it comes to cardio; as of tonight, running has officially dethroned Potter as his greatest nemesis, considering Potter’s fucked off to Auror training. Give him a barbell, a bench, and a rack of weights any day.

Back on the right path, Draco’s mind spins back to Pansy. How exactly will he prove to her that they belong together? Earlier on the train, she didn’t seem interested in an apology. Flowers, maybe? Not pansies, but something meant to be cut and arranged in a vase? He doesn’t know her favourite, only that she disliked the roses he once brought her from the manor gardens. There’s always the old standby, jewellery, though he's supposed to pick a piece for her from the vaults for one of the courting season’s events—that's a mainstay every year.

He doesn’t have time to dither.

Stupid bloody courting season. Daphne has the right of it: courting is the worst.

When he reaches the dorm, Draco slams the door behind him. He eyes his trunks and the crate, which are still on the floor where he left them. Right. Elves don’t help unpack anymore, or perform menial tasks for students like they used to.

Isn’t the new state of affairs simply wonderful?

He runs an irritated hand through his hair, disturbing the neatly gelled strands so they stand on end, before a low hiss from Granger’s beastly cat becomes a long, furious yowl.

Granger appears, her gleaming badge pinned to her chest, even at this time of night, in their own rooms. She bristles at the sight of him. Her shoulders draw back. Her eyes narrow. She’s the mirror image of the scruffy demon crawling forth from the depths of the sofa, ready to attack.

“What’ve you got in that crate, Malfoy? Crookshanks hasn’t let it out of his sight.”

“What?” Draco pretends to be offended. “I believe you mean who.”

He doesn’t expand. Tired as he is, it’s fun to let Granger stew for a moment. She turns an apoplectic shade of pink.

“Fine,” she says through gritted teeth. “Who’ve you got in that crate?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” He throws her a lazy grin, enjoying the way her colour deepens. Granger makes it too easy. “This,” Draco waves his wand with a flourish as he bends to open the crate. “Is Her Grace.”

Draco couldn't have timed it better himself: as he rises, Her Grace sets one white paw on the rug, then emerges in all her fluffy glory. She holds her head high, swishing her tail as she examines her surroundings with bored emerald green eyes.

“You have a cat,” Granger says in disbelief.

“Her Grace is no ordinary cat,” Draco corrects. “She’s a purebred Persian, and my familiar.”

He never expected to gain the trust of an animal enough to become its owner, let alone earn the loyalty of a familiar. But when she’d found him, at his lowest, their connection was immediate. She’s a primadonna, but being the object of the snobby cat’s affections is incredibly validating.

“Your familiar?”

As if on cue, Her Grace rubs against Draco’s trousers, then treads daintily over to where Granger’s cat—Crookshanks—is positioned on the sofa, walks her claws up the tufted arm, and proceeds to shred the velvet with a contented purr. Crookshanks swats at her from above, but Her Grace pays him no mind, focused on dismantling the offensively crimson fabric.

“She has her claws?” Granger asks, bewildered.

Draco regards her coolly. Or, as coolly as he can, having recently been drenched in sweat from a battle with stubborn staircases and a petulant poltergeist.

“Of course she has her claws. Removing a cat’s claws is cruel and unnecessary. It’s like severing our fingers at the knuckle.”

That earns him a scowl. “I know that.”

“So you just assume me to be heartless?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

He knows what Granger thinks of him. At scarcely fifteen years old, he introduced her to then-unquestioned pureblood bigotry. He was the first person to call her a mudblood, and at the time, he meant all the vitriol he put behind the word. His father’s ugly and futile activities have somewhat adjusted Draco’s views, but it was last year’s Muggle Studies class that solidified his current belief: That muggleborns are indeed just as magical as purebloods, but without the benefits of good breeding. They have imagination, but no finesse. They’re practically feral. Granger is proof positive of that. And since he rarely interacts with her or any of the other muggleborns at Hogwarts—there are so few of them—he’s made no effort to correct her poor opinion of him.

Judging by the contempt in her gaze, Granger's opinion has shifted from poor to disastrous. Though it isn’t like he has a good opinion of her, either.

Firstly, the whole Gryffindor thing. Gryffindors are mouthy, and Granger is no exception. She turns up her nose at wizarding customs, as if she’s somehow above them, and lords her booksmarts-masquerading-as-intelligence over everyone. Grooming is just as foreign to her; her ash-brown hair looks like it instigated a row with a pack of grindylows and lost.

Crookshanks lets out a guttural growl—in cat language, the sound is universally recognised as leave me the fuck alone—and Her Grace retaliates with a hiss of her own. It’s a threat, and one Draco has never heard her make before.

“I should’ve known. I was too busy with the prefects to realise it was a cat crate,” Granger says, massaging her temples.

Draco refrains from informing Granger that not only is the crate not a crate, thanks to an invisible extension charm, but it’s practically a chateau in there; a mini-replica of Marie Antoinette’s Hameau, complete with a thatch-roof litter box.

She continues. “You do know there’s a proper way to introduce cats? We’re meant to keep them in separate spaces with separate bowls and litter boxes, gradually introduce their scents to one another, and then let them meet, briefly, with supervision.”

He did not know this, but he doesn’t have to admit that. He doesn’t have to tell Granger anything. They simply have to not kill each other over the course of the school year. Given that Draco has never had an appetite for murder, much to his aunt’s chagrin, Granger’s odds of survival are good. But judging by the look in her eyes, he might as well already be dead.

Draco attempts to get Her Grace’s attention, but she dismisses him with a flick of her tail. He regrets not unpacking her treats. What if that rapscallion injures her? What if he makes her bleed?

“Her Grace,” he tries again. When he’s unsuccessful, he redirects his irritation to Granger. She can’t get hold of her cat’s scruff, and her failures drive the cats into a frenzy. They tumble onto the rug, clawing and biting, and fur starts to fly. “Granger, get control of your animal!”

“I’m trying!”

One cannot simply accio a living being, let alone a cat. Tackling them is out of the question entirely. Her Grace is far too delicate for roughhousing—or so he’d thought. Granger keeps calling Crookshanks’s name while Draco tears into his trunk and finds his stash of homemade cat treats. He shakes them to no avail.

“Hold on,” Granger shouts, stumbling off to the right. She disappears into what he assumes is her bedroom. “Accio calming draught.”

Panic dumps hot adrenaline into his veins. “Wait!”

She rushes back into the room, uncorks the phial of unknown origin, and splashes it in the general direction of the warring cats.

It’s a direct hit. Both cats immediately break apart, and Draco swoops in and scoops a floppy, panting Her Grace into his arms. Her eyes are dilated, and her back is stained light blue from the potion, but after a thorough inspection, during which his heart races a mile a minute, she’s otherwise unharmed.

“It’s safe,” Granger whispers, and his head pops up. “Remember Snape’s lessons on physical side effects in creatures? Calming draught is safe for mammals of magical and non-magical origin.”

His heart is still in his throat, but reason overtakes emotion. He nods. It’s not a thank you, but she’s not getting that out of him. Her cat’s obvious bloodthirst is the reason this madness erupted in the first place.

Though he looks rather harmless right now, boneless in Granger’s hold. Draco glances down at a blissed out Her Grace, then back at Granger. They both cradle the cats as if they were infants.

Summoning an indignant sneer, he says, “Just how long will they be like this?”

She glares at him. “An hour or so, two tops. We can attempt a reintroduction at a later date.”

“Or they can keep to their rooms.”

Like us, he means, but he doesn’t say it.

“You know that’s unreasonable,” Granger retorts.

“Oh, and you’re so reasonable with your curfew. We’re adults.”

She sighs as she lays Crookshanks down in a fleece cat bed behind the sofa. “Honestly—”

Careful not to jostle Her Grace, Draco flings a sardonic hand over his heart. “I know, I know, how can I possibly be an adult when I don’t meet the obligations thrust upon me by Potter’s miraculous absence? Missing the prefects’ meeting you didn’t bother to tell me about? I should be drawn and quartered. Someone alert my father that he’ll soon be receiving company.”

“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

He smirks. That’s better. “Still got your claws, I see.”

“You think you’re so funny—”

“Hilarious, actually.”

She’s practically frothing at the mouth now. Feral.

“And smart—”

“Naturally.”

“And so fucking special—”

His smirk is a full-on grin now. He can’t help it. “Sacred, if you care to use the right terminology.”

“But you’re just another spoiled pureblood prince,” she sneers, and it’s not entirely pleasant to have one of his signature expressions thrown back his way, especially when her eyes glow with self-righteous fury. “You know what? You’re right. You’re not supposed to be Head Boy; never were. So don’t worry about the prefects. I’ll handle them. You do your rounds, play quidditch, pray to God your ex-girlfriend undergoes a spontaneous lobotomy and takes your sorry arse back—it doesn’t matter what you do this year. I’ll still run circles around you.”

“Fuck you, Granger,” he spits. If he wasn’t holding Her Grace, he’d be in Granger’s face right now, looming over her in a way he couldn't in their third year. She wouldn’t dare slap him now.

She smiles, and it’s pure poison. “I gave you the first rounds. Better unpack fast.”

Draco’s lip curls, and his wand practically burns a hole in the holster at his hip.

She’s not worth it. Not. Worth. It.

He lets himself occlude, just a little. It’s magically demanding, and it’s been a long day, but he needs to slip into the icy pond of his mind and think.

Head Boy is a big deal. It might even help him get the potions apprenticeship, if Slughorn gives him half a chance. If he misses too many rounds, the badge will go to someone else. And does he really want to be in the dungeons right now while every Slytherin busybody dissects his break up?

He can take a walk, see if anyone’s out of order. Taking house points should be a lark.

Without another word, Draco spins on his heel and retreats to his bedroom, his trunk following dutifully behind him.

A shaft of light from the shared living space illuminates a large, well-appointed room. The majority of the space is taken up by a large mahogany four-poster with emerald-green bed curtains. He quickly conjures a matching (and much smaller) bed for Her Grace, who is softly snoring now, and eases her into it before lighting the lamps.

Despite the dust accumulated from a summer of disuse, there’s a welcoming feel in the air, like the castle wants him to be comfortable. As if anywhere could feel like the manor did before… Everything. He quickly spots the door that leads to the shared bathroom, and another belonging to a sizable closet. A matching desk and chest of drawers flank a wide diamond paned window overlooking the grounds. Draco briefly gazes out into the darkness.

It doesn’t matter that Hogwarts seems to be trying to convince him otherwise: This will never feel like home. Nothing really feels like home anymore. Not the manor. Not his mother. He’d thought Pansy might, but…

He submerges his feelings in the stillness of an icy pond and unpacks. It doesn’t take long, as it’s mostly clothes, books, and school supplies. He used to bring more personal effects, but there’s really no point. He’ll be back in Wiltshire before he knows it.

There’s no sign of Granger when Draco slips out to do rounds. He was a prefect before; he knows the drill. Check the convenient hookup spots (classrooms, broom cupboards), hideouts (alcoves hidden by tapestries), and places where people like to stash contraband (Moaning Myrtle’s stall is a particular favorite, for some reason).

He discovers a brazen sixth year girl by the trophy case, claiming she wanted to see his snitch. It’s a bad analogy, and she’s not Pansy, so he takes his first points of the year and shoos her back to Hufflepuff.

But the horrors persist, because when he sees the pale purple smoke of an advanced silencing charm winding its way out from underneath the Divination classroom door, he opens it only to have his eyes assaulted by the sight of a pasty arse covered in freckles, pounding into a writhing witch.

“That’s it, love. Such a good girl for me.”

Draco nearly pukes when he recognises the voice. Weasley’s talking dirty? More importantly, Weasley is getting some, and he isn’t? Well, isn’t this the cherry on top of his absolutely shit day?

The witch, who he now recognises is Lavender Brown, pushes ineffectively with one hand at Weasley’s shoulders, her other hand trying to hide her tits. “Ron, Merlin! Stop!”

“You said you liked it when I called you a good girl! I’m just trying to do what you want.”

Yep, he’s definitely going to puke. Draco retches, and that finally gets Weasley’s attention. His red hair hangs doggedly in his face, and he’s disgustingly sweaty, and sweet Salazar Draco wishes he could obliviate himself.

“One hundred points from Gryffindor,” Draco croaks before retching again.

“You can’t take that many just because you’re a prude, Malfoy,” Lavender grouses, rummaging around for her clothes. “It’s not a crime to have sex. We don’t have to be virgins for courting season, you know.”

“And we’re marrying each other anyway,” Weasley chimes in, still catching his breath.

They share a glance so dopey it’s as if they were mutually confunded by mountain trolls.

Draco squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to see sparks. Maybe they’ll erase the visuals his retinas insist on burning into his psyche.

“I doubt any of us have retained our virginity, and I certainly don’t care to be with anyone who’s hanging onto theirs for made up moral reasons,” he bites out.

Why does everyone always assume he’s a prude?

Lavender sounds surprised. “Wow, that’s pretty progressive of you.”

“It’s usually only ten points each for sex, though,” Weasley says. He’s not wrong, but it’s disturbing that he knows. How many times has he been caught? Draco doesn’t want to know.

The shuffling sounds of feet finding shoes and robes settling over shoulders finally end, and Draco slowly opens one eye to confirm it’s safe.

“The extra eighty are for emotional damage. You’re lucky I don’t take more,” he pauses. “Haven’t you two ever heard of the astronomy tower? We never go up there.”

Too many stairs. Though after tonight’s adventure in cardio, maybe he should be in the habit of taking them more.

“Occupied,” Lavender says sadly, shaking her long black microbraids.

So everyone’s getting laid except him. Great.

“Fifty and you never find us here again?” Weasley offers.

“Deal,” Draco nods, and he hurries to leave the classroom ahead of them.

He discovers three more trysts in the next thirty minutes. The last one, a group of very giggly witches, ogle him as he takes points—only ten each, because they’re not bad to look at and he’s feeling generous.

Draco hesitates after they wave goodbye and stumble, still giggling, back to Ravenclaw. He’s exhausted, and maybe he’s not thinking straight, but he doesn’t want to go back to the Head Students’ quarters alone. So instead of finishing his rounds, he doubles back the way he came.

Maybe that Hufflepuff girl hasn’t made it back to her common room just yet.

Chapter Text

She’s laying her clothes out for the next day when she hears it.

“Oh, yes. Oh, gods, yes.”

The witch’s breathy moans carry through Malfoy’s walls, bounce off the marble in their shared bathroom, and find their way into Hermione’s room. Into her ears.

“Ew, no,” she yelps, searching for her wand. She just had it…

She’s not used to her new room yet. It’s not that she doesn’t like it; in fact, the castle seemed to intuit exactly the kind of space she needed for the year ahead. Bookshelves line the walls, obscuring the rough stone. A sliding ladder gives her access to every tome she’s collected over her past six years at Hogwarts, as well as some new ones she’s dying to crack open. When she pulls on a copy of Moving Staircases: The Shifting Architecture of Hogwarts, one shelf swings open, and her closet is revealed. Beneath an arched window is a wide writing desk in natural oak, where she’s already set myriad quills and rolls of fresh parchment, and there’s a nightstand and queen-size bed to match. The bed is serene like a snowbank, piled high with white fluffy pillows and a matching duvet accented with pink ribbon. Feminine and practical. How she sees herself, and how she’d like to be seen.

Hermione freezes mid-step as Malfoy purrs (purrs!) something unintelligible, but definitely sexual. She curls a fist around tomorrow’s socks. That fucking prat. It’s like he wants her to know he’s already breaking the rules.

Not that he’d agreed upon that particular rule, but still. Is it really so much to ask that they not have guests after midnight on school nights? No, no it is not.

Another cry rings out from Malfoy’s bedroom. Whoever she is, she isn’t Pansy. Her voice is too high-pitched.

Where is her wand, where is her wand…

Oh, gross, is Malfoy’s mystery witch screaming his name? Her performance is so over the top now it sounds like she’s faking it. And she just keeps going.

Hermione lets out a guttural noise of rage mixed with horror before mercifully finding her wand and casting the strongest silencing charm she knows. She then flops belly-first onto her freshly made bed, burying her face in a cluster of throw pillows. She’s exhausted. At least she’s already got her pyjamas on, the soft flannel ones missing the topmost button; a gift from her parents a few years ago. Comfortable as they are, they’re a painful reminder of the world she comes from, the one she never quite belonged in. She isn’t quite sure why she doesn’t spring for a new pair, or maybe another nightgown, which is what she really prefers to sleep in.

After a moment of blissful quiet, she lifts her head and scratches her nails against the duvet in quick scrunching movements. It’s meant to entice Crookshanks up for a cuddle, but he remains by the door, furry body flattened against the cold stone. His tail twitches, watching for signs of his new archnemesis.

“Her Grace isn’t going to attack, Crooks,” Hermione sighs, rolling her eyes. “She’s probably still asleep from the calming draught. And even if she was awake, she’d never stick her lily-white paws under the door for a blind scrap with you; she’s too much of a lady. If anything, it’ll be pistols at dawn.”

Crooks narrows his yellow eyes at her over his shoulder, then returns to his self-imposed guard duty.

She gives up and rolls onto her back to look at the ceiling, fiddling with the locket around her neck. For the millionth time that day, she regrets being nice to Malfoy—briefly, anyway—on the train. He’s as foul as ever. It hasn’t been even twenty-four hours since Pansy dumped him and he’s already shagging someone else. Or maybe he’d already been shagging other witches. Maybe he thought he had a wife locked down and wanted to hold auditions for the role of mistress. Although, don’t most magical marriages ensure fidelity?

She tries to remember what little she’s read about magical marriage. As far as she knows, there are no antiquated rules about virginity, which is refreshing, compared to some muggle religions with distinctly misogynistic views. Having children out of wedlock, however, is strictly prohibited. Maybe that’s why it’s been drilled into them since their required Magical Health and Hygiene course in first year to be conscientious when casting contraceptive charms; they’re complex and easy to tamper with, so it’s best to cast your own, so as not to be forced into making the choice whether or not to continue a surprise pregnancy.

In practice, that meant the professor heavily implying that straight wizards of means shouldn’t risk sleeping around, since apparently greedy witches are just waiting around to baby-trap them.

Hermione grimaces. She would never wait until marriage to find out if she’s sexually compatible with her prospective husband. She’d also never sleep with someone she didn’t trust, and who didn’t trust her.

Does Malfoy trust this witch?

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Malfoy doesn’t respect her enough to follow the most basic rules for being a good roommate. Probably because she’s a muggleborn. The wizarding world may have made strides towards equality, but it was, predictably, too much to expect the Sacred Twenty-Eight and its next generation to already be onboard.

Her schedule lays open on the nightstand, and she summons it, poring over the classes she’ll attend tomorrow. First up, Divination. She wrinkles her nose at the thought of another year under Professor Trelawney’s unblinking gaze, inhaling patchouli-burdened incense and pretending to see things in crystal balls and tea leaves and tarot cards. She’s never sold her so-called discoveries convincingly—she’s terrible at pretending—but Sirius insisted she try one more time, claiming that, at minimum, it would be useful to understand the way so much of the magical world thinks.

“Prophecies are real,” he’d told her and Harry, the night before Harry disappeared. They’d had a lively dinner and a good deal of wine, and Hermione laid her head on Harry’s shoulder while Sirius spun tales from his faded leather chair. Much like her parents’ house and the Burrow, Grimmauld has become a base of operations for her, another place to while away long summer nights. She moves between all three freely, though she spends less time in her childhood home now that she’s an adult. “They keep them at the Ministry. Aurors are always looking for omens, harbingers. You’ll need to recognise them, Harry, if you want to fight the dark arts.”

After Divination, double Potions, which had made more sense before she found out Snape isn’t at school. Now she’ll be forced to sit through Professor Slughorn’s smarmy, self-serving storytelling while teaching herself how to brew NEWTs-quality dreamless sleep. And there’s no way he’ll award her the coveted potions apprenticeship, even if she does beat out Malfoy. Slughorn obviously favours Zabini, and purebloods in general, with the exception of Harry, whose fame and fortune excuses his half-blood status in most circles.

Her other classes are easier: History of Magic, Astronomy, Arithmancy, and, of course, Defense Against the Dark Arts. She wouldn’t miss Sirius’s class for anything, even if it feels a bit silly now to talk about fighting Death Eaters. They’re all in Azkaban, and Harry, though not yet an Auror, put them there.

She yawns and draws back her covers, nestling in before extinguishing the light. It hasn’t been that long, really, since she was afraid of the dark. Of Voldemort. There’d been a time where the threat of the Dark Lord and his henchmen lurked around every corner, especially after the Triwizard Tournament was announced. She’d spent the entire year on edge.

Then Cedric and Harry touched the trophy and winked out of existence. It’s still the scariest moment of Hermione’s life.

Everything happened rather quickly after that. Inquisitions, trials, incarcerations for Death Eaters. Reforms at the Ministry and Hogwarts. Her early twenties have been hallmarked more by personal drama than imminent danger.

And now here she is, Head Girl.

She’s thrilled, really. It’s just that it rings a bit hollow without Harry there to share it with her. They’d stayed close; far closer than her and Ron. Ron drifted away from Harry, too. Last year, he’d fallen in with Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, and of course, Lavender. Harry and Lavender didn’t see eye to eye after the third time Lavender dumped Ron only to beg him to take her back a week later, and though Ron seemed torn between his best friend’s opinion and the call of his heart, he chose the latter.

Hermione shifts, tugging the covers up to her chin. How had she not realised the depth of Ron’s fixation on Lavender? Stupid, to think that he might notice her instead, hair wild from brewing experimental potions for the joke shop with his brothers, sooty smudges on her cheeks. Now he and Lavender will court and get betrothed and live happily ever after with their perfect pureblood family and—

She shifts again. That’s not fair to Ron. He’s kind to her; it’s not his fault that he doesn’t have feelings for her beyond friendship. You can’t just conjure up feelings for someone, even if you have magic. She’s tried.

Viktor’s sad amber eyes flash in her mind, and she wriggles her feet at the sheer awkwardness of the memory.

He’s the only person she’s ever told about her dream career: potioneer. The world’s first muggleborn potioneer, with her own apothecary. Potioneering is an incredibly capital intensive pursuit, and reputation matters above all else, so it’s likely she wouldn’t make a knut doing it, at least at first. But when she brought that part up to Viktor, he only shrugged.

“If you want to, Hermoninny, this is what you should do.”

But it was easy for him to say. Viktor’s family is lenient, as pureblood families go. They'd liked that he’s taking his time to find a bride. What they hadn’t liked was the potential for that bride to be Hermione.

This had made their tryst all the more exciting, at least at first. But the more Hermione opened up to him, the more he looked at her like she was… Puzzling. Too much.

She doesn’t wish she’d shut her mouth or tried to play the part of an easygoing sort of witch. She likes who she is, and she won’t apologise for it. But it would be a lot easier if he’d been the right one for her.

Maybe she should’ve fought harder to keep in touch. Viktor is sweet. Bulgaria isn’t even that bad a place to live. She could join the Durmstrang courting season, maybe; apply for a transfer, since they accept muggleborns now. They could try again. She could make it work.

People make it work all the time. After all, who really knows someone after a year of dating? Or, as the magical system would have it, a year of balls and gifts and weird pureblood rituals?

And now she’s fully awake, thinking about courting season again. Ugh. She sits up in bed and flicks her fingers at the lamps, illuminating the room once more. At least she can’t hear whatever Malfoy’s up to anymore. (She’s pretty sure she knows what he’s up to, but she flat out refuses to think about him doing that).

Her mind dredges up the memory of Luna’s generous offer earlier on the train. Luna hadn’t reiterated it at the prefects’ meeting, but why would she, when Hermione already declined? There’s a strong chance it was only extended out of pity, anyway. She can’t imagine many witches would be willing to share their expensive gowns, especially with someone they aren’t even close with. And then there’s the whole muggleborn thing...

She’s not sure where Luna stands on the issue. The Lovegoods aren’t Sacred Twenty-Eight, but they are pureblood, and according to Arthur Weasley, Luna’s father runs a magazine brimming with falsehoods about the magical world and its inhabitants. Perhaps she buys into the centuries of ill-conceived folklore regarding muggleborns. Luna definitely repeats a lot of rubbish, including presenting urban myths as true stories, but she’s also childlike, and Sirius has said more than once that she’s harmless.

Maybe she is. Or maybe everyone is underestimating her.

While she’s always had a love of reading books, Hermione’s never been great at reading people—or tea leaves. Having Harry for a friend is easy, because he sees the world in black and white, as she does. They share a strong sense of justice, and if Hermione wasn’t so set on potioneering, she’d consider being an Auror alongside him. Ron’s even easier, because he tends to say whatever pops into his brain as soon as he thinks it. No need to read between the lines with him, or any Weasley, really. But with everyone else, friendship has never come naturally. Hermione has to work at it, in ways she suspects most people do not; she struggles to make eye contact and ask questions that aren’t too personal. And if someone mentions something she has a wealth of knowledge about, she can’t seem to shut up.

That’s actually why she and Luna never hit it off: Hermione knows a lot about magical creatures, and when Luna piped up in Hagrid’s class, talking nonsense about the existence of nargles and rejecting all evidence to the contrary, she couldn’t let it slide. After she finished her impromptu lecture, Hermione was convinced Luna would apologise for spreading such heinous misinformation; in front of a professor, no less. Instead, she laughed, turned back to Padma and Parvati, and loudly proclaimed that some people had no imagination.

Is some people code for muggleborns?

Hermione sighs, running her locket along its rose gold chain. Maybe she’s being unfair. It’s been years since their initial dustup, and if Luna wants to let bygones be bygones, is that really so suspicious? It’s not like Hermione has anyone else to talk to this year—other than Malfoy, of course, but they don’t talk so much as battle royale. She could use a friend.

She wishes she knew where Harry really is, and why she can’t shake the dread coagulating in her gut.

Hermione rubs her temples and gets out of bed. Her window’s open, letting in the cool night air, and she grasps the ledge. It’s strange to do this without slippers on, without the ribbons laced around her ankles, but once the idea takes hold of her, she can think of nothing else she’d rather do. A familiar sense of calm washes over her as she bends, then straightens her legs.

She assesses her posture as she brings her heels together, turning out her toes until her feet are in a perfectly straight line.

First position.

Satisfied with the way the exercise clears her mind, she holds for a moment more before shifting into second position, turning her feet outward and hip-length apart. She breathes into it; feels the way her body opens. It’s reassuring that she has her own room this year. Privacy at Hogwarts is worth its weight in gold, as it’s usually only found in the toilets. You eat amongst your classmates, attend lectures together, bump into them in the corridors, even sleep alongside them in the dorms.

But here, in this room—her room, the one the castle wanted her to have—she can shut herself off from the rest of the world and sink into a space of her own making; one ruled not by magic but by muscle and sinew. As much as she loves magic, is eternally grateful that it manifested in her veins, those who wield it are as mysterious to her as the muggles who cannot fathom the magic inside fairy tales.

What she knows is her strength. Her inner strength, and her physical strength, too. Both are hard-won. She brings one foot in front of the other, notches heel against instep. Third position.

Hermione doesn’t need to court anyone. She’s come this far on her own merit. Just because she can court doesn’t mean she should. These are things she’s told herself. Things her mother told her, when she found out muggleborns were eligible this year, for the first time ever.

Her parents are so supportive. They always have been. Every year they come with her to Kings Cross and wave as she boards the Hogwarts Express, even though she’s been a legal adult for years now. They don’t mind that she spends more and more time in the magical world; that she wants a life here.

A twinge of homesickness makes her flex her fingers, unsteady. Why is she homesick everywhere she goes? Even, sometimes, within these stony walls?

She knows the answer, deep down, but she doesn’t want to think about it right now. There should be only feeling; sinking into her body. Her weight divided between her feet, the turnout coming from her hips.

Fourth position, which is really two: ouverte and croise. Both come easily to her. She grew up in ballet, when the doctors recommended her parents enroll her in the class to help her develop her brain-body connection. It wasn’t natural at first, much like when she discovered her magic. She didn’t know how to exert control over her own body. But she took class after class. Performed in recital after recital. Taped sore muscles and tore off toenails and cried in the shower when a misstep at the end of her final audition cost her the lead in a gorgeous production of Cinderella. And still, she persevered.

Over time, she developed a work ethic both at muggle school and on the dance floor that demanded the spotlight. She held bouquets as big as her face and took her first bow en pointe at age thirteen, just two years before she joined the world of magic. And still, even whilst away at Hogwarts, she practises.

Practice makes perfect.

In ballet, perfection is attainable. It is not the goal; it is the expectation. When she’s in a leotard and frothy tutu, when it’s just her under the hot lights in a dark auditorium, she channels everything inside her that wishes she was perfect all the time and lets that energy loose upon the stage. Plié. Sauté. Pirouette.

She dances. And in those moments, she’s okay with being unlike everybody else.

She finds fifth position. Everything is in alignment. Her breathing normalises, and she opens her eyes. If she had more space, she’d do more. She has energy for it. Maybe tomorrow, if there’s time between classes, she’ll sneak away to the Room of Hidden Things, where she’s practised every year while she’s been away at Hogwarts. Or she could push the furniture aside and use the living room.

She’ll never give up ballet. During her summers, she dances with a London-based troupe. The expectation is that she stays in top form, and for Hermione, Exceeds Expectations is the bare minimum.

For now, the only thing that might get her to sleep is herbal tea. Unfortunately, that resides on a shelf in the kitchenette alongside Crookshanks’s treats.

Hermione grabs her wand and checks her silencing charm. The vinewood vibrates in her hand, a gentle jolt to let her know it’s worn off. Fortunately, it appears the show’s over.

She ducks her head into the living room. “The coast is clear,” she whispers to Crooks. “Want some treats?”

Crooks’s smooshed face is sceptical, but he follows her anyway, sweeping the area for Her Grace with every step. He leaps onto the worktop as Hermione heats the water with her magic and pours it into her favourite mug. It’s pink, and it’s got two cats on it, wrapped up in one cosy scarf.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she scolds.

“Shit, sorry,” squeaks a voice from across the room.

Crooks scampers to the floor. Hermione jumps, spilling the tin of herbal tea and scattering the leaves everywhere. One hand clutches her heart; the other her wand, which keeps the mug in mid-air.

“Lumos,” says the voice, and light haloes a cherubic face with mussed blonde hair. Maybe it’s adrenaline, but Hermione thinks she recognises her. Maybe a sixth year? Hufflepuff?

“You scared the daylights out of me!”

“Let me help you,” the witch says, by way of apology. She waves her wand and sets everything to rights, including her hair. Hermione doesn’t know why she does it, but she glances towards another mug in silent invitation. The witch shakes her head, demurring, and heads for the door.

Heart rate evening out, Hermione fills a sachet and sets it in the mug to steep. “If you’re with Malfoy now, you should know, we have rules. No guests after midnight and no one stays overnight. And if you’re going to shag, even if you think no one’s here, have the decency to cast a silencing charm or two. It’s the least you could do.”

“I…” Her eyes slide towards Malfoy’s door. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“I heard you all the way in my room. It’s absolutely necessary.”

“No, I mean, we didn’t… He was mostly helping me out, if you catch my drift.”

Hermione winces. She really, really didn’t need to know that.

Malfoy’s door swings open. He’s barefoot, wearing a white undershirt and grey joggers. He lifts both arms above his head to lean into the doorframe, biceps bulging. His cheeks are pink, his limbs lack their usual tension, and his hair is mussed. It’s the first time she’s ever seen it without gobs of gel. It looks… soft.

“Leaving already?”

The witch twirls her wand in her grip. “Yeah. You know, first day of class tomorrow. But thanks for the orgasm.”

Malfoy’s brows knit together before he glances to his left, and Hermione relishes the moment when he realises she’s been here the whole time. He sends her a nasty scowl before returning his attention to his date. “Did Granger scare you off?”

“Not at all. I’m just tired. You really, erm, well, it was something.” The witch rubs at the nape of her neck. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you. And good luck with courting season. I’m sure you’ll find the perfect Lady Malfoy.”

His brows knit together in confusion, but he smooths the expression. It’s impressive how quickly he recalibrates. “It’s a long season, Farrah.”

“It’s Fiona. Fiona Higglesby. My parents know yours. I’ve had tea in your solarium.”

“Right. Listen,” he begins, but she cuts him off.

“Look, we tried it out, it was a nice time, but,” Fiona massages her jaw. “It’s not a good fit.”

Absorbed, Hermione surreptitiously blows on her tea.

Malfoy is getting rejected. At one in the morning. After successfully giving the witch what sounded like a rather good orgasm.

Brutal.

It suddenly occurs to her that this awkward farewell is only happening because she was talking to herself in the kitchenette. Otherwise Fiona would’ve snuck out without saying a word.

Malfoy sounds like he’s choking when he finally says, “What?”

“I’ve gotta go,” Fiona says, and the half-smile she throws him is pitying as she edges out the door. “Like I said, I’m sure I’ll see you. As friends, to be clear. Erm, yeah. Bye.”

Hermione looks from the door to Malfoy. Even in the dim light, she sees his mouth is snapped shut. The tick of his jaw is the only sign of the tension roiling underneath the surface, but she can sense it there, thick and hot as magma. One wrong move and he’ll blow.

His eyes land on her, dark pupils assessing her like a threat, and she resists a shiver. Instead of breaking the stare, she smirks at him.

She’s always liked playing with fire.

In response, Malfoy slams the door to his bedroom, and she feels more than hears his silencing charm descend.

Hermione leans back against the worktop and takes the first sip of her tea.

Delicious.

Chapter Text

As he suspected, the first two weeks of term provide Draco little intellectual stimulation. Potions is the worst offender. Slughorn’s in charge, and they’re brewing things like healing draughts, far below Draco’s personal dedication threshold. He’s already resorted to scrawling lists of ingredients and brewing instructions for theoretical potions in the margins of his textbook.

Astronomy is so simple it shouldn’t even be offered at NEWTs level. It’s a joke, really. Everyone only takes it to pad their marks, especially those lacking the requisite nepotism boost for Ministry work. And with most seventh years spending their free time courting and jockeying for the cushiest jobs, there’s little time for studying, so Astronomy it is.

Divination? Even easier. His mother made him read tea leaves from the time he could sit in the parlour without wiggling too much. But there’s no actual divining going on in Professor Trelawney’s class. She’s a fraud: she believes anything anyone “sees” so long as it’s delivered in a deep voice with plenty of sturm und drang. He could ace the exam in his sleep.

Speaking of sleep, he naps through History of Magic, but most people do. It’s gotten so blatant that Zabini brings a pillow and blanket, and tries to sweet talk Daphne into tucking him in. He’s chronically unsuccessful.

Arithmancy is the only class worthy of Draco’s undivided attention, which of course Nott picks up on and ribs him endlessly about. He would much rather be doing difficult work in Potions, but since his godfather is Merlin-knows-where doing Merlin-knows-what, Arithmancy it is. At least Arithmancy is precise; clean. Numbers don’t shift beneath you. Equations don’t lie.

He’d long expected to sail through this year, sure, but is it really so much to ask for a challenge?

Managing the prefects would provide something to do, but Granger’s doing a fine job all by herself. Instead of calling ineffective meetings each week, she posted a chart with a tempus charm outside their door that generated a rota for all twenty-four of them—six from each house. Each assigned pair is required to sign off after their rounds are complete. He would never stoop so low as to compliment Granger, but her methods are terribly efficient, and it makes him wonder why no one’s come up with such a streamlined approach before.

Since quidditch hasn’t properly started up either, this leaves Draco with no choice but to channel his energy into his latest passion: finding other ways to shut his brain off. Occlumency is right out—it’s not sustainable if you want to stay sane, and therefore not a good long-term strategy. Sex works for a half hour or so. He’s never had a problem with stamina, and he’s generous with orgasms, but genuine desire… That’s a work in progress. So far, he’s enjoyed a reasonable amount of success with finding hookups, particularly with Hufflepuffs, however, Her Grace hasn’t liked any of them. She’s left him several “gifts” outside her litter box to express her opinion.

Pansy still isn’t talking to him. When he manages to catch her without throngs of other students nearby, Draco tries to flag her down, but she pretends not to see him, as if he’s wearing Potter’s invisibility cloak. He’s starting to think she meant it when she broke up with him.

He hasn’t given up on his plans to win her back, of course, but it’s a lot easier to strategise if you’re getting blown on a consistent basis. He’s stuck to witches the year below him—those not eligible yet for courting season, tipping his hand that he’s not serious about them—and despite the lack of repeat customers, he thinks it’s enough to make Pansy sufficiently jealous when word gets around.

She’ll come crawling back. She’d be daft not to. He’s Draco Malfoy.

Still, his patience is wearing thinner than that mesh bra he’d pried off Fiona Higglesby.

Of course he knew her name. True, he hadn’t recognised her at first, but in fairness, it’s been years since his mother entertained guests in the solarium. He’d been trying to play it cool, that’s all; send the right signal that he wouldn’t be waiting around to court her in a year, no matter how good the encounter was. (It wasn’t.)

None of the hookups he’s had since Pansy has been satisfying. In the moment he feels… Empty. Devoid of thought, which is the goal, yes, but the vacancy in his chest seems to only widen, carving deeper into him. It’s like the witches see the hollow where a heart should be and retract into themselves mid-act, so they don’t go looking for what isn’t there.

And then he remembers it’s just oral—he wouldn’t risk sticking his dick in someone he can’t trust. He chases release with his eyes closed, leaning into the performance, even though something about that bothers him. He’s never shied from being the centre of attention. With Pansy, though they didn’t shag as much as Draco would like—she gets migraines, which often come on while they were alone—he tried all kinds of things that he thought would make her feel good. In retrospect, he wonders if there was already something missing between them.

No—that’s ridiculous. They work, he and Pansy. They have a rhythm, a kind of shorthand, the way people do when they’ve known each other long enough. He knows which wine she likes, which corner of the sofa she curls up in when it rains. She laughs at his jokes. That has to mean something.

People get migraines, they grow distant for a bit, they get tired. It doesn’t mean anything’s broken. Pansy always says he’s too dramatic about things, but now who’s being dramatic?

Anyway, if something had been missing, he would’ve noticed.

He would’ve felt it.

Draco’s sitting in Arithmancy, quill and parchment at the ready, waiting for Professor Vector to arrive, when Pansy appears in the doorway.

At first, nothing seems amiss. Pansy wears the same smug smile. Same defiant little black dress under tailored robes. Same red nail varnish.

But those red nails sink into his best friend’s arm. Goyle’s arm.

Draco’s vision flares white-hot at the edges. The quill in his fist snaps in two.

Nott notices and, never one to pass up an opportunity to harass a friend, leans over the desk towards him. “Would you look at that?”

“Fuck off,” Draco growls.

It was one thing for Goyle to comfort Pansy on the train. One could chalk it up to gentlemanly behaviour, especially since the next day at quidditch practice, Goyle appeared nothing but empathetic towards Draco’s position. He even promised to put in a good word for Draco, seeing as they were best mates and all.

Instead, it seems he saw the window of opportunity and slithered right in.

Goyle pulls out Pansy’s chair for her, then seats himself between her and Crabbe. He doesn’t look in Draco’s direction, and Draco’s rage turns incandescent.

What the fuck is this?

“Relax,” Zabini says from behind him. “She’s only doing it to make you jealous.”

Daphne pipes up. “Why would she want to make Draco jealous? She’s the one who broke it off.”

“Oh, Daphne.” Lavender, ever the busybody, defects from the Gryffindor side of the room to offer her opinion. She flips her microbraids over her shoulder and lowers her voice, as if bestowing valuable insight. “I know this must be utterly foreign to you, since you refuse to participate in girl culture; although you are, as far as anyone knows, a member of the female sex—”

Her tone is light, teasing, but Zabini’s snort is harsh. “Spit it out, Lav.”

It’s an old nickname, but not too bad, even though no one wants their nickname to remind people of the loo. Before, this would’ve ended with both of them in the infirmary, but the Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry has cooled somewhat in the past few years. Now, Lavender only sticks out her tongue at Zabini before continuing. “A lot of witches like to play games.”

“And that works?” Daphne asks, incredulous.

“Most of the time? No,” Lavender admits. “But this is Malfoy we’re talking about, so it might work on him.”

He should’ve taken the full one hundred points when he caught her and Weasley.

“I’d say it has, judging by the state of his quill,” Nott smirks.

“Shut up,” Draco snaps, and immediately regrets taking the bait. He slumps in his seat, but makes a valiant attempt at making it look like a disinterested slouch, purposefully ignoring his broken quill. His robes chafe; the signet ring heavy on his finger. He’s supposed to be making Pansy jealous, not the other way around.

Lavender shrugs as she walks away, raw confidence swathed in a swishing skirt. “You’re only proving my point.”

Professor Vector finally graces the class with her presence, coming in hot with Granger nipping at her heels, asking questions about the assignment due Friday.

“There’s no way I’m finishing that,” Zabini moans, rubbing his palms over his face in quick succession. “How is there this much homework when we’re meant to start courting Saturday?”

“Spare us, Zabini. All you wizards have to do is put on a clean shirt and show up. Meanwhile we’ve got to do hair, makeup, and have at least two other people on hand to lace us into our gowns. I tried mine on last weekend and I could hardly breathe,” Daphne says, nose scrunched in distaste.

“Bet your tits looked amazing, though,” Zabini counters.

Daphne sighs and looks up at the ceiling. “I’m surrounded by absolute bellends. Randy, useless bellends.”

“You can all copy mine,” Draco says. They’re always copying off of him, why should this year be any different? “But keep it believable. Get at least a quarter of them wrong.”

Zabini’s thanking him, but all Draco’s attention is pulled towards the front of the classroom, where Granger’s cornered their beleaguered professor.

“Well, I’m not participating in courting season, so I don’t see why you should push the homework deadline to next week.”

Professor Vector looks down her nose at Granger. “Ms Granger, as I’m sure you’re aware, you are likely the only seventh year student not participating. Now, I understand your frustration at having nearly completed the assignment, but this extension is not a penalty towards you, nor is it a reward for those who haven’t yet started. This is simply an adjustment on my part to accommodate a Hogwarts-sanctioned activity that is, for many, a mandatory process. If you’d like, I can assign you more homework in the interim. I also have office hours—”

“Yes, thank you. That will do nicely,” Granger interrupts, without even a drop of sarcasm. “I’m two chapters ahead in the reading, but I have some questions about practical application.”

“Erm, alright then.” Professor Vector should have known better than to offer the queen of swots more work. Draco smothers a laugh. “See me after class.”

“Granger’s not courting?” Daphne’s been eavesdropping, too.

Zabini shrugs his shoulders. “She could, if she wanted to. She’s not half-bad looking.”

Pansy hears her, because her lip curls, and she says loudly, “It’s not about her looks.”

“It’s about her blood,” Goyle finishes, but his tone says his heart’s not in it. His gaze is not on Pansy, but on Granger, who drops her bag with a bang on her front row desk and turns to address the class.

Oh, now this ought to be good. Granger’s nice and riled up, all pink-cheeked and indignant, ready to deliver some sanctimonious screed.

“If you want to call me a mudblood,” she begins, and gasps from the Gryffindors echo in the small room. “Just do it. Say it to my face. But if you’re expecting me to cry about it like a firstie, you’ll be waiting a long time.”

Mudblood. The two syllables Draco can’t seem to escape.

It was his father’s word, and his father’s before him. A long-standing tradition, to call a spade a spade. Purebloods are superior, half-bloods inferior but acceptable, and squibs a tragedy never discussed anywhere but behind closed doors. But muggleborns? Muggleborns are nothing but a scourge on the magical population.

He doesn’t believe what he did in his youth: that their blood is literal mud.

His vocabulary was crude, but some things his father said are true. Muggleborns have no respect for legacy or the storied past. They stomp around demanding the entire world order change to suit their every whim. They’re constantly in search of things to be oppressed about when if they just applied themselves—

“No one’s going to call you that, Hermione.”

Longbottom stands. He’s much taller than he was last year. He might even be taller than Draco. And there’s something different about him. Daphne’s not the only witch whose breath hitches when Longbottom’s dark brown hair falls rakishly over his forehead, in sharp contrast to his blue eyes. He’s filled out, too, shed baby fat for muscle. But his robes are still shit, hemmed too high with haphazard patches sewn into the sleeves. So there’s that, at least.

“Disgrace to his own kind,” Milly mumbles. Next to her, Crabbe nudges her shoulder in solidarity.

Professor Vector steps in, defusing the situation, if only temporarily. “That’s enough, thank you Ms Granger, Mr Longbottom. Why don’t you two pair up for today’s lesson?” She turns to the chalkboard, waving her wand as loopy cursive emerges on the chalkboard. “Algorithmic Numerology. Can anyone tell me how I might use an algorithm to generate meaningful content? Someone other than Ms Granger, perhaps?”

Draco takes copious notes throughout the class, which ends early for the assembly. As he packs up his things, he spies Nott speaking with Granger, in tones too low for him to hear.

“Nott.” He tilts his head towards the door, as if to say, why the fuck are you talking to Granger, let’s go.

Nott claps his hand on Granger’s starched shoulder. Granger looks just as confused as Draco is at the familiar touch. Daphne tugs at Draco’s elbow, and he follows her out into the corridor.

“What was that about?” asks Zabini when Nott catches up to them. They’re pouring into the Great Hall, all two hundred or so of the seventh year students, minus one bushy-haired muggleborn. The Slytherin section is especially rowdy. Nott has to shout over them as they find seats near the back.

“I told her she should do it. Courting season.”

Crabbe trundles up, shoves his tree trunks for legs under the table, and lowers his hulking form onto the bench next to Zabini. “Whatever for?”

“For the laugh, I assume,” Milly snickers, taking the seat next to Crabbe. She might’ve become more freckly over the summer, rivalling the She-Weasel, if that were even possible. She glances up at the professors’ table and frowns. “Though, I can’t say I approve, of course. A mudblood, courting? It’s not right.”

“Mudblood Head Girl as well. What’s the world coming to?” Crabbe grumbles.

Mudblood. Draco is so sick of hearing that word.

“Be that as it may, the Ministry has decreed that she can take part in the process,” Nott says coolly. For the first time, Draco wonders what Nott’s stance is on muggleborns. It’s one thing not to want to follow in his father’s footsteps, but quite another to sprint mindlessly toward ‘magical equality’ or whatever they’re calling it now. “It might be useful for her, that’s all. Don’t you think some half-blood might want her as a wife, if only for the proximity to Potter?”

It’s a fair point, and Draco wonders why he hasn’t thought of it.

Zabini’s a sceptic, as usual. “Potter’s time is over. He’s not even here this year.”

“Didn’t want to face Malfoy on the pitch,” Crabbe guffaws. Draco nods appreciatively, even though his stomach’s still turning from hearing mudblood out of his friend’s mouth yet again.

“Or maybe he’s already in Auror training,” Nott snipes. He runs a hand through his ink-dark hair. “He took down the Dark Lord, or did you lot forget? He’ll write his own ticket the rest of his life.”

Milly screws up her face. “Bully for Potter. Maybe he’ll do us all a favour and never come back.”

“He probably will, if he wants to court the Weasley girl next year,” Crabbe replies. “Then those two shits can fly off into the sunset together.”

Before anyone can say anything else about Potter, Dumbledore sends light purple sparks into the air, demanding everyone’s attention. His sonorous is well-cast, his booming voice filling the room with ease.

“Good afternoon, seventh year students. You are all gathered here today for a most auspicious occasion: the beginning of courting season.”

A few shrill giggles go up from a flock of Ravenclaw witches, and Dumbledore motions for them to simmer down. Nott lets out an exasperated breath.

“As headmaster, I will oversee the events that take place here on the castle grounds, but you will also be chaperoned at each event by volunteers from the courtship committee and the professors that have joined me here today: Septima Vector, Aurora Sinistra, Horace Slughorn, and as always, Sybil Trelawney. They will walk you through the schedule of events and answer any questions you may have about the courting process.

“We know most of you have been preparing for this season for years now, but as times change, so do our participants. While some of this might be well-trodden ground for our students with pureblood heritage, we ask for your patience and understanding as we lay out the rules and expectations. Now, I leave you in the capable hands of your chaperones.”

Scattered applause follows Dumbledore as he exits. Draco can’t help but think he looks much slower than last year. It’s the way he takes the stairs, clutching the guardrail for dear life. How odd, to see the old headmaster move only slightly better than his father in Azkaban, weighed down with chains around his wrists and neck.

Professor Trelawney glides to the podium. Her thick-rimmed spectacles dominate her face, much like the strands and strands of bracelets weighing down her fragile wrists.

“Thank you, Albus. And hello, seventh year students. I’ve been doing this for over thirty years,” Professor Trelawney begins, wide-eyed as she surveys the room. “I foresaw the matches of many of your parents, and bore witness to the unique magic that binds them together. In just a few days from now, you too will embark on the quest for true love, ending with a betrothal ceremony that will seal you to your soulmate for life.”

“Soulmates? Oh, please,” Daphne snorts. “This is about the birth rate, blood purity, and consolidating money and power. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Zabini holds a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

Draco shifts uncomfortably in his seat. While he thinks there might be something to the whole soulmate business, Daphne’s right on one count—of course it’s all about money. He’s only here because there’s no other way to get his inheritance. And, though he’d never admit it, he doesn’t want to disappoint his mother.

The last thing he needs is someone else to worry about. That’s why Pansy was such an elegant solution to his problem. High maintenance financially, sure, but low maintenance when it comes to everything else. She’ll shoulder the burden of estate management, child rearing, decorating and social obligations... As long as they have money, they’ll be fine. It’s not like the Parkinsons are broke by any means, but they need funds like anyone else. Funds that the Goyles couldn’t dream of achieving.

Draco is the smart choice. The best choice. The obvious choice. So why isn’t Pansy choosing him?

He pretends to crack his neck to get a look at her. She’s seated next to Goyle, but they’re not touching. When Goyle’s brown eyes catch him staring, Draco doesn’t flinch. It’s a challenge, and Goyle knows it. He thins his lips and wraps a protective arm around Pansy. Draco narrows his eyes before turning away.

Game on.

Professor Trelawney’s still waxing poetic. “What makes for a good match is one of the great mysteries of our kind. It’s more than the makeup of your wand, or even your magical signature. We employ divination in its many wild and wonderful forms to help you discover for yourselves the right person—or persons—for you.” She pauses, acknowledging potential polyamorous marriages.

His cousin Sirius isn’t the only wizard Draco sort-of knows in a throuple. But it’s odd, even by today’s standards, that Sirius is open about only being with his husband, while Remus Lupin is bound to both Sirius and Tonks. Draco abhors the thought of sharing his partner with someone else. He can’t imagine his magic steering him in that direction.

“But at the end of this process, you should also come away with a deeper understanding of the fates and your stars. You must get in tune with the elements, with your humours, with your heart and mind. And I will be here to help you at every step of the way. If you need an astrological reading, or you require a consultation with the spirits of your noble houses, for a small fee—”

“Thank you, Sybil,” says stern-faced Professor Sinistra, rising from her chair. “I can take it from here.”

Professor Trelawney adjusts her spectacles and retakes her seat, mumbling something about ill-fortunes.

Sinistra runs through this year’s schedule of events. First up: tea on the shores of the Black Lake. Family will introduce them to society during a formal ceremony, followed by a lightly-chaperoned tea complete with readings of the leaves to supposedly assess compatibility.

Draco hopes they at least spring for Yorkshire Gold.

“It only takes a sip to determine a potential match, otherwise we’d be there all afternoon,” Sinistra jokes. “Dress is semi-formal, so, wizards, no ties, but you need a light-coloured jacket and long trousers. For witches we encourage solid white dresses that hit just below the knee. If you do not fall into either category, or need assistance with your outfit, please see me after this. Oh, and baby’s breath will be provided for each student as either a bouquet or boutonniere. No need to bring your own.”

Zabini rolls his eyes at Draco, and he nods in response. Any pureblood worth their salt knows what to wear to tea. This little ‘assembly’ is a crash course for the riffraff, and it shows.

“Let’s see, what else… When you’ve taken tea with everyone you wish to explore a connection with, fill out a dance card for the next event and hand it in to Professor Slughorn, who will host the October event, Wyrdwood.”

Wyrdwood is a festive celebration of all things autumn: poached cinnamon apples, butterbeer, a giant bonfire, and dancing under the harvest moon. Inevitably there will be a ludicrous onslaught of pumpkins, pumpkin-themed decor, and hamfisted attempts at infusing even more things with pumpkin flavouring. The sheer amount of rusty orange, his worst colour, will be, unfortunately, unavoidable.

After that, All Saints’ Convocation, celebrated the night after Samhain, where he’ll be expected to present a piece of familial jewellery to five (or fewer) witches, narrowing the field. Then the Yule Ball right before Christmas, to be hosted at Nott Hall for the first time ever, and the Sweetheart Gala on Valentine’s Day, at Malfoy Manor, where it’s been held for the past twenty years.

He remembers watching the dancing from behind his mother’s skirts, the ballroom alight with laughter and merriment.

“Someday you’ll be out there, little dragon,” she had told him.

And now, someday is here.

After that, there’s a small break, followed by home visits with his top two choices over Easter hols. Shortly after, he will propose to the right witch—Pansy, once she’s done with this foolishness. The betrothal ceremony is performed at the most magical place in Britain, Stonehenge, at the beginning of June.

Slughorn’s blathering on now, about the rules and decorum. No love potions, no glamours, check jewellery for curses, etcetera. Zabini sits up straighter—prat thinks he’s got the potioneering apprenticeship in the bag. And he’s probably right.

Draco takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to study under anyone other than his godfather, anyway. He can always take up potioneering after his quidditch career. The Falcons have already written to express their interest, and hinted they’d send a scout to the season opener.

But first there’s the scrimmage with Gryffindor on Saturday morning. It doesn’t matter for the cup, so ordinarily he’d skip it and let his backup get some practice, but it’s bound to be bloody. As the team’s best healer, he can’t leave his teammates hanging. He’ll have to catch the snitch quickly if he wants time to perfect his hair before heading down to the lake.

Draco scowls. He never imagined he’d be going into the first event alone.

He glances around the room, at all the other witches in seventh year. Most of them are pretty, but not as fit as Pansy. That eliminates more than half the field. And he’s never been that into redheads or blondes, which leaves only a few raven-haired and brunette witches. They have to be smart, too, good with figures and contracts. Stylish. And pureblood, of course…

He has to marry Pansy. It has to be her.

His eyes drift over to her again, without his permission.

Does she miss him?

What if she doesn’t? What if she’s fancied Goyle this whole time?

No, she can’t have.

He’s Goyle, for Merlin’s sake. Talented in the beater role, and fair play to him, but he can hardly read. He has only one vault, and he’s a second son, so he won’t even inherit his family’s estate.

It makes no sense. Unless… Unless Lavender is right. Unless Pansy’s trying to make him jealous.

A slow smirk unwinds itself across his face, drawing a questioning look from Nott. But Draco doesn’t have time to discuss, not when he needs to formulate a plan of his own. He wants to leap from the table and run out of there, but he peels himself away as lazily as possible, sauntering from the Great Hall as if he doesn’t give two figs about courting season, as if he’s above it all—which obviously, he is.

He puzzles over matters all the way back to his rooms, half-convinced he’s close to a breakthrough. As he opens the door, he’s assailed by the sight of Granger, arms arced above her head and half-naked from the waist down.

“What the—” Draco flings his arm over his face to shield his eyes. “Granger, for the love of Merlin, where are your clothes?”

“Oh my God, Malfoy, what are you on about? I’m fully dressed.”

He steps in blindly, Her Grace mewling plaintively as she weaves between his legs. The door slams shut behind him.

“Your legs! And your—” He’s about to say arse, but he can’t. He can’t say it, can’t think about the creamy expanse of skin covered only by some sort of clingy, sheer pink fabric.

Draco hears her scoff. “They’re ballet tights, Malfoy.”

Ballet? He thinks he’s heard of it. Some muggle thing. Maybe with a ball? But there’s no ball here, nothing round, either, unless he counts the roundness of Granger’s backside. And he doesn’t.

Her dander is up now. “And really, my legs? You’ve been with a veritable parade of witches; you’ve seen much more than this. It’s not like I’ve got my tits out over here.”

“Do not,” he growls, “ever talk about your tits in my presence.”

“Fine, but you have to stop having overnight guests. The last witch used my toothbrush. My toothbrush. At three a.m. I needed the loo and accidentally walked in on her, fully nude and on the toilet, brushing away. After I stopped screaming, I informed her of the fact that she was using my toothbrush, and do you know what she did? She kept right on brushing.”

He has to admit that’s rather vile, but he’s not going to give her any ammunition.

“Well, I hope you let her leave with it.”

“Of course I did. Fortunately I have another, but it’s the principle of the thing. I feel,” she shudders audibly. “Violated.” There’s a shuffling sound, and then, “I’ve got my dressing gown on now. I didn’t know you were such a puritan.”

First prude, now puritan. Is this what everyone thinks of him?

Draco puts his arm down and blinks, readjusting to the light. Granger’s arms are crossed, propping up her tits—surprisingly lush tits, considering they’re attached to Granger, who most would agree barely registers as a woman. Her blush is furious.

“I’m not a puritan. You’re the one lounging around in freakish muggle lingerie.”

She laughs. Has he said something funny?

“You have no idea how freakish muggle lingerie can be.”

They both realise they should stop talking about freakish muggle lingerie at the same time.

Clearing her throat with all the subtlety of a hippogriff, Granger says, “You weren’t here, so I thought it was fine to practise in the living room, but in the future, I’ll find somewhere else, okay?”

“Thank you,” he says, strolling to his room. “And I will inform my guests that they should bring their own toothbrushes.”

“That’s not the prob—”

Draco grins as he shuts the door, cutting Granger off mid-shout, and begins undoing his tie, ruining the complicated trinity knot. Eventually he wrenches the tie from his neck, and it’s bliss, the way the extra oxygen fills his lungs. He can finally think straight.

He flops on his bed and stares up at the canopy. Her Grace leaps up on the duvet, nuzzling his hand with her furry face. He scratches under her chin, then strokes her back while she purrs.

“There’s my girl. Here to help me figure out how to get Pansy back?”

Draco could swear the cat snorts in reply.

Chapter Text

It’s unbearable, living with Malfoy. Though Hermione does the polite, expected things any good flatmate would do—keeps their shared spaces tidy while trying to stay out of his line of fire, that sort of thing—Malfoy flouts Hermione’s rules at every turn. He leaves unrinsed dishes in the sink, and he’s up making noise at all hours, sometimes in the company of another witch.

She’s never been more grateful for silencing charms.

There’s something about him, though… Something off.

When he strolls to class, he might have perfectly pressed trousers, shiny dragonhide boots, and not a hair out of place (the gel really is heinous), but that’s for the benefit of the public. When it comes to his appearance, he’s vanity incarnate: proud, fastidious, and far too good with charms. A triple threat, if you ask most girls at Hogwarts.

But in private? Malfoy’s just as tasteless as Harry and Ron—maybe worse.

Hermione sneaks peeks of his room here and there; mostly when he storms into their bathroom in the morning, bitching about the fogged-up mirror. What she’s seen on the other side of his door is... Basic. Sparse. Everything that she doesn’t associate with Malfoy.

His bed is made, but it only has one pillow. The bedding looks to be the standard dorm room bedding, but in emerald green. His desk has nothing on it, not even a book. The walls are bare. It’s a Slytherin-flavoured blank slate.

She has to admit, the matching bed for Her Grace is pretty cute. Crookshanks would’ve already shredded the tiny curtains with his teeth, but Her Grace seems to save her appetite for their frequent clashes in the common area. Aside from that small detail, the space is devoid of personality.

Thinking they could perhaps bond over their shared (accurate) belief that Malfoy is completely overhyped and begin a tentative friendship, Hermione plans to catch up with Luna after Divination. They’re two weeks in and there are so few seventh years taking it for NEWTs that all four houses are in one class. Hermione would’ve rather taken Alchemy, but unfortunately it overlapped with Arithmancy, and since she doesn’t have a time-turner anymore, Divination it is. Luckily, her table is all familiar faces: Ron, Lavender, Parvati, Padma, and Hannah Abbott.

Despite the friendly seating arrangements, the lesson is, as always, disastrous. She doesn’t even get to start her assignment—plucking petals from a daisy to predict if their crush returned their sentiments, utter rubbish—let alone finish it, because when she plucks her flower from the ornate silver vase, all the petals fall off.

From behind her, Crabbe witnesses the moment and pulls a face. “I’m no expert on the language of flowers, but I think that’s not a great sign.”

His table, mostly comprised of Slytherin witches, deploys japes and jeers of their own. Whatever. It’s not like Hermione believes in this stuff. Magic is one thing, but no matter what Sirius says, divination is not real. And even if it was—and it isn’t! She will die on this hill!—who cares about what some stupid plant has to say about her love life?

And why is everything about love lives all of a sudden? At least when they were “predicting” each other’s deaths they could get creative. In years past, Hermione foretold Harry’s demise hundreds of times, with tea leaves and tarot cards and crystals that she’s pretty sure weren’t even real quartz. Eventually it became a game between her and Ron: Who could come up with the most dramatic way for Harry Potter to die? Ron’s strategy was to recount a hero’s journey ending in tragic victory, while Hermione opted for something quick-and-dirty with maximum shock factor.

Once, Harry said he thought that part of him died in the graveyard where he killed Voldemort. Ron chuckled and said it was ridiculous. Harry grinned at him while he ruffled his hair, saying of course, insisting that he was only kidding. But the grin didn’t reach his eyes. Looking back, Hermione wonders if he was being quite serious.

In any case, none of her predictions have come to pass, and each earned her top marks. This love business, on the other hand, feels like it’s designed for her to fail.

Another joke at her expense sends the whole room into a tizzy. The little hairs on the back of her neck stand up when, from two tables down, Malfoy’s snicker joins the chorus.

Anger, ice cold, freezes her jaw shut.

“What’s this?” Professor Trelawney appears, hovering like an annoying gnat, and frowns down at Hermione. Her eyes blink rapidly behind her spectacles as if she’s fighting back tears. “Oh, you poor girl. Dying alone—I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

She attempts to place a pitying hand on Hermione’s arm, but Hermione dodges the touch by leaning into Parvati, who admonishes her for making her lose count of her petals.

“Sorry,” Hermione mutters. Then, to Professor Trelawney, she asks, voice curt, “Shall I try another?”

It’s not like she can get a worse result.

Instead of responding, Professor Trelawney throws her head back. Her body convulses.

Lavender squeals, grabbing onto Ron in excitement. “A prophecy!”

A hush falls over the classroom. The floating candles gutter and go out.

The professor’s tone darkens. Deepens. Words pour forth, shaky but clear: “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!”

Hermione recognises the phrasing immediately. “This isn’t a prophecy.”

“Shh,” Parvati says, enraptured.

“Old Time is still a-flying.” Professor Trelawney quakes and quivers for dramatic effect, bracelets rattling on her bony wrists. Is she making the curtains billow, too?

Hermione huffs and rolls her eyes, turning to the rest of her table for support. “It’s a muggle poem: ‘To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time’ by Robert Herrick. Has no one here read Herrick? 1648?”

“And this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying!”

“So wise,” Lavender whispers, clearly in awe. “Don’t you think, Won-Won?”

He nods several times in quick succession. “Mm, incredible.”

“The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun…”

“Ron,” Hermione hisses. “Seriously?”

He might not know a quatrain from a quaffle, but surely he isn’t buying this.

His blue eyes meet hers, then shift to Lavender. He shrugs helplessly. Fine. It’s not like Hermione planned to help him with his essays this year, anyway, what with the rift between them. She feels it widen, creating even more cracks in their tenuous friendship.

At long last, Professor Trelawney reaches the final part of the poem.

“Then not be coy, but use your time, and while ye may, go marry; for having lost but once your prime, you may forever tarry!”

Lavender breaks into enthusiastic applause, and the Slytherin witches rise from their seats to turn it into a standing ovation. Hermione stays seated as Professor Trelawney snaps out of her trance, thanking everyone for their patience while she collapses into a chair and “recovers” from her traumatic vision. Several people get up to fan her. Parvati casts aguamenti, filling a goblet of water which the professor gulps down greedily.

Malfoy ignores the spectacle. Surprising, but even a broken clock is right twice a day.

They’re dismissed. As the students not crowding the professor trickle out of the incense-laden classroom, Luna falls into step beside Hermione. “That was something else. I’ve never seen a prophecy foretold in real time.”

It’s been a trying day, and lonely. Even though Hermione isn’t buying what Professor Trelawney’s selling, the idea that Luna sought her out for a chat is just enough to buoy her spirits. She doesn’t repeat herself about the so-called prophecy’s true provenance, instead settling on, “Me neither.”

“Have you reconsidered?” Luna asks.

“Reconsidered?”

“Seems like timely advice. Daisies, rosebuds…”

Hermione gathers she’s talking about courting season, but the implication that Luna thinks she’ll die alone keeps her from pursuing that line of conversation. She adjusts the books in her arms. “I was actually hoping I’d run into you.”

“Oh?” Luna tilts her head, her shooting star earrings tinkling with the motion.

Now that she’s here, and talking to Luna, her revelation about Malfoy seems flimsy and in poor taste. But she doesn’t know what else to talk about, so instead of adjusting her plan, she goes ahead and confides in her.

The conversation is short-lived. Luna dismisses Malfoy’s lack of personal effects as post-break up depression.

Hermione shakes her head. “He’s pulled quite a few witches, though he's slowed down as of late. I don’t think he’s depressed.”

“Well,” Luna shrugs. Hermione can’t tell if her posture is saying she’s uninterested or merely waiting for another thought to come to her. Before she can find out, she’s approached by the termagant Mandy Brocklehurst, who demands to have her rounds swapped to accommodate Saturday’s courting event.

“Sorry,” Hermione says to both Luna and Mandy before scurrying back to the Head Students’ quarters. “I’ll figure it out.”

She chalks Malfoy’s demeanor up to laziness as she walks in and sees their kitchenette’s sink filled to the brim with dishes—again. A scourgify takes two seconds.

The one thing he seems to care for is Her Grace.

Fluffy white cats are notoriously princessy, and Her Grace is no exception. She requires special grooming (complete with a fresh pink bow around her neck), a special diet (wild-caught salmon only, prepared by Malfoy), and special toys (catnip-filled, all-organic).

Malfoy dotes on her endlessly. It’s… Well, it doesn’t square. She’s still trying to wrap her mind around him having a cat, let alone a familiar.

The cats chase each other around the kitchenette while Hermione takes care of the dishes. They hiss and spit and growl as she vanishes crumbs, wipes down cupboards, and refills the soap. It takes her less than two minutes.

“Her Grace, please,” she sighs as Malfoy’s cat swipes at Crooks. His angry orange paw attacks her relentlessly from his hidey-hole under the sofa. “He’s only trying to co-exist.”

Her Grace peers up at Hermione, ears leaning in her direction. For a moment, it’s almost as if she understands the Queen’s English and is somewhat open to hearing Hermione’s pleas for mercy. But by the time Hermione prepares her opening statement, Crooks leaps out, claws fully unsheathed, and sinks them into Her Grace’s fluffy tail.

The row is back on.

“Crooks! Crooks!”

This could have been avoided if Malfoy had only listened to her about giving the cats a longer acclimation period. But no, he insisted Her Grace was a sweet angel who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

They race by her, both poofed up with rage. She manages to get a hold of Crook’s scruff, but just barely, earning a few scratches in the process. He yowls in protest.

“I’m sorry,” she says, carrying him into the bedroom at arm’s length. She sets him in his sherpa-lined cat bed, recently relocated to the bench at the end of her footboard where his old bones can more easily climb into bed with her—if he wants. Lately he’s been too furious for cuddles.

He swats at her, and Hermione steps backwards into the living room. She closes her door behind herself, and for a moment, she lets her forehead fall against the ancient wood. If Crooks can’t get time out of her room and away from Her Grace, it’s going to turn into a serious problem.

Great. Just one more thing she’ll bring up to Malfoy that he’ll ignore.

Her Grace seems to have retreated to Malfoy’s room—the door’s cracked open more than it was a few minutes ago. Hermione doubts he’s in there. She doesn’t smell his pungent, pine needle cologne.

She settles in on the sofa, tossing a chenille throw over her legs and summoning her Potions textbook. The class has been so dull she’s fallen back into her old habit of inventing new potions in the marginalia. Today was a total waste, with everyone so excited about courting.

“Big day tomorrow, everyone. The official start of courting season. Oh, to be young again,” Professor Slughorn said, thumbing his suspenders as he rocked back on his feet. “Make sure you get your beauty sleep. Introductions start at ten a.m. sharp!”

Introductions? Don’t all seventh years know each other at this point? Whatever. She doesn’t need to care.

The blanket is warm, and the living room blessedly quiet. She falls asleep reading and dreams about theoretical uses for lacefly wings.

A few hours later, she wakes to find the moon hovering in the window, hanging high in the star-dotted sky. Hermione stretches. It’s tempting to linger, but her stomach rumbles, and if she’s hungry, Crooks is probably starving.

She checks the grandfather clock by the door and her eyes nearly bug out of her head. It’s almost midnight.

Relief washes over as she realises there’s no sign of Malfoy. She makes a quick sandwich for herself and opens a pâté for Crooks, slipping the shallow dish under her bedroom door. Glancing briefly at Malfoy’s door, she discovers Her Grace looking at her from the corners of her emerald green eyes, pretending to be completely uninterested in Hermione’s kitchenette activities.

Hermione sinks into a squat, eying the cat with suspicion. “If I feed you, will you be nice?”

It isn’t like she needs a reply, but the capitulant swish of Her Grace’s tail serves. Hermione summons one of her posh salmon dinners and approaches with caution. When she sets the plate in front of Her Grace, she immediately tucks in, rumbling a grateful purr.

“You must be wondering where he is,” Hermione says softly. “He doesn’t usually miss your dinnertime.”

Her Grace ignores her and keeps chowing down.

Wide awake and with nothing to do, Hermione considers changing out of her jumper and plaid pleated skirt into tights and a leotard, but she doesn’t want to risk Malfoy coming home and seeing her in the living room again after she promised him she’d practise elsewhere. Head Girl or not, it’s too late to go to the Room of Hidden Things. But then again, depending on who’s on duty…

Twirling her wand, she dips into the corridor and casts lumos, peering at the schedule to see who’s on tonight. The prefects’ schedule practically takes care of itself, thanks to her ingenious (if she doesn’t say so herself) use of tempus and a few other spells. But aside from the first meeting, she hasn’t had any meaningful contact with the twenty-four students meant to patrol the halls of Hogwarts after-hours.

“Checking in on us, Granger?”

She jolts, then whirls around to see Anthony Goldstein from Ravenclaw approaching. He’s always been one to stand out, dark-haired and olive-skinned, and he cuts a proud figure as he strides with confidence across the stone floors. His assigned partner, Padma, is missing in action, but that’s not what grabs Hermione’s attention. It’s the fact that he’s not wearing a tie, and his top two shirt buttons are undone.

It’s not regulation. She opens her mouth to tell him so, but he throws her a lopsided grin and leans up against the opposite wall. It’s a bit disarming, as not many people stop to talk to her. In fact, it’s usually the exact opposite. And the leaning thing he’s doing isn’t conveying nonchalance, but interest. It’s not unlike Malfoy’s lean, but Goldstein’s shorter, which somewhat spoils the effect. Yet when his keen, dark eyes descend on hers, she doesn’t think she could escape if she tried.

“Just doing my duty. Head Girl,” she stammers. Idiotic thing to say, but here she is.

“I know,” Anthony says, his grin widening. “Shame we don’t run in the same circles.”

She furrows her brow. “We’re in the same year, Goldstein.”

“Not what I meant.” Ah. He means pureblood circles. Hermione looks down at her mary janes. “And please, call me Anthony.”

“Anthony,” she whispers as she meets his eyes again. It’s a nice name.

He clears his throat. “I’m surprised to see you out at this hour. Not disappointed, of course, but I thought you’d be in bed by now, with courting season beginning tomorrow and all. Did you miss the time they gave us at the assembly?”

“I wasn’t there. I’m not courting.”

Anthony’s eyes gleam with fresh curiosity. “Well, aren’t you a rebel?”

“Sometimes,” she shrugs. “When the situation calls for it.”

If only he knew how much of an understatement it is.

A laugh sneaks past his lips. “You’re always so honest. It’s… Sweet.”

Hermione’s gotten this feedback before, and not just from men.

Oh, you’re so honest, or no lies here, or just full of opinions, aren’t you? She heard this from her primary school teachers especially, who thought her precociousness was darling. They assumed her advanced reading skills were a quirk of her peerless intelligence, not undiagnosed hyperlexia.

It doesn’t come up as much these days, but when it does, it typically doesn’t feel like a compliment. Still, Anthony has never been anything but cordial to her, and the way he’s looking at her now… It makes her cheeks heat. His assessing gaze feels appreciative, not critical.

He smiles, and she smiles back. “I have one more wing to go. Walk with me?”

She’s uncertain. Anthony is good-looking, and talking to her, and… Maybe it’s weak, but it’s nice to have a wizard’s attention. He doesn’t know she doesn’t think her honesty is a strength. He only meant to say something nice to her.

Anthony offers his arm, and she awkwardly loops hers through it.

“No, no,” he laughs. “Like this.”

With a warm, soft hand, he guides her arm over his, laying her palm to rest atop his fist.

“This is so formal,” Hermione says as they start down the corridor. Jittery, she wonders if she can recreate the way Parvati bats her eyelashes, or how Lavender flips her hair. Would Anthony like those things?

Would he like her?

No time to think about it. They’re headed for the infirmary, then the trophy case on the third floor, and then Anthony should be on his way back to Ravenclaw. Not enough time to experiment.

“I’m used to formality,” Anthony says with an easy shrug. “So, what classes are you taking? I can’t believe you’re not in Transfiguration. But I suppose you were always the best at it.”

She bites her lip as she smiles at him. Now there’s a compliment.

As they finish his rounds, Hermione relaxes into the whole arm-holding thing. She learns his family seat is in Dover, and his parents are both astronomers. She also gets the scoop on where Padma is. Apparently she skipped out to get ready, citing the importance of proper preparation for the start of courting season tomorrow.

“I don’t know how the process works. Is the first event a free-for-all? Padma’s got a whole list of candidates.”

“I’m not surprised,” Anthony says genially. “She’ll have her pick, that’s for sure. Loads of guys want a witch like Padma.”

“And you?” Hermione asks as they approach the Head Students’ quarters. There’s no angle; she’s being polite. But as soon as she says it, Anthony’s grin turns sly.

“Didn’t realise you were so interested in my prospects,” he says.

She withdraws her arm, as if burned. “Oh, I didn’t—”

“Forward little thing, aren’t you? I like it.” With a mischievous arch of his brow, he catches her elbow and—oh. He’s interested. He thinks she’s flirting.

She rocks back on her heels. She doesn’t really know Anthony, and he’s certainly not someone she’d want for the long haul, but it’s late, his teasing tone is gentle, and he smells vaguely like spiced almonds, and after watching—and hearing, ugh—Malfoy enjoy an endless parade of witches, she thinks maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to invite Anthony in for a snog.

Or more.

Hermione’s only been to bed with one wizard, but she’s figured out what works for her. Although, so far, she’s the only one who can make herself come. She’d like to teach someone else how to do it.

Hiding her nerves, she brings her hands up to grasp the sides of Anthony's half-open shirt. Her fingers slide against the fine cotton.

Anthony sucks in a breath as he steps closer, eliminating the space between them, and cradles her cheek right before his lips meet hers.

His kiss is hot, but tentative. Surprising, considering how bold he’s been. Hermione is the one to open her mouth to him and seek his tongue with hers. Neither one of them seems willing to take control, and Hermione wonders if he wants her or if the situation is simply too convenient for him to let pass by. It’s atmospheric, after all—late night, dark castle.

Pureblood kissing a muggleborn, just because she’s there.

The unwelcome thought jars her, makes her pull back. “We don’t have to—”

Anthony’s lips chase hers. He’s practically panting. “Can I come in?”

He must like something about the kiss, even if she doesn’t think it was anything special. But it had been like this with Viktor at first. Of course in the end, they’d lacked compatibility, but they’d had some good times together. Anthony won’t be the man she needs either, if this random sampling accurately reflects the whole data set. But that doesn’t mean they can’t have a bit of fun.

She lets the question hang unanswered for too long, because he releases her and steps away.

“It’s okay if the answer’s no. I won’t be weird to you later or anything,” Anthony says kindly. “I’m not that kind of bloke.”

Hermione wants to believe him. That’s why she lets him in, casting a silencing charm so they can move unnoticed through the living room. But just as they reach her bedroom door, the torches flicker to life.

“Well, well, well.” The deep voice is unmistakable. “What do we have here?”

She cringes, then turns around. Malfoy is sprawled on the sofa in a sweaty quidditch kit, stroking Her Grace in his lap like some sort of cartoon villain. The astringent scent of expensive alcohol lingers in the air.

Was he just sitting there in the dark, drunk? Fucking creep.

“Malfoy,” Anthony acknowledges him with a nod. “How are—”

“Spare me the pleasantries, Goldstein. I know you’re not here for social hour.” He checks his bare wrist as if he wears a watch. “Is it already shag’o’clock? And I didn’t find a partner. Don’t suppose I’d ever be so desperate as to lay down with a muggleborn, though.”

Anthony gasps and splutters. Malfoy only grins.

Hermione stares daggers at him. The most dagger-y daggers she can imagine, with golden hilts and tips dripping with poison. To think she’d cleaned up after him and fed his cat!

“Nothing to say, Goldstein?” Malfoy stands, dislodging Her Grace, and eases his hands into his pockets. Liquor’s slowed his movements, but hasn’t dulled his sharp tongue.

“Well, I—” He looks to Hermione. “I don’t know that we were going to shag, but—”

Malfoy claps his hands and rubs them together. “Always knew you were a milksop. Look now, Granger, he won’t say a word in your defence and you’re still planning to break the rules—your rules—for this twat?”

“He’s more gentleman than you’ll ever be,” Hermione snipes.

His smirk is infuriating. “Yes, I bet you like a gentleman, don’t you? Someone nice and meek that you can boss around.”

He’s dead wrong, but he doesn’t get to be privy to what gets her wet.

Anthony fidgets with a shirt button. “My family cares a great deal about a witch’s pedigree.” Hermione goes rigid. “But I don’t.”

“But you wouldn’t marry her, would you?” Malfoy’s grin expands, wry and wolfish. He’s having a grand old time. “I mean, you’d fuck her. Maybe dance with her, if it doesn’t damage your prospects too much.”

Anthony mumbles something, and Hermione bristles, both at the insinuation and the way Malfoy’s being proven correct. Still, she straightens her spine. “He’s not the one saying he’d have to be desperate to sleep with me.”

“He’s hardly saying anything at all. That works for you?”

“Please. As if you’re vetting every witch you finagle into bed. You don’t even remember their names.”

“You’re right,” he says, and though his posture collapses into a chastened slump, his grey eyes sparkle with mischief. “But, if I may, it’d be far easier to remember their names if they didn’t spend all their time screaming mine.”

“Oh my God. You’re impossible,” Hermione seethes as she steps towards him, fists clenched at her sides. Her nails dig into the tender pad at the base of her palms. It’s not a pain she enjoys, and it does nothing to ground her.

“Maybe I’ll ask them to wear name badges,” he muses, leaning in. “No, that won’t work, their clothes come off too fast.”

God, she hates him. She really, really hates him.

“Can’t you just fuck off to your room? We were only going to snog anyway!”

“Past midnight,” Malfoy fires back. He’s closer now, sucking up all the whisky-stained air in the room.

“And since when do you care about the rules? Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

He’d never be jealous. She knows that. But it feels good to yell it at him.

“I’m a Malfoy, Granger. We always get what we want. Always.” He puffs out his chest, if she’s not mistaken. Wounded pride? She’ll take it. “I’d never stoop so low as to be jealous. I’d simply take what’s rightfully mine.”

“Rightfully yours? You—”

Anthony clears his throat, and Hermione suddenly remembers he’s still there.

“I can go,” he says. “It’s really not—”

“No, you’re not leaving,” Hermione shouts, then moderates her volume. “We’re not going to let Malfoy get in the way of our evening.”

He flicks his eyes over to Malfoy, and then back at her. “Uh, right. Where’d be the fun in that?”

She doesn’t wait for Anthony to offer her his arm like before. Instead, she grabs his hand and yanks him through the living room, determined not to give Malfoy one more second of her attention. Once they’re in her bedroom, she slams the door shut, kicks her shoes off, and shoves Anthony backwards onto her bed.

“What the—Hermione?”

Hermione’s heartbeat pounds in her ears as she climbs atop Anthony and presses her lips to his. She wants to stop thinking about her stupid co-head and stupid courting season and lose herself in someone. And Anthony is here, and he says he doesn’t care that she’s muggleborn, and she wants to believe him. So she snogs him for all she’s worth, the way Viktor never liked. The way she never even got to try with Ron. The way she likes.

Passionate. Unrestrained. Without any reservations, gripping tight enough to really feel him under her hands.

His sharp intake of breath is the most satisfying sound she’s heard in ages, and she rewards him with a nip of her teeth on his bottom lip. He doesn’t seem to know where to put his hands, so she guides them to the backs of her thighs, hoping he’ll get the idea to slide them up, up, up…

He follows her lead, but like before, he doesn’t take charge. The snog is still good. There’s still want, in the tension in his muscles. He strokes her skin and plays with the frilly tops of her over-the-knee socks, but keeps his touch respectful.

She doesn’t want respectful.

But as her fury with Malfoy cools, she can tell Anthony’s not into going further. There’s none of the excitement of a spur-of-the-moment late-night hookup.

With a sigh, she props herself up on her elbows. “This isn’t doing it for you, is it?”

“No, no, it is,” he insists. To his credit, he does an almost believable job of pulling her back down for another kiss.

Just then, an owl taps at the window. Hermione turns her head and—

“Hedwig,” she gasps, rolling off Anthony and the bed in one smooth motion. She nearly rips the window off its hinges getting it open for Harry’s owl.

Harry’s written. It’s the proof of life she didn’t know she needed.

“Erm,” Anthony says as he sits up. His hair is messy, and his lips are deep red from her bite.

“Sorry, I have to get this.”

She’s not really sorry, but she’s learned that people like it when you say it anyway. It’s polite, and gets people to do whatever it is she needs them to do much, much faster.

Anthony is apparently impervious to politesse, because he doesn’t move.

“You have to answer an owl at, what, one in the morning?”

She waves this off. “I don’t think it’ll work between us.”

He huffs in disbelief as he gets up and runs a hand through his hair in an ill-fated attempt to fix it. “Yeah, I see that. Not that I was looking for anything long-term, but… Merlin. You know, you’re a real ball-buster, Granger. You might want to ease up.”

“I don’t really know how,” she confesses, and she knows her smile turns sad when Anthony frowns, perplexed.

Hedwig hoots for attention. Hermione strokes her feathers before taking the letter from her beak. The envelope is thick and slightly damp from night fog.

“I know you’re not courting, but most blokes don’t really go for the whole—”

Hermione tunes him out. She’s heard this before, from Viktor.

She doesn’t need to hear it again.

“Good luck tomorrow,” she says hastily, then reconsiders. “Or, today, I suppose.”

“Right. Thanks.” Anthony shakes his head as he opens her door. “I suppose I’ll see myself out.”

Clutching the unopened letter, she grimaces. “Anthony?”

“Yeah?”

“Friends, right?”

He inclines his head, and his face is kind. “Friends.”

A breath whooshes out of her, and she smiles as he shuts the door, leaving her alone with Hedwig—and Crooks, who’s come out of hiding long enough to greet his old pal. Hermione finds treats for both of them and lights a candle on her desk, almost shaking with anticipation when she finally sits down to read the letter.

She unfolds the parchment. Harry’s familiar chicken scratch, surrounded by little blots of ink, makes her heart sing.

Dear Hermione,

Have you ever heard of a horcrux?

Chapter Text

Gryffindor plays dirty. Bunch of lowlifes. What else is new?

Yet Draco discovers they’re even slimier than usual, considering this is a scrimmage. Maybe they feel like they can fudge the rules a bit more now without their altruistic captain Potter at the helm. The She-Weasel’s gone as well. That leaves them with an experienced keeper in Weasley, and the best chaser in their year, Katie Bell, but apart from those two, the squad is unfamiliar. The dense Scottish fog doesn’t make it easy to discern the newcomers’ faces or styles of play. The high speeds don’t do him any favours, either.

Not that they’re giving Draco much time to think about their strategy. He’s focused on staying on his broom.

He dives again, executing a perfect spiral that would certainly earn him style points if it were a different sport. Unfortunately for Draco, he’s only dodging a bludger. It’s a nasty one, and he narrowly avoids a potentially disastrous collision with Pucey. Cool-headed even against their rivals, Pucey pulls up on his broom and maintains control of the quaffle. Draco doesn’t see it, but by Little Greengrass’s jubilant whoop, he knows Slytherin scores. They’re tied.

There’s no time for him to celebrate. Another bludger comes at him with such force that it whistles through the fog as it passes his left ear. Draco’s hands, slick with sweat inside his gloves, clench his broom handle tighter.

His stomach turns as he zooms around the pitch. He shouldn’t have had all that firewhisky last night. Sober-up does wonders, but it’s not a miracle potion. Why did he think he could get drunk and avoid all his problems? And then he accosted Granger—

Draco ducks, scarcely avoiding serious injury.

Despite Crabbe and Goyle’s efforts, every bludger seems to have Draco’s name on it. There’s no reason for Gryffindor’s beaters to target the seeker this early, and yet he’s already been hit hard twice. He can feel the bruises blooming on his shoulders.

“A little help here?” He shouts as he whizzes past Crabbe.

“Trying,” Crabbe grunts. His bat connects with a bludger. The sickening crack of iron meeting wood twists Draco’s insides.

He doubles back with dual intentions: throw the beaters off and search the skies for a glint of gold. The thick mist makes it near impossible to see. It coats his face, mixing with his sweat and hair gel and running in his eyes. Draco shakes away a few soaked strands of hair and then—there it is. The snitch, hovering by one of the Slytherin hoops.

He swerves Archimedes Flint (a far more talented player than his older brother) and urges his broom to pick up the pace. There’s no use trying to hide what he’s up to, not with bludgers hot on his tail. Gryffindor’s seeker catches on, but she’s no match for Draco. He’s got speed, agility, and when the air isn’t frigid soup, he’s got finesse, too.

As he approaches the tallest hoop, zooming past Little Greengrass as she blocks another scoring attempt, it all goes sideways.

Later, when he replays this moment in his mind, he’ll realise the bludger was an impossible block. It doesn’t matter if Goyle was angry with him or not. It doesn’t matter if Gryffindor was cheating or not. Not even a time-turner could’ve changed the result.

Smack!

The bludger collides with Little Greengrass’s skull. Her eyes flutter shut. Her body goes limp.

The next part happens silently, in slow motion.

She plummets, broom and all, towards the earth, with nothing to break her fall, while the Gryffindor seeker’s fist closes around the snitch.

The match is over.

Frozen, Draco blinks. Once. Twice.

Suddenly Crabbe is shaking his shoulder, yelling something in his ear. Flint has Little Greengrass in his arms. Blood pours from her temple.

“Pomfrey’s already down at the lake, Malfoy.” Pucey’s urgent baritone finally breaks through. “Too far. We can’t wait.”

Draco snaps back into focus. “Get her to the locker room.”

In the locker room, he requires complete silence. The team and several onlookers crowd around as Flint settles Little Greengrass on a bench, but they have the sense to keep their mouths shut. Nott’s there, as is Daphne, having come to see her sister play rather than get ready for the first courting event, and she leans into Zabini for support.

One of the best things about healing is that he doesn’t have to occlude to maintain his concentration. When he’s presented with someone who needs care, the rest of the world falls away. Draco channels his magic into examining the wound while staunching the blood flow. He catalogues the information without emotion, as his godfather would reverse engineer a potion.

Little Greengrass has a 2.5 cm laceration. Right temporal region, approximately 2 cm superior to the zygomatic arch and 3 cm posterior to the lateral canthus of the eye. Surrounding tissue exhibits moderate edema and ecchymosis. No involvement of the superficial temporal artery or facial nerve noted—no neurovascular compromise. Strong vitals.

Daphne whimpers as Draco summons potions, gauze, scissors, and sterile thread from the black bag he keeps stashed at the bottom of his locker. Nott shushes her.

He administers the potions with care, tipping them one by one down her throat. That’s pain taken care of, as well as something to help her sleep this off. Then he sets his wand to the bruise, reversing the purpling skin to red, then yellow, and finally the health of soft peach.

The sutures take no time at all. Draco’s hands are steady; fingers sure. But the moment he knots the thread and snips the ends, his senses kick back in, one at a time. First, he sees the people around him. Next, he hears Crabbe’s heavy breathing. Then, the locker room’s pungent aroma—a mix of broom polish, mildew, and musky funk—fills his nostrils. He tastes salt on his lips and feels the stiffness of his joints as he stands.

“You can take her to the infirmary if you want, but she’s fine. No concussion,” Draco says, wincing as he rolls his neck muscles. Daphne throws her arms around him and plants a kiss on his cheek. “She’s fine, Daph.”

“Thanks to you,” Daphne whispers, squeezing him tight before stepping back.

Zabini nods. “We’ll get her settled. See you at the lake.”

“Be quick about it,” Pucey says. “You’ve got forty minutes tops.”

Draco stifles a groan. That’s not nearly enough time. What about his hair?

Daphne and Zabini exit with Flint, who insists on carrying an awake-but-woozy Little Greengrass back to the Slytherin dorms. Nott seems happy to stay behind, presumably to ogle his ex, Pucey—though last time Draco checked, Nott was adamant that he’s taken, and Pucey’s made it clear he wants Lisa Turpin.

Draco pinches the sides of his nose and sighs. His head hurts. His body hurts. Worse, they lost to a Potter-less Gryffindor. And now he has to clean up and show his mother he’s capable at courting. He needs to represent their family well; prove himself worthy of rehabilitating the Malfoy name.

And there’s the money, of course. He can’t receive his inheritance without choosing the new Lady Malfoy. Without his inheritance, he can’t lead the life he wants to live.

Goyle hovers at his periphery. He shoves his broom in his locker and slams the door with a metallic clang, shoving one gargantuan paw of a hand through his sandy hair. Normally Draco would blame today’s poor showing on Goyle’s distinct lack of brains, but the distracted matchplay felt deliberate.

Like a punishment.

Draco turns on him. He has time to chew out his so-called best friend, hair be damned.

“If you’d been doing your fucking job, she wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

“What are you on about?” Goyle reels back, but there’s a falseness to his voice. Not everyone could pick up on it, but after years of close proximity, Draco hears it. “Look at me, I flew harder than anyone else out there. Not my fault the bludgers decided to play for Gryffindor.”

“Come off it. You let them find me,” Draco growls.

“Malfoy, mate—”

“Mate? Mate?” His disbelief takes the form of a harsh bark. “We’re not mates anymore.”

Goyle sighs like he saw this conversation coming. “Is this about Pansy?”

“Is this about Pansy? Salazar. You know, you’ve always been jealous of me.” He steps forward, pressing a finger into Goyle’s broad chest. “The estate, the vaults, the witch. I thought maybe we were past all that, but you never fail to disappoint, do you, Goyle? Though I suppose it’s only fair that I commend you on having the stones to finally make a move.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me. Do whatever else you want, but don’t fucking lie to me. And hey.” He throws both hands up in a sign of mock-surrender. “Enjoy Pansy while you have her, alright? Because I don’t know how you think this ends, but witches of her calibre never marry a second son.”

“Sometimes they do,” Crabbe pipes up. Shit, he’d forgotten Crabbe. As quiet as he is, it’s not an irregular occurrence. “You know, if the first son dies, or the witch falls pregnant.”

Draco sneers, keeping his eyes trained on Goyle. “A pity, then, because last I heard, Giles is still very much alive.”

Goyle’s hands curl into fists at his side. Draco clocks the movement, but he can’t stop.

“Listen, I know how incredible Pansy is, okay? She’s gorgeous. Of course you want her for yourself.”

“It’s not about her beauty.” Goyle’s tone darkens. “This is exactly why I told her she should break it off with you—”

Crabbe yelps as Draco’s first punch hits Goyle squarely in the nose. Blood gushes forth, staining his hand and Goyle’s kit. Goyle takes a swing, but Draco, high on post-match adrenaline and righteous fury, dodges him easily, backing away from the lockers.

Fury rises in his chest as his breathing turns shallow. “What happened to putting in a good word for me? You knew she was going to do it. You motherfucker. And now you’re… Where’s my goddamn wand? Accio wand!”

The wand zips through the musty locker room towards his waiting hand, but Crabbe grabs for it and holds tight. For whatever reason—probably to act like he has some sort of moral high ground after manipulating Pansy into leaving Draco—Goyle doesn’t summon his wand. Draco uses the opportunity to land another punch underneath his jaw, doubling the bigger wizard over.

Pucey and Nott jump in to intervene, though Draco hardly registers them, seeing red and shouting at Crabbe to give him back his wand. Nott wraps his arms around Draco’s middle, and while Nott isn’t nearly as strong as Draco, he’s effective in getting him to back away.

“Come on, Malfoy. It’s not worth it, mate.”

Draco angrily spits on the floor, but he’s no moron. Bloodlust isn’t a Malfoy trait. Malfoys are schemers. They plot their revenge and take it when the time is right. And this time, right here, right now, isn’t ideal.

He considers Nott’s position. A little fight like this’ll be chalked up to boys being boys, but unauthorised duelling earns you a suspension, and that’d certainly be the end of his tenure as Head Boy. Not that it’s been rewarding thus far. If anything, it’s been a punishment, being isolated from the Slytherin dorms and having to deal with swotty Granger and her hideous cat morning, noon, and night.

But it’s fine. If he’s alone, Goyle won’t see the payback coming until it’s too late.

Draco just has to figure out what that payback will be. At the very least it’ll involve making him watch while Pansy changes her name from Parkinson to Malfoy.

Pucey does a shit job of healing Goyle’s nose, but it’s not like Draco’s going to step in and help. When his hulking form rises from the floor, he eyes Draco warily.

“Pansy’s not going to get back together with you. I know you think she will, but she won’t. Not now; not ever.”

That’s it. Rules of engagement, out the proverbial window. He has no choice but to deck this sorry excuse for a wizard into next week.

Draco wrests himself out of Nott’s clutches and lunges at Goyle again, but Crabbe blocks him, gripping him by the shoulders. Crabbe’s hold is much tighter.

Desperate to leave the locker room on top, Draco blurts the next words out before he thinks.

“Well, that’s fine. I’m seeing someone else, anyway.”

Wait. No. That’s not right.

“Really?” Nott asks, his curiosity stretching the final syllable in exaggerated fashion.

Crabbe’s grip loosens. “Who?”

Shit. Double shit.

“Not Daph,” Draco says to Crabbe hurriedly. He doesn’t want Crabbe to be at odds with him, too. It’s obvious he’ll be trying to win Daphne’s heart, even if it’s an impossible task. And someone’s got to look out for Draco on the pitch this season.

He racks his brain for a name. He’s specifically only fooled around with witches who aren’t courting… He’s drawing a blank. The longer the silence drags on, the sooner they’ll realise he’s bluffing.

“We’re not ready to take it public yet,” he says, puffing out his chest with false confidence.

Crabbe nods slowly, as if Draco’s half-arsed excuse makes perfect sense. “Of course. Good of you both, to be so considerate of Pansy’s feelings. Breakup’s still fresh and all.”

“Of course,” Goyle mutters. “Because you’ve been so considerate in the past.”

Draco knows it’s a jab, but if there’s anything he’s good at, it’s acting like he’s above it all, so he pretends not to hear the insult.

“Yes, yes.” Nott’s joviality is strained as he plucks Draco’s wand from Crabbe’s hand and steers Draco towards the exit. “Compassionate and sensitive as you are, I’m sure you won’t be able to hide your joy at finding your future Lady Malfoy for long. Maybe you’ll introduce us all to her at the tea?”

“Nott,” Draco threatens under his breath. He pastes a placid smile on his face for appearance’s sake. Then, loud enough for the group to hear: “There’s plenty of time for introductions. It’s a long season.”

“Sure, but we wouldn’t want to put her on our dance cards,” Pucey says, and Crabbe quickly agrees.

“Quite,” Draco starts. It’s all spinning out of control. He has no witch. He only wants Pansy.

“That settles it! Tea, then,” Nott affirms with a mischievous look. He shoves Draco out of the locker room and suddenly they’re back out in the fog, traipsing through the sedge back to the castle. “See you lads there!”

“You’re fucking me here,” Draco whines once they’re out of earshot.

Nott hands him back his wand. “Is that what I’m doing? I thought I was helping.”

“You most certainly are not.”

“True. I am Nott.” Draco doesn’t dignify the wordplay with a response, but Nott isn’t put off. “I can’t wait to meet the lucky witch and extend my congratulations. Ooh, does Narcissa know?”

Draco remains silent as they march up stone steps.

Nott’s eyes sparkle with delight. “She doesn’t, does she?”

His head feels like it’s full of cotton stuffing. Why did he say anything at all? He can’t name a single seventh year witch that would help him with this (unfortunately self-inflicted) problem. Daphne might’ve, but Crabbe would beat him black and blue, and it’s not worth getting even more bruises than he already has. He winces and brings a hand to one of his battered shoulders. If he’d been thinking straight, he’d have put some salve on before he left the locker room.

Daphne wouldn’t have worked anyway. Pansy knows he doesn’t fancy Daphne and never could. In his youth, he only saw Pansy on special occasions, but the Greengrasses were less precious about their eldest daughter, favouring the younger one instead. As a result, they allowed Daphne the freedom to ramble in the English countryside with Crabbe, Goyle, and Draco while they cosseted Little Greengrass. This, of course, only encouraged Daphne’s rebellious nature. In time, Draco and Daphne played together with enough frequency to forge a sibling-like relationship.

Draco wrinkles his nose and makes a face. As much as he adores Daphne, he could never snog his sister.

They reach the Great Hall, and Nott perks up, spotting a tall figure emerging from the dark, winding corridor that leads to the dungeons. “Oh, hello Albus, how are you?”

Draco blinks twice. It’s the headmaster, moving only slightly faster than he had at the assembly. His hat droops, and his right sleeve is so long it covers his hand, but his face lights up as they draw closer.

“Good morning, Theodore,” Dumbledore says, stroking his beard. Up close, it’s more white than grey. “Mr Malfoy.”

Since when is Theodore Nott on first-name basis with Dumbledore?

“Good morning,” Draco mumbles. Is he supposed to thank him for making him Head Boy? It’s an honour, and one achieved by very few. According to his father, Potter’s parents were almost chosen, but their scandalous relationship (they didn’t court, and entered into an unsanctioned marriage) prevented them from assuming the roles. Maybe the original appointment of Potter was a misguided rectification of the situation.

Be that as it may, it’s irksome that Draco, with his perfect marks and spotless reputation, wasn’t the first choice. Reluctant as he is to admit it, though, second choice is still something, with so many seventh years to choose from. Former Heads are often given first pick of cushy Ministry jobs, and are shoo-ins for any apprenticeship or mastery programmes. Even Malfoys need advantages there. But Draco can’t seem to muster up anything except, “My apologies. I need to prepare for tea.”

It’s the height of rudeness, and not only by pureblood standards, but Draco’s too much of a disaster to care. He excuses himself with a half-bow (much more polite) and leaves them to it.

Draco’s feet lead him to the Head Students’ quarters as his brain spins up potential seventh year witches, all of whom he strikes down for one reason or another. He sighs and indulges himself in a sulk, lowering his head to bang softly against the door.

His shoulders slump in defeat. Even if he could think of a witch, none of them would help him without something exorbitant in exchange. If anything, they’d try to trap him into a betrothal somehow. He leans into the door with his entire body, but it does nothing for his problem, or his weary bones.

He’s utterly, completely, and entirely fucked.

Suddenly the door swings open. With nothing supporting his weight, Draco’s centre of gravity shifts, knocking him off his axis. Panic slices through him as, for a fraction of a second, his arms desperately windmill in an ill-fated attempt to keep himself upright. It’s no use. He falls forward, expecting to break his elbows, but his fall is broken by massive piles of… Books?

Draco shakes his head and groans. His double vision collapses back into a singular frame, focusing on one the titles shifting under him. In faded bronze foiling, it reads: Secrets of the Darkest Art.

What the hell?

“Shit, Malfoy. I’d just gotten those organised.”

Granger’s huffy voice compels him to find his footing. He shakes his head again, dragging his palms down his face before making sure he’s really seeing what he thinks he’s seeing.

It’s as if Granger’s moved the entire restricted section into their shared living space. There are mountains of books piled on chairs, end tables, and even the dining nook in the kitchenette. A singular tome dangles in front of the fireplace, suspended by a green spider web (he doesn’t want to know why—or what drips from its pages). Some books are moth-eaten, some bound with chains, some making ungodly sounds. He doesn’t see either of the cats; assumes they’re hiding. He would too, if he were them. The tang of dark magic invades his mouth, coating his tongue.

Maybe he’s concussed. Maybe he’s cursed. Or maybe he stepped into an alternate reality the moment he boarded the Hogwarts Express. Nothing makes sense lately.

Well, Granger having boatloads of books makes sense. But dark books?

“You’re the one who opened the door,” Draco grumbles as he turns to look at her. She’s still in those nightmarish rags she calls pyjamas, and her hair crackles with agitated magic.

“I thought someone was knocking!”

“A convenient excuse. Exactly what are you up to, Granger?”

“Extra credit,” she says, too quickly. Her wand whooshes through the air, glamouring the mess.

Not extra credit, then. She’s too easy to read.

“Throwing yourself into schoolwork so soon? Guess Goldstein didn’t rise to your expectations?”

Draco doesn’t mean to say it. He doesn’t want to continue last night’s conversation. His shoulders kill, and he’s supposed to be in the shower washing off the stench of this morning’s embarrassing loss. It’s a mystery, truly, why Granger seems to bring out the worst in him.

He should let his barb about her tragic taste in wizards go unanswered and leave now. But he needs a win. And it’s worth it, to stay and see the way her cheeks colour.

“Anthony was very nice.”

First name basis? Maybe they shagged after all. But the way she said nice…

“Just nice? So he didn’t make you come.” Draco sneers. “Probably just wanted to see what muggleborns are like. Get a taste.”

He’s being crude for no reason now except to drag her down, make her remember her place. It’s not like it feels good for him to remind her she’s on the bottom rung of wizarding society, but someone has to do it. Better for it to be him than some other wizard with ulterior motives.

He’s doing her a solid, really. When they leave Hogwarts, this is how it’ll be for her unless she wises up. She can hook up with purebloods all she wants, but it’ll never last. Nothing can ever make her any less muggleborn.

At least she had the good sense not to be public about her little tryst. And from the sight of her—grubby, with a spot of jam stuck to the corner of her lips—she’s definitely not courting, so that’s another point in her favour. Granger isn’t entirely socially inept; he’ll give her that much. She hitched her flying carriage to Potter, after all. Though she likely didn’t anticipate being stuck here while he skips the queue to become an Auror.

“Fuck off.” Her eyes dart away, and hot satisfaction races through him. So he’s not the only one having unsatisfying encounters. Ha.

She must see him make the connection, because her blush goes scarlet. Smug giddiness swells inside his chest. Draco can’t help himself.

“And you’re so used to being unsatisfied in every other aspect of your life that you let him off the hook?” He tuts at her mockingly.

Her gaze narrows. Darkens. There’s a strange burning smell, but he can’t—

“Fucking—Fuck!” He shouts. Cold blue flames blaze a path up his quidditch trousers, and instead of pulling his wand, he beats them out with his fists before they can spread. “Are you barmy? What the hell? You could’ve seriously injured me.”

Granger smirks. “Guess I wanted to try being satisfied for once.” She walks two fingers across her palm and looks at him with false concern. “Shouldn’t you be running along? I didn’t think you’d dress so poorly, but then again, I’m just a muggleborn. I’m sure Pansy loves sweaty, putrid wizards with surly attitudes and singed trousers. Really screams ‘I’m the pinnacle of pureblood princedom,’ don’t you think?”

“I’m taking a shower,” he grumbles, shoulder checking her as he moves past.

“Won’t make you any less putrid,” she fires back, but he’s already shutting the bathroom door and twisting the shower handle left, all the way to the hottest setting. Draco needs the water to scald him. Then he can apply salve, dress, style his hair, and get to the lake.

He’ll have to figure out the whole 'secretly committed to a mystery witch' thing when he gets there.

He climbs in the shower and lets the water stream down his back for a brief, blissful moment before reaching for the soap.

At least this day can’t get any worse.

Chapter Text

As soon as Hermione hears Malfoy turn on the shower, she removes the glamour on her books.

“Wanker,” she mutters to herself, although it doesn’t feel strong enough a word for the revulsion Malfoy has inspired in her lately. She didn’t mean for him to stumble upon the treasure trove of literature from the library’s restricted section; it’s only that there isn’t space in her room to spread out. Not if she wants to do any meaningful cross-referencing, anyway.

And she needs to conduct her research quickly, not only because Harry’s counting on her, but because at some point someone’s going to wonder who borrowed hundreds of titles at once.

Well, borrowed isn’t exactly the right term.

More like smuggled, with an unexpected bit of help from Peeves. When she informed him that her pre-dawn mission was for Harry Potter himself, the ever-chaotic poltergeist distracted Madam Pince with a trail of destruction—toppling shelves, shattering lamps, laughing maniacally as he led her on a merry chase through the aisles—while Hermione, a dab hand at summoning spells, rounded up every book that had anything to do with the dark arts. She stuffed them into her beaded bag as fast as she could, breaking out into a nervous sweat, all the while wishing there were charms that had the ability to search by specific keyword, like on the muggle internet, so she didn’t have to read until her head aches and her vision goes blurry.

Too bad she can’t install a computer in her hypothetical future apothecary. Electricity and magic don’t mix. But if there was a way…

If Snape was here (thereby giving her a genuine shot at the potions apprenticeship) they’d sit in his lab with tea and fresh sheaves of parchment, talk through the current theory, and determine if there was some fairy stone unturned. It’s possible: the Ministry is horribly lazy and unimaginative, after all. With so few muggleborns on staff, and none of them holding high ranking positions, it’s likely they haven’t even considered the vast benefits of electricity and other technological advancements. They’re too busy ensuring pureblood donors are kept happy with swanky galas and assuring them that they’re not threatened by the minimal gains made by progressive advocates.

Basically, the Ministry exists to facilitate a whole lot of arse kissing, and Hermione’s never been one for politicking. She has no interest in government work in the long term, but she’d be happy to loan her expertise on a temporary basis. For the right price.

She’s going to need money in the next few months if she doesn’t want to end up in a guest bedroom at Grimmauld. It’s not a terrible fate by any means, but eventually Harry will want space for himself and whoever he courts, whenever he comes back.

But she can’t think about all that right now, because the only way Harry’s coming back any time soon is if she helps him.

Hermione twists her hair up into a bun. After so many years of ballet, it’s second nature. She doesn’t even need a mirror; muscle memory guides her hands as she secures the bun with a length of pink ribbon and ties it in a prim little bow.

There. With her hair out of her way, she can actually think. Funny how such a small physical act makes her mind feel more organised.

She pulls Harry’s letter from the pocket of her pyjama shirt and reads it for what must be the eighth or ninth time. It’s only nine words, but it’s also confirmation her best friend is alive out there somewhere, and that’s more than she had before.

Dear Hermione,

Have you ever heard of a horcrux?

Her eyes narrow in on that word again: Horcrux.

She didn’t know the word, much less the meaning of it, eight hours ago. Now, it’s consumed her.

Her gut tells her that it’s dark. Even the combination of letters looks evil. Hopefully the stacks and stacks of books on the sofa, coffee table, and every other available flat surface have something to offer her on the subject.

Hedwig left before she could write anything back. She has no idea when the owl will return, or if next time she’ll be allowed to send a letter with her. Could Harry be in such danger that simply receiving a letter might put him at risk?

He could be. Harry’s lightning bolt scar seems to make him a lightning rod for all things dark.

Crookshanks wanders in, perceptive yellow eyes scanning the room for Her Grace.

“She’s not in here,” Hermione says as she rifles through books. She can probably eliminate a few of these already. For instance, she’s fairly certain a horcrux is not a magical creature. She’d ask Hagrid to be sure, but he’s on sabbatical with Charlie Weasley, at the dragon sanctuary in Romania. “The coast is clear.”

The cat seems to accept this as fact and leaps onto the back of the sofa, curling his tail around his body and nestling down into a spiral configuration. Still, he keeps one eye open.

Hermione laughs. “Worried about Malfoy, too?”

He’d looked rough when he fell through the door, all sweaty and smudged with dirt. Slytherin must’ve lost. Or maybe all his nasty inner thoughts were beginning to rise to the surface and ooze out of him like toxic sludge.

At least after Malfoy leaves he’ll be out of her hair for the rest of the day, doing whatever courting season rubbish he’s meant to do with the other poncey purebloods, and she can research in peace.

Anthony hadn’t been too poncey. Not exactly prince charming in the face of Malfoy’s accusations, but not the worst. If Malfoy hadn’t been pissed on the sofa, and Hedwig hadn’t pecked at her bedroom window, would the night with Anthony have gone any differently? Would they have at least given shagging a go?

Ugh. She hates that Malfoy knows they didn’t shag. Why does she always take the bait with him?

New rule, in hopes of retaining her sanity for the rest of the school year: don’t talk to Malfoy unless strictly necessary. In fact, avoid Malfoy at all costs.

“You’re fine,” Hermione reassures Crooks again. “Malfoy’s in the shower.”

A familiar, if thin, chuckle comes from the fireplace: “Good timing on my part, then. Don’t know how you’re living with the Hair of Slytherin.”

“Harry!” She topples two towers of books as she spreads her arms wide with surprise. A month of worry and fear and loneliness brings tears to her eyes, distorting the image of her best friend’s face hovering in the floo. Despite this, she can tell his spectacles are intact, and he’s got the beginnings of a beard. “I didn’t think this floo was connected! How are you—”

He cuts her off. “It’s unauthorised. I dunno how it works, exactly, but Snape’s with me. He figured it out.”

“Snape’s with you?”

So that’s where he’s been.

“Yes, but Hermione, you have to listen to me right now. I don’t know how long we have.”

His tone is serious. Instantly, she’s taken back to two years ago; to the harrowing events leading up to the final task of the Triwizard Tournament. Dread swamps her. “What do you mean?”

“Just listen to me, alright? I’m with Snape because this summer, some strange reports started coming out of Little Hangleton, all having to do with a snake that doesn’t seem to die. The Ministry sent a team of Aurors to kill it, but they haven’t come back.” Harry pauses, as grim as she’s ever seen him. “Snape looked into it and he thinks maybe it’s Voldemort’s snake, Nagini. I didn’t see her in the graveyard, but I don’t know… The point is that it’s possible, through horcruxes, that Voldemort splintered his soul and put part of it in Nagini, in the hopes that he could one day return.”

Her breath dies in her windpipe. Terror overrides her every sense, dumping ice water in her veins. For one seemingly endless moment, she’s frozen.

Voldemort can’t come back. He’s dead.

“But you… You killed him,” she whispers, low enough that Harry doesn’t hear her.

“He’s powerful enough to have made more than one horcrux.” He keeps talking, his words coming faster. “We don’t know how many, or when he might’ve made them. The worst part is, they could be anything.”

“Anything?” She glances frantically around the room.

Snape’s head appears alongside Harry’s. Bags hang under his eyes, and his hair seems more greasy and limp than usual.

“Anything, Miss Granger. But we have reason to believe that he made a few of them during his time at Hogwarts. Tom Riddle’s diary, for instance, may have been a horcrux.”

Hermione thinks of Ginny, how the diary’s awful whisperings had hollowed her out before it was destroyed. She smiles more now, but she hasn’t been the same since.

“We have to find them, Hermione,” Harry says, determination in the hard set of his scruffy jaw. “And we need your help.”

“You think some of them might be here,” she breathes, clutching the locket around her neck. She runs her thumb over the diamond in the centre in a futile attempt to self-soothe.

Snape nods. “We do.”

She’s still hung up on the possibility that Voldemort can come back to life. After everything they did, everything Harry went through…

“Is your scar burning?” She’s almost afraid to ask.

“No,” Harry says, holding up a reassuring hand. “If it helps you feel better, underground chatter indicates no one’s seen anything, not even so much as Voldemort’s shadow.”

“Your mark?” She peers at Snape, failing to hide the accusatory tone in her voice. He showed her of his own accord the summer after the Triwizard Tournament, after explaining his role and apologising to Harry at Grimmauld. Hermione was upset at first, but forgave him when she realised all he’d done to protect Harry over the years. Ron, however, had refused to look Snape in the eye ever since.

“Nothing. Now, as you might imagine, my ability to research whilst snake-hunting is rather limited, which is why Mr Potter and I have made contact. Your mission is twofold: learn more about horcruxes and how we might destroy them; and attempt to locate any horcruxes that may be on Hogwarts grounds.”

Mission is putting it lightly. This is more like an epic quest. Surely they don’t expect her to do this on her own?

“Does anyone else know? What about—”

Harry reads her mind. “No one else. Dumbledore’s the one who told Snape about the horcrux theory. But he—”

Snape’s face twitches as he interrupts Harry. “But we need information faster than Albus would be able to procure it. The Dark Lord’s sympathisers are likely to be guarded around him. They expect him to pry into their lives, and if he’s not subtle enough, they’ll figure out what he’s after. We’d miss our chance.”

“But they wouldn’t expect me,” Hermione breathes. Her brain switches gears, trying to sort through this new information. “Wait, how am I supposed to talk to sympathisers? Even if they wanted to talk to a muggleborn, it’s not like they’re roaming the halls of Hogwarts.”

“Aren’t they?” Snape raises a bushy eyebrow. “This courting season will be the largest in a generation. Not every event takes place on castle grounds, but I have it on good authority that every pureblood looking to enrich themselves, whether through marriage or other dealings, will try to gain access to at least one of them. The Yule Ball is a favourite.”

She shakes her head rapidly. “No, I’m not courting.”

“Hermione,” Harry pleads.

No. No. Absolutely not.

“I can’t! I don’t know anything about it. You know this, you were supposed to help me!”

Snape glares at her. “You’re a clever witch, Miss Granger. You’ll have to make do. Families will want to flaunt their wealth and influence to a muggleborn girl, thinking she knows no better. They may even be tempted to dangle a horcrux in front of your very eyes so they can brag about it later. Remember: those walking free who are still involved in the Dark Lord’s cause are likely to be dim-witted true believers, not sharp-eyed lieutenants. Their interest is not in his message or mission, but in how his resurrection might line their own pockets.”

“They won’t talk to me,” Hermione says, resolute, though her words come out a bit unsteady. “They don’t think someone like me should even be there. Let me go through all these books and get you both some answers that way. You know how good I am at research.”

Harry pierces her with his green gaze. “Books will only get us so far, and you know it.”

“Can’t you ask Ron?”

It’s a last-ditch attempt. She knows deep down that Harry and Snape wouldn’t be in her fireplace right now if they hadn’t exhausted all other options.

“Ron can’t keep a secret from Lavender, you know that. She’d tell someone who’d tell someone else and all this would be for nothing. Her family might even be involved. We just don’t know.” Harry pauses and glances at Snape before continuing. “In fact, you can’t breathe a word of this to Ron. To anyone. Look, if people see you acting weird, or say you’re asking strange questions, they’ll just chalk it up to you being a muggleborn. I wouldn’t put you up to this if it weren’t important, Hermione. You’re the only one I can trust.”

Damn him. Damn Harry Potter and his unfaltering faith, both in her and in their friendship.

Damn her for being such a loyal bloody Gryffindor.

Hermione fights back the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She’s going to say yes, obviously. She’ll do anything for Harry. She’s turned back time for him, so this is nothing, really, in the grand scheme of things.

It’s scary for her, yes, but she can only imagine how scary it is for him, knowing what might happen if they don’t find these horcruxes before someone else does.

“It’s not fair for you to have to save us all again,” she whimpers. A tear rolls down her cheek. Harry reaches to wipe it away before remembering he can’t.

She wishes he could wrap his arms around her, tuck her under his chin, and squeeze her tight. She misses his hugs; Ron’s hugs, too. Lavender banned him from touching other witches even casually. No one touches her now, not like she needs.

Her reverie breaks when she hears the shower turn off.

Shit. Malfoy usually takes his time.

Snape must hear it too. “We’ll be in touch, but we won’t use the floo again if we can help it. You never know who’s listening.”

“Wait,” Hermione begs. “Are you insinuating that I need to be worried about Malfoy?”

Maybe Crookshanks was right to keep an eye on him. Who is she kidding, of course Crooks is right. Cats are excellent judges of character.

“Worry about everyone, Miss Granger. The general public has no idea what a horcrux is, and even someone who has one in their possession may not know what it is they have. Indeed, that may be the best case scenario.” He trains his beady eyes on her, his mouth twisted in a half-snarl. This is not the Snape who’d become something of a mentor to her, but the Snape that terrified her as an innocent firstie. “I must impress upon you that the times we are in now are as uncertain as they are unparalleled. Danger doesn’t always make a grand entrance and announce itself. You’re no Slytherin, but I have witnessed your cunning, and your aptitude for magic. If we are to succeed and come out of this alive, it will depend not only on Harry and myself, but on you as well.”

Her head is spinning. Everything is happening too fast.

“Find Sirius. He’ll help you prepare,” Harry says. “I’ll send Hedwig when I can. Other owls won’t be able to find us, but she knows where we are. Remember, anything you learn could be important, no matter how small.”

“Okay,” she says shakily. “Harry, I—”

They’re gone before she can say a proper goodbye.

Hermione hugs her sides and takes a shuddering breath. Her heart pounds. Her vision swims. Her limbs quiver. Her body is signalling that it’s perilously close to a full blown meltdown, but she doesn’t have time to fall apart.

She has to see Sirius. Now.

Hermione races to Sirius’s chambers, barefoot and in her flannel pyjamas, ignoring snickers from a vapid group of fifth years congregating near the main staircase. She bangs her fist on the door in desperation.

“Sirius! I need your help!”

The door flies open, and Sirius yanks her to his chest with one strong arm, hauling her inside. Hermione squeaks in surprise as he sets her on a tufted ottoman, kneels down, and pushes her hair out of her face so his eyes can meet hers.

“Hermione, what’s wrong? Do you need a healer?”

“No, no, I’m alright,” she stammers. “Mostly alright, anyway.”

Sirius blows out a long breath and rocks back to sit on his heels. “Salazar. You scared the hell out of me.”

Without thinking, Hermione flings herself into his arms and inhales Sirius’s familiar smoky scent. Lupin smells much the same way. She doesn’t know Tonks well enough yet to hug, but she wonders if they all share the traces of cloves and moody florals that linger in Sirius’s long, dark hair.

He murmurs something soothing as he holds her. His gentle grip is looser than she’d like, but she knows it’s out of respect. Sirius has become a kind of magical father figure to both Harry and Hermione over the years, slipping into the role with the ease of someone who was always meant to protect.

Godfathers carry more weight in the magical world. They’re not merely symbolic: they’re bound to their godchildren by magic.

Hermione wishes she had someone who had her back like that.

Her gaze drifts around the room. Sirius has interesting taste in decor. Despite the fog curling against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the greenhouses, and the worn stone floors, his living space is anything but grey. There’s a wide, emerald green sofa across from the ottoman, anchoring a thick lilac rug. The fireplace mantel features sentimental pictures, including one of Sirius and Harry flying in their garden. Fluffy throws and pillows in saturated pinks and blues are everywhere, even on a reading bench on the far wall.

It’s unexpected, considering Sirius is never seen in anything but skinny black trousers and a matching leather jacket. But it also makes sense that he favours soft furnishings with lots of colour. He didn’t have many creature comforts all those years in Azkaban. Probably explains his affinity for nail varnish, too.

In any case, a hug is a hug. After three weeks of isolation as Head Girl, she’ll take what she can get.

“Sorry,” she says as she lets go and retreats back up on the ottoman. “I saw Harry. And Snape.”

“Severus is with him? Thank the gods. Never thought I’d say that, but… Ugh, nope.” Sirius swipes his tongue across his canines. “Still feels wrong.”

While Sirius is well aware that Snape’s mentorship these past two years has meant a lot to Hermione, he’s nevertheless remained suspicious of the other wizard. Hermione understands. Even after all Snape has done to supply Lupin with wolfsbane, Sirius has his reasons.

The details of the floo call pour out of her. She hardly takes a breath. Sirius watches her intently, taking it all in.

“...And that’s it. Harry told me to find you, and I ran straight here.”

Sirius runs a hand over his short beard, shot with silver. His rings shine in the torchlight.

“I knew there was something to those rumours about the snake,” he says at last. “Didn’t want to believe it.”

Hermione shoots him an accusatory look, but she doesn’t put any heat behind it. “Why didn’t you just tell me that you didn’t know where Harry was?”

“It’s better that neither of us knows. We’re not sure what we’re dealing with here.”

Or who, she thinks.

“Please tell me you know about this courting thing today. I have no idea where it is or what I’m supposed to do there, but I know it’s starting soon. Also, I don’t have anything to wear. I left the only dress I bought at Grimmauld.”

“You did,” Sirius says. His eyes twinkle with mischief. “But I brought it, in case you changed your mind.”

“I can’t believe you!”

“What?” He acts offended, even though he’s obviously enjoying her reaction. “I couldn’t just leave it there. It’s too pretty to sit in some dusty old closet.”

Sirius summons the gown. It floats towards them, and it’s just as Hermione remembers: floor-length crimson satin with a scooped neckline. Glittering stars fall down to the hem on a continuous loop. It’s strapless, which is daring by wizarding standards, but the modiste had assured her it was en vogue. She’d felt like a goddess when she’d got it fully cinched. Somehow—probably magic, who is she kidding—the liquid nature of the fabric gave her the appearance of having curves.

She rubs the satin between her fingers, nerves getting the better of her.

“I don’t know if I can pull this off. Not the dress; the courting. I haven’t had manners or dance lessons—not pureblood dancing.”

Sirius busies himself with smoothing the hairs trying to escape her bun. “Nonsense. You’re going to do splendidly. Now, my loo’s in there. Run along and change, while I send a patronus to Aurora and find out where this first event is.”

“Aurora?” Hermione blanks on the name.

“Professor Sinistra. Don’t worry. We’re going to figure this out.”

Two minutes later, alone in front of the mirror, she asks her reflection, “How do I look?”

The dress fits beautifully, which is a relief, since it can’t be altered with magic. The fabric won't tolerate transfiguration of any kind. Modistes hate having their hard work undone, and it keeps witches coming back year after year for new gowns. Or so she learned on her brief foray into shopping at Madam Malkin’s a month and a half ago.

She’s startled when the mirror answers.

“Beautiful, dearie,” it coos. “A little rouge, perhaps?”

She manages to add a peachy blush to her cheeks, but when she tries a charm she’s seen Lavender use for winged eyeliner and mascara, it backfires, leaving her looking like a surprised raccoon.

The mirror chuckles. “Whoa there. Bit heavy handed, aren’t we?”

“Finite,” she sighs. If she had her muggle makeup bag this wouldn’t be a problem, but it’s back in Hampstead Heath. It’s mostly stage makeup anyway. Her fellow ballet dancers helped her learn the best techniques to pack on the powder for recitals. Makeup does a shocking amount of heavy lifting when it comes to conveying complex emotions to the balcony seats.

There’s a knock at the door. “Hermione?”

“Hold on,” she says, hitching up her skirts and opening the door to Sirius. “Will you lace me up?”

“Yes, of course.” He starts in on the ribbons at her back, his fingers urgent. “I’ve heard from Aurora. She’s on her way to escort you down. You’ll be taking tea at the Black Lake.”

She sags in relief, but Sirius’s tight lacing straightens her right back up. “I can handle tea.”

“Yes, well, it turns out there are some things I’d forgotten about the first event that I should probably tell you.”

“No time!” A stern female voice calls out from the living room. “You’re supposed to be queueing up!”

“Queueing up?” Hermione looks over her shoulder just as Sirius finishes the bow.

Professor Sinistra appears then, frowning in an all-white dress that hits right at the knee. Her mulberry pink hair is swept in some sort of elaborate beehive, and glitter glows against her deep skin. It’s as if she’s been scattered with shards of stars. Appropriate, for the Astronomy professor.

“For introductions! You’re one of my best students. Weren’t you listening at the assembly? And what’s happening with this dress?”

Hermione asks what’s wrong with her gown, but the professors ignore her.

“It’s a bit of a last minute decision, Aurora. Hermione wasn’t sure she’d be welcomed to attend.”

“She’s very much welcome, per Ministry mandate.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Sirius growls, unleashing his inner guard dog. “You know what I mean.”

Professor Sinistra sniffs. “I can assure you I don’t.”

Hermione slips into her shoes and gloves. Thank goodness for Sirius. She’s not sure where Professor Sinistra stands on muggleborns, but Sirius has always been in her corner. If only he were a chaperone.

Her stomach drops. She’s really doing this.

“I’m ready,” she says, even though she isn’t. She’s nowhere close. But the dress is on and she can’t back out. Harry needs her.

Professor Sinistra’s mouth settles into a steely line. “Come on then, Ms Granger. Let’s see if we can’t make you a good match.” She leads the way out of Sirius’s chambers without so much as a farewell. Hermione waves at Sirius, and he winks. It’s somewhat reassuring. “What are you looking for? A wizard? A witch? Both?”

“Erm, a wizard. One wizard.”

Of that much she’s certain. Women are gorgeous, but confusing, and after a single, experimental and ultimately heatless kiss with a fellow ballerina, Hermione prefers to appreciate them at a distance. Viktor made her go a bit mad, mostly in a good way. While they were together, she never had the desire to be with him and another wizard, probably because when she feels things, she feels them deeply. Singularly deeply.

Hermione trails the sure-footed professor down the stairs and through the corridor. She can hardly keep up.

“Blood status? Vault size? Holdings abroad?”

The questions send prickles of heat down her bare back. “Doesn’t matter.”

“And what are you offering?”

They traipse out into the misty sedge leading towards the lake. Hermione tugs at the rose gold locket around her neck.

“I don’t know,” she admits. She hasn’t thought it through. She hasn’t thought any of this through.

The professor throws her a pitying look over her shoulder, charging downhill towards the lake. A massive white tent with silver-striped spires borders the black waters. The first strains of a violin float through the fog.

Hermione takes a halting step forward. Her heels sink into the damp earth, but she trudges onward.

There’s no turning back now.

“You don’t know? Never thought I’d see the day where Hermione Granger didn’t know the answer to a question.”

She thinks about her parents; about the way her mother melts when her father walks in after a long day in the garden with a bouquet of wildflowers in his arms. “Love, I suppose. I can offer love.”

“Gods above.” Professor Sinistra whirls around and grabs Hermione by the wrist, her expression softer than Hermione’s ever seen it. “They’re going to eat you alive.”

Chapter Text

It’s too bad the mirror in the Head Students’ quarters doesn’t give compliments, because he looks damn good, and someone ought to say so.

Wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, he studies his reflection. The bludger-induced bruises across his chest and abs he can’t do too much about, but he’s clean shaven (not that he’s ever had much in the way of stubble) and his hair is neatly gelled, the way his father taught him to wear it.

Strange, that his father won’t be here today. Draco never wanted his parents to be too involved in his courting season, but at the same time can’t imagine walking into that tent in a few minutes without seeing them arm in arm. No doubt his father will approve of Pansy, once word reaches him. If it reaches him.

Draco could tell him in person. It’s not like seventh years are forced to stay at Hogwarts every weekend, and his name is on the list of acceptable guests at Azkaban, not only for his father, but for his aunt Bella, too. He’s never visited her, but he visited his father, once. The memory of that half hour, punctuated by the dripping ceiling and soulless moans from the next cell over, will likely haunt him for the rest of his life.

Lucius Malfoy both is and is not in that prison cell.

His body is there. His mind is not.

Draco can’t understand what would have made his father think that resurrecting the Dark Lord was a brilliant idea. After all, they had everything. Wealth, influence, a happy home in Wiltshire. Lucius lived as a king, but threw it all away to become another craven supplicant at the feet of a madman. A world-renowned scribe couldn’t write a more self-inflicted tragedy. It was folly; his entirely unnecessary grasping for something it doesn’t even make sense to want. And the fallout from his father’s obsession extended beyond himself. His overreach degraded their name and devalued their influence. When he and his known accomplices were thrown behind bars, society turned its back on the incomparable Narcissa Malfoy.

Two years ago, Draco testified under veritaserum that he knew nothing of his father’s plans. In that same appearance before the Wizengamot, he proved there was no Dark Mark on his arm. That was what had spared him from scorn. The Prophet called him an upstanding young man with a promising quidditch career ahead of him, and that was that.

For the wizarding world at large, anyway.

He can’t admit it to anyone but his own reflection, but Draco hasn’t moved on. His father deserves to be punished for what he did, but what happens in Azkaban isn’t punishment. It certainly isn’t rehabilitation. It isn’t even death, in which there is sometimes a sort of morbid dignity. It’s much worse than that.

It’s deprivation of all the things that make one human.

There’s no magic. No colour. No tea or laughter or any of the hundreds of creature comforts that constitute the basics of civilised society.

Now he’s supposed to trot down to the lake and indulge in all those things, and all the while pretend his father’s not going mental. He has to put on a good show. His mother’s future relies on him and his choice of bride.

Draco exits the bathroom with one hand gripping his towel, searching left and right for any sign of Granger or her cat. It’s not that he wants to run into her, but he’d like to see who’s the puritan after she feasts her eyes on his seeker-fit body. Well, not feasts—he can’t imagine Granger with a lustful look in her eyes. Nor does he want to contemplate her sexual hunger, despite his needling about Goldstein. But someone should appreciate how good he looks right now, with water droplets snaking down between his pecs, carving out his six-pack. The bruises only make him look more masculine, really. Unfortunately, Granger's massive haul of books is still there, but the frizzy-haired bookworm herself is nowhere to be found. Thus, his half-naked parade through the living area remains tragically unobserved.

Shoving down his misplaced disappointment, he dresses in a hurry. White button up, cornflower blue trousers in a sumptuous wool-silk blend, a matching suit jacket, and backless loafers. The shoes are Italian, a copy of a pair made by muggle craftsmen—not that he’ll ever confess that little secret to anyone. While the construction, leather quality, and overall fit of wizarding footwear is simply superior, it is unfortunately behind the times in terms of design. His mother loathes this particular pair, but she isn’t the final word in fashion.

Draco completes the ensemble with his platinum collar chain—two snakes, embedded with diamonds, serve as the pins—signet ring, and three spritzes of cologne on his wrists, neck, and chest. He coughs and waves his hand through the air in a fruitless attempt to disperse the strong scent of pinewood and lemon. It’s meant to be his signature, but lately he finds the sharp notes too similar to the isopropyl alcohol he keeps in his bag for cleaning wounds.

A quick tempus tells him he’s nearly late. He jogs through the castle, out the east-facing doors, and spots Daphne, Zabini, and Pansy—sans Goyle—walking down the hill towards the lake. Their figures are outlined in the gloom by the faintest orange glow of warming charms.

“Hold up,” he shouts. Daphne whirls around. Her dark blonde waves are mostly hidden underneath an ivory netted fascinator, and she’s wearing makeup, which she never does. Did Little Greengrass beg her sister to slap on rouge?

“Join us, Malfoy. We’re marching towards our utter doom,” Zabini says, far too merrily to be sober. Fair play to him; one would have to be pissed beyond belief to wear a suit in that shade of pink. He looks like a strawberry milkshake topped with a chocolate-covered cherry. “Not me, actually. I’m having a grand time, and we haven’t even entered the tent.”

“Do shut up,” Daphne snipes, but the effect is mostly spoiled by the ridiculous netting.

Pansy still hasn’t acknowledged him. No matter. Draco puffs out his chest. He’ll have to make it clear that he’s noticed her; that he can’t stop noticing her, even more so now that she’s tried to excise him from her life.

She can’t ignore him forever. They’re perfect together. Everyone says so. And yet…

Like watching Zabini attack one of Professor Vector’s Arithmancy problems, something’s not adding up. This shouldn’t be difficult. He and Pansy had an arrangement that should have turned the anxiety-inducing slog of courting season into a laugh. Now Draco is alone while she seems content to let Goyle rewrite the proof using his own brutish logic, when clearly the most elegant solution is right in front of her. Such an irrational function cannot exist. It’s infuriating.

He bites the inside of his cheek, then rubs his tongue along the soreness blooming there. What kind of game is she playing? Does she think he’ll simply take her back after temporarily replacing him with his best friend?

He will. Of course he will. There’s pride and then there’s lunacy, and his inheritance is at stake.

As he sidles up to her, Draco sticks his hands in his trouser pockets, feigning casual interest while his heart pounds against his ribcage.

“You look nice, Pansy.”

She does. Her stark white áo dài has no lace or frills; only a thin mesh panel at the waist that shows the barest hint of midriff before the dress splits above matching white trousers. It’s daring, and would drive a lesser man wild, especially with her dark hair tucked behind her ears and her signature stilettos lengthening her legs. Draco, however, is a pureblood and a gentleman, naturally skilled in the ways of romance. He doesn’t need to endlessly compliment a witch who already knows she’s head and shoulders above everyone else.

“Malfoy,” she says primly, without so much as glancing his way.

No problem. He’s planned for this. “Can we talk? Without the rabble?”

“Hey,” Zabini protests. Daphne grabs him by the elbow and drags him a bit further ahead. You owe me, she mouths at Draco.

Anything you want, he mouths back.

Now’s his chance. He and Pansy can have a quick chat and be back together before they even line up for introductions. No backup witch needed. Surely now that they’re alone she’ll remember why she wants to be the perfect, future Lady Malfoy. She’ll cast Goyle aside for good.

“I miss you,” Draco says.

Finally, finally, Pansy looks at him. It’s working.

“Do you? Because you’re not acting like it.”

Draco forces a light-hearted laugh. “What do you mean? Of course I do. You’re all I think about.”

“Right.” Pansy’s lips purse. “You know, I don’t think Fiona and the other sixth years you’ve been entertaining would be too pleased to hear that.”

A lump forms in his throat, but he swallows it down. So she knows about the other witches. That’s fine. He was always fine with her knowing. But why is she pressing him?

He intends to say something like I only sought them out because I missed you so badly, but that sounds desperate, even in his head. While he’s contemplating how to sound effortlessly cool, he stumbles over a pebble. Perhaps fine Italian loafers aren’t the best footwear choice for traversing grounds this terribly maintained. Maybe Nott can bring it up to the headmaster, since they’re so chummy.

The near-fall does nothing to help his anxiety. Should he confess the other witches were to make her jealous? At least that’s true. But he keeps mum, because the bruise salve is wearing off, and he’s sore in body and spirit. What comes out of his mouth instead is, “And you’re not shagging Goyle?”

The weird lump returns when Pansy doesn’t rise to his bait. “What business would it be of yours? You and I, we’re not together anymore.”

This is all going sideways way too fast. They’re nearly at the tent. He can make out Nott’s magnificent head of ink-dark curls from here.

“But we should be,” Draco insists, reaching for her hand. Pansy snatches it back and leans away from him. “I’m not going to stop trying to prove it to you.”

“I don’t think you can.”

“I can, and I will. Tell me how to win you back.”

She skewers him with a glare, her emotions still very much in check. “I’m not a prize to be won. I’m not a thing to be bought.”

So the gold bars had been too much. Noted.

“Is it because of…” He almost can’t get the words out. The lump in his throat has become a webbed mass, stretching across his windpipe and paralysing his vocal cords. “Is it because of my father?”

Pansy freezes in her tracks. Some foreign sentiment flickers bright in her eyes—pity?—before disappearing into the depths, replaced by cold indifference.

“The sooner you accept that this is over, the better it will be for all of us.” She pauses, and her tongue darts out to wet her red lips, considering something before resuming her march down the hill. They’re within earshot of the other seventh years now. “And then we can go back to being friends.”

Friends? Friends?

Draco is momentarily speechless.

Before he can recalibrate, Nott is upon them, bouncing up and down in his rumpled lilac suit like some sort of demented pygmy puff.

“Good, you’re both here. Took you long enough. Slughorn’s just told us to line up for introductions.”

Right, introductions. His mother will be waiting inside the giant white tent with all the other parents, waiting for him to take the stage so she can formally present him to society. It should be relatively quick and painless, but it’s also a significant milestone in any wizard’s life. He’s completely unprepared.

He’s about to ask Nott to buzz off so he can continue the conversation with Pansy (there’s still time to convince her, isn’t there? To borrow a Gryffindor phrase, it’s not over until the fat lady leaves the portrait) but Milly waves her over. Suddenly, he and Nott are alone, lining up in alphabetical order.

“Nice suit, Malfoy.” The smooth baritone comes from behind him.

Draco turns to see Longbottom—wearing the exact same shade of cornflower blue as him. He’s flanked by the Patil twins.

Grand, just grand.

“Ooh, a real life ‘who wore it better,’ how fun,” says one of the twins. It’s the one with the longer fringe; Parvati, he thinks. Or is it Padma? Both of them wear ivory sarees and gold jewellery. They’ve eschewed the traditional gloves, opting instead for geometric henna designs extending from their manicured fingers up to mid-wrist.

Draco straightens up, relieved to find he’s got at least an inch on Longbottom, and peers down his nose at him. “I prefer the traditional English cut, personally.”

“Yes, well,” Longbottom says, unruffled. “I’m a bit more modern in my tastes.”

“Ooh, fighting words.” Nott’s eyes twinkle with unbridled enthusiasm. “Malfoy, I’ll be your second. I’m rather good with swords.”

Draco groans.

Lovegood appears, swathed in something more cloud than dress, and creates a human buffer between Draco and Longbottom. Ernie Macmillan follows soon after. The Patil twins take far too long to find their places behind Pansy. Unbelievable. This group is supposed to sit for NEWTs in the spring but it’s this difficult to get in basic alphabetical order?

Trelawney comes by, checking the order and reminding everyone of what to do after their introduction: Stand with their families until all participants have had their debut. Then, the group will be split according to their preferences. Draco will sit at a table and prepare tea while potential witches rotate around, sitting at each table for a ten minute chat. At the end of the conversation, each party takes one sip of tea, which will vanish the rest. The leaves at the bottom will determine whether or not they are a good match.

It’s inconvenient to have to speak with all the eligible ladies, but at least he knows his magic won’t pair him with anyone unsuitable.

“And don’t forget to fill out your dance cards at the end,” Trelawney screeches, waving her arms about as she passes out baby’s breath twisted into boutonnieres and miniature bouquets. She looks like a sickly Victorian child in her oversized white robes. Draco pins his boutonniere to his jacket and hopes she’s not about to ‘see’ something again. “Remember, the other witch, wizard, wix or what-have-you—they must match you back. And these matches will narrow your marital destiny down to the most ideal candidates, who you’ll share at least one dance with during Wyrdwood.”

Jittery, Draco rocks back on his heels. His ideal candidate clearly doesn’t reciprocate the feeling. Still, there must be a way to reverse her opinion. If Pansy thinks he’s giving up, she’s sorely mistaken.

“That eager to see your witch?” Nott’s mischeiviousness springs eternal. Draco stops his anxious bouncing and sneers at him.

“You’re awfully relaxed for someone who hasn’t told his father—”

Nott cuts him off with a hard clap on the back. “Quite right. Haven’t told my father about my plans to stay with you and Narcissa over Christmas. Really should get on that.”

From inside the gargantuan tent, he hears Slughorn croak, “Ms Hannah Abbott. Daughter of…”

It’s starting.

Ollivander’s granddaughter, a willowy Ravenclaw with an aquiline nose, strikes up a conversation with Nott about the veracity of modern astronomy. Judging by her inane chattering, she’s just as nervous as everyone else, and just as firm in her belief that the world is flat.

Not that Draco would’ve entertained a suit from her before, but after hearing her crackpot theories, she’s definitely off his list, even for a twirl around the ballroom.

This is going to be so much harder than he thought. Pansy he knows, but these other witches? Is he really supposed to make small talk about… whatever witches like?

Inconvenient, really, that Pansy is so much like him. While they dated, if he poured a drink, she always asked for the same. Whatever book he read, she picked up another copy from the shelves of Malfoy Manor’s massive library. Though, come to think of it, after a chapter or two she usually set the heavier reading material aside and opened the latest Witch Weekly.

The introductions seem to go faster and faster. Finally, it’s Draco’s turn.

“Mr Draco Malfoy. Son of Narcissa Malfoy.”

So they’re just ignoring his father, then. Erasing him, because it’s easier to pretend Lucius Malfoy never existed than to explain why he’s not here presenting his only child to the people who were supposed to be his closest friends. Draco flexes his hands at his sides, willing his shallow breaths to even.

It’s tempting to occlude. But he’s not good enough yet that his mother won’t know what he’s up to, and she’s warned him off occluding for emotional convenience.

That’s what broke her, you know. Your aunt. It wasn’t the dark magic; that came later. She couldn’t own her feelings.

After one final deep breath, he steps through the flaps to polite applause.

The tent is so much larger on the inside. Crystalline lanterns float lazily from the vaulted ceiling, casting a soft pink light over dozens of circular tables covered with rosewater-coloured crushed velvet tablecloths. At the edges, chaperones in fine robes prepare porcelain tea sets while students and their families cluster together, forming constellations across the black and white parquet floor. From the top of a spire, a flock of winged violins play themselves spiccato over the whispers of the crowd, the faint music crescendoing as they enter a familiar section of a symphony.

It’s not unlike the other events his parents forced him to attend from the moment he could sit without fidgeting. The decor isn’t especially unique. They’ve swapped the usual harp for the violins but otherwise… Despite the commonalities, Draco is frozen on the steps leading to the stage.

He’s never experienced performance anxiety. He doesn’t get nervous and chunder before a match like Crabbe. There’s sky to traverse and a snitch to find. Everything else becomes background noise.

But what happens when you think you’ve caught the snitch, and when you open your palm, there’s nothing more than gold dust and air?

His mother materialises at his side. Her white robes carry the faintest hint of blue, and her long pale hair is down but swept back with sapphire combs. She takes his arm and settles it under hers, her expression serene as she faces their peers. It’s a mask; the one she wears for society. The one he must now wear. “Smile, little dragon.”

Years of preparation have culminated in this moment. Draco mirrors his mother’s smile, just as they practised, and he leads her up the stairs and onto the stage. The stage is surrounded by hothouse blooms, radiant in defiance of September’s dreary malaise, infusing the atmosphere with a powdery floral scent. He finds his mark at the centre and stands tall. From a flower-covered podium stage right, Slughorn adjusts his bow tie and extends his wand to them, amplifying his mother’s words to the audience.

“May I present to you my son, Draco.” She hesitates, but it’s so brief only he realises it. She’s never said this part to the public before. “Lord Malfoy.”

Draco runs his thumb across his signet ring, pressing into the M engraved at the centre.

The rest of the rehearsed introduction is blessedly brief. His mother lists his birthplace (along with the date and time, for the self-important wankers who believe matches should be based on astrology), his Sacred Twenty-Eight status, and gives a brief account of the Malfoy family history—including a vague reference to their many properties. The last part sends a few mothers into a tizzy. They fan themselves as they speak to their daughters in hurried, hushed tones.

Draco suppresses a smirk. He’s done well with what his father left him.

He spies Pansy, and his heart leaps. Her mother is shouting at her in Vietnamese, gesturing towards the stage, while her father’s lips are set in a grim line. She must’ve told them she broke it off. By all appearances, her parents are on his side, not hers. Finally, some allies.

His mother guides them to another set of stairs. Suddenly they’re in the swirl of witches and wizards, all whispering their congratulations to the Malfoys. Draco looks over his shoulder at the stage as Theodore Nott, Sr introduces his son, clutching a glass of firewhisky in one hand. The crystal winks in the light.

“Now, our vaults are nowhere near the Malfoys,” Nott Sr says with a sly grin, and the crowd chuckles good-naturedly. His son’s expression is neutral.

Lavender’s father shouts back, his boisterous laugh echoing through the tent, “But whose are?”

“Indeed, indeed. But a savvy witch can accomplish more than you think with Theodore by her side.” He raises his glass. “To courting season.”

“Wish I had a drink,” Draco mumbles to his mother as the rest of the tent joins the toast.

She hushes him as Daphne and her parents approach. “Casper, Calendula. How are you? Daphne, you look lovely, dearest.”

Daphne curtsies. “Thank you, Mrs Malfoy.”

“Never better,” Lord Greengrass nods. “We simply must get together soon. I’ve recently acquired some elf-made wine from the Krasnodar region. Cracking good stuff.”

Draco exchanges a look with his mother. Russian wine? Has the wizard never been to Burgundy?

Lady Greengrass, draped in yards of peridots set in gold, changes the subject. “My daughter looks a picture in white, don’t you think, Narcissa? I’m always telling her so.”

To his mother’s credit, she immediately clocks Calendula Greengrass’s contrivance. She coughs delicately as she draws a watersilk fan from her sleeve, covertly nudging Draco’s arm in the process as if to say, have you changed your mind about courting the girl you told me was like a sister to you?

Nott’s headed their way. Draco could take this opportunity; pretend he’s been interested in Daphne all along. But it feels wrong. As much as Daphne wants nothing to do with courting season, he won’t ruin her chances by pretending to claim her now and casting her off for Pansy later. He’ll simply have to face the music.

Draco’s never been more thankful for his mother’s tutelage as he says, “My big sister will make a beautiful bride for some lucky wizard. Daph—Miss Greengrass, might I escort you to the refreshment table while we await the final introductions?”

“You may, little brother,” Daphne answers, tamping down a chortle.

After taking Daphne’s gloved hand in his, Draco kisses his mother’s cheek. Lady Greengrass’s mouth twitches as her plans are thwarted. She quickly hides it behind her fan.

As soon as they’re out of her mother’s sight, Daphne lets go of Draco.

“Big sister?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“My dear Lord Malfoy,” she simpers with a conspiratorial grin. “I never knew you were so fond.”

They cross the floor at a brisk pace, weaving through clusters of chattering guests in glittering dress robes, doing everything they can to avoid getting dragged into conversation. The tent is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with prominent pureblood families and social-climbing half-bloods, the low hum of mingling voices punctuated by occasional roars of merry laughter and applause. Draco and Daphne share a singular, unspoken focus: joining up with Nott. Every step forward is a push against the tide.

Draco spies him first: lingering below the edge of the stage, standing stiffly on the parquet floor like a dark knight surrounded on all sides. Nott Sr schmoozes with the Abbotts, his back to his son. As Ollivander’s granddaughter curtsies, providing the perfect distraction, Daphne reaches out and grabs Nott by his lilac lapels. She forces him towards the refreshments just in time, before Susan Bones’s family can sink their claws into him.

“Easy, this is acromantula-spun,” Nott complains, but his thanks is implicit.

They find a long table laden with neat towers of egg and cress sandwiches, mini quiches, savory scones, fruit and custard tartlets, and, much to Draco’s dismay, pumpkin pasties. Silver bowls of punch, lemonade, and cucumber water anchor each end. There’s a distinct lack of alcoholic beverages. Apparently the chaperones want them sober for the first event. (“Sadists, one and all,” Nott mutters when he discovers the betrayal.) Behind the table is a canvas corridor with lavatories on both sides, leading to a large salon with gilded mirrors, chandeliers, and tufted damask furniture, presumably for the chaperones.

“Can’t we just hide out in there?” Daphne whines around a bite of scone.

Nott clucks his tongue at her. “And miss out on meeting Draco’s intended?”

Daphne’s eyes widen into saucers. “You didn’t tell me you met someone. Is that what you wanted to speak with Pansy about? Sweet Circe, it’s about time.”

About time? Draco jerks away from her, affronted. He and Pansy haven’t been broken up that long. And they’ll be back together by the end of this. It might not happen on his timeline, but it’ll happen.

“Is it one of the twins?” Nott tips his chin towards the stage, where the Patils are introducing Padma and Parvati. Draco’s stomach flips as realises he missed Pansy’s introduction.

“I suppose they’re pureblood enough for our Lord Malfoy,” Daphne muses. “But I don’t think he can tell them apart half the time. Wouldn’t work.”

“Unless they like to share?”

Daphne flicks Nott in the shoulder. “Perv.”

Nott’s unbothered. “They could split custody, like Draco’s cousin does with that Tonks witch. Lupin must’ve been fit as fuck back in the day.”

Draco clears his throat while he scans the room for Pansy, but it’s impossible to find her with every witch dressed in white. “I don’t share. She’s only with me, and I’m only with her.” Well, they aren’t right now. But they will be. “You’ll know her when you see her.”

At some point this afternoon, Pansy will have to take tea with him. Draco’s tasseography is strong, and mostly predicts the opposite of what he wants, but just this once, he wants the tea leaves to show him the future he knows, deep in his marrow, is meant for him. Pansy won’t argue with him when entwined lovers embrace in the bottom of their cups. Before now, she’d rarely ever argued with him, period.

Daphne, Draco, and Nott pass the rest of the introductions ribbing each other.

“What about Thorfinn’s third son, Daph? He’s got all his teeth. Practically born to ride a desk in Magical Creatures.”

“It’s not too late to coordinate a lavender marriage for you, Nott, in case your sugar daddy doesn’t show up. What? You’re so cagey about it. There’s either a naughty age gap or he’s the Prince of Monaco, and I think I can speak for all of us when I say I hope it’s the latter.”

“Draco, you said I’d know her when I saw her, and I didn’t believe you, but now that I’ve laid eyes on Zabini’s mum…”

When they’re smothering laughter and gulping down lemonade, it’s all too easy for Draco to forget they’re all here to actually find someone and become betrothed in just a few short months. For most of them, it’s the first step towards taking on adult responsibilities, and they’re taking it whether they’re ready or not. Draco’s not especially grateful he was thrust into managing his estate so early, but at least he has some idea of what he’s getting into.

Before he knows it, Zabini’s exiting the stage with his elegant mother and punk rock stepfather—the latter being the inspiration for his pink suit, no doubt.

“Thank you, Zabini family,” Slughorn says with a flourish. “Seeing as that concludes our introductions, I’d like to welcome—”

“Not quite,” comes a firm female voice from behind the pink curtain at the back of the stage. “We have one more.”

A chorus of confused murmurs fills the air.

Slughorn’s perma-frown looks even more toadlike under the lights. He modulates his tone for the audience’s benefit. “Aurora, that’s everyone. I read the names off the scroll, as discussed.”

“Here.” Professor Sinistra’s hand pokes through the curtain, holding a small scrap of parchment. Slughorn snatches it, chuckling nervously.

“Sorry everyone. An accidental oversight, I assure you. This young student is, I’m sure, soon to be the diamond of the season, let me just…” He pales as he reads. “Erm, well, I—”

A shockwave ripples through the tent as the heavy velvet curtain is drawn back, and the mysterious latecomer steps into the light. Draco’s breath hitches. He’s not the only one: gasps erupt from all directions like stifled spells. Somewhere in the audience, a glass shatters, and a witch shrieks, slicing through the hush. Probably Goyle’s overdramatic mum.

“Oh, shit,” Nott breathes, his whisper barely audible despite the crowd’s stunned silence. Daphne clutches at his arm. “I didn’t think she’d actually do it.”

Granger, in a deep red ball gown, steps forward, uncertain yet resolute, and Draco can’t tear his eyes away.

She wrings her hands as she shuffles to the centre of the stage, as if she wishes they might twist into feathery wings and she could fly away from here. He knows the feeling; sees it written on her face, etched in the knot of her throat. He can only look on with pity.

It’s abundantly clear that no one’s prepared her for this. For one thing, she’s wearing a strapless evening gown to afternoon tea. For another, she has no idea how to move in the voluminous dress. Her big brown eyes resemble those of a skittish fawn, and the way her collarbones shift with her shallow breaths, she looks ready to bolt.

“Miss Hermione Granger,” Slughorn begins, stumbling over her name. He wipes his brow as he glances back at her from the podium. “Do you have anyone to introduce you?”

She shakes her head no, a curl loosening from her bun. It falls to her shoulder in a frizzy spiral. Draco can’t stop himself from focusing on her arms, bare down to the wrist. Sheer red gloves cover her hands, but the effect isn’t demure. It’s indecent.

A nonsensical mix of anger and secondhand embarrassment sears the edges of his vision. What the fuck is she doing here? An hour ago she was in their living room in her horrid pyjamas, terrorising him with her barbed tongue and ill-placed towers of questionable books. Since when did she decide to court?

Did Goldstein put her up to this? The least he could do is tell her she’s supposed to wear something white and knee-length. Unless he really does have something against muggleborns?

Which is fine; muggleborns have no business courting. Obviously. But setting her up like this? It’s intolerably cruel.

Slughorn, cheating his body towards Granger, coughs and splutters. “I regret to inform you that you need someone to sponsor your entry into society. The magic requires an introduction.”

“Didn’t think the Ministry deemed muggleborns society,” grumbles a hunchbacked witch near the front. “Nott, did you rule on this so-called mandate?”

Nott Sr blusters something unintelligible about the new laws and the rise of the progressives. Every other word is drowned out by the strains of the increasingly aggressive flying violins.

Another pipes up. “Please tell me we’re not being forced to be politically correct at traditional pureblood events now.”

“Call her what she is. She’s a mudblood,” says a wizard, a little louder. Draco thinks it might be Lord Greengrass, but he can’t be sure.

Lady Crabbe joins in. “Potter’s mudblood." As if sentient, the violins screech to a stop. "Let Potter introduce her, if he cares so much.”

The Weasley matriarch, with a face as red as her hair, shoves her way to the front with her son in tow. Lavender tugs at the Weasel’s wrist, but he shakes her off. His jaw is set, determined.

“You should all be ashamed of yourselves. We’ll introduce Hermione,” Lady Weasley announces, fussing with her skirts. “She’s well within her rights to be here and she’d make a tremendous match for anyone. You’d be lucky to add her to your family. Ronald, help me up these steps. Blasted heels.”

“No need.” The smooth, now-familiar baritone of Neville Longbottom rings through the tent.

Longbottom is already on the stage, clasping both of Granger’s tiny gloved hands in his. He whispers something to her, and she blushes. The pink flooding her face is familiar. Draco starts: it’s the same shade as when they get into a shouting match.

“Oh, good. Here.” Slughorn’s relief is palpable as he shoves the parchment at Longbottom.

Longbottom scans it quickly, then addresses the crowd.

“The Longbottoms—a Sacred Twenty-Eight family,” he reminds everyone in a scolding tone. Draco rolls his eyes. “Are proud to present Miss Hermione Granger, only daughter of Richard and Helen Granger, born in London on September 19th, 1979. Miss Granger is a muggleborn witch, top of her year, and looks splendid in Gryffindor red. She brewed a working polyjuice potion as a third year, and she’s the finest duellist I’ve ever been up against.”

Granger’s flush turns scarlet at the compliment, and she mouths a thank you to Longbottom. Draco’s mother appears at his side. When her cold fingers grasp his, he nearly jumps out of his Italian loafers. Crabbe is there, too, and Goyle, with their mothers.

Their fathers are serving time alongside Draco’s father in Azkaban, but unlike Lucius, they’re not in solitary confinement. They’re due to be released in three years.

“An inauspicious start,” whispers Lady Crabbe, glowering. Crabbe nods curtly in agreement, his button-like eyes tracking Granger as she exits the stage.

Lady Goyle sighs and flutters her fan, obscuring her mouth as she murmurs, “I just don’t know what the world is coming to. First half-bloods, now mudbloods.”

Draco’s skin crawls. Do these people think they’re witty, stating the obvious in such vulgar terms? They’re purebloods, for Salazar’s sake. They’re supposed to be above this. The whole point of being better than everyone else is to show them you’re better. No one as well-bred and well-educated as they are should be twisting themselves into knots just so they can find ham-fisted opportunities to use outdated slurs.

Magic is magic. Granger has enough flowing through her veins to be outright dangerous if left to her own devices in muggle London. Judging by her reading material, it’s best to have her here, if only to prevent her from becoming an obscurial and setting fire to the wizarding world.

He’s felt that fire; the cold burn of it. It’s uniquely powerful.

That doesn’t mean she should be in this tent, of course. But unlike his father, Draco can begrudgingly admit that Granger belongs at Hogwarts. She might have the worst possible taste in literally everything, but she’s a capable enough Head Girl. She’s managing the prefects all on her own, without any help from him, and, regrettably, still kicking his arse in Arithmancy.

He looks to his mother, silently imploring her to be better. There’s a question in her eyes, he thinks, but it’s gone in a flash.

Her movements are subtle and elegant as she flicks open her fan and inclines her head towards the broad-shouldered Lady Goyle. “Unfortunate choice of dress. Shame it’s one of Malkin’s.”

“It’s custom; she can’t transfigure it,” Daphne whispers to Draco. “You live with her. Why didn’t you help her find something appropriate?”

He snorts, incredulous. “Would you have?”

Daphne’s brows briefly knit together, and shrinks away from him without meeting his gaze. Crabbe sees his opportunity and swoops in, offering her a fresh lemonade. Before Draco can try to draw her back and ask her why she made that face, the music picks back up, and the chaperones start to separate the seventh years into groups.

He schools his features into something pleasant and bland, darting his eyes to the side just in time to see Pansy talking animatedly with Macmillan. She’s clearly blowing him off. Never one to make a scene, she’s doing it with elegance, like a unicorn shaking detritus from its cloven hoof.

Good.

This is fine. All he has to do is bide his time.

Eventually, his witch will come to him.

Chapter Text

Neville guides Hermione backstage. He’s saying something, but it’s all garbled; skimble-skamble, how spell names sounded to her before she brushed up on her Latin. Her heartbeat echoes in her ears, thumping in time to the rhythm of that awful word.

Mud-blood. Mud-blood.

She’s dangerously close to sensory overload. She’s never had stage fright, yet the tent’s magic amplifies the charged environment, overwhelming her fragile nervous system. Even the soft pink glow of dozens of floating lanterns registers on her retinas as harsh, bordering on caustic. She clings to Neville like they’ve been glued together by a sticking charm, though his aftershave bothers her nose. Or maybe it’s that cloying floral incense smell hanging in the air? It’s impossible to parse when she’s like this.

A dry heave wracks her small frame, and Neville smooths rogue curls from her face as she bends over. Nothing comes up, but she hovers on the staircase, away from the prying eyes of all the purebloods who don’t want her in their world, let alone in this lavishly decorated tent. As mortification sweeps through her, her mouth runs dry, and her tongue tastes sickly sweet. Tears gather in her eyes. She blinks them away.

She’s brave. She wouldn’t have been sorted into Gryffindor unless she was brave. But standing on that giant stage in the wrong gown—no, not just wrong; the exact opposite of a little white dress like every other witch was wearing—while Professor Slughorn gaped at her in disbelief… It was so much worse than getting up in front of her peers at the start of term and telling them to go on, call her a mudblood, because she was beyond caring about slurs. In reality, she’d only wanted to get ahead of the situation.

Neville had come to her rescue then, too. But he can’t save her from herself; from the way her body revolts against embarrassment and massive amounts of sensory input, making her head spin. Hermione squeezes his hand, then pulls away, crossing her arms and rubbing her shoulders, as if she were cold. The beautiful chiffon gloves are rough against her skin, and she gives up. It’s frustrating, to be unable to ground herself with her own touch. She needs deep pressure; calming and constant.

Feeling useless, she lets her hands fall to her sides.

“Are you alright?” Neville asks gently. She gets the impression this isn’t the first time he’s asked her that question in the last few minutes. He doesn’t touch her again, but leads the way down the steps towards the slew of velvet-covered tables just the same.

She sniffles. Why can’t she just get it together? “Not really.”

Molly Weasley runs towards her, skirts held high, passing through an aisle of sneering pureblood families like a frumpy Moses parting the Red Sea. Ron and a reluctant Lavender trail in her wake. He wears a blue suit that’s clearly another hand-me-down, but it fits him well enough. Lavender’s microbraids are twisted into a topknot. Her white dress gleams like freshly fallen snow, in stark contrast to Molly’s wild copper hair and ecru frock.

“Hermione, sweetheart.” Hermione collapses in Molly’s embrace, allowing herself one small moment where she doesn’t have to be anything but a young woman in dire need of a hug. It doesn’t quiet everything ping-ponging along her nerves, but it lowers the volume enough for her to feel a bit more like herself.

She snuggles in further. “Molly.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you were courting, what with Harry at Auror training, and you know my Ronald doesn’t tell me anything. Arthur and I would’ve been proud to introduce you.”

“Mum,” Ron protests weakly. “How would I have known? I’ve been with Lavender.” Lavender beams and leans down—she’s taller than Ron, especially with that topknot—to kiss him on one ruddy cheek. “Besides, I was right behind you. I’ve met the Grangers; they’d be right pleased if I stood up for Hermione.”

At the mention of Ron and Harry’s luncheon with Hermione’s parents two Christmases past, Lavender’s nose wrinkles. She quickly smooths her features back into her usual placid adoration, but Ron is an attentive boyfriend and doesn’t miss the change. He’s as attuned to Lavender’s moods as much as, perhaps even more than, the rumblings of his bottomless stomach. As soon as he notices her irritation, he soothes her by twining his fingers with hers.

It’s kind of… Endearing. But it also makes sense why Harry would rather gag on a spoon than spend time with the pair of them.

“Sirius tried to help me. I don’t think he knew about the introductions.”

Hermione can’t help but feel she has to defend him. She hasn’t even considered blaming Sirius. She’s always felt protective over those close to her, probably because she’s not close to many people. But Sirius has done nothing but good since he entered her life. He gave Harry an escape from the dreadful Dursleys in the form of a warm, loving home, and has welcomed her presence without hesitation or exception.

“Oh, Sirius. He ought to have known, but he hates anything related to the old family traditions. He would’ve had to figure it out if Harry had been courting, but of course he’s too cool to pay attention, and Remus just encourages him, you know. Back in the day, families held balls at their estates the summer prior to courting season. Gala after gala, almost every night. We used to introduce our eligible wix to society in the most over-the-top fashion—you should have seen my debut,” Molly sighs wistfully.

“And they don’t do them anymore? Why?”

“The Ministry’s new rules, of course. Now there’s a limit to the number of purebloods gathering in one location. Even Arthur thinks it’s an overstep and just going to cause more problems. This event is exempt, but only because everyone made such a fuss about it. They don’t want all the old ways to disappear.”

Of course they don’t.

Hermione grits her teeth. “But surely he’d have known I shouldn’t wear red?”

“I didn’t know about the change to white this year, either, but I also haven’t had a daughter go through a season yet. Lavender informed me at the last minute.” Molly nods her thanks to Lavender, who simpers as she curtsies. “We always wore house colours. This season is much less formal than it used to be. Budget cuts, probably. And white is en vogue, or so I hear.”

Maybe it’s trendy. Or maybe purebloods dressed their precious angels in white to symbolically separate them from the black deeds of their families.

She glances around the tent at the clusters of gossiping pureblood families, their fans failing to mask their judgmental stares. Does her red dress remind them of the blood they have on their hands? She rather hopes it does.

Sirius assumed he was sending her off in style, but in reality, she never had a chance. Wrong dress. Wrong time.

Wrong blood.

A polite cough startles Hermione out of her swirling thoughts. Neville is still there, lingering behind her.

Molly turns, still hovering over Hermione like the protective, magical surrogate mother she’s become. “Well, thank Godric for you, Mr Longbottom.”

“Lord Longbottom,” Neville says with a respectful bow; not too deep, nor too shallow. It’s a mild yet firm correction, and Hermione wonders when he learned to stick up for himself.

Ron grins good-naturedly. “Blimey, glad I never have to be a lord. Awful lot of work.”

“Oh, Won-Won, but you are a lord. You’re the lord of my heart,” Lavender coos, and they engage in a bit of sloppy snogging.

Hermione steps away from Molly, averting her eyes. “Goodness. When’s the wedding?”

“I’m encouraging them to get betrothed as soon as possible. The Browns want a summer wedding, and I’ve planned enough of them to know we’ll need plenty of time to sort it all out. It’ll be at the Burrow, of course, though I don’t know how we’ll manage to host such a large amount of guests. We’ve got my children and their spouses, friends, coworkers at the Ministry, and the Browns have extended family in America. Arthur tried to look them up on one of those computer-thingys. Apparently it’s a very popular surname. There could be hundreds of them, and you know how expensive hotel stays can be.”

Actually, Hermione does not know how expensive they are, seeing as she has very little money as a student in the wizarding world. But she has a feeling it’s at least a few galleons a night.

“Quite. Hopefully Ginny doesn’t mind sharing her room with me when the time comes,” she says with a smile. It really is strange not having Ginny at Hogwarts, following Harry around like a lovesick crup.

Molly looks appalled, clapping a hand to her bosom. “But where will your husband sleep?”

Oh, right. Hermione’s brain is still in mid-reboot. She’s supposed to be here to court and get betrothed, just like Ron. No one else can know she’s conducting espionage.

Lavender moans suggestively, and Hermione grimaces as she glances over at her and Ron. Their wandering hands, closed eyes, and smacking lips confirm they remain absorbed in each other, totally oblivious to the rest of the world.

“Er, right. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sure I can stay with him at our… manor?”

It sounds completely wrong even as it’s coming out of her mouth. She has no idea what one does as the lady of a manor. Chat to snooty portraits? See how many times one can spin around one’s library shelves on a ladder before getting dizzy? Drink a lot of wine?

That might be fun for a week or so. But Hermione would tire of life in the English countryside frightfully quickly without access to a cauldron and a cupboard full of potions ingredients. Not that it matters, as that’s not what she’ll be doing at the end of all this.

Her courting season is just for show. She needs to focus on her real reason for being here: to help Harry find the horcruxes, and keep Voldemort from darkening their doors ever again.

Neville clears his throat. “You’ll always be welcome at Oakhaven.”

“Oakhaven?”

“Oakhaven Abbey. The Longbottom estate,” Molly says. She pierces Hermione with a meaningful look. “One of the loveliest acreages in all of England. The main house is quite impressive, but the greenhouses are the real showstopper. Why, the last time I was there, Augusta showed me an honest-to-goodness, genuine man-eating plant. It’s from the Amazon. Who’d have thought?”

Hermione musters a polite smile. “It does sound lovely.”

“Then you must visit,” Neville answers swiftly. “Perhaps over Christmas. Grandmother loves having guests when the main house is decorated. She hangs wreaths on every window.”

“Oh. I usually spend the holidays between my parents’ place in London—it doesn’t have a posh title or anything—and Grimmauld, with Harry and Sirius. And the Burrow, of course.”

She knows she’s said the wrong thing, because Neville’s mouth turns down at the sides. Sometimes it’s difficult for Hermione to interpret other people’s emotions, but his disappointment is as plain as day.

“I ought to go. Grandmother’s probably looking for me. Good to see you, Lady Weasley. Miss Granger. Please excuse me.”

Neville executes another small bow and takes his leave. Molly’s twinkling eyes follow him as he makes his way through the crowd. She’s not alone: other witches notice him, too.

“You know, I never want to underestimate you, sweetheart, but I didn’t realise you were so savvy. That was masterful.”

Hermione blinks, refocusing on Molly’s wry smile. “What?”

“Never commit too early. If I’d accepted the first invitation that came along, I’d be married to Casper Greengrass. And what a nightmare that would’ve been.” She chuckles to herself. “Loads of good looking wizards in your year.”

“Mum,” Ron groans from behind them, finally coming up for air. Lavender gazes down at him, so besotted you’d think she’d been dosed with Amortentia.

“What? I’m just window shopping, Ronald. Your father doesn’t care. Makes things more exciting.” Molly winks before patting Hermione’s hand. “Good luck out there. Stop by over Christmas if you’re not too busy at Oakhaven.”

Hermione is about to protest, but Molly is already halfway across the room, dragging her son and his starry-eyed lover with her.

Is Neville actually interested in her? It’s only an invitation to see his family home. She’s seen Grimmauld a hundred times.

She frets, biting her lip. Despite what Molly thinks, he’s probably just being nice. Neville is a genuinely kind soul, always has been. He’s also proof that there must be some cosmic justice in the world, because he’s grown into his freckly features. That deep voice of his could only belong to a man. How odd, then, that all she can see when she looks at him is the boy who couldn’t contain a cornish pixie if his life depended on it.

The lanterns flash, briefly plunging the tent into darkness. It’s time for tea. Professor Trelawney spies Hermione and shoos her towards the proper section, brooking no argument when she attempts to delay the inevitable by asking where she might powder her nose. (She’d heard it in a film once. It seemed like something witches might say, too?)

She freezes when she sees the group of seventh year witches chatting animatedly behind their fans. Her hands clench around nothing. She doesn’t own a fan, or even a pretty clutch to match her dress. When the witches see her, they drag their judgmental gazes from the top of her hair to the hem of her gown. Their painted lips twist with pity. Notorious ice queen Pansy Parkinson huffs, then bursts into laughter, and Milly Bulstrode and some other Slytherin witches join in.

Better than being called mudblood, she supposes.

“Hermione, come stand by us.” The Patil twins wave her over. She’s relieved to see them. They look absolutely stunning in their white sarees.

“Thank you,” Hermione whispers as Padma pulls out her wand and fixes her falling hair. She may not be truly searching for a husband, and it’s impossible to blend in wearing such a brilliant shade of red satin, but the gesture touches her heart all the same.

Parvati appraises her. “A little mascara, I think, Padma.”

“Too right,” her twin agrees.

“You know, you should really let us give you a makeover. Some kohl around your eyes would really make them pop. Takes practice, but once you get the hang of it—”

“Where’s Luna?” Hermione interrupts. Why does everyone assume she doesn’t know how to do girly things? She knows how to care for her curls and craft the perfect multi-step skin routine. But those things take time, and there are too many books she wants to read. She’s not wasting precious hours on developing a better method of makeup application.

Padma barely contains her disappointment as she inclines her head to the right. “In the multi-partner group. Zabini’s there too. I’m thinking about switching.”

“But Neville’s here,” Parvati says, gesturing with her fan towards one of the circular tables draped in pink crushed velvet. “He was so brave up there. I mean, introducing the first muggleborn to ever court takes real guts.”

Padma sighs dreamily. “I’d let him rearrange my guts.”

Hermione groans inwardly. Is everyone here completely mad?

Professor Slughorn approaches. Without any explanation—and why would he explain, when apparently everyone else knows what’s going on—he announces that the tea will now commence. Padma and Parvati wish her well as they dash off, ostensibly to race other witches to seats with the wizards they most favour.

For a few seconds, Hermione just stands there, unable to comprehend the sheer amount of tables. There must be at least seventy of them, all draped in rosewater-coloured velvet, and each one is occupied by a single wizard and a porcelain tea set. A glance around and some quick maths tell her there are more wizards than witches in their cohort. That’s a good thing for her, because otherwise she might find herself on the outs, like the last kindergartener running around in a schoolyard game of musical chairs.

She inhales slowly, deeply. She needs a strategy. Harry and Snape said that horcruxes might be anywhere, but they most likely fell into the possession of pureblood sympathisers. So her efforts would be best spent on taking tea with… Sons of pureblood sympathisers. That eliminates half-bloods, who take up at least a quarter of the available seats.

Gathering her skirts and her wits, she heads towards the first table she sees. Vincent Crabbe has both bulky arms hooked over the back of his chair in an insouciant pose. His wand dangles from his fingertips as he watches witches—no, his gaze falls heavy on one witch, the older Greengrass girl—as they flit around the incense-laden space.

Hermione grips the gilded chair opposite Crabbe and grits out, “May I sit?”

Just try to relax. This is for Harry. Have a simple conversation and help him save the world. Think of what a funny story this will be someday. Tea with one of Malfoy’s lackeys!

Crabbe scowls at her. “Piss off, Granger.”

She taps the back of the chair and tries to be charming. She really does. “We’re supposed to talk to as many people as possible. Afraid we’ll be a match?”

Now she’s curious. If their tea leaves form anything but a goat, it’ll be all the proof she needs to prove tasseography isn’t real, once and for all.

“I said piss off.”

She gets a similar reaction when she attempts to sit with Zacharius Smith, then Michael Corner. After trying to talk to Seamus Finnegan but being beaten to the punch by a smug Susan Bones, someone calls her name.

Hermione whirls around. Nott, in a ridiculously bright lilac suit that wouldn’t work on anyone but him, waves her over. She tenses, unsure.

Theodore Nott is an enigma. While he’s partnered with her in Potions for years now, providing a convenient escape from micromanaging Harry and Ron’s disastrous attempts at brewing, he’s also never made it clear where he stands when it comes to her blood status. They don’t talk outside of preparing ingredients and bottling their best work for Snape—and now Slughorn—to sell to London apothecaries.

Though, come to think of it, Nott had spoken to her recently, in a non-potioneering context. He’d encouraged her, subtly, to court. She’d dismissed the idea, of course, but looking back…

Curious.

“Nott.” Hermione nods with gratitude as she walks toward him, a bit wobbly in her heels.

He pulls out her chair for her. “Granger.”

They’re silent while he pours. His movements are delicate, as if he’s done this a thousand times. Knowing his father’s prominent role at the Ministry, maybe he has.

When both their cups are full, Nott takes the required sip of tea and leans back in his chair, levelling her with a look. His eyes are a deep blue, the exact same shade as her cold fire. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

Well, he’s not wrong. The truth still stings.

She decides to sting back.

“I’d say the same to you.”

He cocks a winged eyebrow. “How so?”

Hermione lowers her voice to a whisper and leans over the table. “Aren’t you gay?”

Nott guffaws, deep and throaty. “Nothing gets past you, does it? Thank the gods, I was tired of keeping up the pretense. It’s just—you are so painfully straight. I thought you might have a misplaced crush. I couldn’t risk scaring off the only witch who can make veritaserum with the proper potency. Thanks for the good marks, by the way.”

Hermione feels her cheeks heat at the compliment. It’s nice being recognised for her skill instead of her blood, especially considering Nott’s upbringing.

“But you are keeping up the pretense.” She gestures around. “This is the section for wizards seeking a witch.”

“I’m not out to my father,” Nott says, tracing the edge of his saucer with a finger. His shiny signet ring gleams. “Eventually I’ll have to be, but—”

“I won’t say anything. I might be, as you say, painfully straight, but I’m not unaware of the risks one takes when going against the grain.”

Nott cocks his head to the side, and it’s like he’s seeing her for the first time. He smiles and extends his hand. “You should call me Theo.”

“Hermione.” She slides her hand into his, and they shake. His skin is cool and soft.

“Now that we’re good friends, who do you have your eye on?”

“No one. No one yet, I mean,” she stammers, barely catching herself.

“I’m not interested in anyone here either.” He winks, and she laughs. “But I am keen to see how my friends get on. I suspect most of them are going to need help. Not our Head Boy, though, I’m happy to say. He’s seeing someone. You don’t happen to know who it is, do you?”

Her confusion must show on her face, but Theo’s grin doesn’t falter, even when she says, “Can’t say that I do.”

He hums in response. “Damn. Worth a try. The mystery continues. Tell me what you’re looking for, then.”

Horcruxes. Does your father have any lying around?

“Erm, a husband, I suppose.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve established that much.” Theo waves his hand in a circular motion, impatient. “But what kind of husband? What’s the one quality he has to have? The one you can’t live without?”

Hermione summons her courage. She can tell Theo the truth about this one particular thing, can’t she? He seems trustworthy enough, and it’s obvious now that he never gave a fig about her blood status. Plus, vulnerability breeds kinship, and it’ll be nice to have a friend in the castle again. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but something about Theo… Something about him reminds her of Harry.

“I want someone who will challenge me. Appreciate me. Someone who wants the best for me, and for themselves.” She reaches for her locket, gliding it along the rose gold chain. “I actually said something similar to Luna and the twins but… They said finding a wizard like that would be impossible.”

Theo rests his elbows on the table and tucks a hand under his chin. “And you’re considering Longbottom? He doesn’t strike me as the challenging type. Don’t get me wrong, he’s fit, and he’d be faithful. If you want a husband who thinks you hung the moon, Longbottom’s your man.”

“He’s nice.”

“An enthusiastic endorsement if I’ve ever heard one.”

“He’s tall.”

“I’ll never understand witches’ obsession with height. In my experience, there’s no correlation with cock size.”

“Theo!”

He shushes her, but it’s playful. “Keep it down, Hermione. For Salazar’s sake, act like you’ve been here before.”

“You know I haven’t,” she says sulkily.

“Never fear. I’ll help you. Longbottom will, too, seeing as he’s already stuck his neck out for you.”

Hermione glances over her shoulder, looking for Neville. He’s sitting across from Padma, seemingly enthralled in what she’s nattering on about. So he’s the type to listen; that’s good. Though, Viktor listened too. He just never had much of anything to say back.

She shrugs, then winces at the way the satin drags against the delicate skin between her shoulder blades. Sirius might not know much about modern courting, but he certainly knows how to tightlace. “Maybe I’ll sit with him next.”

“What made you change your mind? About courting?”

“It’s a long story.”

He grins. “We’ve got time.”

As if on cue, an hourglass floats between them, one last grain of shimmering sand settling with the rest in the bottom half of the timepiece.

“Or not,” Theo says, stating the obvious.

“Well, thank you for the tea.” She raises her cup to him as she stands.

He chuckles. “You’re not supposed to take the teacup with you.”

“Oh, sorry.” Hermione is halfway to setting it down when she realises she’s stepped on the inner lining of her gown, crushing it under her heel. Damn. She’s used to plaid skirts and tutus, not layers of petticoats underneath weighty satin.

She adjusts her foot only to slide backwards on the slippery fabric, and suddenly she’s off balance, careening earthwards, arse destined to meet the floor. Hermione has only enough time to mentally curse before accepting her fate.

Except, she doesn’t fall. Not all the way, anyway.

Instead, several things happen all at once:

Her back meets a hard, hot wall. Strong arms wrap around her shoulders. The teacup flies out of her hand, splattering her saviour (and her décolletage) with tepid, over-steeped tea.

“Fuck me,” the wizard behind her swears. The familiar way the rough, posh voice reverberates through her brings her world to a halt.

Two words. That’s all it takes for her to recognise him.

Please. Not him. Anyone but him.

Not Malfoy.

Hermione contorts her body to confront him, only to hear a stomach-churning crunch as a jolt of pain spikes through her right ankle and races with a fury up her calf. She yelps, crumpling forwards as the sickening sensation of vertigo overtakes her. The ground falls out from beneath her.

Malfoy catches her. Again.

Insult, meet injury.

A very real injury. It feels like a sprained ankle, not a break, but even so, it’s some of the worst pain she’s ever had. Worse than when the wizard currently supporting her entire body weight hexed her teeth. Worse than when she misstepped her second time en pointe and gave herself a nasty case of hammertoe. Every seasoned ballerina knows: there are a lot of nerve endings in the feet, and it’s all too easy to re-trigger prior ailments. Hermione has the benefit of magic, but her healing skills have never been the best.

How the hell is she going to fix this and get back to horcrux hunting?

She cries out again as Malfoy shifts his body around hers, one arm supporting her middle while he leans down and locks his eyes on hers. Moody grey encapsulates deepest black.

“Muffliato.” He mutters a few other spells in quick succession. Malfoy’s magic washes over her, and the icy temperature numbs her agony to a dull throb. Huh. So his magic is cold, like hers. Not of her own volition, Hermione’s eyes flutter shut.

Sweet relief.

“No one’s noticed yet, thank Circe. Don’t make a scene,” Theo hisses. “Where’d her wand go?”

“I’ll handle it.”

“But—”

“I said I’ll handle it, Nott.”

Without issuing a warning or consulting with her on the matter, she’s mid-air, floating down one of the tent’s canvas corridors. Malfoy, wand in hand, follows behind, his expression stormy. He guides them into a mirrored parlour, and his magic settles her in a gilded armchair.

“Malfoy,” she mouths at him, but he only glowers as he shucks his tea-stained jacket and tosses it to the floor.

“Haven’t caused enough trouble for one day, hmm? Had to ruin my best jacket, too? Scourgify doesn’t cut it when it comes to wool-silk blends, not that you’d know that. ” He rips out the snake-shaped pins at his collar and starts in on his shirt buttons. “Shirt’s a total loss. Fucking hell.”

Hermione averts her eyes as soon as she gets a glimpse of his bare chest, but not fast enough to miss the giant purple bruises splotched across his abs. She does a double take. Are those from quidditch? In years past, Ron had come back to the Gryffindor common room with plenty of shiners, but since when are seekers in the line of fire?

When she thinks Malfoy’s caught her staring, she looks away. But of course he’s noticed. “Now who’s the prude?”

Her head whips up, and his smirk is as wide as it is self-satisfied.

Suddenly, he drops to his knees, tossing up her skirts.

“Malfoy!” she shrieks, but she’s still silenced. She tries to kick him away.

His hand closes around the heel of her injured foot, but his hold is gentle. “Merlin, Granger, I’m not down here for fun and games. I’m trying to get a look at this ankle so I can heal you, summon myself a new shirt, and then we can both return to our separate but mutually miserable afternoons.” He pauses, making a sucking sound through his teeth. “It’s worse than I thought. I need my bag.”

Bag? What bag?

“Although, if I tear strips from my shirt to make a temporary wrap…” Malfoy’s tone is speculative as his fingertips graze the tender skin underneath the arch of her foot. An involuntary shiver races down her spine, and she squirms in her seat. “Hold still. This won’t take a minute.”

Chapter Text

It’s hot under Granger’s gown. Draco hadn’t considered that when he dove beneath her satin skirts. He hadn’t been thinking much at all, actually, otherwise he wouldn’t be crouched on his knees in front of her right now. He wouldn’t even be in the room. The rational plan would’ve been to flag down a chaperone to assist her. But she’d ruined his outfit and suddenly the only thing on his mind was getting out of that bloody suffocating main tent and putting his hands on her.

Not like that, obviously. It’s Granger, for Merlin’s sake. Just, he can’t occlude in there, and healing gives him something to do while waiting for Pansy to grace him with her presence. It’s far better than Ollivander’s granddaughter talking his ear off about horses—her current stable, recent visits to the farrier, so on and so forth. When she began to describe the specific dietary and exercise needs for each horse in excruciating detail, he’d considered death and dismemberment a fine alternative to being in her presence for one minute longer.

Draco had excused himself from the table under the guise of being summoned by his mother (“So sorry, she depends on me, you know; functionally a widow with my father currently out of circulation. You understand.”) in hopes he could find a quiet corner and dissect his earlier conversation with Pansy.

But no, he had the ill fortune of colliding with—who else?—the bane of his existence. The universe continues to conspire against him.

Draco cradles Granger’s right heel, examining her swollen ankle. He shouldn’t be here, but she shouldn’t be here, either. Not in this chair, and certainly not at this tea. Her earlier performance onstage only served to prove his point: muggleborns have no business participating in the pureblood courting season.

Half-bloods, sure, whatever. There aren’t that many of them, and everyone falls all over themselves to keep from thinking too hard about how they exist in the first place. And they’re a good option for family trees plagued by, to put it delicately, self-pollination. (Incest. There was too much incest.) Daphne thinks courting is all about making more magical babies, but she’s only partially right. They also want the babies to be healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes, etcetera.

He runs a finger along the top of Granger’s injured foot, and her toes shift. They’re painted. He doesn’t know why it surprises him, except the pale pink colour is distinctly feminine, and Granger doesn’t really scream feminine. Until right now, anyway. Red dress, pink toes, and either the air under here is sweeter because it’s not doused with incense or… Granger smells delicious, like a lightly toasted marshmallow. His favourite guilty pleasure.

His stomach rumbles, and he’s relieved to remember he hasn’t eaten anything today since breakfast; he’s only had the watered-down lemonade from the refreshment table. Nevermind that breakfast was only three hours ago, and he ate twice his usual amount to prepare for the scrimmage. Hunger explains everything. He’s starving, actually, and clearly hallucinating if he’s comparing Granger to edible confections.

Draco refocuses on the task at hand, studious calm overtaking him as he catalogues the injury.

Notable swelling over the lateral aspect of the right ankle. Mild to moderate ecchymosis present, red and deepening. Exploratory palpation finds tenderness over the anterior talofibular ligament. Limited active and passive dorsiflexion and plantarflexion. As he’s currently without his bag stocked with pain potions, he doesn’t test the severity of the ankle’s inversion, but there are no signs of fracture. Diagnosis: lateral ankle sprain, grade II.

“It’s a sprain. You’re lucky. I’ll heal what I can and wrap you up so you can go back to the castle. Madam Pomfrey can escort you so you don’t walk on it.”

When he presses the tip of his wand to the bony knot of her talus, Granger jerks her foot away, arguing with him with her legs instead of that sharp tongue of hers. Draco sighs, exasperated.

“Listen, Granger, I’m well aware that your default state of being requires you to find a way to be at odds with me on everything, but you don’t know this world like I do. Courting season is no place for you. Just, trust me, for once.” She doesn’t return her foot, and he grits his teeth as he yanks her skirt from over his head. Defiant brown eyes meet his glare. “Do you think you’re going to change the hearts and minds of the pureblood aristocracy? Are you under some misguided belief that you can prove yourself to a bunch of people who couldn’t care less about you?”

Granger crosses her arms like a petulant toddler. Draco rolls his eyes and reaches for his shirt, grimacing as he destroys it. For her benefit, the ingrate.

“Fine. I don’t give a flying fuck what self-inflicted horrors you want to foist upon yourself, alright? But you can’t very well go back in there and summon your wand with one functioning ankle.”

The stalemate lasts only two seconds more before Granger relents. She grips the armrests and lifts her leg, extending it towards him with a pained wince.

“Was that so hard?” Draco asks, ducking under her skirts again. He wraps the longest strip from his shirt around her foot, winding his way up to her slender ankle. This time, when he puts his wand on her, he’s ready. She tries to pull away, but he holds her firm, ignoring the way she writhes. “Incredible how you’re just as difficult when you’re silenced as you are when you can talk. I’m nearly finished.”

He finishes the spell and sits back on his heels, checking his work. Just as he’s about to recommend rest and elevation, twin gasps punctuate the quiet room, followed by the shattering of glass.

Underneath Granger’s mass of petticoats, Draco’s wand dims. He’s left in total, sweet-smelling darkness. (Honestly, did she trip over a sugar bowl?) A small hand pummels his shoulder, right where one of the bludgers hit him, and he surfaces, feeling a terrible strop coming on. Granger is only proving his point about her abominable lack of manners. He doesn’t care if it makes the rest of their year living together utter hell. He’s going to tell her exactly what he thinks of her and her little charade.

But when the satin slips from his face, Granger isn’t glaring at him. She’s as pale as the porcelain tea sets meant to decide their fate, staring at the two witches in the doorway with abject terror.

The first witch is his mother, which is bad enough. The second is—of course, because fuck him, right?—Pansy. She’s practically vibrating with rage, standing amidst the remnants of a glass goblet. Lemonade pools around her stilettos.

In one horrifying instant, Draco sees what they see.

Him, kneeling bare-chested in front of her, having just emerged from beneath her skirts. Granger, silenced, cheeks stained the same red as her rumpled gown. Most damningly, the ripped shirt and discarded jacket, which he’d flung aside in a fit of rage, look like they were torn away in the throes of passion.

Oh, this is bad.

Draco waves his wand and frees Granger from the muffliato with a swift finite.

“Mother,” he begins, rising to his feet. He tries to keep his swiftly-rising panic out of his next words. “Pansy. It’s not what it looks like.”

Granger speaks. Her voice is scratchy with disuse as she turns those big eyes on his mother. “Your son was just helping me…”

Has she forgotten how to put together a coherent sentence? Of all the times for Granger to decide to turn off that big brain of hers… He cards one hand through his hair, then the other, dropping them at his sides when he realises the motion probably only makes him look guilty. There’s no saving the styling, anyway. It’s still staticky from its brush with all that satin.

His mother’s lips remain pursed, but Pansy has no such self-restraint.

“Helping you out of your knickers?”

Draco scoffs. “I didn’t even see her knickers.” Pansy makes a strangled sound. “She tripped—”

“Onto your face?” It’s more of a screech than the Queen’s English, but it’s music to Draco’s ears.

Pansy’s upset. She’s reacting. To him.

Well, not him exactly, but something she thinks he’s done, and he’s not in a position to be picky. This is the most emotion he’s seen out of her in weeks.

What is it about the situation that’s getting to her? Is it seeing him with another witch? Or is it that the witch is the world’s most obnoxious muggleborn? Whatever it is, he’s drunk on the way Pansy glares at him, the obvious heat in her dark eyes.

He has to have more of it.

“Miss Parkinson,” his mother says gently, reaching with a soothing hand for Pansy’s arm.

Pansy dodges her touch and keeps her ire focused on Draco. Yes. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

Something is wrong with him, because a twisted plan is forming in his mind. He can’t believe he’s even considering it. It’s madness, but he’s desperate, and it quite literally fell into his lap. May as well run with it.

“My ankle,” Granger begins, but without so much as another thought, Draco silences her again. Whatever corresponding yowl of outrage she might’ve directed at him dies in her lungs. Enraged, she claws at the chair’s armrests, trying to get enough leverage to stand. But her brows knit with pain, and she ultimately remains seated, jaw snapped shut.

If looks could kill… Lucky for him, she’s wandless and still can’t walk unassisted, or he’s pretty sure he’d be dead by now.

It’s fine. Granger can make an attempt on his life later. Though she won’t actually kill him. The little swot’s too afraid of getting expelled.

Draco occludes, dipping into the icy pond within. He shouldn’t, but he has to be convincing.

“It’s like you said, Pansy. We’re not together anymore. I’m simply exploring other options.” He shrugs. “Gran—Miss Granger and I have been spending a lot of time together as of late.”

It’s true, after a fashion.

“Is that right?” His mother’s expression is unreadable, but she’s far too calm considering the circumstances. That was a hell of a compromising position she found him in. Draco’s heart rate quickens. He delves deeper inside his mind, muting his physical reactions with the chill of imaginary freezing water. “And this time has been illuminating for you?”

“Yes.”

The lie comes easier than he thought it would, and the payoff is both immediate and fantastic. Pansy’s rage is incandescent, crackling magic radiating from her in waves. “You can’t be serious. Tell me you’re joking right now. She’s a mud—a mud—” She stumbles over the word. Hmm, that’s new. “She’s not like us. Think of your reputation, of your mother’s reputation.”

Draco twirls his wand, hoping the move comes off casual. “I’m afraid I’m quite serious. And I’m sorry, Miss Granger.” He briefly looks over his shoulder to where Granger fumes in silence and frowns with false sympathy. “Very sorry to have silenced you, it’s just that I didn’t want you to have to lie to my mother, especially since I hope you’ll be seeing far more of her in the near future.”

At that, his mother’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline.

Shit. He should probably dial this back a bit.

“You just told me you missed me,” Pansy says, accusatory.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Is it wrong to gaslight one’s future wife if it’s to try and win her back after she finds one in a compromising but ultimately harmless position? Maybe. But it’s all Draco has.

Actually… Granger might be the answer to everything. Nott’s bound and determined to uncover who his supposed mystery witch is. If Draco allows Nott to believe it’s Granger, he’ll probably spin some fanciful fairy tale insinuating that Draco’s been keeping Granger’s identity under lock and key because he’s so head over heels for her. Or, head under heels, more like.

As if she can hear his less-than-pure thoughts, Pansy sneers at him, hands on hips. “I don’t believe you.”

Is it believable? Debatable. But Pansy won’t be able to keep this to herself. She’s too much of a gossip. And if it garners her sympathy from her coven of friends, she won’t mind that, either.

It’s not the worst thing to be “caught” doing, going down on a witch. No one can say he’s a selfish lover. Maybe this really is the play: let everyone think he’s with Granger. It might temporarily hurt his social standing, but then again, it might help, considering she’s made herself the ultimate charity case after that ludicrous display.

Draco Malfoy: Prince of Slytherin, Greatest Seeker in a Generation, and, most recently, Philanthropist to the World’s Surliest Muggleborn.

It’s got a nice ring to it.

It’ll involve work, which he usually avoids like the dragon pox, but his classes are child’s play, and this will surely occupy him. He’ll have to act like Granger is reasonably tolerable for an undetermined length of time, but if it gets him Pansy…

“I’m curious,” his mother says after a long silence. Suspicion laces her words. “Perhaps you might let Miss Granger tell her side of the story. Since, as you say, we’ll be seeing more of each other. Though I might remind you that as chairwitch of the courtship committee, I’ll be seeing everyone more this season.”

“She’s been through quite the ordeal already, mother. This isn’t how either of us pictured the day going.”

Draco looks back again at Granger, who glares at him with the force of all three unforgivables combined. Yes, she definitely still wants to kill him.

His mother hums, then vanishes the puddle of lemonade at Pansy’s feet. “Miss Parkinson, will you excuse us, please? I’m sure your suitors are eager to see you.”

“Mrs Malfoy,” Pansy nods, plastering a demure smile on her face as she dips into a small curtsy. She’s always had a healthy fear of his mother’s disapproval.

Hope flutters in his chest when, halfway out the door, Pansy shoots him a horrible look. Is he mistaken, or is that jealousy? He grins back at her, practically giddy, and flexes his pecs for good measure.

Just when he thought this day couldn’t get any worse, it suddenly turned around. He has her attention now. All he has to do is figure out how to keep it, and she’ll cast aside Goyle like yesterday’s Prophet.

“Draco.”

He snaps back to reality. His mother has her wand out, and she’s studying him with justified scepticism.

“I need a little time,” Draco says, his hand twitching at his side.

His mother’s steely blue stare glints in the lantern light. “I recommend you get whatever this is out of your system. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, little dragon?” He nods, a bit more frantically than he’d like, and his mother’s shoulders relax. “Good. Don’t tarry. Make Miss Granger and yourself presentable, please. No need to embarrass yourself further.”

“Yes, mother.”

“I apologise for my son’s terrible manners, Miss Granger.” She points her wand at Granger and lifts the silencing charm.

Granger drags her fingers across her throat, rubbing her larynx. “Thank you, Mrs Malfoy. I’m sorry you saw what you think you saw, but just so you know—”

His mother slices one polished hand through the air. “I’d prefer if you’d spare me any further details. There’s no need to speak of this ever again. Now, you are welcome, per Ministry mandate, to participate in the rest of the courting season. I suggest you take advantage of the opportunity, as the legislation may change when a new Minister takes power. But I advise you to brush up on the process, and pureblood traditions in general, if you want to prolong the opportunity for,” she pauses, the corner of her mouth twitching, “others like yourself, in years to come.”

“Thank you,” Granger says quietly.

With a final nod, his mother leaves them.

Draco crosses the room, loafers soundless on the soft carpet, and holds out his hand to help her up. (Never let it be said that he is not a gentleman, even in such hostile company.) Granger bats it away with a hiss. “What on earth is wrong with you? What was that?”

He snaps his outstretched fingers at her impatiently. “Come on, you heard my mother. No time for discussion. We have to get back out there.”

“You can bloody well make time, Malfoy! You silenced me, twice, and then made it out like you were, were… That we…” she stammers, unable to finish what was sure to be an exhausting tirade.

“Consider it repayment for the ankle mending. The spells are still setting in, but tomorrow you’ll be back to stomping around our living room. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“You’re vile.”

“Charmed, I’m sure. Give me one of those gloves, will you? I need a shirt, and most of mine’s still wrapped around your foot.”

Her mouth falls open. “Gloves can be transfigured? You’re telling me I could’ve made this into a white dress?”

“If you have the skills. Modistes only care about the gowns. Imagine if you could change the cut and colour at will, and mend it yourself. Witches would only buy one dress over their lifetime. Innovative fashion would cease to exist.”

“What a tragedy.”

He pretends not to notice her sarcastic tone. “Your glove, if you please. Unless you’re still enjoying the view.”

She peels a glove from one hand and throws it at him, hitting him squarely in the chest. Draco slaps his palm over it with a smirk. He transfigures it easily, and changes the sheer red chiffon to starched white cotton. It’s not ideal, but it’ll have to do.

“When I find my wand, I’m going to hex you like you’ve never been hexed before,” Granger seethes.

Hex, not kill. Merlin, he loves being right.

“Yes, yes, I know,” he says, buttoning up his new shirt. He tucks his wand in its holster, retrieves his soiled jacket, and tries again to offer her a hand. “Up you get.”

This time, she’s receptive. She puts her bare hand in his, and it’s as soft as the smooth skin hidden under the arch of her foot. Draco thought it’d be calloused from the way she’s constantly scribbling with a quill.

“You’re entirely too calm about this, this… Pickle you’ve got us in,” Granger remarks as he helps her balance on her good foot.

He can’t resist a chuckle. “Pickle?”

They hobble back down the corridor together as if they’d finished last in a three-legged race.

“Malfoy, your ex-girlfriend and your mother think they walked in on you going down on me.”

“They do, and it’d be lovely if you kept your mouth shut about it.”

“But Pansy—”

He pats her hand in clear dismissal. “Let me worry about Pansy.”

When they reach the main tent, they’re met with rippling fans and curious stares. Draco spies Goldstein and summons him over with a subtle nod. Goldstein got her into this mess. He can do his part to help her get out of it and, ideally, discourage her from attending further courting events.

Although, if she keeps coming, won’t that help Draco’s plan? Not that he’s fully baked it yet. As soon as he’s passed Granger off, he can sit down and have a proper think about the whole thing while more witches chat his ear off about horses or whatever other expensive, dreadful creatures they’d like to take care of when they have unlimited access to the Malfoy family coffers.

In their dreams.

“Hermione, what’s happened?” Goldstein asks as he tugs her towards him. Granger hops twice before leaning into his side. Draco stretches his arm, rolling his wrist. She hadn’t leaned on him like that. Not that he cares. He only gave her excellent preventative care so she didn’t further injure her ankle and can continue doing her weird muggle toe dancing.

“I think I need to see Madam Pomfrey for some pain potions, if you wouldn’t mind helping me find her,” she says through clenched teeth. Instead of springing into action, Goldstein starts asking inane questions. Ravenclaws.

Draco’s had enough. “Quickly, if you don’t mind, Goldstein. It is a rather nasty sprain.”

“Right. I think she’s this way.”

The two depart. Draco adjusts his sleeves and reaffixes his collar chain to his new shirt before retaking his seat. Shame about his jacket.

After a slew of unmemorable witches and clump after clump of tea leaves forming all the most unfavourable symbols, Pansy finally sits in front of him. Though he tries several times to tempt her into conversation, carefully avoiding all mention of Granger, the only way he gets so much as a scrunched nose from her is at the end of their time together, when she takes her sip of tea and peeks at the sediment.

Before Draco can ask what she sees, Trelawney pops over his shoulder, removing her spectacles to peer into his cup.

“It’s a cross,” he proclaims proudly. “Can mean addition. We’re a good match.”

Maybe his fortunes are finally turning around.

Trelawney hums, noncommittal. “Or it’s a warning. Stop.”

“Betting it’s that,” Pansy says, abandoning her chair without so much as a backward glance.

Undeterred, Draco pulls out his dance card and carefully places his wand at the top, above fourteen empty rows. Pansy’s name appears, looping endlessly in bright silver cursive.

“I’m curious,” Trelawney murmurs. “What did you see when you took tea with Miss Granger?”

He’s about to tell her that they didn’t actually have tea together, so he wouldn’t have seen anything. But then he has a better idea.

He plays dumb.

“You know, professor, I saw something, but it’s not a symbol I’m familiar with.”

Trelawney nearly bounces out of her hideous sensible shoes. “Oh! Tell me, my dear boy. With a bit of luck, I might be able to channel the oracle for you and receive the answer you seek.”

Draco describes the shape of a fly—someone who doesn’t belong. But Trelawney’s knowing glance is not one of tacit agreement. No, her magnified eyes are… Sparkling.

“Lord Malfoy, this is excellent news indeed.”

It is?

Cautiously, he steeples his fingers. “How so?”

“Butterflies are exceedingly rare. This happiness appears to be long overdue.” She withdraws her wand from the sleeve of her robe and taps the second line of his dance card. Hermione Granger flutters across the thick parchment. “Perhaps I was wrong about my premonition… ‘Old Time is still a-flying’ could perhaps refer to the courting season, and Miss Granger has decided to gather rosebuds after all… Yes, that’s one interpretation…”

“What?”

Trelawney pats his shoulder knowingly. “I know it must be quite a shock to find out your fate is intertwined with someone else’s, but don’t think too hard about it. Like the wings of a deep blue janus, simply let events… unfurl.”

Chapter Text

Ankle propped on a stack of pillows, Hermione pops the cork on the last potion and downs it in one gulp. Her gown chafes, and she’s eager to be left alone to sulk on her sofa in peace, but Anthony seems reluctant to let her out of his sight. He’d helped locate her wand, then walked her back to the Head Students’ quarters after Madam Pomfrey examined her ankle. Irritatingly, she agreed with Malfoy’s assessment—Hermione’s ankle will be good as new after a good nights’ sleep. She even praised Malfoy's spellwork. Hermione’s fine, not that anyone’s listening.

“Are these from the restricted section? I thought we weren’t allowed to check those out.” Anthony eyes the stacks of books warily. Oops, she’d forgotten about those. Before he can look too closely at the titles, she waves her wand and sends them into her bedroom, where her beaded bag swallows them up. “You sure you’re alright?”

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m fine. I’d like to be alone now, if you don’t mind.”

“You don’t need help with your dress?”

What’s with all the questions? Is he trying to continue what they started the other night? As if this is the time? Besides, hadn’t they agreed to be friends?

Why can’t people just say what they mean, so she’s not forever guessing?

“I’m fine,” Hermione says again, more forcefully this time.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. I’ve just heard what a nightmare it is to unlace it yourself.”

“Can you just go?” Her voice is strained. Anthony steps back, affronted, and Hermione sighs. “Please.”

He licks his lips, making a soft tsk sound. “It wasn’t as bad as all that.”

He’s a bad liar.

Hermione plants her palms firmly on the worn sofa cushion, pressing into the fabric in a useless attempt to quell her anger. “Look, I’m not going anywhere on this ankle, and unless you want to be pigeonholed as a champion for muggleborn rights—thereby, if my maths are right, significantly reducing your odds of a match—you should get back down there.”

It’s sensible advice, and Anthony knows it. He ducks his head and sticks his hands in his pockets.

“Neville’s got enough money that it doesn’t really matter if he’s seen coming to my rescue,” she says, trying a gentler approach. “I’m guessing your situation’s a little different?”

It’s not that difficult a connection to make, based on how he’d acted when Malfoy confronted him about his motivations on this very same sofa.

“It’s mostly my dad,” Anthony confesses. “He’s close with Goyle’s dad. He doesn’t agree with the way everything happened.”

“Everything?”

“Says Potter was the aggressor. He thinks the trials were rigged, stacked with half-bloods and other muggleborn sympathisers. Obviously, he’s not the only one.”

“I know. They’re just quieter than they used to be,” Hermione says, avoiding his eyes.

In some ways, it’s worse that bigots have, for the most part, stopped being so open about their prejudice. Now it’s so thinly veiled that it can be excused for a slip of the tongue or hidden by the tilt of a fan. Today, of course, they’d been among friends, and had let their nasty opinions fly.

“You’ll still kick all our arses when it’s time for NEWTs. Won’t be surprised if you end up an Unspeakable.”

She shrugs. They both know that’s not possible. Unspeakables are, notoriously, well-connected purebloods.

Mercifully, Anthony mutters his goodbyes and leaves. Hermione lets out a long breath as she sinks into the sofa, closing her eyes. There’s no sign of Her Grace, but Crooks jumps up on her lap with a soft merp, and she strokes his back for only a moment before relocating him to the folded blanket by her side. She’d love a snuggle, but first she has to get out of this dress.

She sets her wand to the middle of her bodice. It’s a shame: the dress really is beautiful. She’d loved it the minute she tried it on in Madam Malkin’s shop, smoothing her hands over the satin while Sirius and Harry chatted on the other side of the curtain. When she’d emerged, they both gasped, and she twirled for them, unable to hide her smile. She felt… Pretty. But an adult sort of pretty, not the way she’d felt at her first Yule Ball.

If she could alter the gown, maybe into a shorter cocktail dress, she’d keep it. But in its current state, all it does is remind her of her humiliation. Her despair. Her failure.

Hermione admires the details one more time: the rich crimson ribbon, the glittering stars falling to the hemline before winking out of existence. Then she vanishes it.

It’s too bad she can’t vanish the memories, too.

An hour later, she’s freshly showered, wrapped in her favourite jumper from Molly—the one with the big gold H embossed with little lions—with her foot resting on a stack of useless divination textbooks shoved underneath her desk. Hermione traces the feather of her quill across her jawline over and over again as she thinks of what to write to Harry.

Dear Harry,

Courting was a total fiasco. Utterly humiliating. Worse than giant wizard’s chess that wants to kill you.

Or:

Dear Harry,

Why can’t we just let the Aurors handle this? (I know why, but how is it that the magical world is full of self-interested, dimwitted adults? I’ve always said McGonagall should be running Hogwarts. Imagine the advanced curriculum!)

Or:

Dear Harry,

I love you but I’m not courting and you can’t make me. So there!

When she puts ink to paper, what comes out is:

Dear Harry,

After today, I’m fairly confident that my research talents will be far more useful to our project than my lacklustre social skills.

We need another way to infiltrate pureblood circles. I didn’t pick up any useful information at today’s event, which, despite Sirius’s help I was completely underprepared for. What’s worse, I tripped on my gown and sprained my ankle. It’s on the mend, but Malfoy of all people insisted on helping me with it and, long story short, his mother and Pansy Parkinson found us in what appeared to be—but was absolutely not, under any circumstances—a compromising position. I had to leave early and I’m writing this on a great deal of pain potions. Any errors in this letter should thus be attributed to Madam Pomfrey’s heavy handedness with calming draughts.

I’m sorry I failed you, but you had to know sending me in there was doomed from the start.

HJG

Hermione lowers her head to her desk with a loud thunk. She definitely misjudged gravity on that one, but thankfully she can’t feel it. The pain potions really are quite good, and they’re approaching their peak, because her eyelids begin to droop.

She levers herself out of her chair and hops to the bed, shoving one pillow under her head and the other under her ankle. Awkwardly, she manages to float her fluffy white duvet on top of herself with her wand, burrowing in with a soft sigh. It doesn’t matter that it’s still light out; sleep beckons. Though, it doesn’t seem eager to claim her just yet, so she toys with one of the little pink bows decorating her duvet, rolling it between her fingers.

Her head feels all floaty. Memories from the horrid tea present themselves to her fleetingly, sparkly at the edges. Professor Slughorn’s stammering introduction, vague impressions of scowling faces from her place on the stage. Theo, head tilted like a curious hippogriff. Porcelain teacups. Her empty dance card. The chill of Malfoy’s magic, the weight of his gaze, the feel of his hands.

His hands. They were strong. Solid. Warm. Not calloused like she’d thought they’d be, not that she’s ever spent time thinking of how Malfoy’s hands would feel. Now it seems like the only thing her potion-addled brain wants to fixate on.

He’d gripped her so securely. With confidence. She hates the way she liked it.

Hermione’s eyes flutter closed, as if she can shut out the offending thought. As she drifts off, her mind serves up another memory, this one with a different set of hands.

“Hermoninny,” Viktor says, breath blowing hot across her face. “I am afraid to hurt you.”

She aches everywhere, and it’s delicious. She strains up to meet his lips with hers. “You won’t.”

“It is…I am sorry.” He rolls away to his side of the bed and wipes his hands over his face. “I do not think you know what you are asking of me.”

Desire bleeds out of her. Weeks of anticipation, a day’s worth of uncomfortable travel, and this is it? “You said—”

“I know what I said. But this is not the way wizards should be with a witch.”

Viktor settles a blanket over her, signalling that his decision has been well and truly made, and Hermione’s emotions roil. She tries to catalogue them as they course through her: shame, anger, a tiny hint of fear. That secret part of her that’s always told her no one understands her, that it won’t be long before Viktor hits his limit of Hermione Granger, roars to life in the bottom of her stomach, disturbing the delicate environment with churning acid.

“Finite,” she croaks, then turns away. She brings her knees to her chest and holds them close.

They don’t speak for five minutes, or maybe ten. Viktor is never in a rush to talk. Is that part of the problem?

Eventually, he breaks the tense silence. “I know you come from the muggle world, and I have never minded this, well, oddness, that you have about you. And this, I do not wish for you to feel badly about. I am sure where you come from, this is normal.”

It isn’t, really. Hermione has never fit in the normal category, mentally or physically, and it’s unreasonable to think that unusualness wouldn’t extend to her sexual appetite. But she’s not the only person who’s into this sort of thing. She’s performed many an internet search with her fingers beneath the elastic of her knickers, and while it’s not the most popular category of deviancy out there, there’s enough to spur on her fantasies.

Viktor was sceptical, but open. Or so she’d thought.

“It’s okay.”

She’s not sure who she’s saying it for; him, or herself.

He pulls gently on her shoulder, and she releases her legs to turn back towards him. “I hate to disappoint you.”

“You didn’t.” She’s not in any shape to be a convincing liar right now. “And it’s not like we can’t still have sex,” Hermione says, desperation tingeing her words. She wants to salvage the night somehow.

He shakes his head, dark hair falling on his face. “You want this. You deserve to have what you want. Everything you want.” A regretful sigh falls from his lips. “This, I cannot do for you.”

“It doesn’t need to be this, Viktor. Please.”

The look he gives her is so pitying, it spears her heart in two. “Maybe we talk about it in the morning, yes?”

She pushes the memory away.

Sleep takes her, blissfully dreamless, and when Hermione wakes in the wee hours of the morning, her head is clear and her ankle is… fine. Better than fine, actually. Good as new.

She tests it a few times, walking around her bedroom in awe, an incredulous giggle escaping her lips. She’s always had difficulty healing her ballet injuries, but her entire foot feels better than ever. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.

What is this sorcery?

Maybe she should ask Malfoy what spells he used? If healing is one of his special interests, perhaps he’ll be willing to share his knowledge.

But it requires talking to him again, and after yesterday’s events, she’s pretty sure she never wants to talk to him again.

Is there a self-silencing charm? Or maybe a jinx that excises someone from one’s life? That’d be convenient.

It’s early yet, but her body hums with the need to move. She changes into her warm-ups—a soft leotard, white wrap cardigan, and matching tights—before summoning her ballet slippers from her hidden closet. Somehow, everything she stores inside, no matter its condition, comes out sparkling clean. The whisper-pink shoes look brand new. The castle continues to take care of her, its ancient magic untroubled by her biological provenance.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, leaning her head against the bookshelf, fingers stroking the copy of Moving Staircases: The Shifting Architecture of Hogwarts. Then, in a moment of post-pain potion inanity, asks, “Can you help me find the horcruxes?”

She holds her breath, but nothing happens. Obviously.

Hermione laughs to herself. Ridiculous.

As she shoves her ballet slippers in her handbag and laces up her trainers, a soft meow filters in from underneath her door. Crooks springs up from his sleeping spot, flattening his ears.

“Crooks,” Hermione warns. She doesn’t have time for another cat fight. “Stay here. I’ll be back before breakfast.”

She slips out and Her Grace immediately begins rubbing her legs, tail curved into a question mark. Her posh food bowl—pink, decorated with rosettes—is empty.

Hermione glances meaningfully towards Malfoy’s half-open door, as if to say, ask him.

Her Grace stills and looks up at Hermione, deploying her most lethal cuteness techniques. Her big eyes widen. She tucks her tail around her furry body and settles it atop her paws. Finally, she begins to purr.

“I’m a sucker,” Hermione moans in surrender. She finds a pre-prepared meal for Her Grace under a stasis charm in the kitchenette, labelled with yesterday’s date. She furrows her brow. “Did he forget to feed you?”

She pops the food into Her Grace’s dish. The cat tucks in with typical feline gusto, yet unlike Crooks, somehow manages to keep her whiskers clean.

Without thinking, Hermione crouches down on the floor and pets Her Grace mid-bite. The cat flinches at first, arching her back away from Hermione’s careful touch, but when Hermione stops, she turns her head as if to say, did I instruct you to stop petting me, servant girl?

“It’s not like him to forget you.”

Hermione eyes Malfoy’s door again. From this angle, she can see his bed is perfectly made, but empty.

Did he explain everything to Pansy and sleep with her in the Slytherin dorms because they made up? She remembers Pansy’s ire yesterday when she discovered Malfoy underneath Hermione’s gown. It seems like there’d be no coming back for him after being found with a muggleborn in a state of undress, but maybe they were playing some sick, twisted game together. Maybe the real courting takes place after hours. She doesn’t know for sure, but their conversation yesterday didn’t make any sense. Why would Malfoy want Pansy—and his mother!—to think he’d been busy not with Hermione’s ankle, but with her nether regions?

She wouldn’t ordinarily use that term, but she absolutely cannot think about her pussy in the same breath as Malfoy.

(Shit, she just did. Ugh. Never again.)

After one more pet, which Her Grace noticeably leans into, Hermione scoops up her beaded bag and heads out. It’s close to dawn now, and while some of the portraits greet her sleepily, she doesn’t run into a single living soul on her way to the Room of Hidden Things.

Ensuring once more that she’s alone, Hermione taps her wand in the precise rhythm that splits the wall. It parts with a soft yawn, and she steps inside. The space she cleared to create a makeshift dance floor is undisturbed, though a haphazard pyramid of badly-upholstered chaise lounges with springs poking out and heaping sacks of unmarked post have since populated the perimeter.

Hermione thinks of her unsent letter to Harry with a pang of guilt. Can she really roll it up and hand it to Hedwig? She imagines Harry breaking the seal, hopeful as he adjusts his spectacles to read her words, only to find that she’s already given up. It’s not like her.

She sinks onto a wobbly stool and laces up her slippers. Dancing will clear her mind, illuminate a path forward. It always does.

As she takes that first, poised step, Hermione is transformed. She’s not weightless: there’s a sharp awareness in her feet as they carry her across the floor that almost makes her doubt her ankle’s really healed. But as she warms up, she can tell she’s fine. The hard, unforgiving pressure in her toes and metatarsals, the result of being en pointe, narrows her world into the welcome, familiar sort of pain.

Her ankles are tight with control. Her calves engage. Every muscle in her body is alive, singing with readiness as she propels herself through a series of complex leaps.

A cry of delight escapes her. Adrenaline, not scary but thrilling, surges, flooding her veins like a tsunami. Her chest tightens, but like any good athlete, Hermione keeps her breaths steady. She fills the silence with the music in her head, counting every step; every bend and shift. She might not have an audience, but this is a performance all the same.

As she moves, muscle memory takes over. Her arms float effortlessly, her spine elongates, and her focus hones in on nothing but the feel of the dance. She keeps her face relaxed and serene, but her subconscious is aware of the alignment of her hips, the turnout of her thighs, the subtle flex of her pinky toe when she tips into a fouetté. Perfection is impossible, but she gets damn near close, and she thinks there might be no better feeling than this: dancing for nothing but the love of being a human with a body that’s capable of amazing things.

Dancing was magic for Hermione, before she knew she had magic of her own. In these rare moments, it supersedes what she can do with a wand—because she can do it without one. Aside from her fire and a few basic spells, everything else relies on that stick of vinewood she carries everywhere.

Being without it yesterday, even briefly, had been unspeakably awful. Perhaps she should ask Sirius for a holster—and some advanced duelling lessons. She’d beaten out all the Gryffindors last year, except Harry, but now that she lives with Malfoy, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to brush up.

A crash in the distance startles her out of her routine.

Hermione summons her wand and holds it out in front of herself. “Hello? Who’s there?”

Another crash, this time followed by a series of sharp metallic clangs.

“Hermione, is that you?”

Luna stumbles out of a gnarled mass of coat racks, kicking up a cloud of ancient dust. She bends over and coughs, her thick plait nearly sweeping the floor. As she brings a robed hand up to cover her mouth, Hermione catches a wink of something silver.

She exhales and lowers her wand. It’s only Luna. Though, she’s looking at Hermione a bit strangely.

Hermione wraps her arms around herself, suddenly self-conscious in her warm-ups. “What are you doing in the Room of Hidden Things?”

“Is that what you call it?” Luna says, every other word punctuated by a cough. She straightens. “It’s a sensible enough name, I suppose. I’ve been calling it the Treasury of Whimsy. All sorts of valuables in here.”

She lifts both hands over her head and nestles a silver circlet in her hair. A ridiculously-proportioned sapphire dangles from its twinkly scaffolding: clearly fake.

“I don’t think that’s a real tiara,” Hermione says.

She mentally kicks herself. Of course she can’t say something normal, like, how pretty or that suits you rather nicely. Hermione, for better or worse, has always been honest to a fault. More often than not, it puts her at a conversational disadvantage.

Luna doesn’t immediately respond. She frowns and lifts the tiara off her head, sets it back down, and then repeats the whole process over again. She’s always been an odd duck, Luna. Her inaccurate mutterings about scientifically disproven phenomena always raise Hermione’s hackles. She’d been nice enough on the train, and their brief encounters after Divination have been cordial, but there’s still something about her that Hermione can’t quite put her finger on.

Maybe it’s the pureblood privilege. Luna and her father might mean well, printing their fantastical articles about supposed rare wildlife sightings and encrypted messages from aliens on the dark side of the moon, but they’re not entirely harmless. Just last year a witch wandered off in search of Mary Magdalene’s skull, of all things. Yet even when publicly confronted about dangers and inaccuracies, they never retract their stories. There are no consequences for their actions.

Why are there only consequences for the less-connected? Hermione knows that’s the way the world works, but it’s stupid and she hates it.

Her mum’s always said Hermione was born with a strict, black-and-white sense of justice. It’s prevented her from making many friends in the wizarding world, beyond Luna. Harry shares many of her beliefs, but unlike Hermione, he gets along with most people. In fact, in spite of Harry’s calls for reason, she’s burned many a bridge based on perceived slights. She’d almost taken it too far after Voldemort’s defeat at the Triwizard Tournament. Upon discovering that Rita Skeeter was an unregistered animagus, she’d caught the reporter in her beetle form and sealed her in an unbreakable jar.

She let her out, of course. And the vigilantism worked, because Hermione’s name hadn’t appeared in the Prophet since. It hasn’t exactly put her off the idea of doling out punishment to deserving wix when the right opportunities arise.

Perhaps it’s why she’s such a lethal duellist.

“Pity about your introduction,” Luna murmurs, her voice silky. “Although it seems you did alright for yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard about you and Malfoy.”

Hermione grips her wand more tightly at her side. “What did you hear, exactly?”

“Hestia told Mandy, who told me, that Pansy said she saw him giving you cunnilingus in the chaperone’s retiring room.”

Don’t blush. It’s just a word. The proper name for the act-which-definitely-did-not-and-would-not-ever-happen.

“Pansy’s misinformed. He was just helping me with my ankle.”

Luna looks her up and down with a slight smirk. “Seems like your ankle’s fine.”

Is that… Scepticism?

“He’s a good healer,” Hermione snaps back. She doesn’t know why her dander’s up. And now she’s saying nice things about Malfoy, for some reason? Maybe the pain potions haven’t fully worn off.

It’s true though. He is a good healer.

“I’ll bet,” Luna murmurs. She tilts her head to this side, as if curious, and the tiara slides off her head. She catches it before it hits the floor. Blinking rapidly, she shoves it into her robe’s large interior pocket. “I didn’t know you were a ballet dancer.”

“You know ballet?”

“My father took me to Muggle London to see The Nutcracker once. I was eleven.”

“What did you think?”

“I thought muggles might’ve figured out magic,” Luna laughs, and it’s a tinkly sound, like a windchime. It’s as if her sour mood from a minute ago belonged to an entirely different witch. “Snow fell in the theatre after the first act, you know, when Clara and the prince fly off in the sleigh together? I caught some in my hands as it fell from the ceiling and remember being disappointed when it wasn’t cold. I couldn’t believe it wasn’t real.”

Hermione fights a smile and loses. “It’s foam. Sometimes they add glitter.”

“Fascinating.”

“I’ve been the sugar plum fairy before. I don’t know if you remember her dance.”

“Vaguely. It was a long time ago.”

“I might drop in over Christmas hols and dance the role again. My local theatre usually lets me guest dance one or two nights. And then I’ll probably audition for the summer productions… After that, who knows. I’m not a career ballerina or anything—potioneering is my passion—but I really do love it.” Hermione takes a gulp of air and realises she’s rambling. “Sorry. You didn’t ask to hear all that.”

Luna’s lips press together briefly. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Dance? My parents enrolled me when I was little. I was a difficult child, and my coordination wasn’t great, but after a while—”

“No, sorry,” Luna interrupts. She lifts an open hand, rolling her wrist in a continuous loop, gathering her thoughts like ribbon around a spool. “I mean, I don’t know how you exist in both worlds. Muggle and magical. Not even nargles can do it.”

Hermione shrugs. “I just do.”

“But isn’t going back and forth exhausting? Keeping up with the lies? From what I understand, the parents of muggleborns are exempt from the Statute of Secrecy, but extended family isn’t.”

An awkward silence fills the room. Hermione grits her teeth. “It’s true.”

Luna hums in response, fiddling with the end of her plait. “And at some point you’ll have to choose between the two, won’t you? Going back home or living here. Though I suppose you’ve chosen, if you’re courting. If things go well for you and Malfoy, you’ll be the first muggleborn witch to marry a pureblood with the Ministry’s blessing. Harry’s parents wed in secret, you know. It was quite the scandal.”

It was not a scandal: Harry’s parents were trying to avoid Voldemort. Leave it to The Quibbler to romanticise the unsanctioned wedding and, eventually, the awful tragedy that befell them after Peter Pettigrew’s betrayal.

Hermione narrows her eyes. Maybe she should put Xenophilius Lovegood in an unbreakable jar. She has extra.

“There’s nothing going on between me and Malfoy. Less than nothing. It’s all one big misunderstanding.”

How many times does she have to say it?

“Mhmm.”

“Luna,” Hermione says, arranging her facial features into her most serious expression in order to get her point across. “There is no universe, magical or otherwise, where Malfoy would ever even think about touching me.”

“I thought you said he healed your ankle? Did that not involve touching you?”

She has her there. “It did, yes, but—look, Pansy and her friends hate me enough already, alright? I would never go after her ex-boyfriend, who, need I remind you, also hates me. And he’s Malfoy, for god’s sake!”

“People change.”

“Not him. He’s just as foul and loathsome as ever, if not moreso, and I have to somehow survive living with him. Haven’t I told you how weird he is, with his stupid hair and soulless room and insufferably posh cat?”

The last point about the cat was a bit unfair. Her Grace might be a menace, but she’s growing on Hermione.

Luna nods with an unwarranted amount of confidence. “It’s the forced proximity. Hot wizard with daddy issues and too much money, a witch as fit as you… Add in curiosity about the opposite sex in your reproductive prime and maybe a few drinks, your beds are right there… I get it.”

“There’s nothing to get!”

“Alright.” Luna backs away slowly, hands up and eyes wide.

Hermione is about to ask her what’s wrong when she feels her cold blue flames licking up her arms. She shakes her wrists to put the fires out. “Shit, sorry.”

“What was that?”

Hermione examines her skin, just in case. She’s never given herself a cold burn, but with the way her luck’s running lately, she wouldn’t be surprised to find patches of frostbite embedded up and down her forearms.

“They’re… They’re a manifestation of my magic. I call them my bluebell flames, because when I conjure them they look just like, well—” She demonstrates, flicking her fingers so the flame blossoms from the palm of her hand: a bluebell flower in perfect miniature, only made of fire instead of petals. It shimmers, then fades. “They’re harder to control when I’m emotional.”

She doesn’t know why she’s telling Luna about them, except… Hermione doesn’t want her to be afraid of her. Even if she doesn’t particularly like Luna right now, ever since they shared the compartment on the train to Hogwarts, they’ve been engaged in a sort of quasi-friendship. And Hermione would like their strange truce to continue.

It’s not like she needs more enemies. Not with Malfoy around.

She’d thought he might’ve changed, before. At the World Cup, he’d warned her about the Death Eaters. His timing was shit, he told her right before they attacked, but still… Since then, they’d interacted as little as possible. It’s weird that she’s even thinking about that moment. She’d almost forgotten about it, after everything that followed that fateful year.

He’d looked… Distraught.

“Some people say the founders had magic like that,” Luna says quietly, disturbing Hermione’s reverie. “Tied to the elements.”

That can’t be true. Hermione would’ve read about it. She’s about had it with Luna and her constant stream of misinformation.

“Sure.”

She marches to the wobbly stool and begins to remove her slippers. All that work to loosen up and dance, and now she’s tense again. Figures. Maybe she’ll come back after breakfast and double check that she’s really alone.

Luna approaches, almost timid. “It wouldn’t hurt you to open your mind, Hermione. If you’re courting, you have to be willing to receive.”

“Receive what? More insults?” Hermione snorts. “And I’m not courting anymore, so kindly let Mandy know so she can tell Hestia to tell Pansy and everyone else: I’m not courting, I’m not with Malfoy, and who knows? If I don’t figure something out, maybe none of us will even be here for NEWTs, so they shouldn’t worry about that either!”

Oops. Probably shouldn’t have said that last part. Espionage, remember?

“What do you mean?”

Hermione shoves her shoes in her bag and spins on her heel. She waves her wand in front of her, and the wall splits once more, not into an exit so much as an escape route.

“Nothing. Forget I said anything.”

She leaves Luna behind and heads for the kitchens as dawn brightens the corridor. The stained glass windows cast colourful beams of light along her path.

First, she requires tea. A lot of tea. Then she needs to start doing some serious reading.

Courting season or no, she’s going to find these horcruxes if it’s the last thing she does.

Chapter Text

Draco wakes. That’s his first mistake of the day.

An aggressive amount of sunlight pours in through the windows of the Slytherin dorms. His ears are assaulted by the wheeze of someone snoring, and his mouth tastes dry and sour. In short, he has a raging hangover.

He pats his side, confirming his wand is in its holster. He’s still in his suit from yesterday. Merlin, had he really passed out cold on top of his old bed? How much did they have to drink last night?

He rolls over and finds Zabini on the floor, facedown, in nothing but his pants, with a half-empty bottle of firewhisky clutched in one hand. Crabbe is asleep in the armchair. Pucey and most of the other seventh year wizards are tucked in their beds, but Nott’s bed is empty, and so is Goyle’s.

“Salazar,” Draco groans, clutching his aching head. He summons two hangover potions from Nott’s stores under his bed. It’s not the first time he’s raided them. He doesn’t typically trust brews that aren’t his own, or from a reputable apothecary, but Nott’s partnered with Granger, and therefore he knows the potions are of the highest quality.

The potions clatter against something metallic on their way up to him, but Draco chalks it up to the expensive crystal phials Nott favours.

The first one he uncorks and guzzles immediately. The second he leaves next to Zabini’s slumbering form. He knows better than to wake Zabini up after a bender.

Besides, it’s Sunday. They don’t have anywhere to be.

He staggers out into the living area, praying to all the gods that he potion kicks in faster than the usual twenty minutes. At first, Draco thinks he might have the place to himself: the old-world leather chairs sit empty. But a fire flickers in the stone hearth across from the well-loved sofa, and the smell of recent cooking fills the overwarm air. Waves lap at the glass wall on the room’s far side. Though magically reinforced, it’s all that separates the dungeons from the Black Lake’s frigid waters.

“There you are, Lord Malfoy,” chirps Daphne, popping out from the kitchenette. She’s alone, wearing an oversized moss green jumper and slipper socks and holding a plate of toast. She settles on the sofa and props her feet up on the coffee table as she selects a piece and rips off a bite, munching noisily.

Draco covers his ears. “Merlin, Daph. Why so loud?”

He thought she’d have more empathy for his situation: Daphne drank twice as much as anyone else last night, openly lamenting the start of courting season (“It’s the beginning of the end,” she wailed as she downed shot after shot).

“Sorry. I’ve never had a hangover. Guess I’m built different.” She shrugs. “Want some toast?”

She holds a triangle out to him, smothered in orange marmalade. It’s the most glorious offering he’s ever received.

He plops down next to her, the couch’s dipping middle cushion bringing them quite close, and snatches the toast from her hand. “Please tell me you have more of this?”

“Finish that first, you greedy thing.”

“Have you seen Nott?” Draco asks between heavenly bites. “This is good marmalade, by the way. Elf-made?”

Daphne smiles. “I made it, actually. And no, I haven’t seen him. He’s been, I don’t know, off lately. I think the stuff with his dad is getting to him. We can’t let it get bad, like before.”

Draco nods, remembering their fifth year. The Slytherins were divided. Either Nott Sr was in the Minister’s pocket, or he’d been too lenient with the Death Eaters that stood before him in the Wizengamot. They couldn’t take their frustrations out on the Chief Warlock, so they settled for his only son and heir.

Nott was a friend, and Draco and Zabini protected him whenever possible. Goyle had, too, unlike his older brother Giles. But others rode the fence. They simply sat by while Nott suffered under the wands of the older students, only coming by in the aftermath with fake pity and faker apologies.

If there’s one thing Draco can’t stand, it’s a fucking fake.

“We won’t,” he promises.

“Let’s hope everyone’s too caught up in courting to read the news.”

He knows exactly what she’s referring to. Recently, a high-ranking Death Eater had died under mysterious circumstances while in custody: his aunt’s husband, Rodolphus Lestrange. Draco can’t say he misses him. He had the strangest eyes: Draco shivered whenever he looked at him, as if someone was walking over his grave.

Per a short article in the Prophet, the Ministry attributed Rodolphus’s death to illness, but any simpleton could see there was no truth to it. There’s been no public outcry, of course. No one wants to be associated with Death Eaters unless it gives them some advantage or power. His mother learned that lesson well enough these past few years as their invitations dried up.

It’s only now that Draco’s courting season has begun that they’ve been accepted back into the fold: Malfoy money is too good to pass up. And there’s no mark on Draco’s arm, so how connected is he to this father, anyway, when he should’ve been made to take it at sixteen?

In any case, the opposite might happen to Nott. As long as his father remains untouchable, as both a lord and a high-ranking Ministry official, he’ll take the brunt of pureblood society’s ire.

Draco polishes off the last of the toast, carefully avoiding Daphne’s eyes. “Did you see where Goyle went off to last night?”

“Don’t ask me that,” she murmurs. The plaintive softness in her voice is like a hex to the heart.

His world crawls to a stop.

“Because you don’t know, or because you don’t want me to know?”

With a false cheerfulness, Daphne stands and picks up the empty plate. “More toast?”

“Toast?” A sleepy, scratchy female voice echoes from the other side of the room. Draco turns to see Milly, with mussed russet hair and wearing yesterday's clothes, leaning against the doorframe leading to the witch side of the dorms. At least he’s not the only frightful-looking one. “Hello Draco.”

“Milly.”

She smirks, looking Draco up and down. Appraising him. An itch develops beneath his collar.

“Avoiding your mudblood?”

He tenses. That awful word again. Milly says it like nothing disgusts her more. 

“Language,” Daphne scolds from the kitchenette. The smell of burnt toast wafts in. “Damn.”

Milly settles in a chair close to the fire. “We’re among friends, Daphne. We can say what we like, can’t we?”

An invisible force nudges at the front of Draco’s skull. Not a battering ram; more subtle than that, like the prod of a curious finger. He resists quirking a surprised brow, but only just.

Milly’s legilimency is improving.

Draco’s known about it for a few years now, ever since she first tried to pry into his mind, but he’s never let on that he’s aware of her skill. From an early age, his godfather drilled into him the dangers of revealing your awareness to a natural-born legilimens. It’s better to serve up a few mollifying thoughts and get a sense of what they’re after so they don’t tear your mind apart.

“Ow,” Draco groans, clutching his head as he comes to in his godfather’s office. A cold phial is pressed into his hand, and he sniffs it once before drinking it down.

“Do you know why we stopped?”

He opens his eyes. Snape stares down at him. “No. Why?”

“You occluded. It comes naturally to you, I know, but it should only be done as a last resort, Draco. More often than not, occluding only encourages them.”

“Why?”

“Some legilimens wreck things for fun. It’s a game to them, disassembling the mind. Present a challenge and they forget about what the Dark Lord has asked them to retrieve: they will chase you through your memories until they become part of them, enshrining themselves alongside your deepest, darkest fears and abandoning their own mind for yours. You become trapped there together. Forever.” He pauses, but only briefly. “Now. Let’s try again. Legilimens.”

Draco pushes some thoughts about his father towards Milly’s inquiring magic. His worry for him, his irritation at having to manage the Malfoy fortune without his father’s guiding hand. It’s anyone’s guess what she’s looking for, but he suspects it’s solidarity. Both of Milly’s parents are in Azkaban. She now lives with her uncle somewhere up north, and from what Crabbe’s mentioned, it’s more of a hovel than a house.

Daphne returns with a heap of unburnt toast and the jar of marmalade. “I feel bad for her, is all. And I think we can all agree she’s earned Head Girl.”

Milly harrumphs. For a moment, they eat in relative silence. But then: “I saw you yesterday, helping her limp back to the main tent. How awful for you, to have to sully yourself by touching a mudblood.”

“Milly,” Daphne warns.

“I’m simply offering my condolences.” Milly blinks innocently, her smile saccharine. The way she perches atop the chair is somewhat reminiscent of a squat, self-satisfied toad on a lilypad.

Draco leans back on the sofa and crosses his legs, propping his ankle atop his opposite knee. He picks an imaginary piece of lint from his sock. “How thoughtful of you.”

Just then, Crabbe stumbles in. He trains his bleary eyes on Draco.

“Pansy says you’re shagging the mudblood. Granger.”

Merlin, Crabbe, at least lube a wizard up before you fuck him.

Daphne whips her head around to stare at Draco. “What? Granger is your mystery witch?”

He knew it. He knew Pansy would tell everyone as soon as she got the chance. But that’s good, right? It means she cares what he does. If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t have spent last night on the other side of the room from Goyle. She wouldn’t have watched with dark eyes as Draco threw back glass after glass of fine liquor.

This was his plan. But still…

If he says yes, that he’s with Granger, there’s a high price to be paid. He hasn’t had time to think about the total cost, the inevitable hit to his reputation if his friends—and his mother—buy into this charade. But he’s got big vaults. What’s a few galleons, if it gets Pansy back?

She’s already jealous. She might even hate him for (theoretically) slumming it with a muggleborn, which would be perfect. There’s such a thin line between love and hate.

That’s it. He’ll make Pansy so furious that she’ll fall back in love with him and try to save him from his ways. It’s fine if he has to play the villain for a while. It suits him, even. She can swoop in, play the conquering heroine, and then they’ll live happily ever after.

The only flaw in the draught is: since when does the villain get the girl?

Whatever. Fairy tales are stupid. This is real life. He’s in charge.

“And what if I am?” Draco tilts his chin up at Crabbe in challenge.

Crabbe wrinkles his bulbous nose, glancing quickly at Milly, then back at Draco. “Your funeral, mate.”

“Surely you jest,” Milly chortles with obvious disbelief. She takes another bite of toast, talking around it in an unpleasant and decidedly unladylike fashion. “Lucius Malfoy’s one and only son with some unkempt slag?”

“Why are we always calling other women slags?” Daphne pulls out her wand and disintegrates the rest of Milly’s toast.

“Hey!”

Daphne ignores her and faces Draco. Her face is solemn, devoid of judgment. “Is it serious, or is it just sex?”

Is Daphne indicating she’d be… supportive? She’d be the only one. The lads might egg him on, but only with the expectation that he’d settle down with a respectable pureblood by the deadline. And his mother? She’d disown him. The idea that he could ruin his life and Daphne would still be in his corner does something funny to his chest.

The silence has gone on too long. Shit, should he say it’s just sex? No, because then it’ll get back to Pansy, and then she’ll think he’s not genuine in his efforts to win her back, just padding his body count in the most ludicrous way possible. But he can’t say it’s serious.

…Or can he?

It’s funny how Granger has no idea that he’s about to try and fool everyone into thinking they’re together, and that he’s going to do it entirely without her help. If it wasn’t such a delicate operation, he’d laugh.

He tries to stall for time. “Define serious.”

“It’s courting season, so serious means, well, serious!”

“I hate that we’re having this conversation,” Crabbe groans.

A new voice enters the fray. “I hate that I almost missed this conversation.” Zabini saunters in, still shirtless but at least wearing trousers now. He scratches a lazy hand across his abs and leans against the fireplace. “So Malfoy’s fucking Granger now, huh?” Daphne glares at him, but he just grins. “Excuse me, where are my manners? Good morning, I trust you all slept well after last night’s debauchery. As I was waking up on the carpet in there, I couldn’t help but overhear a lively discussion regarding Malfoy’s latest choice in bedsport partner. Is that better, Daph?”

Her glare turns downright menacing. “Fuck off.”

Zabini smirks. “My, what a dirty little mouth you have, Ms Greengrass.”

Crabbe, blatantly pandering to Daphne as usual, puffs out his chest and steps in front of Zabini. Is he ever going to give up this ridiculous, one-sided crush? “Don’t listen to him. Your mouth is perfect.”

Draco stands and says, a little too loudly, “I forgot to feed my cat.”

He wills his legs to move more quickly as he makes a beeline for the door. This has all gone terribly pear-shaped. He needs to make a swift exit. And he really did forget to feed his cat.

“Please tell me that’s some sort of muggle euphemism for sex.” Zabini’s eyes glitter with wickedness, much like Nott’s when he has one of his terrible ideas. “You could make it work if you swap ‘cat’ for—”

“Stop! That’s quite enough,” Daphne says. “Don’t make me silence you.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Zabini purrs.

Milly shakes her head in disapproval as Draco pushes the door open, but she doesn’t attempt to use legilimency on him again.

“Crabbe, when did you—”

The door swings shut behind him. He doesn’t care to hear the rest of what Milly says. He’s already climbing the dungeon steps two at a time, dreading another workout with the ghosts on the castle’s shifting stairs.

And it is indeed a workout, because by the time Draco arrives back at the Head Students’ quarters, he’s drenched in sweat. Nearly Headless Nick really has it out for him this year. That, or the petulant poltergeist really wants to see Slytherin’s quidditch team win a match at some point.

He checks the posted rounds. He’s not on duty tonight: the honours go to Corner and Vane. In fact, Draco isn’t due to patrol for the rest of the week. He doesn’t mind going, especially since he typically talks quidditch with Pucey, but he’s not about to complain. Is this Granger’s way of thanking him for healing her ankle? Not bad.

Draco walks in and kicks off his loafers. Granger’s menagerie of monstrous books is blessedly missing, but so is his cat. That’s odd. Her Grace always greets him at the door.

“Her Grace?” Worry sets in when no ball of white fluff flies towards him. He pushes open the door to his room. “Her Grace? There you are.”

Her Grace glares up at him from her bed, her accusatory eyes the same colour as the miniature Slytherin green duvet under her furry body. Draco crouches down to pet her. She sniffs in his face, then shies away from his hand. He sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

Her tail swishes.

“I know. I was irresponsible. Are you hungry?”

She licks a paw and blinks at him.

“No? Granger fed you then.”

Good of her, to look out for his familiar. Her Grace agrees, because she perks up at Granger’s name, ears twitching with satisfaction before drifting back to sleep.

Draco glances at his desk. It’s piled high with post, and even from here he can see it’s all from his father’s solicitors. His heart sinks in his chest as the weight of yesterday’s introduction finally hits home. They’re not his father’s solicitors anymore. They’re his.

He raps his knuckles on the floor, the metal of his signet ring kissing the stone thrice before he stands.

He can’t keep ignoring his responsibilities; not as Head Boy, not as a cat owner, and not as the head of his estate.

He’s Lord Malfoy now. He should start acting like it.

One shower and one semi-successful trip to the kitchens later—semi-successful because they were out of strawberry marshmallow pie, which he normally doesn’t go for when there’s some sort of chocolate dessert available, but for some reason he was only in the mood for marshmallow—Draco sits down and addresses every one of the solicitors many concerns. He renews the lease for the renters in the Swiss ski chalet. He signs off on tax forms. He even reviews his recent statements from the investment firm and makes comments in the margins about future risk and his concerns regarding rising inflation.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the blue sky start to fade to periwinkle outside his window. It had been a perfect day for flying: no wind, good visibility. He wonders if his friends are rambling about the grounds. Maybe they went to Hogsmeade. He brightens at that—on the days Draco’s buried in Malfoy business, Goyle always brings him back something tasty from Honeydukes.

Except he won’t anymore. Draco bites the inside of his cheek. It’s hard to believe his best friend told his girlfriend to break up with him. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t heard it straight from the wizard himself.

After everything they’ve been through…

It’s no use getting heated about it now. Draco’s going to get Pansy back, and Goyle will have to forgive him for it, just as Draco will have to forgive Goyle for thinking he could have her in the first place. And eventually, they’ll all go back to normal, like the way it was before.

At the very bottom of the last letter is a request made by his mother. It’s for a new set of robes and a dress. In the memo line, it reads: for my betrothal ceremony ensemble.

Draco pushes back from the desk and wipes both hands down his face.

He hates this. He doesn’t want to have to go through and approve his mother’s spending. Narcissa Malfoy should have whatever she wants, and that includes a portion of the inheritance he hasn’t come into yet.

Licking his thumb and index finger, Draco pulls a fresh sheet of parchment from his stack. He smooths it, then dips his quill in the inkpot and writes:

Open a new account at Gringotts for my mother, in her name only. Seed with one hundred thousand galleons. When it dips below fifty thousand, return the balance to one hundred thousand before the end of the next business day. This is to be done for as long as she lives.

His quill hovers above the page as he considers what he wants for his future wife. Should he set up a similar arrangement for her? Traditionally, pureblood wives manage everything, but still require permission to access the assets themselves.

His wife should have something better. She should have freedom. What if something happens to him? Draco doesn’t like to contemplate his own mortality, but it’s an inevitable fact of life. And death isn’t the only danger to a wizard with a sizable fortune. There’s kidnapping, entrapment, obliviation gone wrong…

That settles it.

Upon my betrothal, give my future wife immediate, unfettered access to everything. Properties, investments, vaults. What’s mine is hers, in perpetuity.

DLM

He spends the rest of the evening studying for the upcoming Arithmancy test. Around ten, he hears Granger walk by his room.

“Granger?” He calls her name before he thinks better of it. She curls one hand around the doorframe and peers in. Her eyes are rimmed with red, as if she’s been crying, and her curls are as wild as the manes surrounding the faces of the tiny lions on her jumper. Is she in pain? Hot anger slices through him like a bolt of lightning. Did Pomfrey not do her fucking job? “How’s the ankle?”

“Fine,” she says quickly, then, “Better than fine. Excellent, even. Thank you.”

Draco tucks his arms behind his head and preens. Better than fine. Excellent. There’s nothing he enjoys more than hearing well-deserved praise, especially about his healing skills.

“Good.”

Smiling to himself, he turns his attention back to his textbook. Granger hovers in the doorway for a split second.

“About yesterday. Are you planning to—”

She cuts herself short when her demon cat yowls from the kitchenette as if emerging from the bowels of hell, evidently ready for his nightly unhinged race around the living area. Granger shouts his name in a scolding tone, but the yowling only grows louder, followed by the sound of claws ripping at the side of the sofa. She wisely bolts to her room before the orange beast can make a meal out of her freshly-healed ankle.

Draco taps his fingers on the desk and wonders what she was about to ask. Probably if he was going to set the record straight with Pansy and his mother about what really happened yesterday. He will, eventually, but likely not on Granger’s ideal timeline. If his hunch is right, Pansy will tire of Goyle and come to him before Wyrdwood. Her name hasn’t lit up on his dance card yet, but there’s time.

Not all the time in the world, of course. He didn’t like the way it felt this morning when Crabbe so succinctly summarised Pansy’s version of events. Maybe he was wrong to let her go on offense.

He needs a plan. A good, solid plan, so he can stop reacting and control the narrative. He just doesn’t know what the plan should be yet. He has to convince Pansy it’s serious enough that he’s moved on, but not so serious that she can’t win him back.

But how?

Later, Draco tucks Her Grace in her tiny bed before climbing into his own four-poster. It’s not as comfortable as his bed at the manor, and aesthetically it’s far less in line with his personal tastes. The whole room is off, really. The desk shifts forward when he applies too much pressure with his quill because one of the legs is too short. The closet has a musty smell. And Merlin knows he’s sick of those Slytherin green curtains.

He could change everything, he supposes, but this is temporary; less of a bedroom than a waiting room. Waiting for Pansy to warm back up to him. Waiting for his real life to begin.

Draco stares up at the ceiling and waits for sleep to take him.

The next day starts much better than the last. Even though the weather is far more dreary, Draco makes the most of it and goes for a quick morning fly, putting his body through its paces before his first class so he can focus on the material. If he’s going to make a proper run at the potioneering apprenticeship, he not only needs to show Slughorn that he’s capable of producing top-quality work, he also needs strong NEWTs scores across the board. The professor may not be Draco’s biggest fan—and his disdain has only increased since his father’s imprisonment—but he can’t argue with results.

Unfortunately, Divination is a bleeding bore.

Ever the storyteller, Professor Trelawney spends the first part of the class describing a weird dream she had a few years ago after a friend of hers put a tiny square of magic parchment on her tongue.

Granger raises her hand, but doesn’t wait to be called on. “Are you sure it wasn’t acid?”

“No, no,” Trelawney insists. “If anything, it was bitter.”

“That’s not what I—”

Trelawney claps her hands together, holding them to her chest as if in prayer. “Now. Today, we will continue our review of the fascinating field of tarot reading. Please divide yourselves into groups of four and make your way over to the tables, where you will find a deck of cards for each person. Go around the table and use your existing knowledge of the Rider-Waite Tarot to give each other a single card reading first, and then we’ll move to Past, Present, and Future. By the end of the week, you’ll each be able to interpret a Celtic Cross spread.”

Daphne and Nott are quickly scooped up by the Patil twins, so Draco joins up with Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini. Pansy avoids his gaze and sits with Milly and two Hufflepuff girls.

“We’ve done tarot to death,” Goyle says gruffly as he squeezes himself into one of the uncomfortable chairs. “Could do a reading in my sleep.”

“Good thing, since you slept through most of your OWLs,” Zabini quips.

Goyle shoots him a nasty look from across the table. The crystal ball in the center distorts his broad features, making them cartoonishly narrow. “Watch it, Zabini.”

“Or what? You’ll jinx me?”

“I could do much worse, and you know it.”

Zabini throws down his deck and squares up, his wand throwing red sparks in anticipation of a fight. Goyle is halfway out of his seat when Crabbe pushes them both back down. He’s deceptively strong. “Come on, mate. Zabini’s just taking the piss.” Crabbe casts a meaningful look in Zabini’s direction. “Right?”

From the table beside them, Nott leans over to Daphne and whispers theatrically, “Ooh, the girls are fighting.”

Daphne giggles. “Stop.”

Draco eyes Nott warily, but Nott doesn’t seem to care that the normally tight-knit Slytherins are arguing amongst themselves. They’re no better than the parents in attendance at Saturday’s tea. More than one overbearing mother had tried to eavesdrop on his conversation with their daughter. He wouldn’t be surprised if some of them had brought their own teacups with false leaves at the bottom, ready to deploy a distraction and swap them out in hopes of giving their child a better chance. Courting season brings out the worst in everyone.

Goyle and Zabini reluctantly put their wands away. Nott reaches over and taps Draco’s gold-edged deck of cards, then jerks his head towards Granger. Draco follows his gaze.

Granger sits perched on the edge of her chair. Her unruly hair falls down her shoulders, apparently having staged a coup against any sort of styling. Her red and gold tie is loose, and her mouth’s all twisted up, as if she bit into something sour. She stares daggers at Hannah Abbott, who’s giving such an animated reading that she might as well be a mini-Trelawney, pointing at Granger’s card and squealing. Lavender and the Weasel crane their necks to see.

What card could possibly merit such a reaction? Death? It rarely foretells actual death, though Granger might just be unlucky enough to test that theory.

She’d spent weeks in the infirmary in second year after being petrified by a basilisk. (She still bested him in marks.) In fourth year, he cursed her teeth so they grew uncontrollably. (She actually turned the tables and made them fit her smile better.) And later that same year, she was kidnapped by merpeople and held under the Black Lake for one of the tasks in the Triwizard Tournament. (She entered into a relationship with her rescuer, famed seeker Viktor Krum.)

Maybe Granger isn’t as unlucky as she seems.

What had happened with her and Krum, anyway? Not that he cares, but curiosity isn’t a crime.

“Is it true?”

Nott’s voice snaps him back to reality.

“What?” Draco hisses.

“Pansy told me she and your mother found you under Granger’s gown on Saturday. Is it true?”

He glances across the table at Goyle, then back at Nott. Goyle isn’t looking their way, but Draco knows by the way his jaw tenses that he’s listening. As far as Draco knows, Pansy hasn’t said anything public about Goyle, and it’s never been more clear that her family won’t approve a marriage to a second son. Whatever’s between them, it’s shaky, and temporary at best.

Better for Goyle, if he ends things before his heart gets involved.

Draco clenches his jaw.

“It’s true.”

“Fascinating,” Nott says merrily. “I love this sort of thing: enemies, forced proximity, secret relationship.”

Whatever Draco says will get back to Pansy, so he attempts to ride the line between serious and not too serious. “Yes, well, Granger’s a private sort of witch, so.”

Nott practically vibrates out of his seat with glee. “Merlin, you’re cagey. That must mean it’s so much farther along than I thought. I never suspected it when she sat with me for tea. Bloody good actress, Granger.”

Draco hums noncommittally.

“Too bad for Longbottom that you got there first. I was all for the match—he’s carried a torch for so long, you know—but if you’re thinking long-term…”

“No!” Draco says quickly, unable to suppress his knee-jerk reaction at the preposterous idea of becoming betrothed to Granger. But Nott’s confused look has him backpedaling. He coughs. “I mean, I wouldn’t want Longbottom to get his hopes up.”

Nott swipes his teeth with his tongue, a telltale sign he’s plotting something. “Maybe we should see what the cards say?”

“That’s not necessary.”

But Nott is already shuffling. He holds out the cards in a wide fan, and even though it’s a meaningless exercise, Draco hesitates before choosing one.

The deep purple card is cool between his fingers. He guides it under his palm, lowering it to the table and pinning it there, like it might slip free and bite him.

Tarot isn’t real. Whatever’s on the other side of this card doesn’t mean anything. He’s not nervous. He’s never been less nervous in his life.

Satisfied in his assessment, he flips it over.

Shit.

“The Lovers, upright,” Nott crows, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Well, well, well. And all I got were swords.”

Goyle looks relieved. Crabbe, however, is more befuddled than usual.

“That can’t be right.”

Zabini shuffles his deck, signet ring winking in the low light. “How so?”

“I heard Granger tell Lavender at breakfast this morning that she’s not going to the next event. She’s withdrawing from courting season.”

Draco pushes away from the table and stands in one fluid motion, drawing himself up to his full height. Desperation, usually a foreign emotion to him, wraps its grasping hands around his throat.

Granger can’t quit. She should, he hasn’t changed his mind about that, but he needs her to keep going. At least until Pansy comes to her senses.

He can’t pull this off on his own. He has to let Granger in on the plan before she ruins everything.

Before he thinks better of it, he’s striding across the incense-filled room, robes billowing behind him. When he reaches Granger’s table, he stops short.

“Granger,” he growls.

The rest of the room goes quiet as Granger looks up at him with those big brown eyes of hers.

“Can I help you?”

Draco clears his throat. Why is he growling at her when he needs to turn on the charm? He tries to smooth his features into a pleasant expression, but she only scowls at him.

“I heard you’re thinking of formally withdrawing from the courting season.”

She snorts. “Yes, you’ve won, alright? Does that make you happy, Malfoy?”

From behind him, Pansy smothers an indignant gasp. He’d recognise it anywhere. But why—

Oh. Yes. A wide grin splits his face. He can work with this. Let Pansy think Granger means she doesn’t need to court anymore because she’s fallen for him. Let her think he chose a muggleborn over her.

“Happy? I’m practically incandescent.”

Just to sear the moment in Pansy’s mind, Draco reaches down and takes one of Granger’s curls between his fingers and tugs. He does it a bit harder than he intended, and her eyes go wide.

“What… What are you doing?”

“Nothing you don’t like.” He says, darkening his voice. He doesn’t let go of her hair. She doesn’t look away. Her pupils eat up her irises, brown giving way to deep, dark black.

Someone clears their throat, and Draco realises how much closer he’s gotten to the little witch. He abruptly releases her curl, but he doesn’t step away. There’s no backing out now.

“New rule,” she splutters, but he presses a finger to her lips. They’re… soft.

“Let’s speak tonight.” He makes sure to say the next three words loud enough for the whole class to hear. “In my room.”

Chapter Text

Hermione twists her hair into a bun the moment she escapes from Divination.

She should’ve lit him on fire. And not just his trousers like last time.

What the hell was Malfoy playing at, coming up to her in the middle of class like that? And asking her to talk with him in his room? He’s lost his bloody mind.

Or maybe she’s losing hers.

It was bad enough when she drew the Two of Cups. Hermione can still see the card glittering up at her while Hannah’s words curled around her like Trelawney’s hazy incense. A soulmate connection, she’d said. You’re meant to find your soulmate during courting season!

Soulmates are the sort of mystical rubbish someone like Lavender believes in: there’s no data to back it up. What’s more, wix bend magic to be particularly punitive when it comes to love. Love potions exist in several uncomplicated variations, but exclusively operate like lust potions. There’s no free will involved for those who are dosed, even if they willingly partake. Then there’s love charms, which operate like low-level attractants, and love curses, often placed on wedding bands by family elders to preserve bloodlines.

Hermione subscribes to the belief that magic itself is neutral. It’s magic wielders who shape it, for better or for worse.

It’s what she wants to believe, even though her connection with Hogwarts doesn’t fit the theory. The castle has always looked after her, ever since she set foot in the Great Hall. It didn’t let the basilisk in the chamber of secrets kill her. When she was hit with the hex to her teeth in her fourth year, which could’ve killed her if Malfoy had cast it properly, the staircases rearranged themselves to get her to the infirmary in a way that defied the laws of physics. And later that same year, when she’d been kidnapped for a task in the Triwizard Tournament, the merpeople had told her, in broken English, that even if she was not rescued, the lake would not let her drown.

Viktor rescued her, of course. She remembers his frantic eyes as she came to; the way he always worried over her. He treated her like a china doll, like a precious heirloom that could only be touched with kid gloves and brought out for special occasions. Like at any moment, she might break.

She was eighteen, almost nineteen, when they started dating: young enough to allow herself to daydream about what it would be like to be a bride. Young, and blissfully unaware of the complexities of even dating a pureblood wizard, let alone becoming betrothed and making it all the way to the altar. She gave him all her firsts, let him teach her all the things that happen when her favourite romance novels fade to black.

But there’d been a secret part of herself she’d hid from him. A part that itched, and begged to be scratched. And when she finally got the guts to ask him to help her with it, he’d backed away. That was the beginning of their end.

Hermione clutches her books closer to her chest as Luna and the twins catch up to her. She really, really doesn’t want to have a conversation about Malfoy and that stunt he just pulled, but based on their expressions, they aren’t going to let his suggestive invitation—and the way he tugged her hair—go undiscussed.

“I have to get to Potions,” she says, doubling her pace, which makes her patent mary janes squeak against the stone floors. Unable to bear the grating noise, Hermione has no choice but to slow back down.

Parvati winds her hand through the crook in Hermione’s arm. Hermione flinches. “So maybe we’re a little late. Something tells me this story’s worth losing house points for.”

Luna joins Parvati on her left just as Padma appears on her right. They’ve boxed her in.

“It’s nothing. Just Malfoy messing with me, like he used to when—”

“When what?” Luna asks.

Hermione bites her lip. She’d almost said when Voldemort was alive. What if one of his acolytes has already found the horcruxes? What if he’s already back? What if that’s why Hedwig hasn’t returned to take her letter?

“I don’t know what you want from me,” she shouts, breaking away. Parvati draws her arm back, perturbed, and shares a knowing glance with Padma.

“It’s just girl talk, Hermione,” Luna says with a laugh. “Circe.”

Parvati nods. She’s holding her arm like it needs a sling. “It didn’t seem like he was messing with you. That curl tug thing?”

“Hot,” Padma says, fanning herself with both hands. The gorgeous henna from Saturday’s tea still marks her skin.

Luna’s smirk is all too knowing. “I knew there was something between you two.”

The trio of witches giggle in unison. Hermione’s magic flares inside her veins. She’s had it up to here with this weird courting season fever that’s sweeping the school.

“I know our frontal lobes haven't finished developing yet, but anyone with half a brain can see that there’s nothing going on between me and Malfoy. Never has been, and never will be.”

At this, they fall quiet. For a moment, Hermione is smug. She’s finally gotten her point across. But then she sees their eyes lock on something down the corridor. Someone, judging by the slow, deliberate footsteps headed their way.

A shadow falls over Hermione’s shoulder. Heat, thick and heavy, not to mention scented with odious cologne, rolls off the intruder’s body and pricks at the exposed skin at her neck. Once again, she doesn’t need to look to know who it is.

Malfoy’s warm breath ghosts along the shell of her ear.

“Granger,” comes his low, drawling voice, as intimate as a whisper in the dark. “Are these ladies bothering you?”

“I—” Her breath hitches against her will, cutting off her speech, as a hand—Malfoy’s hand—slides along the small of her back to curl possessively at her waist.

Oh, no. Absolutely not.

She twists in his grasp in an attempt to draw her wand, but even though she manages to shift her stack of books to her left, she can’t balance them all one-handed. Her Divination textbook hits the floor with a hard thud.

“Just as I thought,” he scolds, tightening his hold on her. “You’re carrying far too much.”

Hermione feels like she might crawl out of her skin. This is the most personal physical contact they’ve ever shared. There was the slap in third year, but it was brief and quite frankly, well-deserved. The recent incident with her ankle, that was an obligation. She needed healing and Malfoy is, apparently, a genius at healing.

This? This is different.

Why is he acting like he’s comfortable touching her? Isn’t she, you know, sullying him or something? (And why didn’t he say so when they were caught by Pansy and his mother?) She tries again to wriggle free, but he’s too strong.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Malfoy says. He sounds like he’s forcing a smile. Hermione looks up at him to confirm and—oh yes. She struggles to read other people’s emotions, but Malfoy’s smile is the fakest she’s ever seen. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Of course,” Parvati stammers, though she and the other witches make no move to leave.

Meeting her gaze, Malfoy drags his hand across her back again, this time in reverse, even more slowly than before. This time, she can feel his rings as they bump against the sensitive ridges of her spine. Long-dormant synapses fire in her brain. They way he’s touching her, though he’s clearly doing it without any kind of intent or desire, is doing… Something, even through layers of fabric.

It’s nothing. She’s just, touch-starved or something.

Hermione sucks in another breath when Malfoy plucks her stack of books from her arms as if they weigh no more than a feather. And another, as he wandlessly summons the Divination textbook and stacks it right on top with grandiose aplomb. The books were her shield against him, and now they’re gone.

Padma collapses into her twin with a dramatic sigh. “I think I’m going to faint.”

“Potions is this way,” Malfoy says under his breath so only she can hear. There’s an edge to his words, and though she doesn’t want to follow him, there’s only one route to Slughorn’s classroom. Hermione finds herself turning away from her gaping audience and following him down the corridor.

She stiffens when he shifts her books to his hip and his hand finds the small of her back again. The drag of cotton against skin makes her shiver.

With fury.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, she lets her temper fly. “Malfoy, what is this? I am two seconds away from digging the tip of my wand into your jugular.”

“Please, you’re no killer.”

She shoots him her most lethal glare. “That may be so, but I could make you ruin your trousers.”

“Can you just act natural?” he hisses through his teeth. “A little less bloodthirsty, maybe? I need to talk to you.”

“We’re talking right now,” she hisses back.

The man is truly insufferable.

“Later, not here. I have a proposition for you.”

“How am I supposed to act natural, pray tell,” Hermione grits out as they turn the final corner to Potions. Malfoy’s hand remains stubbornly on her back. “When this is so unnatural that I’m halfway convinced someone’s puppeteering you with an imperio? In fact, tell me something only you would know. Prove that you’re Malfoy.”

Malfoy sighs. “If it’s something only I would know, how would it prove to you—you, who know nothing about me, by the way—that I’m me?”

“I know plenty about you.”

“You can rattle off some basic facts but you don’t have the first fucking idea about who I am. You have no idea the kind of pressure I’m under—actually, you know what? Forget about it.”

He shoves her books at her, but at the very same moment, Pansy appears at the other end of the corridor. Quick as a flash, Malfoy claws them back. He smooths his hair and straightens his tie before glancing Pansy’s way again. She’s definitely seen them, but she’s acting like she hasn’t.

Ah. Now things are becoming clearer.

Hermione pokes her finger into his chest and pushes him backwards, trapping a nervous-looking Malfoy against a tapestry. “I see. Your escapades with other witches didn’t inspire Pansy to give you the time of day again, but when she saw you with a muggleborn…”

“Lower your goddamn voice, Granger.”

He tugs her closer, this time melding her front to his side. She wrinkles her nose at his cologne.

“I’m not about to be a pawn in your little game, if that’s what you’re proposing,” she whispers with as much ferociousness as she can muster.

“My life is not some game.” Malfoy’s lips press together in a tight line as Pansy disappears inside the Potions classroom. They’re almost late. “I know it’s impossible for someone like you to comprehend, but I have to marry Pansy.”

“Why?”

“I just have to, okay?”

Hermione studies him for a moment. Sometime between rescuing her from Luna and the twins—she can admit, albeit begrudgingly, that he saved her—and ending up here, his hair rebelled against his careful styling. His grey eyes aren’t only desperate. There’s something deeper there, something that if she were a normal sort of witch she’d surely be able to interpret.

She reaches up and smooths the dent her finger made in his crisp white shirt. It’s not something anyone else would’ve noticed; it’s only that it’s uncomfortable seeing Malfoy this dishevelled. She’s uncomfortable.

Oh, no. Is she actually feeling bad for Malfoy?

“We can talk after dinner,” she says, keeping her eyes trained on his chest. It’s not hard: he’s so tall. “Not in your room, though. The living room.”

In her periphery, Malfoy nods. His arm flexes where it’s still banded around her middle, pushing a small squeak from her lungs, and a teaspoon of stress bleeds out of her. A teaspoon, and yet it’s as if a boulder lifts from her shoulders. For a brief instant, she forgets herself, forgets who’s holding her, and lets her head rest against his hard body.

Malfoy’s sharp inhale—judgment incarnate—brings her back to the here and now. She doesn’t wait around for the sneer she knows is coming. Disgusted with herself, Hermione breaks free and practically runs into Potions.

“You made it,” Theo says as she collapses onto the stool beside him. Their cauldron sits empty on the worktop. “Where are your books?”

“Right here.” Malfoy’s deep voice easily carries through the Potions classroom, without any need for a sonorus. Hermione tries to hide behind Theo, utterly mortified as the weight of the classroom’s attention settles on her.

So much for that brief bit of stress relief.

Malfoy slides the books onto the worktop, careful not to disturb any of the delicate ingredient jars for today’s brew. There are at least twenty—Hermione prepared most of them herself. Last week she plucked roses until her fingers bled to get the right colour and consistency of petals, while Theo ground moonstone after moonstone into a fine, pearlescent powder.

“Thank you,” she says, trying not to fidget under the weight of Theo’s giddy stare.

“It’s my pleasure.” Malfoy is still overloud. She much prefers it when he whispers.

Malfoy winks before slinking off to the back of the class. Neville, who occupies the worktop in front of Hermione and Theo’s, glances back at her with a quizzical look. She shrugs, hoping it passes as casual disregard for Malfoy’s spontaneous chivalry.

Thankfully, Professor Slughorn begins the lesson before he can pursue a line of inquiry.

“As many of you have guessed, today we will be brewing Amortentia.”

Several of their classmates groan.

“They can’t be surprised. It’s on the bloody exam every year,” Theo mutters as he flips his textbook open.

Professor Slughorn walks them through each step—when to add each ingredient, when to stir, when to adjust the heat. Hermione is only half-listening.

If she and Theo make the best brew, maybe there’s still a chance Slughorn selects her for the apprenticeship. He can’t deny that she’s more talented than anyone else in the room. She surveys her competition.

Malfoy and Zabini are consistently as good as her and Theo, and, she can once again begrudgingly admit, sometimes better. Pansy and Milly do above average work, as do Creevey and Michael Corner. Neville and Parvati, on the other hand, are hopeless. Neville has no instinct for potioneering, and Parvati is too busy chatting with whoever will listen to keep their cauldron from boiling over. In fact, everyone would be better off if Neville stayed in the greenhouses and Parvati stuck to Astronomy. Everyone else’s efforts fall somewhere in the middle.

At last, Slughorn’s droning ceases, and they’re permitted to begin. Theo lights a fire under their cauldron. Hermione reads out the first instruction when she feels something tap lightly at the back of her skull. She ignores it, intent on counting her rose petals, but it taps again, transforming into a sharp pain that makes her gasp and grip the edge of the worktop.

She whips her head around, holding her neck, but the only person looking at her is Malfoy. He cocks his head to the side, then glances over at Pansy and Milly before looking at her again with silver slits for eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Theo asks.

Hermione refocuses on the task at hand, rubbing her neck and shoulder. “Nothing. Sorry.”

“Someone try to jinx you?”

“Could’ve been.”

That would explain the sting, but it doesn’t narrow down who might’ve cast the spell. Everyone has their wands out, dicing and grinding and stirring. She applies a bubblehead charm and holds out her wand to Theo, silently offering to do the same for him. He considers for a moment, but ultimately declines.

“It’s only going to get worse, you know,” Theo says nonchalantly. “Best get used to it.”

“I didn’t ask for this. It’s not like I asked to be born this way.”

She’d think he, of all people, would understand.

“Not that,” he says, adding their ashwinder eggs, careful to stir only twice. “I mean it’ll get worse as long as you’re with Malfoy.”

“I’m not with him.”

“Sure. But for what it’s worth, I think you’re good for him. He’s been so hung up on Pansy, but everyone knows they were miserable together.”

If they were so miserable together, why is Malfoy trying so hard to win Pansy back?

They spend the rest of their time in near silence, completely in sync with each other after years of fragile inter-house cooperation. Hermione knows their Amortentia is perfect without smelling it for herself. Theo is just that talented.

Why doesn’t he want to be a potioneer? He doesn’t seem the type to idle in a manor all day eating grapes, no matter what he says to the contrary. Their friendship might be new, but their partnership isn’t, and she thinks working with Theo might be one of the things she’ll miss most when she leaves Hogwarts. He’ll become a lord; she’ll remain a pariah. They won’t have any reason to cross paths again.

Lost in her thoughts, Hermione hums while she cleans up their workspace. When she looks up to confirm with Theo that they’re ready to be assessed, she freezes.

Theo’s head hangs over the cauldron. His palms are pressed into the worktop, arms shaky, like he’s holding himself back from something terrible and profound.

“Theo,” she says gently. Whatever’s in the Amortentia, it has a hold on him. “Theo.”

Should she touch his shoulder? Shake him?

“Shortcrust pastry,” Theo whispers hoarsely. “Shortcrust pastry, fresh from the oven. Golden syrup. Getting caught out in the rain.”

The words sound like they’re being tortured out of him. Theo knows the wizard these scents belong to; there’s no doubt in her mind. Hermione’s heart twists. Were they together at some point? Maybe they are now, in secret? She can’t imagine what it must be like, to be unable to love openly.

“Ms Granger, Mr Nott,” Professor Slughorn booms as he approaches. Theo snaps out of it.

“Professor,” he says, stepping back from the source of his pain. He hastily runs his hand through his inky hair.

The professor leans over their cauldron and wafts the scent towards him. He freezes, then inhales more deeply. The fumes send him into a coughing attack. “Apologies. This is quite potent.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hermione bites her lip to hide her grin as she nudges Theo with her shoulder.

Slughorn closes his eyes, breathing even deeper this time. “I can smell her curl cream…”

A faraway look slides over his jowly face. Hermione exchanges a glance with Theo. Awkward. No one needs to know about Slughorn’s life outside the castle.

Although, as a pureblood, wouldn’t he have courted? Did he marry? What if he’s a widower?

Hermione winces guiltily inside her bubble as he takes another long sniff. “Erm, professor?”

“Ten points to each of your houses. I’d like to keep this, if I may. As an example for next year’s class. It’s quite the achievement. Quite the achievement indeed.”

“Thank you, professor,” Theo says with an infinitesimal bow.

“Yes, thank you,” Hermione echoes.

The professor siphons most of the Amortentia into a crystal decanter. He then seems to remember that he’s still hovering over their mostly empty cauldron and straightens, adjusting his mustard-coloured waistcoat. The buttons strain against his bulging midsection.

“Might you be interested in an apprenticeship next year, Mr Nott?”

Theo’s smile is polite. “Can’t say that I am. Hermione is, though.”

Slughorn shakes his head vigorously, jowls rippling. He looks at her, but much like when he shared the stage with her during her introduction, Hermione gets the impression he doesn’t really see her. “I’m sure your work with Severus was exemplary, but he and I have entirely different methods. We wouldn’t suit. You understand.”

Oh, she understands, alright.

“Muggleborns have been eligible for apprenticeships for a few years now,” Theo says, with a little more force behind his words. “In case that’s your concern.”

“I suppose you’re fully informed on the legalities,” Slughorn murmurs. He holds up the decanter to the light, swirling the shimmering liquid inside. “But would your father give the order? Tell his Auror buddies on the fourth floor to arrest a professor on suspicion of awarding an apprenticeship to a pureblood—one just as deserving, mind you—over a muggleborn?”

“Well, I—”

“Wouldn’t it be favouritism, if I were to give the position to Ms Granger, seeing as she is so close to Harry Potter?”

Theo’s mouth snaps shut.

“There are laws, Mr Nott,” the professor continues. “And there are realities. I suggest you do not confuse the two.”

“Professor,” calls Milly from the other side of the room. “You haven’t evaluated ours yet.”

He tugs at his waistcoat again. “Quite right.”

Without another word to Hermione and Theo, Professor Slughorn sends their Amortentia to the potions cabinet in the back of the classroom. The doors slam solidly behind it, and a lock slides into place. His eyes linger on Theo for a moment before he walks away.

Ancient sodding slimeball. Hermione’s flames threaten at her fingertips, but she reaches for her wand instead. She has a feeling Slughorn wouldn’t react well to losing what’s left of his hair.

Shoving down her urge for vengeance, she vanishes what’s left in the cauldron and begins tidying up. “Why do I get the feeling he’s going to sell that?”

“Doubtful,” Theo says stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He leaves, before she can thank him for at least trying to change Slughorn’s mind. It’s not like she has anyone else advocating for her.

As Hermione heads to the Great Hall for dinner, she holds her books close. Some Ravenclaw witches look her up and down and laugh as she hurries by.

She’d thought things, on the whole, were improving in the wizarding world. There’d been ample progress these past two years, but… Maybe it’s Harry’s absence. The hole he’s left in her life grows wider with each passing day, making her precarious position somehow feel… worse. Was it this bad before Voldemort returned, or had she been young and naive?

“Wait a moment, please. I’m afraid my old legs cannot catch up to those brimming with so much youth.”

Hermione stops in her tracks. The headmaster, a bit wheezy, shuffles up beside her. He’s swimming in his deep navy robes, and his hair and beard, while still long, are much whiter than she remembers.

“Professor Dumbledore,” she smiles and takes his proffered hand. His other is hidden by his overlarge sleeve.

“Ms Granger. Might I borrow you for a moment? If you recall, my office is just this way.”

One spiral staircase and sweet-themed password later, Hermione finds herself comfortably nestled in a wingback chair, sipping tea and watching Dumbledore’s beloved phoenix, Fawkes, soar around the room on his fire-gold wings.

The headmaster’s office is just as she remembers. A mix of candlelight and starlight illuminates the glass-domed chamber. Rounded walls are lined with ancient maps and bookshelves bursting with rare tomes and curiosities accumulated over years of travel. Dozens of phials full of silver memories float over a pillar, upon which sits a pensieve. In the middle sits his cluttered clawfoot desk, which, thankfully, doesn't seem keen on getting up and walking away at the moment.

It’s been a long time since she sat across from Dumbledore. She’s never been here before without being in a heap of trouble, and this time seems no different.

“Are you in touch with them?” The headmaster leans forward, inadvertently dunking the end of his long beard in his tea. It’s obvious he means Harry and Professor Snape. But why would he avoid saying their names?

She plays along, to be safe. “They’ve made contact.”

“Good, good.” He pauses. “Has anyone ever told you about the Order of the Phoenix?”

“Sirius told me a little. Lupin. And… the former Potions professor.”

“So you know about the roles they played, the secrets some were forced to keep.”

Hermione nods. She thinks she knows what he’s referring to: Snape’s double role as a Death Eater and a member of the Order. She's just not sure why he's bringing it up now.

“And is the Order…” She slides her fingers along the edge of her saucer, where etchings of centaurs traipse through a dark and endless forest. “Does it still exist?”

“Not in the same way.”

Dumbledore lifts his teacup, but only stares down into its contents. Hermione bites back the urge to prompt him to say more. Patience is not her virtue.

“We were once a shield,” he continues contemplatively. “We protected. We defended. There were more of us than them, but what Voldemort’s followers lacked in numbers they gathered in strength. I fear they have the advantage this time around, and therefore a change in strategy is warranted. Instead of a shield, we must become the sword.”

“How?”

“Voldemort has already learned much from death. There is great power in silence. His faithful, however, have not learned his lesson. They search loudly. They leave trails—magical as well as political. We must follow those trails, arrive first, and, if necessary, confront whoever and whatever awaits us there. I have already lost such a battle, and it cost me dearly.”

He pauses to sip his tea. Despite her frustration with his bits-and-pieces approach to sharing information, Hermione is reminded this is the same wizard who defeated some of the most powerful dark wizards of all time.

“But we have had successes. A ring was destroyed, and I covered my tracks as well as I could. But I am afraid my continued involvement will reveal our mission. I’ve asked Minerva to take over my political positions at the Ministry, and I regret that you will not have her close at hand, but this way, even when I am gone, she will be able to honestly say she has no knowledge of Order business.”

Hermione fixates on one word. “Gone?”

Dumbledore’s answering laugh is surprisingly jolly. “We all travel beyond the veil at some point, Ms Granger. Time is both on our side and our greatest enemy. We must reach the end and achieve victory before Voldemort’s followers realise they’ve been outmanoeuvred. That is where you come in.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” she says, and it’s half-true. He’s saying they need to find the horcruxes before anyone else can, which makes sense. But she doesn’t want to do this; she’s not as equipped as Harry and Sirius and Dumbledore seem to think she is.

“I am telling you these things,” he says gently, “because you notice patterns others overlook. Because you understand that the most powerful magic is often dismissed, ignored, discriminated against.”

Nice of him to acknowledge her skill, but that doesn't really help her, or explain what he means. Can’t he see she could use a little help here?

The headmaster’s watery eyes twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles as he wordlessly summons something from the other side of the room. The shiny object floats in front of her. She looks to Dumbledore before reaching for it.

Hermione closes her hand around a golden key, no bigger than her pinky finger. It’s warm to the touch. Impossibly tiny runes glow and pulse around the blade, circling the sun cut into the bow, emitting a low hum.

“If you would consider an old wizard’s advice,” Dumbledore murmurs. “You may find some answers in the usual place.”

“The usual place?” She asks, without real hope of a concrete answer.

She startles as Fawkes’s haunting melody announces the dinner hour, blazing bright as he lands on his perch.

“I must implore you, Ms Granger: Limit your circle, but do not work alone. Leave no stone unturned. And when the time comes, ignore everything but your heart.”

Dumbledore stands. Sensing this is the end of their conversation—on a predictably cryptic note—she sets her teacup and saucer on the desk. As he gestures towards the door, he coughs, covering his mouth with a fist. Hermione nearly chokes.

The headmaster’s right hand is withered and completely black.

Chapter Text

Draco’s stomach rumbles, yet nothing appeals: not the food, and certainly not the conversation, which, predictably, has turned to courting.

The only point in his favour tonight is that he’s able to snag a seat next to Nott, which means he sits across from Pansy. Zabini and Daphne try to budge in, but there's no room, so they find places further down with Hestia Carrow, Rosier, and a fully-healed Little Greengrass. Actually, now that they've been served, there’s one more thing working for Draco: Goyle is nowhere in sight.

Pansy seems put out by his absence. Draco tries to tempt her into speaking with him, but she keeps her eyes downcast, focused on her full plate. She hasn’t taken even the smallest bite. Usually she loves a good roast.

Has his presence made her that miserable? Or has Goyle finally stopped acting like a confunded troll and realised he has to end things? Maybe he’s already dumped her.

Draco sits up a little straighter. Maybe he can tolerate a spot of dinner after all.

He spears some meat, slices through it with perfect form—his manners tutors would be proud—places it delicately in his mouth, and chews. It’s not that he wants Pansy to be upset for long. In fact, he’ll do whatever he needs to do to help her work through her feelings with the utmost expediency.

There’s sudden movement at the back of the hall, and Draco diverts his attention from his meal to observe the latecomer. Of course it’s Granger. She slips through the heavy wooden doors, probably hoping not to attract anyone’s notice, but they slam behind her with a thunderous bang that echoes all the way up to the vaulted ceilings. Her shoulders bunch, and she winces.

He smirks, taking another bite of roast. No one can say Granger’s gifted in the art of subtlety.

“Granger really knows how to make an entrance, doesn’t she?” Crabbe laughs a little too loud. His eyes dart around the Slytherin table, seeking approval from the other seventh years within earshot. It earns a few chuckles, but they quickly dissipate. Draco awards him a scowl. Crabbe frowns and hunches over his plate, trailing his spoon through the last dregs of brown gravy.

Tracey Davis decides to throw him a bone. “Let’s hope she’ll be making a swift exit, as well.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Crabbe says, brightening as he raises his goblet. Tracey, Pucey, and a few others join him. Pansy licks her lips, but makes no move for her trà đá.

Draco doesn’t drink. Must keep up appearances and all that.

An ear-piercing squeal rises up from the Gryffindor table. Lavender jumps up from her seat and tugs at Granger’s robes with both hands, shaking her with frenzied energy before pushing at the Weasel’s shoulders. At her urging, he reluctantly abandons his meal to stand beside his witch. He says something to Granger, and she frowns as she replies, though a bright pink blush colours her cheeks. Slowly, he turns his shaggy red head towards Draco. Weasley skewers him with a look that says you fucking wanker.

Draco smirks back. He didn’t realise this charade with Granger would get under Weasley’s skin, too. He’ll take it.

Nott, in a puckish mood, nudges Draco with his elbow as he reaches for a dinner roll. “Making moon eyes at Granger?”

“Certainly not,” Draco snorts, but quickly amends his statement with shifted emphasis. “Certainly, Nott.”

It’s a rather good save on his part. Perhaps he should have been a keeper.

Pansy laughs derisively. “Malfoy’s never made moon eyes at anyone.”

“That’s not true.” Draco toys with his fork, knowing full well it is true. It’s not like he’s dwelt on it or anything, but there’s a distinct difference between the slack-jawed way Weasley prostrates himself at Lavender’s feet and Draco’s preferred means of demonstrating affection.

He’s not a prude. He can be… Nice. Fond, even, in private. But Draco is not going to fall all over himself for anyone. It’s not in his nature. Far better to start as you mean to go on, with mutual respect and admiration, than to act like a besotted simpleton.

Then again, Weasley’s act makes sense. He must know he could never do better than Lavender Brown. The fact that he got even this far defies logic. From a strategic perspective, Draco is forced to respect the dedication.

His father might worship the ground his mother walks on, but that makes sense, too: his mother is Narcissa Malfoy. For most of her life, wizards and witches alike have begged for the slightest sliver of her attention. Her star may have fallen as of late, but with the right witch by his side, Draco is certain he can restore his mother’s social station and expand her influence, which in turn will burnish his own.

It boils down to this: marriage is for life. A lasting alliance serves his interests better than a passionate honeymoon period that fizzles after a year. Pansy understands that better than most. He needs her back, and if making her jealous by pretending to court Granger is the way, then so be it. Never let it be said that Draco Malfoy is not self-sacrificing.

He thought he might be able to make a show of things without Granger’s involvement, but after his friends nearly exposed his game in Divination, he has to admit he needs her cooperation. It’s an unfortunate reality, but there it is.

He’ll have to be convincing. Barring that, he’ll need to pay her, and knowing Granger, she’ll want to negotiate.

What a nightmare.

Goyle appears behind Pansy. His robes and hair are dishevelled, and his chest heaves like he recently completed a grueling set of wind sprints. He lays one large hand on her shoulder and smooths his thumb across the rounded joint.

It’s like he’s done it a thousand times.

Pansy’s entire face changes. She brightens, lit from within as her frosty frown thaws to a warm, relieved smile.

“I asked for your pudding,” Goyle says, sucking down air as he places a small crock beside her plate. “Chè bắp, right? Sweet corn?”

Pansy reaches up to place her hand atop the knot of his tie. She lingers there for a moment, then drags her hand down, stroking the green-and-white striped silk with something akin to adoration. “Thank you.”

Draco crumples the napkin in his lap. She’s so familiar with Goyle; the way she touches him, the way she looks at him.

Had Pansy ever looked at him that way? She must have.

He thinks of their strange, shared childhood and teenage years. The galas and the holidays to the coast, yes, but also the times their mothers went to London for the weekend and their fathers got together in the parlour and smoked cigars until four in the morning. Those seemingly random occasions had only increased in frequency as, unbeknownst to Draco and Pansy, their plot to restore the Dark Lord to his former glory drew near. Draco and Pansy played exploding snap, cooked their own cheese toasties, and drank too much liquor, covertly replacing it with water and hoping no one would notice. Under the influence of said liquor, they shared secrets too fragile for the light of day.

“I think we’d suit,” he said one night, three sheets to the wind.

“I think so, too,” Pansy replied.

From then on, Draco’s future had been set.

At some point during their second year at Hogwarts, Pansy’s father decided it was better for his family to flee to his wife’s home country. He insisted he wasn’t turning his back on his fellow Death Eaters in their time of need: his mother-in-law was ill and needed care. A convenient lie. Pansy started spending Christmas, Easter, and her summers in Vietnam, and Lord Parkinson avoided Lucius Malfoy’s fate.

He also ran out of money.

In fifth year, Draco, very soberly and with language provided by his father’s solicitors, laid out his plan to Pansy over butterbeers at the Hog’s Head. They would court and become betrothed, and then with his inheritance, he would restore her family’s vaults. Pansy would have free reign of the manor and complete control of their social calendar. He would pursue quidditch and, when he aged out of the sport, potioneering. Together they would also conceive an heir, at a point to be determined later.

He remembers the way Pansy reached for his hand; how she held it so tightly her knuckles turned white. Later, she ran her manicured hands along his tie, as she had just done to Goyle. She’d taken his breath away.

That night has been seared upon his brain. Does she ever think about it? Does she even know it was his first time?

Draco feels like he might vomit. What if this thing she’s doing with Goyle is more than shagging?

It can't be. She’s just trying to get back at him for carrying Granger’s books by doubling down on this little public display of affection. Yes. That’s a much simpler explanation.

Nott butts in. “Was that on tonight’s menu, or do you have pudding privileges now?”

“I asked nicely,” Goyle grunts.

Draco leaps up from his seat and storms past the rest of the Slytherin table towards the kitchens. If Goyle can get exclusive desserts, so can he. He stops short of the swinging door, composes himself, and enters with as much humility as he can inject into his princely posture.

He’s never been inside the Hogwarts kitchens before. They’re much bigger than he imagined, with rows of wide, jade-tiled worktops stacked with various fire-glazed bowls and cooking utensils in muted colours. Bunches of herbs hang from the high ceilings. Wood-burning stoves line the back wall, keeping the air pleasantly warm and smelling of freshly baked bread. The rest of the walls are covered with ivy-edged cedar shelves, stocked to the gills with every ingredient imaginable.

What’s more, the place is busy. Dozens of house elves bustle about. All of them wear fine clothes and shoes. They smile and chat amongst themselves as they chop vegetables, knead dough, and stir soup in large copper pots that gleam under the warm yellow candlelight.

Draco had heard the elves at Hogwarts were much happier since the Ministry stepped in and banned them from performing menial tasks for students. Now they were paid for their labour. Many of them had gone into groundskeeping, since elf magic has an affinity for living things, but most had opted to remain in the kitchens out of some mix of loyalty and established routine. They happily provided anything students might need after hours—such as tea and all the accoutrements—in each house’s kitchenette, as well as the one shared by the Head Boy and Girl, and filled their spare time with knitting and other leisurely activities.

His mouth waters as a trio of elves pull fresh rosemary focaccia from a stone oven. Part of him wants to say sod the pudding: there’s bread. But he cannot let himself become distracted from his mission.

He finds an elf wrapped in a brocade dress with a pristine white apron fitted overtop. Her colt-like ears are alert, giving the impression she might be in charge.

“Hello,” he says.

The elf peers up at him with no small amount of scepticism. “Students aren’t ‘sposed to be in the kitchens.”

“I’m Draco Malfoy.”

He waits for the elf’s ears to twitch with recognition, for her feet to hop to it. But no such hustle occurs.

“Are you a student, Mr Malfoy?”

“Yes,” he says, sticking his hands in his pockets. “But I am in need of your finest chè bắp.”

“Are you now?”

“I have a sickle.”

In reality, he has much more than that, but better to start the bidding low.

“Mr Goyle gave us a galleon, didn’t he Daisy? Said Ms Parkinson’s been craving that sweet corn pudding.”

The elf elbows her friend next to her, who nods rapidly in agreement. Draco doesn’t believe the veracity of the tale, but needs must and all that rot.

“Never let it be said that Malfoys aren’t generous,” Draco says, and pulls two galleons from his coin purse with a flourish. The elf grabs both, quick as a flash, and produces the pudding out of thin air. It smells heavenly, like rich, sweet coconut milk. Draco accepts the crock with a bow. “Pleasure doing business with you. Any chance I could persuade you to wrap up some of that focaccia as well?”

Marching back with the crock in hand and a wedge of bread wrapped in paper tucked in his robe pocket, Draco holds his head high.

“What’s that?” Pansy asks as Draco resumes his spot at the table. Goyle sits beside her, bouncing his leg up and down in an uncharacteristic display of anxiousness. Good. He should be anxious. Draco can get desserts too. More importantly, his suit is one her family will actually consider.

He smirks at Pansy and holds out the crock to her. A kernel of corn clings to her lips. Her eyes go wide at the prospect of more, and she snatches the crock from his hands and digs in.

“You’re welcome,” Draco prompts, but Pansy is solely focused on her second dessert. Goyle replies instead. He looks… Relieved?

“Cheers, mate.”

“Right. Cheers,” he replies sourly.

After dinner, Draco stalks down the corridor towards the Head Students’ quarters. He’s mentally preparing himself for the difficult conversation with Granger when he runs into Fiona and a younger wizard with the same fair hair. Her brother? The boy is small, even for a firstie. But also, Draco’s twenty-one; fifteen year olds seem like infants.

Whoever he is, he stops in the middle of the walkway, mouth agape. “Are you Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes,” Fiona answers for him. “Now come on. If we hurry, you can still get something from the kitchens. You can’t keep skipping dinner in the library.”

The brother doesn’t budge. “I heard the Falcons are looking at you. And you’ll play for England at the World Cup, right?”

Draco can’t help his grin. “That’s the plan.”

“They say you’re the best seeker in a generation. Harry Potter’s got nothing on you when you’re on a broom.”

“Always nice to meet a fan,” Draco says, offering his hand. He could have done without the brief mention of Potter, but a compliment is a compliment. “And your name is?”

“Fletcher Higglesby. My friends call me Fletch.”

“You want me to sign anything, Fletch?”

He doesn't usually offer up his autograph, but this once, he'll make an exception. 

Fletch’s eyes sparkle for a moment, but then his face falls. “Bugger. Don’t have anything on me.”

Draco shrugs. He'll do him one better. “Come by the Slytherin locker room after the season opener. I’ll give you the snitch.”

Fiona snorts while her brother celebrates, then mutters under her breath: “I see someone’s still Mr Confidence.”

Cheery students with full bellies and no volume control sidestep them on their way to Ravenclaw and Slytherin, chattering about some after-hours party someone’s throwing next week. As Head Boy, he should probably double the patrols that night. But then he’d have to make adjustments to Granger’s roster, held together, as far as he knows, with finicky spellwork and a sticking charm. He’d figure out how to make changes, but he’d probably mess it up first, and knowing Granger, somehow she’d find out and force him to take over the scheduling. No, thank you. Not worth it.

“We’re playing against your house.” Draco tilts his head towards Fiona meaningfully. “Hufflepuff’s barely fielding chasers this year, let alone a seeker. I could catch it blindfolded with my hands behind my back.”

“In the rain, I’ll bet,” Fletch says, practically bouncing on his toes.

Draco decides he’s rather fond of the scrawny Hufflepuff. He almost hopes the forecast for the match predicts a torrential downpour.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Fiona says. “My brother’s starving. Last night he had to subsist on liquorice whips.”

Before he can think better of it, Draco pulls the wedge of focaccia from his robe pocket and breaks it in two. “Here. Some rations for the journey.”

“You’re a legend.” Fletch grabs the bread and shoves it in his mouth. “No wonder Hermione Granger let you be her boyfriend.”

Let him?

Milly, Tracey, Hestia, and a bunch of other Slytherin girls choose that moment to slant their eyes towards them as they pass to the dungeons. Draco straightens his shoulders, and Fiona looks at him strangely.

“Hermione Granger is your girlfriend now? I never would’ve put you two together.”

The implication is clear, but not judgmental.

“No one cares about the pureblood stuff anymore, Fi. Let’s go.” Fletch tugs at his sister’s sleeve and takes another bite of focaccia. “Cheers, Draco.”

They disappear down the corridor.

No one cares about the pureblood stuff anymore.

Is that what the younger generation thinks?

Draco contemplates this as he walks into the living room. He should’ve known it wouldn’t be empty, but he didn’t expect this: Granger, laying on her belly by the sofa, one arm shoved underneath, hand blindly groping in an ill-fated search. Either she hasn’t registered his presence, or she’s doing an admirable job of ignoring him.

Granger, however, cannot be ignored, being that she’s half-dressed in the centre of the room. Her plaid skirt is rucked up so he can see the backs of her thighs. He hadn’t felt that far up her legs—why would he?—but he’d bet a tidy sum that she has nice, strong hamstrings.

“Come on,” she says coaxingly. “I know it’s from a tin, but it’s still chicken. Crooks eats it.”

At the mention of his name, the orange beast leaps up on the worktop in the kitchenette and sticks his head in the open tin, licking loud enough to wake the dead. No manners, that cat.

“Her Grace,” Draco calls, and his fluffy white familiar emerges, trotting over to him while mewling furiously. “Yes, yes, I know. Your palate is much too refined. But you know Mondays are prep days. I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

He looks up to see Granger pushing herself up off the floor. She adjusts her frilly socks, then smooths her skirt before meeting his gaze with a petulant frown. “I almost convinced her.”

“You did no such thing.”

Draco’s trek to the kitchenette takes twice as long as usual, since Her Grace seems keen on tripping him with the way she weaves around his legs. Once there, he makes quick work of things. He chops the fresh fish with efficiency, adding a bit of egg and the dreaded pumpkin puree at the end. He never liked the gourd, but knowing that it’s essential for Her Grace’s fiber intake has put him off it forever.

“It looks awful,” Granger says from somewhere behind him.

Privately, Draco agrees, but he doesn’t let on. “It’s nutritionally balanced. It’s what’s best for her.”

“Wish I could feed Crooks like that. He’s big on tinned chicken.”

“Could be worse. At least he likes chicken. Thighs are good. Hearts, too.”

“Good to know.”

When he slides the food into Her Grace’s dish and she tucks in, he beams with pride. His mother wasn’t sure about having an animal roaming the vast wings of Malfoy Manor, especially since Her Grace is no mouser, so all of Her Grace’s care was left to Draco. He’s made each of Her Grace’s meals himself since she came into his life. It’s easy enough to get fresh ingredients delivered to the castle via owl post. Spoiling her with good food is the least he can do for her after everything she’s done for him.

He’s putting the rest of the week’s meals under stasis when, out of the corner of his eye, he spots movement at the silverware drawer. Granger sticks a spoon in her mouth and pulls a pint of ice cream from the icebox, humming some vaguely familiar classical piece.

“What are you doing?”

She releases the spoon with a pop. “Warming up the spoon. Makes it easier to scoop.”

Draco gives her his best, ‘Really?’ face. “You know very well what I’m asking: how do you have ice cream here? I’ve never seen ice cream at Hogwarts.”

“Oh, right. I got it from the elves.”

“How much did you pay them?”

He’s tempted to go back down to the kitchens right now. How much could a pint cost, anyway? Five galleons?

“Nothing. We’re friends.”

“Friends?”

“Remember my SPEW phase?” She plunges the spoon into the pint of mint chocolate chip, and when she lifts it again, incredibly, there’s a hefty scoop that slides easily into the waiting bowl. Draco’s mouth waters. Mint chocolate chip is his favourite. “I had a very narrow view of the larger issues, and obviously being young and idealistic, I thought wearing homemade badges and banging on about it all the time would spur monumental change.”

“Ah,” Draco says, cringing.

“My thoughts exactly. I was a child playing parliamentarian. But the Hogwarts elves knew I meant well. Ever since the laws changed—even though I didn’t do anything; couldn’t, the way your kind treats muggleborns—they’ve been lovely to me. That includes loading me up on crisps and mint chocolate chip.”

Your kind rings in his head.

Some would say they’re not different kinds. They both have magic. They both brew potions. They both peer into the same crystal balls and ultimately divine nothing about the opaque futures laid out before them.

But they are different, at a cellular level. Everyone knows that. Granger might look harmless in her rumpled skirt and oversized jumper, but her determination threatens to topple hundreds of years of excellence and tradition.

First elves—she should give herself more credit for destroying one of the only good things about living at this stupid castle: impeccable service—and now courting season. Where does it stop?

Worse, he’s going to help legitimise her participation with this little charade. Once she agrees to it, anyway. Merlin help him.

Draco gestures to the sofa. “Shall we chat?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Granger quips, finishing off her bowl of ice cream. She sends it to the sink with her wand, then utters a sequence of cleaning and drying charms to ensure it returns to the shelf from whence it came. Finally, she sparks a fire in the fireplace. Crookshanks curls up on a blanket near the hearth.

They settle on opposite sides of the sofa. Granger tucks her feet under herself and hugs a pillow to her chest. Draco sprawls out, slinging one arm over the armrest. He brings the other up to examine his fingernails, hopefully giving the impression he doesn’t care at all how this conversation goes. His signet ring winks at him in the firelight.

“How much do you know about why purebloods court?”

“I know enough. Preserving bloodlines, mostly. Achieving higher status, consolidating assets and accumulating generational wealth. It’s not wholly dissimilar from muggle dating, although from what I understand about how my parents got together—”

“Please, spare me the details.” Draco waves his hand in dismissal. “You’re not entirely wrong. Most families will tell you that’s why they continue the custom. But for those actually courting, the real prize is one’s inheritance. The Malfoy inheritance, for example, is only passed down to the first son if he selects a witch at the betrothal ceremony at the end of his courting season. Some families allow another season; Malfoys only get one.”

“So you only have until, what, June? To choose someone to spend the rest of your life with? Or else you lose all your money?”

Draco sucks at his cheek. He needs a drink if he's going to make it through this conversation. “Firewhisky?” Granger declines with a shake of her head, so he only summons the one glass. When the bottle whizzes across the room into his other hand, he pours generously. “I have until my birthday. June 5th.”

“What happens if you don’t find the right person?”

“Where does the money go, you mean? We’re all out of Malfoys, so it reverts to the Blacks, but as you may have guessed, only men can inherit. Sirius Black was burned off the family tapestry, so it all goes to cousin Teddy.”

“But he’s a child,” Granger says, shock rippling across her features.

“He is. Until he comes of age, his parents would make decisions on his behalf. They’d have access to a limited amount of funds, but the estates in Wiltshire and Provence will fall under their purview.” Draco takes a drink. “I’ve been over it with countless solicitors, and they unfortunately agree with my interpretation: Remus Lupin, his wife, and Sirius are well within their rights to throw my mother out of her home. So even if I was the type to do something stupid and forgo my inheritance, I cannot. I will not endanger my mother’s already precarious position.”

“Sirius wouldn’t do that to your mother.”

Draco’s laugh is cold. “You have no idea what he's capable of. He abandoned our family. Andromeda and her daughter did, too, and both of them have Lupin’s ear.”

“Tonks is married to him,” she points out. “Of course she has his ear.”

He shrugs. “Lupin loathes my mother, for reasons unknown to me. I know you’ve only seen the side of Sirius that saved Potter from spending another summer with his muggle relatives, but he’s got secrets like you wouldn’t believe.”

Granger guides the pillow down into her lap and picks at the seams. “And you know these secrets?”

“My godfather might’ve told me a few.” Not that Draco’s going to tell her his cousin Sirius is an unregistered animagus.

“Your godfather told me, too. I think he was always jealous he never got to run with the big dogs.”

She raises a self-satisfied eyebrow. Draco is forced to mentally award her the point, though he does an adequate job of masking his own surprise. How close are she and Snape, exactly?

Did he train her to be an occlumens, too? 

He takes another drink.

Granger looks so innocent: cherubic, even, with the orange glow of the fire ringing her brown curls. But if one dares to lean closer, the truth dances in those wicked eyes of hers. She’s no angel.

Then again, neither is he.

How much should he tell her? How best to use her to his advantage?

“The point is,” Draco says, finishing the last of his glass. “I need to propose to someone I can trust. Someone who can be a good wife: manage things, bear an heir, so on and so forth.”

“And you chose Pansy Parkinson?” Granger snorts, then claps a hand over her mouth and nose. “Sorry. But out of, say, a hundred candidates in our year, you want Pansy?”

“Whatever you might think of her, I can tell you that Pansy is clever." He counts off her wifely attributes on his fingers. "She’s good with money. She isn’t overly sentimental or flashy. She knows how to ingratiate herself with others through thoughtful gifts and calculated overtures. Under certain circumstances, she can even be sweet.”

For a moment, Granger only frowns. Then her teeth sink into her bottom lip, her last defence in a losing battle to silence whatever ridiculous question has surely popped into her head.

Of course, the words fly out anyway. Such a Gryffindor. Can’t keep any thoughts to herself.

“Do you love her?”

He slides his empty glass across the end table. Yet again with this love business.

He could tell her some version of the truth:

Love takes time.

Let’s just say I’m extraordinarily fond of her.

If I could love anyone, it would be Pansy. And if I don’t have her…

Draco rakes a hand through his hair. He’s had too little alcohol to be this maudlin.

The truth won’t persuade Granger to help him. He has a feeling that, although she believes divination isn’t real, she hasn’t given up on the idea of marrying for love.

So instead of exposing himself and telling her the truth, he simply lies.

“Yes.”

“Have you told her?”

“I wanted to, but she broke up with me, as you heard. The timing was… Regrettable. And since then, she’s ignored me. Until she saw me with you.”

“But she didn’t see what she thinks she saw,” Granger says, leaping to her feet. She starts pacing. “What else have you tried?”

“Gold bars.”

“Gold bars? Is that some sort of special pureblood courting gift?”

“No.”

Draco can now admit the gold bars were a terrible idea. Very taxing on his mother’s pygmy owl Georgette, not to mention he’s now out 800 troy ounces.

Granger is aghast. “You tried to win her back with money?”

“Her family needs money.” Is she really this naive? “They’ve been practically hiding out in Vietnam these past few years. But it’s like I said, she ignored me until she stumbled upon our little healing session. That’s when I realised it’s not about presents or declarations of affection. Witches are complex, but Pansy is labyrinthine. It’s about making her think there’s something she can’t have, and having to watch another witch enjoy it.”

“A witch she perceives as lesser than herself.”

“Well, yes.”

Granger stops her frenetic pacing and shoots him that feisty glare of hers.

“I ought to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

He shrugs. “You wouldn’t be the first, and I’m certain you won’t be the last. Instead of issuing well-trodden, unimaginative insults, you might do something productive and consider my proposition.”

“Which is?”

“Date me under false pretenses until Pansy decides she’s sick of seeing me dote on you. I’m sure it won’t take long.”

“And this doting would entail…”

Draco starts a list on his fingers. “I’ll carry your books, send you those sappy notes in class that witches like so much, escort you to Wyrdwood… I’ll even spin you around the dance floor once or twice, if it comes to it.”

She’s strangely silent. It’s a generous offer; more generous than he intended. Unfortunately, his mouth ran away from him, as it often does. He thought she’d agree immediately. Instead, she seems lost in thought.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t rush into a no,” he says, honeying his voice as he pats the open spot on the sofa next to him. “I’m open to negotiation. What else do you want?”

Chapter Text

Hermione baulks at Malfoy’s invitation, eying the sofa cushion next to him with suspicion.

It’s not that she doesn’t welcome the negotiation. Hell, she has Malfoy over a barrel, which is right where she wants him. She just doesn’t entirely know what to do with him now that he’s there.

She wasn’t prepared for this to be a whole thing. She’s had half a day to think about what it would mean for her to let the whole school think she’s flirting with him; considered what she might ask for in return. But Malfoy seems to want much more than flirting. He wants a full-blown fake relationship. A convincing one.

Her initial reaction, which she barely holds back, is to tell him to go hug a boggart. The sheer audacity to ask this of her! It makes her want to hex him into next week. He more than deserves it.

Her second reaction is that, even if she did agree to play along, Malfoy’s plan is stupid. Has he really thought this through?

Fake dating your enemy to get your ex-girlfriend back has to be the worst idea she’s ever heard—and that’s saying something, considering she’s been best friends with Harry Potter for the past six, almost seven, years. As much as Hermione dislikes Pansy, she’ll think even less of her if she takes Malfoy back because he pretends to date a muggleborn. Why would you want to be with someone who only wants you when you’re with someone else? Someone who you hate?

Hermione opens her mouth to list for him all the reasons why it’s impossible, unethical, and certifiably unhinged for them to do this. The words almost come out.

But then it hits her.

Malfoy is the purest pureblood of them all. The Prince of Slytherin. Trained from birth to assume his role as the next Lord Malfoy, with all the pomp and circumstance that comes with it. His knowledge of pureblood history alone could be incredibly useful to her, and being on his arm would give her unfettered access to pureblood society that she’d never come close to achieving if she navigated courting season by herself.

He could help her find the horcruxes. She’ll never tell him that’s what he’s doing, of course. She doesn’t think he’d try to stop her necessarily, but it’s for the best that he’ll never be the wiser. Dumbledore did say to keep her circle small, after all.

Hermione’s mind races. Yes, fake dating Malfoy could solve a lot of her current and potential problems, if he’s willing to take it as far as courting.

God, it’s annoying that this suddenly makes sense. For her, at least. Still certifiably mental for him, but she’s not responsible for that.

But could they possibly pull it off?

In her extended silence, Malfoy has begun to doubt himself. It’s in the way his shoulders tense, defying the effects of firewhisky; written in the sprawl of his hand across his knee. He’s a living, breathing rune, inscribed into the sofa.

Were it anyone else, Hermione wouldn’t be able to derive anything useful from a change in posture or a slanted look. She’s proficient in Spanish and Italian, and her Mandarin isn’t half bad, but body language has never been part of her linguistic repertoire. With Malfoy, for some mystifying reason, it’s becoming second nature.

He’s nervous. There’s something else, too, but she’s not sure if she can trust her newfound intuition.

Even now, when he’s waiting with bated breath for her to name her price, he’s holding something in reserve. Maybe he’s trying to bite back the more toxic parts of his ingrained prejudice. Or maybe he’s afraid to throw out a number after how she reacted to his comment about the Parkinsons’ finances.

If that’s the case, he can relax. She’d already braced herself for Malfoy to make her an offer with generous financial terms: money is the solution people like him reach for when they don’t care to understand the problem—they just want it to go away. Ultimately, she decided that accepting his money, no matter how staggering the sum, would be degrading. Practical, but degrading. And anyway, no amount of money will buy her a potioneering apprenticeship. Professor Slughorn made his position on muggleborns joining the profession perfectly clear.

Malfoy has things she needs more than money.

Malfoy rubs elbows with the slimiest, richest gits around. If they think she’s with him, they might write off her inquiries into their homes, holdings and histories as harmless. They’d assume she’s merely trying to ingratiate herself, not figuring out if they’re harbouring parts of Voldemort’s soul. Standing out the way he does, and as mouthy and insufferable and lordlike as he is, Malfoy would provide the perfect camouflage.

There’s still the obvious flaw: there’s no way they can make it convincing. He’s mad for thinking they could.

She’s not being down on herself when she says she absolutely cannot pretend to like someone she doesn’t. It’s been a problem her whole life. While others might be able to deftly exit tricky conversations or unpleasant situations, she hacks her way out with a machete, irritating everyone involved with cutting remarks and inconvenient truths. No one makes it out of a conversation with her unscathed.

So to say that she’s not good at social niceties would be an understatement. They’ll see through her immediately, and then it’ll all be for naught.

Hermione sighs and slowly sits down next to him. “I don’t know.”

“It’s already working,” Malfoy says evenly. “Pansy’s told all the Slytherins. I ran into a firstie on the way here who already heard you were my girlfriend. Neither of us have had to lift a finger because it’s so unbelievable that it loops all the way back around to being the truth. Think about it. Head Boy, Head Girl. Tale as old as time.”

“I know. Lavender said the same thing at dinner, even after I swore on my life that we aren’t together.”

“Proof positive that people are already gagging for it.”

They are, aren’t they? Maybe she can use this to her advantage.

“What if I want more than just an errand boy to fetch my books? More than a dance?”

He steeples his fingers. “Go on.”

She sucks at the inside of her cheek and turns to face him, forcing out the words. “I want you to court me. For pretend, of course, but openly.”

“Granger.”

“I’m serious.”

The sad, slanted half-smile he gives her is carved out of pity. “No one would believe that.”

“Well, you think that everyone will believe I like you… like that.”

“Come now. That’s different. It’s not as if I’m difficult to look at.” Malfoy stretches and throws her a lazy grin.

Arrogant prat.

“It’s not about attractiveness—that is not me saying you’re attractive, to be clear, so stop smiling—it’s about the fact that I loathe you. I’m a dancer, not an actress. One look at my face and anyone with half a teaspoon of emotional intelligence will know I’ve never fancied you and never will.”

She expects mockery, or dismissal. Some flippant remark, maybe about his pride.

Instead, he takes a pause. His gaze drops to her frilly socks, then returns, lingering.

It makes her skin prickle. Hermione frowns, unsure what to make of this. Of him.

Malfoy leans forward, schooling his expression into something darker. Too close. “Consider our mutual, continued loathing set in stone.”

“Unbreakable as a vow,” she mutters, edging away from him. She needs space, far, far away from him and his terrible pine-drenched cologne.

“Be that as it may, your plan is actually solid.” He clucks his tongue at her in chastisement as she increases the distance between them. “But if we’re going through the motions of courting… That’s serious. Society will see that and take it at face value, even if we snap at each other or look bored. Hell, looking bored is the default for most matches.”

“Truly?”

Something akin to hope has her sitting up straighter.

“Truly. If my esteemed peers weren’t being led around by their pricks ninety-nine percent of the time, this wouldn’t work, because if they used their brains they’d know I’d never, ever court a muggleborn. I’d never even shag one. No offence.”

Hermione folds her arms across her chest. “Well, too bad. Offence very much taken.”

“Witches,” he forges ahead, ignoring her feelings as always. “will think it’s romantic that I would theoretically cast aside my deeply held beliefs for true love. As a bonus, I’m completely out of your league, which should inject a little excitement into the season. My mother says half the anticipation of a party is the hope something dramatic will happen, good or bad.”

Is he joking? Completely out of her league?

Please. She’d dated Viktor Krum. Rugged, bearded, sex-on-a-stick Viktor Krum. Malfoy is… Pretty. Angular. Fit, yes, and she hasn’t stopped thinking about his hands, but she doesn’t give a shit about his title or the egregious amount of gold his family hoards. He’s just a man. And if he knew nothing about her, and just saw her out in Hogsmeade, all dolled up, she knows—knows!—he’d look twice.

She could ruin him if she wanted to. But who would want to put all that time and effort into a prejudiced, posh prat like Draco Malfoy?

“Shouldn’t you be begging for my help instead of insulting me?”

“Malfoys don’t beg.”

Hermione pushes herself off the sofa. “Then never mind.”

His hand closes around her wrist, fast as lightning, his thumb sliding across her pulse point and pressing firmly into her skin. “Wait.”

She hates the way his touch stalls her; steadies her when it has no right to. He has no right.

But she waits, and despite her righteous fury, she’s forced to admit she might not get a better chance than this.

She doesn’t look at him when she makes her counter-offer. She stares into the fire, far more deserving of her attention than he’ll ever be, and watches the flames lick at the darkened wood.

“Here’s what I want: I want you to prepare me for the rest of the courting season, well enough that when you inevitably win Pansy back,” Hermione pauses here; swallows her doubt. “And you cast me aside, I’ll be able to do everything as well as a pureblood lady. Dancing, dining, all of it. I’ll accept nothing less.”

“That’s what you want?” Malfoy lets go of her with a laugh. She whirls around, cheeks hot, and sees his arm bracing his stomach. His head is thrown back, exposing the knot of his throat. He pretends to wipe away a tear. “Oh, that’s rich.”

“That’s my price.” She narrowly restrains herself from stomping her mary janes into the rug.

“Sorry, I didn’t know we were making impossible wishes. I’d like a Porsche 911, all black, and a lifetime supply of Ogden’s. Oh, and while we’re at it, the Elder Wand.”

“What’s the Elder Wand? And since when are you into cars?”

“Zabini’s current stepfather has a collection; recently added a sporty little Jaguar. Haven’t driven it myself but—” He cuts himself off with a dismissive wave. “Look, what you’re asking for is utterly unachievable, even for me. It would take years to bring you up to scratch. I had a veritable army of tutors, practically from birth, whose sole mission was to prepare me for the rigours of courting. It’s not only dancing and dining. You’d need to learn customs and manners and all the context behind them. There’s meaning in everything: the flowers, the fans, the jewelry. You can’t compress a lifetime of good breeding into a few months.”

Hermione isn’t stupid. Malfoy might be foul, but he’s sensible. His reasons why she shouldn’t court are similar to her own. She’ll probably make an utter fool of herself, even with his help. But Harry needs her.

She still hasn’t seen Hedwig return. The snowy owl’s absence gnaws at her.

The key Dumbledore gave her is burning a hole in her pocket, too.

You may find some answers in the usual place.

She digs in her heels. “I didn’t know anything about magic before I got my admissions letter, but within the year I had top marks.”

Malfoy stands and stretches, arms overhead, as if the conversation bores him. “We’re talking about a much shorter timeline here. Besides, even if you somehow pulled it off, no pureblood worth his salt will actually propose. You must know that.”

“But there are half-bloods,” she counters, threading a slight whine into her voice. Let him think she’s desperate. Maybe he’ll even assume she’s after Harry, like so many others.

As usual, he sees right through her. “If you’re about to try and convince me you’ve been carrying a torch for Potter, save it. You’d never go for a moron. And don’t tell me you’re slavering after some half-blood dick after getting ploughed by Viktor Krum.”

Ploughed? Viktor was respectful, and surprisingly sweet, from their first time together—her first time ever—to their last. It’s too bad it wasn’t love; too bad she could never settle for anything less.

“You’re despicable.”

“As we’ve established.” Malfoy heads for the kitchenette, yanks open the icebox door, and pulls out a bunch of green grapes. He leans over the island, facing her, taking his sweet time plucking each grape and popping them one at a time into his mouth. “Let’s try again. What do you want? A little less pie in the sky this time, if you please.”

Fine. She’ll just have to tell him something closer to the truth.

“A husband. Ideally I’d find love,” she says, pausing to shoot Malfoy a glare when he snorts mid-bite. “Someone who shares my passion. I want to become a potioneer and open my own apothecary.”

She’s never spoken it aloud before. There’s a box underneath her bed holding years of inspiration; sketches she’s made while daydreaming. But Malfoy is the first to hear about her life’s aspiration.

He barks a laugh and drops a grape onto the island’s worktop. It bounces once and plummets to the floor, where Her Grace gives chase. “You can’t be serious. Please, tell me you’re having me on. A potioneer? A muggleborn potioneer, running an apothecary?” He rests his elbow on the worktop and tucks his chin in his hand with a patronising smile that she wants to slap off his smug fucking face. “Exactly what goes on in that pretty little head of yours?”

Her heart sinks. Of course he’d laugh at her dream. Hermione immediately regrets saying anything at all. Knowing Malfoy, he’ll win over Professor Slughorn and steal the apprenticeship for himself, just to rub it in her face. Irritatingly, he would actually deserve it, unlike some of the other purebloods she knows are interested. Not that she’d ever admit as much to him.

“You’re an arse.”

“And you’re the very definition of naïveté. What’s it like, to be so tragically jejune?”

“See?” She gestures broadly. “You can’t pretend to like me either. Your stupid plan won’t work.”

“It can, and it will. I’ll prove it.” He throws another grape in his mouth, tapping his fingers against his cheek. How does he remember to put on all those rings every day? Maybe, like her locket, he never takes them off. She wonders if they each have meaning, like the signet ring he wears on his right pinky. “It won’t take much. Put your arm on mine when I walk you to class. I won’t flinch.”

“Right, you’ll just occlude,” she mutters.

Malfoy’s brows furrow. “How do you know I occlude?”

“I should think it’s rather obvious. When Harry does it, his eyes turn a lighter shade of green. Yours do the same thing, they’re just all…” She reaches for the right word. “Silvery.”

“Gazing into my eyes, Granger?”

She shoots him a lethal glare. “If I’ve noticed, other people have too, and they’ll realise you’re faking your fake attraction to me.”

“Fine, I won’t occlude.” He drums his fingers on the worktop. It’s like he can’t stop fidgeting. “Been trying to cut down, anyway.”

“Well, good, because it’s bloody dangerous to do it too often. You’d think your godfather might’ve told you that.”

“Yes, and he might’ve told you that there’s never been a muggleborn potioneer.”

Hermione didn’t think her hackles could rise even higher, but she’s quickly proven wrong. Her skin feels feverish under her collar. She balls her fists and stalks over to the kitchenette. Her flames dance beneath her skin, begging to be unleashed. If he keeps it up, she might torch the whole place.

“There’s a first for everything, Malfoy. You’re just jealous Snape spent his summer helping me and not watching you fly around or whatever it is you do at Malfoy Manor. Why would he waste his time with you when he knows I have real potential?”

He rounds the island and suddenly, she’s face-to-face with his chest. When she lifts her chin in defiance, grey eyes burn into hers. “I haven’t had much time to fly, considering I’ve been the acting Lord Malfoy. Not that you could ever understand the weight I’ve had to carry. You’re too busy with—what was it again? Failing at playing parliamentarian?”

She’d said as much herself, but hearing it from his mouth, the insult cuts closer to the bone than anything else he’d said tonight.

“You walk into every classroom armed to the teeth with answers to questions you don’t understand,” he continues in a blistering tone. “You think the world is made of variables you can solve around. But you can’t. The world is not an arithmancy problem. That’s not how this works.”

She pokes her finger into his chest. “That’s rich coming from someone who thinks the world was made to bend to his will.”

Malfoy’s upper lip curls with barely leashed rage. The room feels too small; the fire too hot. For a second, she thinks he might lash out, bare his teeth and spew hateful venom; say the word she’s been waiting for since she told him he’d be living with her this year.

Because she’s ready for him. Her palm itches to strike him across the face. God, it would feel so, so good.

“You think I asked for this?” He hisses, leaning even closer. “You think I wanted to spend the past two years cleaning up my father’s mess?”

Mess. That’s all those wretched, vile beliefs are to him. A mess, something that can be sorted out with solicitors. Something to be swept under the rug and left there to fester until someone brave enough exposes it to sunlight.

“You’re just jealous that I’m more clever than you. Blood doesn’t dictate as much as you wish it would, does it, Malfoy? It’s certainly never stopped me from brewing circles around everyone else in this castle, including you, and you hate me for it. You hate that I’m better than you.”

He snorts, the sound hollow and not remotely amused. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. But we both know,” he turns his lips to her ear, and his whisper sends an involuntary shiver down her spine. “That I’m right about you. You might be brilliant, but you’ll never, ever belong.”

It’s not mudblood, but it’s close enough.

Hermione’s hand flies up to slap his face before she knows her brain gave the go-ahead, but Malfoy’s seeker reflexes kick in. He catches her arm mid-air.

“Don’t,” she whimpers.

His eyes go dark. Her stomach turns over, as if she’s riding in the backseat of a car and the driver’s gone over a hill too fast. There’s not even the suggestion of a brake pedal, just reckless acceleration. She doesn’t know what she thinks he’ll do, but her heart pounds and her legs tremble and she hates that she sounds and looks this unsteady.

From behind the sofa, an irritated feline huff punctuates the taut silence, and both Hermione and Malfoy whip their heads around to see Her Grace, tail sweeping low against the rug, attempt to sneak past Crooks to Malfoy’s room. Crooks spots his archnemesis immediately, and with a primal yowl, charges after her.

Malfoy drops her wrist and steps back, as if burned. She backs away too, cradling her arm to her chest. The fire splutters. Neither of them speak.

Hermione cracks a smile, because it’s absurd, and to her surprise, Malfoy joins in with a good-natured chuckle. He has a nice laugh, when it’s not at her expense.

If she pretends to be his girlfriend, that nice laugh might be directed at her jokes, not at her social ineptitude. That’s something.

When she looks at Malfoy again, the storm inside his eyes has calmed. He looks settled. Certain. Determined.

“Alright. I accept your terms.”

She blinks at him in disbelief. Now that her anger has bled out of her, she feels… Drained. Like she could crawl beneath her duvet and sleep for hours.

Her shift in mood is, of course, completely lost on Malfoy. He winds his arms behind his back like he’s a junior professor about to launch into a lecture. “You won’t have to pretend to like me as much as you think. In fact, so far, your genuine reactions are selling it. Everyone’s been interpreting our little interludes as passion: they assume you resist because you don’t want your friends to know we’re together. In response, I’m doubling down on trying to win your affections, publicly and to your great dismay.”

Hermione shakes her head, still wary of his sudden capitulation. “I don’t know.”

But Malfoy is deep into his plotting now.

“When Pansy ‘steals’ me away from you, we’ll stage a disastrous breakup—that part will be easy. I’ll feign that I’m torn between two great loves, the implication being that I am only giving you up for a witch of Pansy’s caliber, and if you were good enough for me to pursue, you’re more than good enough for the rest of the wizards. You’ll have my stamp of approval.”

“Is that enough?”

He seems offended by the question. “Wealthy second and third sons will surely bite. Only a few half-bloods have enough money to support a failing apothecary, so a pureblood’s your best bet. You’d need to vet them, but… Yes, you’ll have your pick.”

Failing apothecary? The nerve.

And yet… She can’t focus on the slight. He’ll court her. That’s the important part. He’ll court her and get Pansy back; she’ll find the horcruxes and, potentially, a husband. That’d be a nice bonus.

She’s really going to do this. She’s really going to enter into a pretend relationship with Malfoy.

“I will?”

“You will. I’ll teach you everything you need to know to land a mediocre, pureblood husband. By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be the belle of the ball. The diamond of the season.”

She swears, not bothering to censor herself, and Malfoy’s wolfish grin positively drips with victory. Everything inside her, every bit of hard-earned instinct, screams at her to tell him her mind’s made up, that nothing he can say or do can convince her to make a deal with the devil.

But she doesn’t say that. She has to do this. For Harry. For the Order. For the fate of the magical world, even though most of its inhabitants would love nothing more than to cast her and others like her out.

Wouldn’t it feel good to make them see her? Force them to really look at her, in the same finery they wear, pantomiming their unimaginative rituals? Hold a mirror up to them and show them what they think makes them so different isn’t all that special?

That’s right. Anyone can do it. A muggleborn can do it.

Is that irrational? Probably. But she has a feeling Draco Malfoy is going to drive her to the very edge of madness—possibly beyond. And she can’t turn back now.

“Fine.”

“So we have a deal, then?”

Oh, how she wants to wipe that smug look off his face.

“I want rules,” she chokes out, mouth suddenly parched.

He rolls his eyes. “Of course you do.”

“No kissing.” Why Hermione felt compelled to say something so obvious, she’ll never know.

She swallows as his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip.

“What else?”

“I don’t like surprises, so don’t sneak up on me. Actually, we should plan our interactions in advance. I don’t like to be touched without some kind of warning. Not that I expect we’ll need to touch each other overmuch, even if it would bother Pansy.”

Malfoy peers down at her, shadows from the dying fire dancing across the sharp line of his jaw. “If I see an opportunity, you can’t expect me not to take it. But in general, I’ll keep to an agreed upon schedule of events. Like I said, carrying your books, passing notes. I won’t sit with you at meals, but I might bring you dessert.” He pauses, mulling something over. “I think you should come to my matches.”

“Absolutely not.”

She’s hated quidditch ever since she heard the word. It’s linguistically hideous; an assault on the ears. Phonetically, it sounds like something one might cough up during a bad bout of spattergroit. The sport itself is somehow worse.

Everything about quidditch triggers sensory overload. The electrified air before a match buzzes against her skin, making it crawl. The stands, bursting with bloodthirsty, screaming firsties and older students blitzed out of their minds, feel more like a war zone than a place to show school spirit. And the bludgers—mad, merciless things—careen through the sky with all the grace of chaos incarnate.

Quidditch is the very definition of noise, danger, and disorder. All things she strived to eliminate from her life as much as possible.

“If we were truly courting, you’d attend. You’d want to see me in my element.”

She grits her teeth, inwardly groaning at the thought of attending a match. Not more than one, she hopes. “When’s the next one?”

“There’s a bye this week, so the next one is the day after Wyrdwood.” Right, Wyrdwood. The next event. An autumn-themed festival in the woods, Theo said. “We’re playing Hufflepuff.”

“That’ll be a quick win, at least.”

“That’s the spirit.” Malfoy punctuates the sentence with a yawn. It’s not all that late, but he usually gets up early for practice. “And this might all be over by then. Maybe even before Wyrdwood, if we do this right.”

Hermione fumbles with the rose gold locket around her neck. “But you’ll still teach me everything I need to know, even if Pansy comes around tomorrow? You’ll help me navigate the rest of the season’s events and find the h—” Shit, she almost said horcrux. She coughs to cover the near-mistake. “Find the husband that will help me open my apothecary someday?”

“I will.”

“Swear it, then. On your house,” she says, the words coming out in a rush.

“We can do better than that.” Malfoy slips off his signet ring and holds it out to her. “Go on.”

Hermione stares at it blankly. What does he expect her to do?

He sighs. “I’m going to touch you now.” Malfoy takes hold of her left hand and slides the ring onto her left pinky, but it’s far too large. With only a brief hesitation, he tries her ring finger. It’s a perfect fit. “Enough warning?”

Inexplicable heat blooms across her skin. “Yes.”

She holds her hand up to her face, testing the weight of the ring, when Malfoy touches the tip of his wand to the warm metal.

“I solemnly swear, from now to the end of this courting season, to do my best to ensure you are betrothed to a suitable wizard of means.” He scoffs lightly, and she does too, amused by the ridiculous situation they find themselves in. Enemies, pretending to be lovers. “I’ll even help you choose the poor sod. Knowing you, you’d end up with a total idiot by accident.”

It’s apparently enough to seal the spell. A silver light fills the room, then flashes as it’s drawn into the ring. Hermione squints down at her hand in awe. The M at the centre glows pale and bright, as if it swallowed the moon.

“Did it work?” She asks dazedly.

“It did,” Malfoy says, gently twisting the ring off her finger and placing it back on his pinky. “All the Sacred Twenty-Eight have signet rings that bind a portion of their magic to a promise. It won’t let me not fulfill my part, so it’s best to only make promises I can keep.”

She can’t stop looking at her ring finger. For a second, she feels the icy chill of his magic again, though the shiver winding down her spine is probably due more to the dampness of the castle than an aftereffect of his promise.

“Thank you.”

It seems so large a sacrifice, to lock up part of one’s magic, even temporarily.

Why would he do that?

Malfoy scoops up Her Grace, clearly unbothered by what, to Hermione, seems so significant. The fluffy white cat huffs at him for disturbing her precarious perch on the back of the sofa, then goes happily limp in his arms. “We have a week to prepare. You know the harvest waltz?”

“Of course not.”

“Right, obviously. And you’ll need a gown befitting the occasion. No need to embarrass both of us.”

“I’ll find something. Sirius owes me after that red dress.”

Malfoy rocks back on his heels at the mention of his cousin. Surely Sirius won’t mind finding her another dress to borrow. Hermione really, really doesn’t want to ask Luna for one of hers. She’ll ask her far too many questions.

“Good, because he royally fucked it up last time. There’s no dinner, so there’s no need for me to instruct you on proper table manners. We’ll mill around, try different foods, dance. There’ll be alcohol, so don’t overindulge, but it’s chaperone-sanctioned so don't wave your badge around, either. What else…” Malfoy drags his fingers down Her Grace’s back, petting her as his thoughts trail off. “You should really do something with that nest you call hair.”

Nest? The audacity. Has he seen the shellacked nightmare attached to his head?

That gives her an idea.

“Alright,” she says, looking at him thoughtfully. “As long as I get to change yours, too.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Chapter Text

Draco stands grumpily in front of the mirror while Granger, standing on her tip toes with a look of intense focus, waves her wand over his head. She’d accosted him as soon as he’d finished his breakfast, shoving him back through his room and into their shared bathroom. Apparently she meant it when she said she wanted to change his hair.

He studies his reflection. Dark circles ring his eyes, and he’s paler than usual. He didn’t sleep well last night, but that was no surprise; he hasn’t slept well since Pansy decided they were through. But last night was worse. He’d tossed and turned after the conversation with Granger. He’d thought he had the upper hand, but she’d extracted more from him. And though they’d come to an agreement, it wasn’t until after she’d attempted violence.

The slap he intercepted was an echo from their past. That’s all. It didn’t bother him then, and it doesn’t bother him now. She was hurt by her own fantasy of how the world should be, and even now she can’t accept the reality of her position in it. It’s not his fault she insists on pushing him to tell the truth.

It’s a good thing Potter’s pursuing a career as an Auror and not Granger. Potter has some semblance of morality. Decency. An aversion to vigilante justice, if you will. Granger, however… Draco has the distinct impression Granger would go dirty within her first month on the job. He shudders to think of her interrogation methods.

“Maybe something a little more…” She casts another spell, and his hair grows long, flowing down past his shoulders like his father’s. “No, that’s not it either.”

“It might be easier if you tell me what you’re trying to achieve here,” Draco says, trying to speed the process along.

His fingers itch, and not because of the sliver of magic embedded in his signet ring. Making that kind of promise was… a choice. It’s old, deep magic. Not dark, but not light, either. At least it’s temporary.

They could’ve drafted a contract. Signed it in blood, even. But no, he had to show off. Had to sacrifice a piece of himself so she’d take him seriously.

Draco soothes himself with the knowledge that Granger would’ve figured out how to wriggle out of a contract, no matter how ironclad. The signet ring is better. It’s… neutralising a variable. Granger isn’t bound to him, but now she knows he’ll follow through with his end of the bargain, and Granger’s belief in him is essential to their success.

He refuses to examine how easily the promise had taken hold; how the white gold band featuring his family crest slipped on a muggleborn’s finger without spontaneously combusting. In fact, he’d felt a flicker of disappointment that nothing in the ring rose up to defend the sanctity of his name.

He’d always been told the ring knows a Malfoy. But how?

No other Malfoy would make such a promise.

Whatever. What’s done is done.

What he needs now is to wrap his hands around the handle of his Nimbus, push off the dew-drenched earth, and sail into the unseasonably sunny sky, destination unknown. This morning’s quidditch practice hadn’t been enough to satiate his need to fly. It’s too bad they have class in two hours.

His hair turns a ghastly shade of orange, akin to pumpkin, and Granger glares at her wand. “I’m trying to make it—but it won’t—”

“Maybe if you—”

“Hush.” Granger raps him twice at the top of his skull for his impertinence. His hair reverts to its usual colour. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

Yes, flying should clear his newly aching head. He twists his signet ring around his pinky, recalling his promise.

Fortunately, it shouldn’t be too hard to foist Granger on some hapless git with deep pockets. Not as deep as Draco’s obviously, but whose are? Longbottom’s already shown interest in her, and he’s got plenty to spare. Oakhaven Abbey rivals Malfoy Manor in terms of beauty and acreage, and Granger would probably swoon at the state of his greenhouses. They’d be perfect to grow all the ingredients a wannabe apothecary owner could ever need. But Longbottom’s potential to make a good lackey for Granger isn’t what makes him an appealing choice to Draco.

Revenge is far more compelling.

There’s no part of Draco that wants to see muggleborns openly betrothed to purebloods. Marrying them, begetting heirs with them… It’s the antithesis of everything that the original Sacred Twenty-Eight stood for, and what makes the Ministry’s current, misguided love affair with progressive policies so dangerous to their way of life. If they blend bloodlines together, how will anyone know who’s properly descended from Merlin and who’s a watered down charlatan?

Though, he can’t imagine any of Granger’s offspring being anything less than magically potent. Be that as it may, it’s still wrong.

One witch sponsored the bill to allow muggleborns to court, according to Nott, who overheard his father railing against the move in his private chambers. A powerful, influential witch. A witch who Draco already nursed a grudge against.

He’d never forget looking up from his creaky bench in the gallery into the sharp, satisfied eyes of Augusta Longbottom, sitting all prim and proper with her fellow Wizengamot members as they passed down the harshest possible sentence upon his father’s greying head.

Surely the matriarch of one of the most storied houses wouldn’t actually want the only living member of her family to sully their good name with a muggleborn. It’s one thing to introduce legislation, and quite another to see it enacted, up close and personal.

A wicked smile curls across his face. Nothing would ensure the Longbottom family’s fall from grace as much as a marriage to Granger. What was the muggle saying? Killing two birds with one serpent?

There remains the issue of their union corrupting the very thing his ancestors would want him to preserve, but… Draco will worry about that later.

He heaves a beleaguered sigh as Granger tries another spell. How did he let her talk him into changing his hair?

She’d said something accurate and annoying, like, “You can’t possibly expect people to believe we’re courting and not change anything about your appearance. Women like to leave their mark on their man.”

Draco could think of a lot of marks he’d like a witch to leave on him. Changing his signature hairstyle was not among them.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with how I wear it now. It’s classic.”

“It’s hideous. Even the witches I know who fancy you—which I can’t possibly begin to unpack the depths of the issues they’re harbouring if they find you to be husband material—think your hair is your weakest feature.”

Granger’s bluntness is as disarming as the late September sun, which beams into the bathroom through the small circular window. It bounces off gleaming tile nestled inside the castle's stonework.

“Not the colour, surely.”

Draco immediately regrets saying it. Now she knows his pride is wounded. Circe knows she’ll take advantage, either now or when he least expects it.

“No, the colour is beautiful. Muggles destroy their hair trying to achieve this shade.” That’s more like it. “Your problem is in the styling. The way it’s slicked back makes you look even pointier than you already are. Kind of like an albino ferret.”

He winces in the mirror. Now that she’s said it…

Draco hastily reconfigures his face into a sneer. “Pansy never said anything about my hair, and need I remind you, the point of all this is to appeal to Pansy.”

Granger sets her hands to her hips. “How do you know the hair didn’t play into the breakup?”

Surely not. But then again, no one else has had the guts to tell him he looks a bit ferrety. The incident, as he prefers to call it—the one where Barty Crouch Jr, masquerading as Alastair Moody, transfigured him into a white ferret—is never discussed in his presence, but he’s certain it’s whispered about when his back is turned.

How the school administration allowed such depravity is unbelievable. Even telling his father about it hadn’t moved the headmaster to enact justice.

He should’ve told his mother. Narcissa Malfoy knows how to get things done. If she’d been more involved in his father’s efforts, the Dark Lord would probably be holding court right now.

Suitably chastened, Draco gestures for Granger to carry on. She tries a few more times, consulting a battered Charms book haphazardly propped up against a toothbrush holder, before they both stop and stare at his reflection.

He almost doesn’t recognise himself.

His white-blond hair, which has the tendency to lean more yellow underneath his usual gel, gleams a bright white. And it’s short. She’d cut it close at the sides, tapering the back cleanly to the nape of his neck, leaving just enough length on top; long enough to tousle. It’ll be dashing when he flies. The sharp line of the fade emphasises his cheekbones and the unyielding cut of his jaw, but there’s a softness in the texture at the top, a wave so slight it would only be seen by someone who knows where to look.

Draco arches his neck to see himself at different angles. He runs his fingers through it, once, twice, before Granger makes a small sound at the back of her throat.

Salazar fucking Slytherin, he looks… Older, in a good way. Unquestionably handsome. A trifle villainous, if he flashes an incisor.

It’s a hell of an improvement.

Not that he’s going to tell Granger. She doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of his verbal approval.

“Your mother should have named you after herself,” Granger mutters at his side. “You’re welcome.”

He ignores her comment. It’s not that witty. “My turn.”

“I don’t think I’m done, actually,” she says, twirling her wand.

Draco eyes her warily. “We agreed that you could change my hair in exchange for remedying whatever’s going on with yours.”

“So we did. But now that I’ve seen what you look like with a modern hairstyle, I’m inclined to see what happens if we make a few more minor adjustments.”

“How minor?”

Granger’s answering grin is downright maniacal. But his hair looks so bloody good…

He sighs. He’s going to regret this, isn’t he?

Thirty minutes later, Draco doesn’t recognise his bedroom. His furniture, which was previously soulless and dusty from neglect, gleams with a fresh coat of polish. The mahogany desk is wider, the chest of drawers taller, and the matching four-poster stands proud at the centre of the room—not with Slytherin green curtains, but rich, dark blue ones, embroidered with silver thread. New bookshelves, transfigured from empty boxes, flank his diamond-paned window. Each shelf is dedicated to one of his classes, housing his equipment and textbooks. Granger even labels them in her prim, swotty handwriting.

He’d appreciate the gesture a lot more if she didn’t give him a dressing-down whilst doing it.

“How do you find anything with this sort of organisational system? Is it even a system?”

It’s not, but he’s not going to admit that Pansy used to help with these things. Keeping tidy was easier when he knew she’d make a weekly inspection. Not only would she hold him accountable for the state of his bed linens; she’d also take inventory of his personal effects and quietly make only the most necessary adjustments.

Without her, Draco has had little motivation these past few weeks. His sheets are clean, his clothes are laundered, but other than that, he’s been adrift. He’s not sure how to function without the sound of her heels clicking across the castle’s stone floors.

Draco had never asked her to help with such things. She’d done them without asking, like any pureblood wife would. She didn’t weigh in on his choices, or pass judgment, or say anything, really.

Granger, on the other hand, is ruthless in her assessment of his—well, everything. Next she attacks his closet.

“Those are perfectly good jumpers,” Draco whines as Granger flicks idly through a modiste’s lookbook worth of choices, displayed by a custom colour-changing charm.

“I regret to inform you that, while owning a significant amount of black jumpers does, admittedly, make you more mysterious, it does not make you more interesting. You still need a personality—beyond being filthy rich. Contrary to popular belief, witches do not want to date wizards who dress like vampires. Or literal vampires, either.”

He folds his arms and leans against a bedpost. “And what do you know about what witches like?”

“Well, I am a witch.” Still facing away from him, focusing her ire on the contents of his closet, Granger tosses the scraggly ends of her hair over her shoulder.

He can’t wait to get his hands on it.

Unable to suppress his reaction, Draco’s disbelieving laugh bounces harshly off the stone walls. “Granger.”

“You might not think of me as feminine,” she says, whirling around to look him in the eye. A dust bunny clings to one side of her white-button down, and her skirt is a wrinkled mess. “But just because I don’t dress up all the time or put on makeup only to sweat it off over a cauldron doesn’t mean I don’t have a sense of aesthetics. When I want to look good, I do. It’s just that there are usually more important things going on.”

Unbidden, his mind supplies the memory of walking in on her in their living room, poised by the window in that delicate pink outfit. For ballet, she’d said. According to her five minute rant earlier this morning, it’s French. Draco feels like he should know it, but he’s only recently made tentative forays into muggle culture, and only for couture menswear. And wine. And cars. If Christmas goes to plan, he’ll add driving the cars as well. Zabini makes it sound better than broom racing.

He’d covered his eyes at the first suggestion of her pale skin, but from what he saw, Granger had almost looked tempting. Almost, because he refuses to acknowledge the bits of her that he saw belonged to, well, Granger.

There’s the other matter, too; the one that Draco can’t believe no one’s ever mentioned to her. The ribbons she wears? The frilly socks? They’re… Suggestive. Alluding to lingerie. Maybe it’s different for muggles, but for magical people, lingerie is reserved for a husband’s eyes only.

Now that he thinks of it, her skirt from last night wasn’t quite regulation length. Granger’s essentially been giving a free show.

He’ll have to put a stop to it.

“Did you dress up for Krum?”

Draco’s posture is no longer a dignified lean; he grips the bedpost with tight hands. He doesn’t know why he asks. He doesn’t care.

Granger answers with a blush and a question of her own. “Do you always ask inappropriate personal questions?”

“Do you always deflect like a self-righteous prig?”

For a moment, he thinks she might call the whole thing off. But instead, she does something worse. She casts geminio on his solitary pillow, cloning it into not two pillows, but two dozen, in varying shapes and sizes. He suspects she’s repurposed some of his discarded shirts and robes into pillowcases: many of them have buttons, and most are bordered with velvet.

“Witches really, and I mean, really, love throw pillows,” Granger says with a vindictive gleam in her eye.

“I’m not keeping these on my bed.” Draco lazily lifts his wand to vanish one, but it only multiplies itself into two, leaving him with even more than he started with. “What is this?”

She ignores him. She’s already across the room, pawing through the contents of his mirrored nightstand tray like a niffler in search of gold. Her eyes narrow as she holds a brown-tinted bottle up to the light. She takes a sniff and immediately launches into a coughing fit.

“Please tell me I can dump out this cologne.”

“No.”

Privately, he doesn’t love the piney scent, but it was very expensive. The perfumer assured him it was exclusive. One of one.

“But it’s rank,” she pouts.

“No it isn’t.”

Fine, it is. He just hates throwing away a thousand galleons.

He tells her so, and she gawps in disbelief.

“A thousand galleons could—”

Draco is quick to cut her off. “If you spare me whatever lecture you’re about to launch into, you can vanish it.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

He sighs. “Go ahead.”

Granger vanishes it in an instant, dusting her hands off with a self-satisfied smile. She doesn’t say a thing, and in return, he doesn’t even complain when she opens the window and casts a series of air freshening charms. Afterwards, the room smells clean, and when a breeze rolls in and tousles Granger’s curls, he catches the faint, sweet scent of marshmallows.

Her Grace saunters in. She rubs against Granger’s leg, the traitor, but when Granger reaches down to pet her, Her Grace finally acknowledges Draco and leaps up onto the bed. Draco sits down beside her, cautiously testing the plushness of the pillows with his elbow. Not bad. He makes sure to sneer as he lies back and pulls Her Grace atop his chest, but he’s much more comfortable than he was when he had only the one pillow.

He lets her explore for a few minutes more, mostly so he can keep petting Her Grace. He’s so bored he might fall asleep listening to Granger flit around his room, humming as she catalogues his things.

Morning practice had worn him out. He and Goyle avoided each other both in the locker room and on the pitch. The pudding incident last night seems to have achieved the impossible: a temporary truce. Draco’s happy to let Goyle think it’s a truce, anyway. He doesn’t realise that Draco has a secret weapon which will have Pansy back in his arms posthaste.

Even after Draco caught the snitch several times, Crabbe chatted garrulously, trying to lure them into conversation. Neither of them took the bait.

None of the Slytherins want a repeat of last week’s disastrous scrimmage—or the fight that came after it. The season opener against Hufflepuff has to be clean. A decisive victory that cements their position at the top of the rankings.

Or, in Pucey’s words, no fuck ups.

Draco stretches one arm overhead and opens his eyes. “If you’re stalling, thinking I’ve forgotten that you agreed to let me do something with your hair as well, you can stop.”

“I hardly think we’ll have time before Arithmancy.” Granger sets her hands to her hips and widens her stance, as if temporarily expanding her physical footprint will help her win the argument.

Obstinate, foolish little thing.

“This is our big debut, Granger. The moment everyone else sees what I see. Well, what I’d see if this charade was the genuine article.” Her Grace abandons her spot on his chest with a hmph, and he brushes off a few white furs as he sits up in bed. “Right now, you’re a diamond in the rough. They need to see the diamond of the season.”

“I thought the diamond of the season was only a thing in historical romance novels.”

“I don’t know anything about your bawdy books—”

“Then how would you know they’re bawdy?”

“I’m drawing an assumption.”

Not that it’s any of her business, but before he took over his father’s responsibilities, Draco fancied himself an avid reader. At age fifteen, after consuming every adventure novel in the manor, he found a dogeared romance book underneath the false bottom of a desk drawer. It was old; it couldn’t be his mother’s. At least, he hoped to all four founders that it wasn’t his mother’s.

Draco hadn't liked it, or the others he found after it. Completely unrealistic drivel, was what they were. But he did find certain portions useful. The things magic can do in the bedroom… The very ideas would make Granger blush from head to toe.

Of course, he’s waiting to be married to explore those sorts of things. Wouldn’t want word getting around that he’s unconventional.

He refocuses on Granger’s wild mane with a pointed stare.

“Fine, let’s just get this over with,” Granger sighs.

He follows her into the bathroom so they can once more make use of the mirror.

Damn, he really does look good.

Draco forces himself to look at Granger instead. Big, wary brown eyes stare back at him as he raises his wand and begins the litany of spells he’s had memorised since childhood.

Miraculously, Granger transforms under the influence of his magic. The tangles and frizz he’s come to associate with her hair disappear, replaced by shiny, bouncy brown curls that spiral down her back, all the way to her waist. He didn’t even use a lengthening charm.

The effect is quite fetching.

“Under two minutes,” he boasts. “The time it takes to read, what, three inches of an essay?”

She leans closer to the mirror, lips parted in awe. “How?”

“My aunt has curls like yours. When she and my mother were close, they used to do their hair together before soirees. I’d wait for them to finish, back when I needed help with my tie.”

He smooths his palm over his trinity knot as a memory takes hold.

“There now, little dragon.” His mother smiles at him before admiring her handiwork. “You nearly had it.”

Draco, age 9, beams with pride beside one of the glittering fir trees in the drawing room. Garlands drape over every doorway, stockings hang by the mantle, and the scent of warm cinnamon suffuses the air. Christmas has come to Malfoy Manor, along with all the social occasions that accompany the season. He’s been practicing tying his tie and styling his hair; hopes his father will notice his attention to detail.

“You shouldn’t baby him so, Cissy.”

Aunt Bella scowls, skirts swishing as she lowers herself to kneel beside them on the cold marble floor. She smells like smoke and curl cream. Her curls have been somewhat tamed, but they aren't as sleek as they once were.

“I’m not a baby,” Draco pouts. He curls his fists at his side.

She draws her wand; rolls it between bony fingers. “Maybe you should prove it.”

His mother steps between them. “Just because he hasn’t done accidental magic yet doesn’t mean he doesn’t have it. I already told you, we consulted the experts. He’s not a squib.”

“Experts at St. Mungo’s? They don’t know anything. You should have consulted your dear sister. Draco here just needs the proper motivation.”

“Stop—” His mother protests, but Aunt Bella has already cast. An angry red cut slices across Narcissa Malfoy’s alabaster cheek.

Draco cries out as he reaches for his mother, but his magic flies out of his fingertips before they touch her skin. Frost laces over the wound in symmetrical filigrees, healing her in an instant.

“Elemental magic.” His aunt’s eyes shine with something sinister. “Isn’t that interesting?”

“Your aunt?” Granger’s question drags him back to the present. Those big brown eyes of hers shift to meet his in the mirror.

“Bellatrix.”

“Aren’t she and your father…”

“In Azkaban together?” Granger waits him out, but there’s nothing to say. His father became a shadow of himself under the eyeless watch of the dementors, but Aunt Bella… She’d changed much, much earlier. Maybe his mother was right, and it was the occlumency, but privately, Draco has his own theory for what broke her.

There is a cost to powerful magic. It takes a lot of it to torture another human being. And it’s easy to overextend yourself and get carried away if you’re… enjoying it.

Draco shudders. “It’s none of your business. No one will ask you about my family.”

Though she surely has a million more questions, Granger relents with a single nod. Thank Merlin for small mercies.

“Show me the hair charms again?”

It’ll be more efficient to do a hands-on demonstration.

“Touching you,” he says, acknowledging her rule just before his hand encircles her wrist. Granger has a lot of ridiculous rules, but this one, for some reason, feels important to respect. He’s not sure if she asked for it because it’s him doing the touching, or if it’s some personal hangup. It might simply be a muggleborn thing. That makes the most sense: Granger’s not like other witches. Not that he needs the reminder.

Draco guides her through each flick and swish, explaining the implications of each movement. Granger is a rapt audience, and he finds himself expanding in places, introducing minor variations should she wish to switch things up. Pansy’s eyes glazed over whenever he showed her how to recreate one of his potions. Granger, however, watches him like a hawk and succeeds in replicating the results on her first try.

She plays with a glossy curl at her temple, tilting her head from side to side, admiring the way the sun brings out the many shades of brown in her hair. “Thank you.”

“Now who’s the narcissist?” He smirks.

“Shut up.”

He allows her another moment. She probably doesn’t feel pretty often. And it was nice, all the sprucing up she did.

Eventually, he says, “Come on, it’s time to waltz.”

“We don’t have time for that.”

“We do. It won’t do for us to show up early. No one will see us. The whole point is for them to see us.”

Granger drags her locket along her bottom lip, hesitant but determined. “Right.”

She follows him into the living room. With only a few words, he collapses the furniture, including the crimson sofa, into miniature versions of themselves, so small they would fit in a dollhouse. Only the threadbare rug and a record player remain.

Draco offers her his hand, palm up, but Granger doesn’t meet his gaze. He wiggles his fingers. They haven’t got all day, and he’s not going to coddle her.

“Tell me you’re not going missish on me.”

She hesitates, then puts her hand in his. He closes his thumb across her fingers. Something jolts against his skin, but he leans into it, chasing the current for the few seconds it exists, as he bows to her.

Muscle memory is powerful magic. Draco bows with elegance and ease, a motion he’s perfected thanks to years spent under the scrutinous eyes of numerous tutors. The main thing he has to remember is to dip his body lower for her. Granger’s his pretend—girlfriend? Whatever she is; she deserves more than the standard display of respect.

When he rises, Granger asks, “Do I curtsy?”

Draco nods. To his shock, she executes a passable curtsy, gingerly lifting the edge of her skirt with her free hand. On anyone else, the move would read as dated, but on her, it’s demure. She dips the appropriate amount, and her timing is right, neither too fast or too slow.

Salazar. Granger can be feminine.

Some unnamed emotion expands in his chest. They’re going to pull this off. He and Granger are going to set the rumour mill ablaze, and Pansy won’t let it stand.

There’s just one problem: Granger won’t look at him. She looks everywhere but at him, as if she expects to be ambushed, before putting her head back down.

“Relax your shoulders,” he says, softer than he intends to. “Lift your chin. It’s a dance, Granger, not a duel.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mumbles.

Why won’t she look at him? She can’t be nervous.

Her feet, enclosed in frilly socks and those undeniably classic mary janes, shift on the rug.

Shit. She is nervous. That unnamed bubble of emotion deflates even quicker than it formed.

He clears his throat. “The harvest waltz is simple. Seven figures. You’ve seen a Viennese waltz before, yes? It’s almost identical.”

“Right.”

Granger is still elsewhere. This won’t do.

“Pay attention, your future husband expects you to dance.” Finally, her eyes snap to his, sharp and narrowed. This is more like it. “Put your other hand on my shoulder, just there. Good. Now, follow my lead and you’ll be fine. I’ll count.”

“You’re just going to lead? No other instructions?”

“It worked with the hair charms, didn’t it? Let’s go.” Draco finds the small of her back and steps forward, guiding her into the dance. “One, two, three. Step, side, together… You’re making a box with your feet, don’t overthink it.”

She fumbles, even with the steady press of his hand against her lower spine. Her nose collides with his chest, but he doesn’t let go, keeps their bodies moving in time with the song in his head.

They’re not ready to add music just yet.

“Ow. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, just keep going. One, two, three.”

They get better as they whirl around the room. Smoother, faster. She’s a quick study. Always top marks. He doesn’t know why he thought this would be any different.

She’s looking at him, taking direction like a dream. They’re practically flying.

“I can’t believe this is working,” Granger says, half-breathless.

“Told you.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re thinking again,” Draco chides right before she stumbles. He doesn’t know how he knew she would, but he did. He sweeps her into the next movement, turning her mistake into a twirl, just because he can. “See how much better it goes for you when you let me lead?”

She glowers but goes along. “You know, arrogance actually works for you. I’ve never met anyone more sure of himself.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t entirely meant as one.”

“Mm.” His mouth curves. “And yet you’re still following.”

Her brows knit. “I am not—”

He pivots them sharply, guiding her through a more intricate sequence, the kind that requires a trust they don’t yet have. She keeps up—barely—but when Granger lands exactly where he intends her to, he leans closer, voice silk-smooth.

“You were saying?”

There’s little more satisfying than leaving Granger speechless. They complete another tour around the room before she issues another demand disguised as a question.

“Try the twirl again?”

There’s that competitive streak.

He obliges. This time, she feels it coming and executes it perfectly, returning her hand to his as if it belonged there. It’s disconcerting, and yet the best sign so far that this business with Granger is going to be what brings Pansy running back to him. They’d danced together since they were children and never fit together this well.

Probably because Pansy doesn’t take instructions, at least from him. Understandably so; she was born to give them. Granger, however, seems hungry for more.

There’s something about the way she yields. Pansy permitted him many things, but it was different than… Whatever Granger is doing right now. He can’t define it, but her lips are parted and her cheeks are pink and all her attention is on him. Pansy’s going to be absolutely livid when she sees him whisk Granger across the dance floor with this much polish and ease.

Draco grins. He can’t wait.

“Why an apothecary? Why not dancing, if you’re this good at it?”

He anticipates her surprise and lifts her briefly off the floor, slowing the dance. She leans into the lift without thinking, and he elongates the hold, transforming it into something more complicated that allows him to support her entire weight with only one hand. An unspeakable satisfaction burns through him when she doesn’t question it, only moves at his direction.

He pulls her close again. This isn’t part of the harvest waltz. They’ve got that down without a doubt. But he’s never held Granger captive and finds himself reluctant to let her go. He tightens his grip, thumb smoothing over the ridges of her ribs.

When she answers him, her words are breathy. “I want to stay in the magical world, for one. Ballet isn’t a thing here. For another, it’s hard on your body.”

“Makes sense; so is being a seeker. I plan to play for only a few years.”

She hums in acknowledgement. “I love everything about brewing. Matters can either go terribly wrong or fantastically right: something as small as an extra drop of dittany might make you a genius ahead of your time or have you tossing your cauldron out the window before your whole house explodes. I’ve been helping Snape tinker with some of the more common potions. He insists they can’t be improved upon, but—”

“You have theories.”

“I do,” she smiles. “And I think I can help people.”

Draco can’t help himself. “If Snape were here, I’d be competing with you for that apprenticeship.”

“And I’d wipe the floor with you.”

“He’s my godfather.”

“He’s my mentor.”

They come to an abrupt halt in the middle of the living room.

“I suppose it’s a good thing then that neither of us have to worry about it, since he’s not here, and Slughorn wouldn’t pick either of us even if the only alternative was a flobberworm,” Draco says, infusing some humour into his voice. “The Ministry might remove him for awarding it to the son of a famous Death Eater.”

He slackens his hold, but his attempt to deescalate doesn’t go over as he hoped.

“And I’m a muggleborn. Don’t worry, Malfoy, I haven’t forgotten.” Granger realises her hand is still clasped in his and jerks it away, leaving Draco to awkwardly drop his arms back to his side, suddenly empty.

She agrees with him. He agrees with her. So why does it feel like he’s somehow in the wrong?

“We should go.”

Feeling slightly spun, Draco steadies himself. “I’ll get your books.”

Granger stalks toward the door, grabbing both their robes from the coatrack. She hurls his at him before angrily punching her arms through her sleeves and fastening the clasp, not waiting to see if he does the same. She yanks open the door but pauses at the threshold. Her shoulders are up by her ears.

Just moments ago, she was completely at ease in his arms. The sudden shift makes it seem like he’s letting her down a little, even though this is the more natural state of things between them.

“Come on, let’s get this over with,” she seethes.

Even in fury, her posture is straight, and her touch is light. In profile, someone with a less discerning eye could almost mistake Granger for a pureblood lady. It feels wrong, but this is what he wants, isn’t it?

Draco swears under his breath as he joins her in two long strides. He offers his arm, and she brings hers to rest atop it. He heaves a sigh.

Let their pretend courtship commence.

Chapter Text

As Malfoy leads her down portrait-lined corridors and up shifting stairways, Hermione can’t stop touching her hair. How in the bloody hell did he manage to take a process that took her a full hour, even with magic, and condense it into two sodding minutes?

And he’s a man. It begs the question: what else do the other girls know?

She could’ve had good hair for years, if she’d known to ask. Not that she would’ve asked Malfoy, because he was an utter knob—especially to her. Harry hated Malfoy, and for good reason, but she hadn’t thought about Malfoy as much when Harry was around: she was too busy making sure the Boy Who Lived didn’t become the Boy Who Died. She wouldn’t have asked anyone else either, because asking for favours is deeply uncomfortable, so it’s a moot point, but still, she could’ve!

And the dancing! As much as she loathes to compliment him further, even in the sanctity of her own mind, Malfoy is an excellent dancer. Some people take years and years of lessons and can’t move like that, let alone guide a partner.

What else can Malfoy do?

She plays with her rose gold locket, tugging it up over her chin to run the chain along her bottom lip. It’s her comfort, a muggle thing in a magical world, given to her by her mum and dad when Hermione began to feel self-conscious about her unusual impulse to chew at the collars of her shirts. She’d tried to explain—to friends, to family, to doctors—that she had to do it. Chewing soothed her in uncomfortable situations, and as she grew, so did the uncomfortable situations, in both number and scope. Suddenly social lives, especially amongst girls, were considered all-important, and Hermione was teased relentlessly for her chewing—amongst other things.

Her parents did their best to help her be accepted. They tried spraying a bitter-tasting liquid on her shirts. They tried switching to thinner fabrics. As a last-ditch attempt, they tried candy necklaces, and that’s when Hermione realised that dragging something rough across her lips worked just as well as chewing. The locket, and the treasure tucked inside, was her big gift for her tenth birthday. She’s worn it ever since.

Harry and Ron chided her about it from time to time when they caught her fiddling with it, but Malfoy doesn’t seem to mind her odd little habit. Or maybe he hasn’t noticed. Not everyone notices the little details like she does.

They pass a large, diamond-paned window, and the sun makes a home in Malfoy’s hair. The effect is devastating: neck-snapping, even, judging by the way younger students’ heads whip in their direction. Having never made an attempt to cut anyone else’s hair but her own, Hermione wasn’t sure how it would turn out, but she shouldn’t have worried.

It’s only… She hadn’t meant to make him this pretty. He certainly doesn’t need more female attention, and he definitely, definitely doesn’t deserve it. Malfoy is a menace when he receives the slightest hint of praise. He gulps it down like air, like he’s starving for it. Like he’s been actively deprived.

No, she’d had her own reputation in mind when she cut his hair. He looked like a git with it slicked-back, and she’d never be seen with him as long as he wore it that way. But she’d had his comfort in mind, too, cutting it short enough so it doesn’t fall in his face too much, mostly because she hates having her hair in her face. She can’t think with her hair strangling her, not to mention it’s a safety hazard for potioneers. On the rare occasion that she wears her hair down, she keeps a ribbon tied around her wrist. Just in case.

It’s down now, and surprisingly unintrusive. There’s no need to wear her hair up for Arithmancy, and besides, the intention is that everyone will see her with her new silky curls and her new fake... Boyfriend? She should probably ask Malfoy if there’s some special distinction for the wizard you’re courting.

God, she’s just realised how much more time they’ll have to spend together if she’s going to learn everything she needs to pretend she’s husband hunting as well as horcrux hunting. Neither of which she knows how to do.

She should really be in the library. She thinks that’s maybe what Dumbledore meant when he said she might find some answers in the usual place.

If only she could disentangle herself from Malfoy, but it’s not meant to be. It’s as if the universe decided to suddenly become sentient with one goal in mind: ruin Hermione Granger’s final year in her favourite place in the world.

From the moment she found out they’d be Head Boy and Head Girl together, she knew, in her gut, he’d spoil everything. She’d tried to ignore the feeling, tried to limit his involvement in her life as much as she could, between managing the prefects and tucking herself away in her room to read, but Malfoy is so, so… Imposing. Impossible. Infuriating. It’s the way he always has to have the last word. The way he sneers down at her like he’s better than her, like he’ll always know something she doesn’t. The way he walks into every room like he owns everything inside those four walls, even the air they breathe.

Worst of all, he knows exactly how to get under her skin, embedding himself like a splinter just deep enough that she can’t quite dig him out.

If only Harry was here. None of this would be happening if Harry wasn’t out saving the world again.

She winces, ashamed. How uncharitable it is of her, to be thinking of how terrible she has it attending balls and indulging in the delicious food and beautiful atmosphere of courting season, when who knows what horrors Harry gets up and faces every day.

Wherever he is.

Hermione tightens her grip on Malfoy’s arm. They haven’t run across anyone they know yet, but they’re nearing Professor Vector’s classroom.

She can do this. She has to do this.

“Look alive,” he warns right before they turn the corner.

Her heart rate picks up. It’s showtime.

Zabini, who looks more like he’s going to a muggle rock concert than a magical maths class in that studded jacket of his, spies them first. He gives them a once over, grins, and nods his head in approval before ducking into the classroom.

Okay, maybe this won’t be so bad. Wordless acceptance is leagues better than Slytherin disdain.

Hermione’s relief is short-lived. Padma and Parvati are headed their way. Her stomach twists, and the back of her throat feels raw. Pulling one over on a disinterested snake is one thing, but the twins? It’s said they have a touch of the Sight: that made-up magical ability Professor Trelawney claims to be a vessel for every time her eyes go starry. But unlike with Trelawney, students take the twins’ talents seriously, seeking them out when they need answers to life’s problems.

Parvati dabbles in the arcane arts; mostly vedic astrology and reading tarot. Padma boasts that when she’s alone, she can walk the silver cord between worlds, allegedly able to slip free of her body and drift through the astral plane. Allegedly. Hermione doesn’t believe a word of it.

She’d often caught sight of Parvati, face half-lit by the flickering candles in the Gryffindor common room, henna-covered fingers dancing over well-worn cards as Lavender and the other girls leaned in with bated breath, hearts tangled up in teenage yearning. Their questions were always the same.

Does he fancy me?

When will she ask me on a date?

Are we soulmates?

Parvati’s answers were maddeningly vague; delicate prophecies swathed in mist and gauze, completely open to interpretation, delivered with a beatific smile.

She’s observant, that’s all. That’s the trick to making people believe you’re psychic. If the students here were exposed to the buskers in Covent Gardens, they’d see right through Parvati’s tricks.

Still, Hermione envies the way Parvati commanded attention. The other girls seem to leave the readings lighter, any worries smoothed over with lyrical reassurances. Parvati never foretold disaster. If things went sour with a love match she’d predicted, it was never a misinterpretation. With a flick of her wand, she pulled up the astrological charts of all parties involved and reconsulted Fate before declaring the breakup a divine detour, part of a larger celestial love story that would unfold in due time.

Bollocks, really, but they bought it.

Shit. What if they divine that she and Malfoy aren’t really together? The twins kind of know her, after all. What about everything she said on the train about him? Would they tell everyone and blow the plan to bits?

By Hermione’s hasty mental calculations, chances are non-zero that they won’t buy what she and Malfoy are selling. The visuals are supposed to fool them, distract them from her and Malfoy’s bitter sniping. Hermione’s books commingling with Malfoy’s under his other arm. Malfoy’s new haircut; her shiny curls. The self-satisfied smirk flickering on his lips.

That goddamn smirk.

Padma and Parvati spot them and their eyes light up, immediately clocking the way Hermione’s arm drapes over Malfoy’s. Hermione’s hackles rise.

It’s a good thing, their intrigued stares, even though her nerves don’t interpret it as such. This is the reaction she needs, the thing that will put a blessedly premature end to this madness. It still makes her skin crawl.

“Ladies,” Malfoy says as the twins approach. When did his voice get so smooth? It sends a weird kind of shiver down her spine.

“Malfoy,” Padma dips her chin. “Or should we say Lord Malfoy?”

“Whichever you prefer.”

They both titter in response, as if his reply was terribly witty.

Parvati sweeps her fringe out of her eyes and looks Hermione up and down before turning her attention back on Malfoy. “Hermione looks good on you.”

Malfoy drags his thumb up and over Hermione’s pinky, the movement both slow and possessive. They’re already touching, so it’s technically within the rules, but it’s still unnerving. She flinches. Hopefully no one notices.

“I can’t help but agree.”

“So you’re an item, then?” Parvati presses.

“We’ve heard rumours, of course, but nothing beats hearing straight from the source.” Padma grins, probably because this is the juiciest gossip in ages. Maybe ever. A pureblood courting a muggleborn? It’s never been done. Harry’s parents wed in secret.

Malfoy turns his grey gaze to her, and Hermione’s spine stiffens. She should say something, affirm their suspicions, but it’s like she’s been hit with a particularly effective stunner. She told Malfoy she couldn’t pretend, and now it’ll all fall apart, and it’ll be her fault that Harry doesn’t find the horcruxes—

She can’t do this. She’s too hot. The castle is usually freezing cold, but she’s burning up underneath her robes.

Just as she thinks she might cut and run, an icy ripple of cold magic sweeps through her. Malfoy’s magic. It has to be. But she never saw his lips move.

Did he do that wordlessly and wandlessly?

Will he teach her?

“We’re courting,” Malfoy says finally, the two words calm and definitive. Her knees buckle under the weight of his stare. He snaps his arm upwards, restabilising her.

“We knew it,” they squeal at the same time.

The twins’ excitement is palpable, and suddenly Parvati’s hand playfully pushes at Hermione’s shoulder. “Well done, Hermione. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Hermione’s jaw tightens. “Didn’t think I had what? Potential?”

Malfoy’s thumb stops stroking her pinky.

Startled, Parvati drops her hand, but covers her reaction with a serene smile. “Don’t be silly. No, I should have seen this when I read Pansy’s cards the other night… But I thought the surprise might be of a different nature…”

Of course it’s some divination nonsense. Guilt swamps her. She shouldn’t be so touchy. After all, the twins have done nothing but help her so far this year. Hadn’t they helped get Malfoy off her case on the train? Hadn’t they refreshed her hair and makeup at the tea?

“And to think you said you weren’t even interested,” Padma says slyly. “You just wanted to keep him for yourself. Does Pansy know?”

There’s a pause, charged and brittle, before Malfoy swallows hard enough for Hermione to hear. “She will now.”

Pansy appears beside Parvati. Her lips are pursed in a thin line, and she looks like she walked right off the runway in a little black dress under her perfectly pressed robes. A diamond encrusted cái kẹp tóc keeps her hair in place.

Goyle is nowhere to be seen.

“Come now, Malfoy.” Her words are silky-soft, unlike her tone. “Catching you in flagrante delicto at the tea was one thing, but now you’re parading her around? You can’t be serious.”

Malfoy tugs Hermione closer, guiding her in front of him like a human shield. “I’m merely making my intentions clear. You know; my mother knows. I don’t see why everyone else shouldn’t.”

“His mother,” Padma whisper-gasps to Parvati.

“You’re just… dabbling.” Pansy waves dismissively.

Hermione sneaks a look at Malfoy. The only person they need to convince is Pansy, and for the moment, it looks like she isn’t buying it.

“Good Godric. Hermione?” Anthony strides towards the group. He whistles, then notices the way Malfoy’s fingers curl around her upper arm. “Sorry, are you with Malfoy now?”

Five pairs of eyes snap to hers. Hermione nods, unable to get the words out. The attention is overwhelming.

“Hmm.” His eyes flick up to Malfoy, then back at her. Hermione could swear Malfoy’s arm tenses. “Save me a spot on your dance card, will you? You look fit.” Anthony runs a hand through his dark hair as he looks at her one more time, then dips into Transfiguration.

Pansy sticks her nose in the air and sniffs. “Men really are pigs.” She spins on her heel, running face-first into Daphne Greengrass. Daphne falls backwards onto her bum, books scattering. Pansy hugs herself across the middle, and if Hermione isn’t mistaken, tears threaten at the corners of Pansy’s eyes. Maybe Malfoy’s plan is working. “For fuck’s sake, Daph, watch where you’re going.”

As Pansy storms off, Malfoy lets go of Hermione. He kneels on the floor beside Daphne, quickly casting a healing diagnostic. It comes back clear, and he gathers her books and helps her up.

“He could fix me,” Parvati sighs.

“He could break me,” Padma giggles.

Without so much as a backward glance, Malfoy escorts Daphne into Arithmancy, leaving Hermione and the twins alone in the emptying corridor.

Padma adopts a dreamy expression. “You’re so lucky, Hermione. How did you get him to notice you?”

Before she can make up an answer, Parvati grabs her wrist. “We should consult your stars. He’ll be hard to hold onto.”

Is Parvati suggesting she’ll lose him to someone else? That’s the plan.

Or is she implying one of them will try to take him from her?

Hermione snatches her wrist away. She might not be the best at reading other people, but they're supposed to be; can’t they see how uncomfortable she is? Don’t they care? She’s sick of everyone grasping at her, pawing at her like some sort of rare curiosity on display. When Harry was around, everyone’s attention naturally fell on him.

Can we see your scar?

You have your mother’s eyes! Such a shame, what happened to your parents.

Tell us what really happened in the graveyard, Harry. Cedric can’t have died from a cursed trophy. You can’t have defeated Voldemort on your own. There must be something you’re not saying.

He bore their questions with a grimace. Hermione, however, trained her wand on anyone who struck a nerve. Defending her friend came naturally to her, as does defending herself. Sirius and Lupin consistently praise her imaginative duelling. But now she’s caught up in Malfoy’s web of lies—willingly encased in silk—and she doesn’t know how to cast her way out of it.

Malfoy might be a repugnant, unrepentant spider, but at least he pays enough attention to remember to warn her before he touches her.

“Granger.”

Malfoy stands in the doorway of the Arithmancy classroom, half-shrouded in shadow, and yet the stress on his face is plain as day. One shoulder of his robe has slipped out of place. To anyone else, this would look casual, as if he, like many other wizards their age, couldn’t be bothered with wearing it properly. But to Hermione, that small abnormality is a clear warning.

He’s hit his limit.

Was it Pansy’s reaction? Did Daphne say something?

“See you later,” Hermione says to the twins.

“Come by Gryffindor Tower tonight,” Parvati insists before they go. “I’ll be giving readings.”

Malfoy cuts in before she can decline. “I’m afraid Granger’s evenings are rather busy.”

The twins shriek as they walk away, skirts swishing in tandem.

Hermione mumbles her thanks to Malfoy, half-expecting he’ll snap at her. He doesn’t. He remains solidly in the doorway. Waiting.

He doesn’t hold out his arm to her, or ask her with pretty words, but she knows he’s mentally summoning her to his side. And she knows she has to go to him. For now, anyway.

Malfoy lets her lead the way, and they enter just as Professor Vector begins her lesson. She huffs at the interruption as excited chatter erupts from every corner of the dusty classroom.

“Mr Malfoy, Ms Granger. Unless your duties as Head Boy and Girl explain this tardiness, I will take points from both your houses.”

“Oh, they’re sharing duties, alright.” Lavender giggles. “Snogging duties.”

“Lav, that doesn’t even make sense,” Hannah Abbott says, rolling her eyes.

Hermione takes her usual seat next to Neville, feeling a fierce blush creep up her cheeks. She tucks a curl behind her ear and she tries to hide her face as Malfoy pushes her chair in.

“Apologies, professor,” Malfoy says smoothly. After removing ten house points each from Gryffindor and Slytherin, the professor resumes her lecture. But Malfoy doesn’t move. She feels his presence behind her, the silent weight of it pressing on her thoughts like ice forming patterns on glass. “Longbottom, you’re in my seat.”

Neville doesn’t address him, instead taking the matter up with her. “Hermione, would you prefer to sit with Malfoy?”

“Yes,” she squeaks, stealing a look at him.

He throws her a curious glance, but when she doesn’t clarify, he begins removing his things from the desk. Malfoy looks smug as he stands. Neville, however, is no shrinking violet these days. He shoulder checks Malfoy on his way to sit in the back of the classroom.

“Watch it,” Malfoy growls. He drops into the seat next to her, but says nothing more.

Vector drones on about magical variables and theoretical constants, but Hermione isn’t listening. Not really. Not with Malfoy this close, his arm brushing hers every time he shifts, his parchment angled just enough for her to catch the cramped elegance of his handwriting.

Malfoy doesn't speak, not a word, but the silence between them feels louder than any argument they’ve ever had. He’s disappointed.

She knows she performed poorly. She told him she would, so it’s not like he wasn’t prepared. But almost everyone’s buying it. Almost everyone’s buying that she and Malfoy are together, even with her inability to pretend.

So far, anyway.

When class ends, Malfoy extends his arm to her, and it’s easier this time for her to take it. He guides her away from Lavender and the other Gryffindor girls. He dodges Theo, too, who doesn’t seem to mind, his usual knowing grin growing even wider.

They’re halfway back to their quarters when Malfoy mutters, “Not Goldstein.”

“What?”

Hermione heard him, but she’d expected him to chastise her, not pass judgment on her potential husbands. She’s not considering Anthony at all, but something in her still wants to hear Malfoy’s reasoning. Fortunately for her, he decides to continue.

“He’s not serious about courting you. I was drunk when I said it, but it’s true: he’d never choose a muggleborn for a wife.”

“I suspect you’re right.” Before she can say more, they’re stopped in their tracks by a series of feline shrieks. Nearly Headless Nick whoops as he sails past them, clearly delighting in spooking Filch’s elderly cat, Mrs Norris. Without thinking, Hermione claws her hand into Malfoy’s. “I hate it when he does that. It’s cruel.”

“Not her fault she has a power-tripping janitor for an owner,” Malfoy agrees.

Hermione unclenches. “Sorry. You were saying? About Anthony?”

“Anthony.” Malfoy sneers as they descend a wide, curving staircase. “I’m sure he endeared himself to you by allowing you the use of his first name. And let me guess: he showered you with all manner of flowery compliments to lure you into bed with him. But that’s all he wanted, Granger.”

“It wasn’t like that. And I didn’t go to bed with him.”

Did she imagine it, or did his steps just falter? Likely not. Dragonhide is notoriously grippy.

Malfoy looks down, watching his feet as they reach the bottom. “It’s for the best. Couldn’t carry on with him now that we’re pretending to be serious, could you?”

“Obviously not.” She hisses, doing her best to feign a smile as they pass a bewildered Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas. They don’t say hello.

“You should set your sights higher. If we look outside the Sacred Twenty-Eight… Zabini would treat you like an accessory. You’d be bored with Crabbe: he can’t hold two ideas together, let alone a conversation—”

“Can you really see me with a Slytherin?”

“Point taken.” He takes a beat to think. “Mahmoud Ali is a second son, you’d have a chance there. Ravenclaw, so he’s got brains, presumably, but you’ll have to move to Qatar. Michael Corner is a half-blood but there’s a decent amount of money there. However, there is that whole thing where he's slept with, oh, half our year? Might be awkward. Who am I forgetting? Hm. There’s Terry Boot, if you’re open to him having another partner as well.”

Hermione shakes her head. One husband will be quite enough, thank you very much.

Malfoy lists out a few Hufflepuff options, all with various dealbreakers. The Gryffindors with potential are mostly spoken for.

He casts a sideways glance at her. “What about Longbottom?”

Now she’s the one tripping over herself. “What about him?”

They’re almost home free. So close to being able to temporarily drop this ridiculous pretense.

“He fancies you.”

“He’s Sacred Twenty-Eight.”

“So?”

“So?” She whirls on him as they enter the privacy of their quarters. “Isn’t there some sort of oath all the Sacred Twenty-Eight signed to keep their bloodlines pure?”

“That’s a myth.” Malfoy hangs his robes and holds out his hand for hers, snapping his fingers impatiently.

“Well, he’s a friend, anyway.” She guides her robes off her shoulders and shoves them at him. He doesn’t need to hang hers up for her; they don’t have an audience.

“Longbottom is rich. He’s got land, money, connections.” Malfoy counts these proclamations off on his fingers. “His parents were martyrs. Seems like your type.”

Ignoring the implied insult, Hermione drags the chain of her locket across her lips. Maybe Neville should be her type. His eyes are an arresting shade of blue, and he’s grown into his height. He’s always been kind to her. And yes, he’s rich, and forward-thinking.

Malfoy senses her waffling, because he says, “These things take time. You still see him as a gangly mess with a fondness for wayward toads.”

What can she say? It’s true. When Theo brought him up as a potential candidate, she hadn’t felt the faintest flicker of attraction. But maybe that’s the way to go: build on a solid friendship.

“I’ll put him on my dance card. But I’m adding Anthony and some of the others, too.”

Malfoy looks at her quizzically as he reaches down to run a hand along Her Grace’s back. Oddly enough, the cat doesn’t take any swipes at Crooks when he crosses her path to get to Hermione. It appears they’ve brokered a peace. Whether the ceasefire is permanent or merely temporary remains to be seen.

“Why?”

Horcruxes, Malfoy. I need to find the horcruxes. Maybe Anthony’s family has one, or knows someone who does.

She shrugs, hoping it comes off nonchalant. “Maybe that will widen the pool. I can’t rely on Neville choosing me over, say, Daphne. If I dance with Anthony, surely other pureblood wizards will consider me a catch.”

“Dancing with me does that. I’ll make you the diamond, not that git.” Malfoy scoffs. “And Daphne would never marry Longbottom.”

“Why? Blood traitors need not apply?”

Hermione regrets the words as soon as they fly from her mouth. It’s one thing to accuse Malfoy of beliefs he very much holds, but she doesn’t know what Daphne Greengrass believes.

And that’s one of the most difficult parts of all of this, isn’t it? She shouldn’t have to go around walking on eggshells because she doesn’t know where she falls on every pureblood individual’s spectrum of tolerance. There’s no outward signal amongst her peers, like a pin or badge, that indicates who stands with muggleborns. And even if there were, their degree of support likely varies based on the situation. Especially if that situation threatens their privilege.

Malfoy stops petting Her Grace and straightens up to his full height. His expression shifts, darkening like a threatening storm.

“Your performance earlier was utter shit.”

Hermione crosses her arms, bristling, even though his accusation is undeniably true. “Excuse me?”

Malfoy takes a step towards her, jaw tight, eyes glittering with restrained fury. “I said it was shit, Granger. You looked like you’d rather be taken as my prisoner than as my wife. You flinched.”

“I did not flinch,” she snaps, though she absolutely did.

“You flinched, you nearly collapsed, and then you stared at my shoulder for the rest of class like I was about to draw my wand and hex you.”

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t gone off-script and ejected Neville from his desk just so you could sit next to me.”

He throws up his hands. “It’s called improvisation! Something you’re apparently allergic to.”

“I wasn’t warned about improvisation,” she hisses, stepping forward until they're toe to toe. She tilts her head back to deliver a withering stare. Irritatingly, Malfoy is even taller than Neville. “I signed up for a fake courtship, not—I don’t know, whatever that was.”

“I told you I would seek opportunities to strengthen appearances.”

He had said that, but she didn’t think his actions would have any impact on established seating arrangements. She should’ve known better. Malfoy is competitive; ruthless, even. He’s hell bent on getting Pansy back. He’ll stop at nothing until she’s his Lady Malfoy.

And… in the process, he will provide Hermione access to everything she needs to help Harry, and ultimately, herself. Malfoy won’t break his word. And if he puts half as much energy into helping her as he has into this scheme of his, she might actually stand a chance of success.

Reluctantly, she backs down; likely a first when it comes to Malfoy. Her fingers fly to her temples, rubbing in circles. “This is a disaster. I’m a disaster. They’re going to see right through us.”

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Because no one would believe you would agree to court me unless it was real. Or looked real enough to hurt.”

Hermione opens her mouth, then closes it. Annoyingly, he has a point.

“We can play today off like you’re so astonished that I chose you that you hardly know how to act.”

Nope, she can’t let that one go. “Do you ever get tired of trumpeting your self-importance?”

“I’m not trying to sabotage this, Granger.” His voice is harsh, but unmistakably honest. “We both want something. Let’s get it.”

It’s so reasonable that it disarms her entirely.

“Okay.” She blows out a long breath. “Okay.”

“Good,” he says, already moving on. “We have double Potions tomorrow. Pansy doesn’t care about Potions and usually ignores her brew in favour of catching up on her Magical Law reading, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she watches us instead. Do try to look like you actually chose this arrangement.”

She sighs. “Fine. I’ll do my best.”

She might not like Malfoy, or the feeling of being under a microscope that comes with being on his arm, but she is doing this for important reasons.

And when Hermione Jean Granger decides something is important, she intends to do it properly—Malfoy included.

Chapter Text

The morning after Draco and Granger launch their fake courtship, Goyle is conspicuously absent from quidditch practice. One of the fifth year Slytherins subs in, but he and Crabbe struggle to work together without shouting at each other from across the foggy pitch.

Everyone’s in a shit mood.

The sunshine they enjoyed last week is long gone. This is the Scotland Draco knows: damp and grey and miserable. The team’s rhythm is off, and their communication is lacking, but at least no one suffers any injuries. His black healer’s bag remains untouched at the bottom of his locker.

As he trudges back up the hill to the castle, desperate for a hot shower and a nap, Crabbe catches up to him.

“Nice catches today, Malfoy.”

Draco grunts in response. Pucey released a dozen snitches today, testing his fitness for the season opener. He’d caught them all, of course, and with his usual flair. Can’t let anyone think Slytherin’s greatest seeker won’t fly laps around anyone else. That Gryffindor scrimmage—not that it should count against him, seeing as what happened wasn’t his fault—was an anomaly.

Slytherin won’t lose again.

“I don’t play as well without Goyle,” Crabbe continues, shaking his head as he wipes away the sweat caught in his hair. The buzz cut shows off every lump and bump on his craggy skull. “Didn’t realise how much of the heavy lifting he does. Calling out the bludgers for me and all that.”

Draco sneaks a sceptical look his way. Has it really taken all these years for Crabbe to notice this? Goyle’s constantly compensating for Crabbe’s lack of natural talent.

“Quite.”

“Have you seen him? I mean, I know you’re not exactly on friendly terms at the moment, but—”

“Why would I care where Goyle’s fucked off to?” Draco sneers. “Let’s hope his absence is permanent.”

Crabbe stops in his tracks. “You don’t mean that.”

“You’ll find I have no room to think about someone who considered me so little when he convinced my future wife to break up with me and take up with him.”

“I’m relieved to hear you say it,” Crabbe says, blowing out a long breath.

“What?”

“That Pansy’s your future wife. Don’t get me wrong: I suppose I can sort of see the appeal of Granger. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crisps, if you know what I mean. But mudbloods are just for fun. For sport.”

For sport. Like it would be a jolly good time to track muggleborns across the marshes with bloodhounds; like it would be a lark to hunt them down.

“Don’t say that.”

“What? We all know it’s true. Your father always said—”

Draco spins on his heel, hand hovering over his wand. “You don’t think I know what my own father said?”

Crabbe puts his hands up in front of him. “Easy, mate. ‘Course I do. My father’s sitting right beside him, isn’t he? Goyle’s, too.” Crabbe puffs out his chest. “Our families have always been loyal to each other.”

Loyal? Draco rears back, both surprised and offended. There’s no loyalty amongst Death Eaters. One (or more) of his father’s fellow conspirators, likely someone very close to him, ratted him out as the Dark Lord’s right hand man in exchange for a reduced sentence.

Lucius Malfoy would never, ever crack under regular interrogation methods. There’s no way he confessed to helping plan what happened in the graveyard that night.

But Lord Crabbe? Lord Goyle? They probably sang like fwoopers.

Draco pierces Crabbe with a sharp look. “And you don’t think what Goyle did was disloyal?”

“It’s not like you’d made Pansy your property yet,” Crabbe points out, then quickly snaps his gob shut, reconsidering his words. “That is to say, you’re not magically bound.”

Draco’s hands curl into fists. He grits his teeth, biting back a snarl. “Whether we were magically bound or not, he had no right.”

His gut churns. The concept of witches as property is not new, but it is infrequently espoused, less so even than practising the dark arts. The courting season is specifically designed to put witches and wizards on as even a footing as possible, though of course money, purity, and prestige on either side cannot be ignored. He can’t imagine modern pureblood witches like Daphne and Pansy consenting to be treated the same as a tract of land.

If he didn’t already dislike the idea of Daphne entertaining even one dance with Crabbe—which fortunately, she wasn’t—he now loathed it. How can Crabbe be so enthralled with a witch so wild and free, yet only think of tying her down? And Granger?

She can’t even properly pretend to be courted. She’d hex the bollocks off any wizard who tried to shut her away in the countryside—not that Crabbe has bollocks.

It’ll never happen, but something especially bothers him about someone dimming Granger’s fire.

Crabbe, as always, doesn’t read the room. He can’t let the conversation go. “I just don’t like seeing you and Goyle at odds. Certainly being in the middle of it has been rather trying.”

“In the middle? That’s rather self-important thinking,” Draco snorts. “You’re not even involved.”

“You two are my best mates. Of course I’m involved.”

“Involved enough to know that they were talking?” Everything Draco needs to know is written in the deep red flush of Crabbe’s ruddy cheeks. What remains of his brittle restraint shatters. He grabs Crabbe by his sweat-soaked shirt, holding the tip of his wand to the soft, fleshy underside of his wobbly chin. “If you’re such a good mate, you’d have told me the first time you caught wind of it. You’d have given me a fighting chance before matters got out of hand.”

Crabbe swallows. “S-sorry.”

They’ve been drifting apart, the three of them, even before their fathers went to Azkaban. But this? This is a betrayal of the cruelest kind. Loyalty his arse.

He should deliver a nasty jinx and be done with the conversation, but Draco twists his wand, contemplating what he’d do if he was his father. Better yet, what would his aunt do if one of her goons stabbed her in the back?

But he is not his father. He’s certainly not his aunt. He wants nothing to do with the ways she liked to exact retribution.

His breathing turns laboured, and the temptation to occlude beckons sweetly from the recesses of his mind, but he fights to stay present.

Because he felt it yesterday, for the first time in forever; his healing magic turning to frost. He’d used it, albeit unwittingly, on Granger, of all people, when she nearly flipped out in front of their peers while launching their pretend courtship. It felt… Strong. Right. He’d missed it.

He doesn’t want to lose it again. First he has to figure out how to access it, and that means not dedicating his brain power to occluding. It means letting himself remember things he wants to forget.

It better be worth it.

He slashes his hand through the air. “Get out of my fucking sight.”

“Malfoy, come on.”

For a fleeting second, he sees his friend not as nearly twenty-two, but ten, when they used to fly over to Goyle’s and play exploding snap in the parlour, or quidditch in the back garden. Crabbe was always up for more, his smile ever-present even though he lost twice as much as he won.

But there were other games, too. The kind where one of them was deemed muggleborn—except they didn’t say muggleborn—and had to evade the others, lest they be sent to Azkaban (a treehouse at the far end of a field with a half-collapsed roof). Crabbe always took it too far, not knowing his own strength as he tried to haul whoever had the misfortune of playing the muggleborn through the tall grass, eyes too bright as he hurled crude insults at his captive.

Perhaps they had made a sport out of it.

Eager to forget that hungry look, Draco squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment.

“Just go.”

Crabbe lurches away, looking back at him only once before he disappears into the castle. A weight settles in the middle of Draco’s chest. He walks back to his quarters, rubbing the muscles there, but no amount of massaging seems to make it go away.

After Draco showers, he feeds both cats. It’s not that he likes Granger’s cat, who his brain has recently anthropomorphised into a greedy scamp rather than a demon burped into existence by the sulfuric pits of hell, but he’s sympathetic to his cause. Granger loves a lie-in, and Crookshanks, like Draco, prefers to eat immediately upon waking. Since the food Draco makes is simply better, and the great orange beast seems to be accosting Her Grace less often and with less vigour, he rewards him with the same meal.

Draco rather deserves a reward for handling that business with Crabbe better than his psycho aunt would have. She’d have cast Crucio, at the very least. That was always Aunt Bella’s favourite.

The night before they left for Dartmoor, Draco leaned to peer into the doorway of his father’s study. The moon, waning gibbous, illuminated the two figures within. His father’s hand rubbed the top of his cane as his aunt paced the length of the room. Both their faces were twisted with anger.

“You’re too soft. My sister and the boy have made you weak.”

Draco froze as the little hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.

“Draco doesn’t need it, Bella. Being called at all hours, having to watch that snake of his feed… We carry it so he has a future.”

She clicked her tongue. It sounded like a knife tapping glass.

“Watch it, dearest brother-in-law. The Dark Lord is the future. His time draws near. Don’t you feel it? Don’t you want your son to bear the Mark and join in the celebration?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, don’t sulk,” she purred, eyes gleaming with something feral. “It’s a privilege to witness the Dark Lord’s return… and privilege must be earned. Only the faithful are deserving.”

She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper that slithered like smoke.

“Tell me… you are still faithful, aren’t you? Crucio!”

Draco is jolted from the memory by the sound of the door swinging open. Granger staggers through the door, visibly frazzled. He moves on instinct, snatching up the empty cat food containers and rinsing them in the sink in an attempt to look busy. The interruption is a relief—though he straightens his posture, irritated at the indignity of being discovered wrapped up in memory.

“Oh, good morning,” she squeaks, clutching her robes closed.

His pulse refuses to settle. A light tremor lingers in his hands, as if it were he and not his father seizing under his aunt’s fearsome crucio in the memory. He’s almost grateful for Granger’s presence: she grounds him in the here and now.

Not that he’s going to thank her. He runs a hand over his hair and schools his expression, though a sliver of unease slips in: what, exactly, was his face doing before she came in? Did she see? Probably not. Granger seems… Off.

Her grip loosens, and he spies her wrinkled skirt; the one that’s slightly too short. Hang on. Is she still in yesterday’s clothes?

“Where were you?” He blurts out when she’s halfway to her room.

“Rounds. And then the, er, library. I needed to study.” Salazar, she’s bad at lying. Either she wasn’t in the library at all, or she was in there for reasons she doesn’t want to divulge. “We’ve got that Potions quiz later.”

Draco leans back against the worktop, eyeing her with suspicion. Slughorn had been their substitute professor before, at the beginning of fifth year, when Snape served his six months. His lessons were unimaginative, and the quizzes nearly always open-book. “Neither of us needs to study for that. You could ace it with your eyes closed.”

It’s both an accusation and an unintentional compliment, but Granger only seems to hear the latter. “Thank you.”

His fingers twitch. Whatever. It’s not like he cares about what Granger gets up to, as long as it doesn’t interfere with his plan to get Pansy back.

“We need to leave in fifteen minutes,” he warns. His voice is a little louder this time, irritation clipping his words.

She doesn’t give any indication of having heard him, instead sailing into her room. She shuts the door just as Crookshanks sneaks through after her, scruffy tail held high and cheekily licking his chops.

Ten and a half minutes later, Granger emerges as a new witch in clean clothes and simple makeup, her shiny curls kept at bay with the pink ribbon she keeps tied around her wrist. Draco yanks one of her school robes from the coatrack and practically throws it at her. He taps his foot as she takes her sweet time putting it on.

“The point is for people to see us together, Granger.”

“I’m aware. I’m rather busy, you know,” she huffs, laying her arm atop his.

Draco takes up a punishing pace as they head for the Potions classroom. “It must be pretty bleeding important. We have only a few more days before Wyrdwood, and you still have no idea what you’re getting into.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours. You didn’t need to do rounds last night; could’ve fobbed it off on one of the sixth years.”

After Arithmancy yesterday, he thought they were on the same page. He’d taken the afternoon to go on a lengthy run, assuming at some point Granger would turn back up, ready to devise their plan of attack. Instead he spent the evening ignoring his mother’s letter (he isn’t ready to answer her questions about what happened at the first courting event) and working through a theoretical brewing of one of his experimental medi-magical potions (a draught to isolate nerve pain).

Granger lifts her free hand to play with the locket around her neck. She does that a lot.

Not that he’s noticed purposefully, it’s just the sort of thing one tends to pick up about someone when living in close quarters. Granger always has two biscuits with her tea. Granger puts her hair up for Potions with that thin pink ribbon. Granger wears a rose gold locket and sometimes runs the chain along her lips.

Simple things.

Anyone with his infallible eye for detail would learn her within a week, at most. She’s a creature of habit, and he’s trained his whole life to track slight shifts, to watch something simmer without stirring, to know when something’s about to boil over.

Her change now is subtle, but no less cataloguable.

“I suppose I have a lot on my mind,” she mumbles around her jewelry. “Yesterday was… Draining. I’m sorry.”

Draco blinks down at her. He didn’t expect an apology. For a moment, he’s not sure how to respond.

“Be that as it may, you need all the practice you can get. Pansy needs to believe there’s chemistry between us, and I’d pay good money to see Longbottom’s jaw hit the floor when he catches us waltzing around the bonfire.” She opens her mouth to protest, but Draco sends her a quelling look and keeps talking. “Before you launch into some feminist screed about how your husband needs to like you for you and it shouldn’t matter how you dance or wear your hair, in theory, I agree. But he liked what he saw yesterday, believe me.”

There. That ought to shut her up for a minute or so.

A few blissful seconds of silence elapse before she asks, pertly:

“Feminist screed? What do you know—scratch that, what do you think you know about the female condition?”

Blessedly, they’ve arrived at their destination. He steers her through the doorway and deposits Granger onto the stool next to Nott before leaning down and whispering his answer.

“What I know about witches could fill a book.”

“You’re insufferable.”

Their faces are terribly close. Her breath warms the tip of his nose.

“Several books, in fact. I should pursue publication.”

“I hate you,” she hisses.

He tugs her ponytail in response. “It’s mutual.”

Draco recognises his fuckup immediately, even before Granger stiffens and her big brown eyes go wide. He touched her. He touched her and he didn’t warn her.

He freezes, his hand still holding the ends of her soft curls. He didn’t mean to pull her hair, especially so roughly, but it’s not like he’s about to apologise in front of the packed classroom. It would ruin the illusion. Besides, he’s played with her hair before, in Divination.

It was much less smooth then. Now the silky strands glide through his fingers.

Fortunately, the briefest glance at Nott tells Draco the move came off as playful teasing between… Whatever they are. Fake boyfriend and girlfriend?

Nott clucks his tongue, breaking the moment. “Keep the foreplay in the bedroom, you two.”

Draco drops Granger’s hair, as if scalded, and rakes his eyes over Granger’s rosy blush. Good, that’s… Good. Believable. He steps back, escaping the marshmallow-sweet scent of her.

Granger decides to finally start carrying her weight, because she opens her mouth to deliver a scathing retort. This should be good. The last thing Granger tolerates is commentary on her sexual exploits, especially the pretend exploits she’s having with him.

He frowns as he waits for her to let Nott have it. It’s a rather long wait, long enough that her tongue flicks out and wets her bottom lip. The resulting response is anticlimactic.

“Mhmm.”

Ten bloody points to Gryffindor.

Zabini breezes by with a nod of acknowledgement. Draco moves to join him at their station, but not before he hears Nott’s insouciant drawl:

“You know, Hermione, I’ve never been into the whole ‘start a row so I can get fucked proper’ thing, but I think you’re changing my mind. Highly persuasive demonstration.”

Draco pulls up a stool next to Zabini, and they share looks of mutual exasperation. His explicit language is disturbing enough, but something about the way Nott says Hermione makes him grit his teeth. It’s one thing for Nott to take pity on Granger and tell her she should court; it’s another to get chummy with her, even if it legitimises their fake courtship. This is temporary. It’s not as if she’ll be part of their social circles this time next year.

At least he needn’t worry about Nott stealing his witch.

For the first half of the class, Slughorn bloviates about everything except the potion they’re supposed to be brewing, self-indulgently blathering on about various students he’s taught over the years, and their dizzying amount of successes. Draco focuses on slicing his shrivelfig. All Hogwarts professors are self-important wankers, or else they wouldn’t be professors, but Slughorn’s stories about his former apprentices are heartily embellished at best.

“They’re all members of the Slug Club, each and every one,” Slughorn says, puffing out his round chest. “They write to me constantly, grateful for the opportunity to apprentice under someone as experienced as I am. I’m only too happy to assist in launching their careers. To think that one of you will imminently join their ranks.”

Parvati’s hand shoots into the air. “So Professor Snape won’t return in January? I heard a rumour that he’s in the Amazon, searching for fringed leaf frogs.”

“I heard he’s evading arrest,” says Michael Corner.

Draco stills his knife.

“Ms Patil, Mr Corner, surely you were raised better than to give credence to idle supposition. According to the headmaster, Severus’s leave is indefinite.” Slughorn’s jowls tense, then slacken as he tugs at the bottom of his mustard-coloured waistcoat. “What luck, what luck indeed that I have returned so you need not toil under Severus’s tiresome tutelage.”

“And if we’d like to apply for your apprenticeship?” Creevey asks from the back of the room.

“Prat,” Zabini mutters under his breath.

“There is no application. My apprenticeship is by invitation only. Your marks, conduct, and reputation, both in and and out of my classroom, will determine your chances.”

“And your blood status,” Nott chimes in, an edge to his chipper voice. “Don’t forget that bit, professor.”

Granger straightens on her stool, defiant as a sharpened blade. Everyone in here knows that if it were his godfather up there, it’d be a race between Draco and Granger. Draco would’ve won out in the end, of course—imagine turning your back on your own godson—but Granger deserves the chance to show she’s capable of more than basic healing draughts and household tinctures.

In fact, it might’ve been good to let their competition last as long as possible. He gets the distinct impression that Granger should not be left with nothing to occupy herself.

Slughorn’s smile is tight, and vaguely sinister. It reminds him of someone, but who? Before he can pursue that line of inquiry, Slughorn strides up to the worktop.

“Mr Malfoy. Mr Zabini.” He scans their progress. “A few steps ahead, as usual.”

“Thank you, professor.” They say at the same time.

Slughorn chuckles and smooths his knuckles across his hideous waistcoat. “I hope you’ll join me for the inaugural meeting of this year’s Slug Club, Friday next. Ms Bulstrode and Ms Parkinson have already accepted their invitations.”

From the corner of his eye, Draco finds Pansy, absorbed in her Magical Law notes. She hasn’t looked his way once.

No, she’s surely peeked at him. He’s been wrapped up in perfecting today’s assignment, that’s all. It’s a new one for him: elixir to induce euphoria.

“We’ll be sure to attend,” Zabini replies smoothly.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t clear. Please forgive me.” Slughorn’s voice is laced with faux-pity. “The invitation is exclusive to you, Mr Zabini.”

Draco tries to ignore the way his face burns.

“And you’ll forgive me, I hope,” Zabini says, the epitome of aristocratic aloofness despite his studded jacket, “when I say that Malfoy is your best student, and you would be remiss not to invite both of us.”

The conversation skids to a halt. In the relative quiet, the only sounds Draco hears above his heartbeat are the heavy breaths of the professor, the faint scraping of stools, and the bubbling of hot cauldrons.

Draco arches his brow at his friend. Zabini is a bleeding heart on his best day, but he’s an idiot to stick his neck out for Draco now. Without Draco or Granger in his way, he has the apprenticeship in the bag.

So what the fuck is he doing?

Slughorn regains his faculties and frowns at Zabini with the brand of disappointment reserved for people in possession of just enough power to let it go to their head. It’s not the sort deployed by parents with your best interest in mind, or other well-meaning adults. It’s meant to remind you of your place, and deter you from rising above it.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear that you won’t be joining us. Undoubtedly, you would have made an excellent potioneer.”

Slughorn wanders over to Finnegan and Thomas’s worktop next. Draco is rendered momentarily speechless.

“Fucking knobhead,” Zabini scowls. “Knobhead with no bollocks.”

“You’re the knobhead,” Draco snaps, more harshly than he intended.

“Me? I don’t need his stupid club or his stupid apprenticeship. My stepdad’s going on tour this summer, and he’s offered to take me along so I can learn from his stage manager. He might even let me play drums on a couple songs.”

Draco can’t hide his shock. “You want to live like a muggle?”

“Fuck no. I’ll still use magic every chance I get. Just have to be clever about it.” Zabini rolls his neck and adjusts his shoulders before hunching over the cauldron. “Potions are your thing. Music is mine. There’s no sodding music scene here. Everything in our world is so formal.”

Yes, but isn’t that how it should be? If they don’t have tradition, what do they have?

“But you’re still courting to be betrothed.”

“My mum will kill me if I don’t. I’ll see who my magic chooses and bring them along,” Zabini shrugs, as if the witches he has in mind will readily traipse across the muggle world with him. But what pureblood princess wants to be constantly on the go, or worse, knocking around in one of those pits Zabini’s talked about? Mesh pit? Mash pit? “You and Granger should come to a show.”

Zabini has no idea that Granger will be long gone by then, tucked away with Longbottom at Oakhaven.

“If you let me drive the Jaguar at Christmas, you have a deal.”

“Sure, mate,” Zabini laughs, then places a finger to his textbook, scanning. He flinches. “Ah, shit, did we add the shrivelfigs?”

At the end of the class, Slughorn administers the quiz. Draco turns his parchment in first. Granger is second. He escorts her to lunch in silence. Their peers give them a wide berth, observing their silent march with blatant scepticism. He doesn’t need to tell Granger how poorly things are going outside of their respective friend groups; he can see from her pinched expression that she’s well aware.

Instead of finding him after lunch, she slips from the Great Hall, twirling her ponytail into a bun. She must be going to do her ballet dancing. Didn’t they just have a conversation about how they need to practice together?

What the hell is wrong with everyone today?

Later, in Astronomy, Draco shares his telescope with Granger. As she gawps and marvels—at far too high a pitch—about how much more she can see using his more expensive model, he locks eyes with Professor Sinistra. She raises an eyebrow questioningly but doesn’t approach.

“We need to talk,” he says hotly into Granger’s ear when class is dismissed. This close, he sees that her eye makeup has transferred to the hollows underneath her eyes. She looks exhausted.

“Malfoy,” Nott calls from behind them.

“Oh, good, I need to go to the library,” Granger says, hastily removing her arm from his.

“Granger,” Draco growls, but she trudges onward down the corridor, the tap of her mary janes echoing off the stone floors.

Nott appears at his side. “Trouble in paradise? So soon?”

“Not at all,” Draco says quickly, with much more confidence than he feels.

Zabini joins them. He’s adjusting one of his earrings, feeling along his ear for the correct hole. “Good. I’m glad you’ve moved on. I didn’t want to say anything before, but you and Pansy… She’s…”

“She’s what?”

“She’s no Hermione Granger,” Nott says, slapping Draco on the back before he can come to Pansy’s aid. Draco mentally scolds himself for the near-slip. Perhaps he’s been too hard on Granger. Pretending to be interested in someone else is much harder than he originally supposed.

“Don’t let anyone give you shit over the whole muggleborn thing,” Zabini adds, maintaining his serious tone from earlier.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy!”

The shout rings through the otherwise empty corridor.

All three of them turn to find Daphne, marching towards them with righteous fury as she casts a series of stinging jinxes at Draco’s feet.

“Ow, for the love of—” Draco howls, hopping on one foot.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I’m one of your best friends! Do you think I’m some sort of covert bigot?” She unleashes another flurry of jinxes, this time aiming a bit higher. “What is wrong with you?”

“Daph,” Nott pleads on his behalf, and gets a hex to the groin. He crumples against a tapestry with a pained groan.

Zabini’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, but even he isn’t spared Daphne’s wrath. A well-aimed bat-bogey hex brings him to his knees.

She stands in front of Draco with her arms folded defiantly across her chest. “Well? Anything to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry.” As proof, he holds his hands up in surrender.

“Not good enough.” She hits him with a jelly legs jinx, knocking the air out of his lungs, and he keels over to join the others. They grouse in unison while Daphne lectures them on making assumptions and healthy masculinity and other topics that would surely have Granger creaming her knickers. After what seems like forever, Daphne kneels on the floor beside him and brushes his hair from his eyes before casting the counter-jinx. “I like the new hair. And Granger’s lovely. I’m so happy for you.”

“Funny way of showing it,” he grunts as he sits up.

“I want to know everything. When did you realise you had feelings for her? What makes her the one? What does the great Narcissa Malfoy, chair of the courtship committee, think?”

Draco gapes at her. He should’ve anticipated such questions, and yet here he is, caught unawares.

Get yourself together.

“Where to start?” He flashes her his most boyish grin, buying time.

She grabs him by his tie, but he can tell by the way she smiles back that the worst of the threat has passed. “I’m serious. I’m really happy for you.”

Nott and Zabini stand and help Draco and Daphne to their feet.

“You could be that happy for yourself, too, Daphne,” Zabini interjects. He’s sincere, and Draco wonders if Crabbe isn’t the only one carrying a torch for the eldest Greengrass daughter.

“I am. We’re young.” She brushes off her robes. “I don’t want to be trapped in a marriage just because other people have decided I should.”

Zabini spreads his hands wide in front of him. “You don’t have a choice.”

Draco exchanges glances with Nott. As much as he’s glad that his interrogation is on pause, this is a dangerous road to go down where Daphne’s concerned.

She puts her hands on her hips. “So that’s how it is, is it? Draco gets to make an uncomfortable choice, but I don’t?”

“I can’t stand by and watch you become destitute. You’ll lose everything.”

“I’ll get a job. Maybe at a bakery.”

“No one will hire you if your father asks them not to.” Zabini tempers his voice. “You know this.”

“It’s not fair,” Daphne says, still raging though she blinks back tears. Her frustration seems to be directly connected to her tear ducts. “Draco gets to choose Granger. Theo, your father will have to accept your husband eventually. Your magic will bind, and that’s that. But I don’t get to see where my magic takes me? And if my parents cast me out, you wouldn’t take me in, Blaise, even if you had wives?”

Zabini swallows audibly. “Daph.”

Her face crumples. “Gods, is this what it feels like to be a muggleborn? No one will stick their neck out for you? Not even your supposed best friends?”

“You did attack us just now,” Nott says lamely. The joke fails to land, and Daphne brushes past them, heading for the dungeons.

“Wait,” Zabini calls after her, but she doesn’t stop.

When she disappears around the corner, Draco sighs and turns his ire on his two remaining friends. “You’ve done enough. I’ll go.”

They nod in silent agreement, and Draco takes off.

He catches up with her in front of a portrait depicting a unicorn overlooking a cliff, stamping its hooves and gazing down at the sea. She looks away from him, hugging her sides.

“Not right now, Draco.”

“I’d take you in,” he says quietly. “You’ve always been like a sister to me. I’d take you in, okay? You’ll always have a home with me.”

He means it. Daphne is too precious to him.

“And what does Granger think about that?” Daphne snorts. “Sorry, that was rude of me. It’s just, I worried, before.”

“About what?”

She skewers him with a look. “Can you imagine that Pansy would welcome me at Malfoy Manor if I stepped even so much as a pinky toe out of line? Messed up one tiny tradition? I know you cared about her, but we can be honest with each other, can’t we?”

He hesitates, but only barely. “No, you’re right. She wouldn’t.”

His next thought springs forth, unbidden: Granger would welcome Daphne. In fact, they have much in common. If their fake courtship was real, Granger and Daphne would likely become thick as thieves.

“The rules don’t apply to Pansy, of course. She’ll probably figure out some way to get her family on board with Goyle.” She pauses. “Are you alright? You look a bit ill.”

He reaches for a lie. “Just tired, I think.”

“But we’ll talk soon?” Her tone is hopeful. “Maybe we can all mingle at Wyrdwood. Granger can help me escape the chaperones.”

Right. Wyrdwood. Only a few days left.

“At Wyrdwood, then,” Draco says.

Daphne squeezes his shoulder in farewell and heads for the dungeons. Instead of finding Nott and Zabini, or going back to his room, Draco lingers in the empty corridor.

When Pansy broke things off, he assumed everyone would be on his side, and Pansy would be hearing all about the huge mistake she made. But instead, his friends are acting like she did him a favour; like he dodged a lifetime of misery. Stranger still, most of them seem pleased as a pygmypuff that he’s apparently moved on—with Granger, of all witches.

This absolutely will not do.

Perhaps it was a mistake to take Arithmancy over Transfiguration, because by what delicate artifice is he meant to make Granger appealing enough to catch another wizard’s eye while also convincing Pansy to take him back? And now he needs his friends to buy it, too?

Fuck. He’s got his work cut out for him.

Chapter Text

In the dark, the library feels like a sepulchre for knowledge.

If Hermione could sleep right now; conjure a pillow and lie down in the middle of the aisle, she’d probably sleep like the dead. She’s drained, in both body and spirit. Burning the candle at both ends doesn’t even begin to describe it. Having a Time-Turner was less exhausting.

It’s late, and she shuffles through the labyrinthian aisles of the Hogwarts library, looking for The Pyromancer’s Codex of Curses, 17th Edition. By day, the library is her favourite place in the castle; filled with industrious students flipping pages, scribbling on parchment, and periodically shushing any interloping slackers. But at night, alone, without that pleasant background noise that has provided the soundtrack to the best years of her life, the vast room with its shadowy vaulted ceilings is, frankly, eerie. The musty scent of degrading cellulose emitted by shelf after shelf of ancient tomes doesn’t help the haunting atmosphere, or the lightheadedness that’s plagued her since skipping dinner.

In the past two weeks, she’s locked herself in her room to fly through every book even tangentially related to horcruxes, skipped her self-soothing ballet time to see what else the restricted section has to offer, buried herself in schoolwork. Between all that, plus keeping up appearances with Malfoy (who she has also neglected in favour of pepper-up potions and more reading), she feels like she’s been fighting a losing duel. Her invisible opponent is too strong, and she’s over-cast; out of magic.

But it’s worth it, or it will be: she’s found precious few scraps about the dark magic behind the creation of horcruxes. However, she’s found one method for their destruction: Fiendfyre.

True to form, she’s followed that thread in the days since she found it, but it doesn’t leave her feeling optimistic.

Fiendfyre is dark, challenging to cast, near impossible to control, and once it starts, it can’t be stopped by ordinary means. Numerous wizards have been killed trying to tame it. It’s as if the fire, whose soul-meltingly hot flames are said to shapeshift into the most lethal magical creatures and attack anything in their path, has a mind of its own. It decides when to burn out.

As one might expect for such a wildly dangerous form of magic, there’s no record of the incantation anywhere in the Hogwarts library. The only book she hasn’t checked is The Pyromancer’s Codex.

Hermione’s eyes snag on the oily black cover right as she’s about to call it a night. Victory. The index promises a ten-page section on fiendfyre. However, as she reads it, she discovers, with horror, that the last two pages have been ripped out.

Hermione stares at the ragged edges of those missing pages for a long time, fingertips pressed flat against them, as if she could summon them back with magic.

It is abhorrent, in her opinion, to maim a book. Censoring is sacrilege. Books are meant to educate; to relay information regardless of who you are or where you come from. They level the playing field for people like her who struggle to pick things up through other methods. When she reads, she processes at her own speed. Sometimes that’s very quickly; other times, she lingers over paragraphs for what feels like hours.

What is the point of a library—Hogwarts’ library, of all places—if truly useful pieces of information are quietly excised by ministry overreach or worse, some overcautious guardian of “impressionable minds”? As though ignorance has ever stopped anyone determined enough to be dangerous. If anything, it makes matters worse, because now Hermione will have to obtain what she needs by riskier, more dubious means.

Because she’s going to help Harry destroy those horcruxes. She’d like to destroy some herself; point her wand and unleash hell upon the remaining pieces of Voldemort’s rotten soul.

The sudden hard outline of Dumbledore’s golden key in her pocket makes her realise she’s been unconsciously clenching her hands into the fabric of her robes and brings her attention back to her other assignment she has yet to make progress on. Hermione slumps against the nearest bookshelves—a neglected section on the four founders—and slowly slides to the floor.

She’d been so certain that Dumbledore wanted her to search the library, and the castle seemed to lead her there at every possible opportunity. But there’s nothing in the library that resembles a keyhole. There’d been a moment, a few nights ago, in the backmost corner of the restricted section, when she thought the key glowed, though she’s so sleep deprived she’s probably seeing things. She’s tried to retrace her steps and recreate the same exacting conditions, but the key hasn’t glowed again.

What if she really is seeing things?

Her limbs feel hot and tingly all over, and she rakes a hand through her hair to try and dismiss the feeling. She could be using this time to prepare for Wyrdwood with Malfoy. They’ve only danced the one time, and while she’s confident she can manage a waltz—oh, shit. Hermione drops her head into her hands and lets out a strangled, frustrated groan. She still doesn’t have a dress and Wyrdwood is—

The rune-rimmed bronze clock above the reference section chimes the hour. It’s midnight.

Wyrdwood is tomorrow.

There’s been no letter from Harry, and Malfoy’s driving her mad, and she’s no closer to figuring out how this stupid key will help matters, and Wyrdwood is tomorrow…

It begins as an itch underneath her skin, as it always does.

All of a sudden her jumper feels too tight. The library is too warm, the air too still, the clock too loud. A droning sound develops in her ears. She clamps her hands over them to no avail.

There’s a meltdown threatening at the gates, and Hermione has no way to stop it from flooding in and submerging her higher-level thinking until she drowns. When she’s like this, the little things she uses to self-regulate aren’t enough. No amount of fidgeting with her locket or positive self-talk can drag her back from the brink.

To top it all off, she’s been ignoring her body’s signals. She hasn’t slept a healthy amount. She hasn’t gone dancing.

It’s a recipe for disaster.

In a last-ditch attempt to avoid the inevitable, Hermione digs her fingernails into the top of her shoulders, squeezing her arms against her chest. It doesn’t help.

Everything is wrong.

The key falls to the floor with a clatter, but she can’t tell how loud it was. Her senses have already begun to dim. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. She’s the only one here at this hour.

Her brain begins to play her failures on loop, dredging up painful memories, mostly the more recent ones. Every time she’s made a misstep. Said the wrong thing, done the wrong thing. Her own thoughts ring louder, crueler than any howler.

As her breaths turn shallow, her vision blurs. Not from tears—not yet, anyway—but from the way her body is starting to shut down and speed up at the same time. Her body doesn’t feel like it belongs to her. The library fades away. Everything is too much.

Hermione’s hands shake as she rocks forward and topples onto her side. She curls into the fetal position.

Thoughts fade.

Tears come now, unbidden. She hates them. She hates this. Losing control.

A sob wracks her body.

Why does this have to happen to her? Why is she like this? Why can’t she reverse it, like the curse that it is?

Here she lies, alone. Overwhelmed. Melting down in one of the only places she feels safe.

It’s too much.

She spirals. She isn’t sure for how long. It’s been a long time since it’s been this bad.

It’s too much.

Why did she let it get this bad?

It’s too much. She’s too much.

She’s not enough.

There is nothingness and everythingness and she inhabits both.

Eventually, her body allows her to struggle for a deep breath. Another.

Hair sticks to her cheeks. Her face is wet and gross.

Through the stream of tears, she focuses on the bookshelf in front of her. There’s a book bound in deep red with the title in gold foil. Of Steel and Spirit: The Life and Legacy of Godric Gryffindor. Unable to move yet, she traces the letters with her eyes, over and over again.

It anchors her.

The book doesn’t budge. The walls don’t close in. The library simply waits. Holding her without judgment as she breaks apart, patient as she starts to pull herself back together.

This is the thing she has to remember. She is enough. She’s strong. She always comes back together. Intellectually, she understands the architecture of her own mind: its precision, its voracity, and its fragility when pushed beyond sustainable bounds. Yet knowledge, she is finding, is not synonymous with action. Awareness does not always translate into self-restraint.

It’s a valuable lesson, one she’s had to learn time and time again, because she never seems to translate it into practice.

After a while, she presses her hands to the floor, then pushes herself to a sitting position. Her fingers find the key and slip it into her pocket. After a few minutes, she stands, her legs as wobbly as a newborn qilin’s.

The span of time in which Hermione leans against the bookshelf could be five minutes or fifty. She’s temporarily blind to time after a meltdown. Her mother always reassured her that it was unimportant how long she took to recover; what mattered was that she took as much as she needed.

That’s how this whole thing kicked off; Hermione ignored her needs. It’s cruel that her body allows her to do so for so long without side effects until bam—all that accumulated strain comes crashing down.

It’s only that it’s so easy for her to ignore these things without someone watching over her. And it makes her bite the inside of her cheek, to admit that, but it’s true. Painfully true.

The shame of it is all-encompassing.

When she feels ready, she fills a glass from her bag with water and slowly sips it. Swallows the guilt and the worry and the things she wishes she could change. She does this twice before reaching down and plucking the book about Godric Gryffindor from the shelf.

For some reason, she feels like she should take it. She thumbs through it briefly. Nothing about horcruxes in here, surely. But the book feels right in her hands, so she tucks it in her bag alongside the empty glass.

Just then, she hears the library doors open. Heavy footsteps thunk her way.

Filch? No, his feet drag. And Madam Pince moves as furtively as a demiguise.

“Lumos,” a wizard’s voice murmurs.

She knows that voice.

He speaks again, over by the study carrels in the legal section. “Accio, er—legal research books?”

Hundreds of books rise into the air and threaten to descend on the unfortunate wizard before he swears and drops the spell. It’s almost funny, and if she weren’t Head Girl, she might leave him to his fate. She’s not sure why he’s in the library, anyway. She’s never seen him here before. For a while, rumour had it he couldn’t even read.

Hermione walks stealthily through the aisles, peering around corners until she sees him, not ten feet away.

“That’ll be fifty points from Slytherin,” she says, emerging from the shadows.

Gregory Goyle startles, then drops his wand. Fair enough. She probably looks a fright.

Still glowing, the wand rolls all the way to Hermione’s feet, where she traps it under one of her mary janes. She picks it up and walks it back over to him, head held high. She’s not scared of him, even though he’s always hated her kind, and he’s strong enough to actually do something about it. He’s more muscled than last year; so big and broad he barely fits in a two-person carrel. But Goyle’s only ever been threatening because of his close proximity to Malfoy. Now the two Slytherins couldn’t be more estranged, and while his bulk should be intimidating, especially after midnight, Hermione sees a wizard singularly… Alone.

“Thanks,” he says when she hands him his wand. He makes no move to leave.

She refrains from insulting his intelligence outright, or tries to, anyway. “Breaking curfew, breaking and entering, trespassing…” She trails off, but he’s still glued to his seat. “You need to leave. Now, if you please.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I’ve found you. I’ve taken points.” She folds her arms across her chest.

“I’m here because I need to conduct some research, Granger. Surely you, of all wix, understand.”

Granger, not mudblood. Wix, not witches and wizards.

He’s using progressive terminology. That’s new.

Or is it? She can’t remember the last time she spoke with the likes of Goyle. Slytherins and Gryffindors mix more now, to be sure, but genuine camaraderie is mostly limited to the younger students. Seventh years in particular remember what it was like to have more than house rivalries to reckon with every year.

Hermione holds firm. “Then come back during regular hours.”

“It’s a delicate matter. Time-sensitive. And…” Goyle’s gaze is assessing. “This is something you definitely want me to sort out.”

Arms still stubbornly crossed, she clutches her wand with her right hand; the other busies itself tapping her fingers impatiently against her upper arm. Damn him for appealing to her innate curiosity.

“What do you mean ‘something I definitely want you to sort out”?”

He sighs. “If you want to marry Malfoy, you need me to marry Pansy.”

Hermione’s knees knock together and she flops down into the carrel, sitting opposite him. It’s one thing for other seventh years to be excited for her that she’s courting—or pretending to court—Malfoy. It’s quite another for one of his former best mates to imply, in a completely neutral tone, that she’ll actually marry him.

He’s looking at her strangely, head tilted to the side like he’s trying to solve a riddle and only she knows the answer.

“Well, I—” She’s too shocked to meet his inquisitive gaze.

She knows what she should say: that of course she wants Goyle and Pansy to get married, because theoretically, she’s courting Malfoy. But that’s not what Malfoy wants. Malfoy wants Pansy. And the sooner Malfoy gets what he wants, the sooner Hermione gets what she wants…

“You don’t have to say it. I know what you’re thinking. It’s what everyone’s thinking,” Goyle says, interrupting her trainwreck of thoughts. He shrinks back in the seat as best he can. “I’m not good enough for Pansy.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.” She doesn’t know why she feels the need to console him.

It’s definitely not that she thinks he’s not good enough for Pansy. Neither of them are saints; far from it. Pansy is a spoiled brat, and Goyle’s practically mercenary, if he’s fine with Malfoy marrying a muggleborn just so he can get his witch.

“I’m a second son. I won’t inherit an estate. I’ll get very little money, and due to my poor marks and my family’s social standing, my career prospects are abysmal.”

“Pansy already knew all those things about you when she broke up with Malfoy.”

“She did.”

“She made a choice, then. She willingly gave up everything he has to offer. So the most reasonable assumption is that you must have something that Malfoy doesn’t.” She immediately chides herself for saying it. He probably thinks she sounds like an idiot. “What I mean to say is that she must have really, er, strong feelings for you.”

“Thank you. I like to think so.”

A smile cracks Goyle’s face, and Hermione feels herself smile back. What is wrong with her? She should be actively working against Goyle, not only because of how much he bullied her in her teen years, but because she needs Malfoy and Pansy to get back together as quickly as possible.

It’s only, Goyle is so clearly in love with Pansy. It’s unmistakable, even for someone like her. She knew it from the moment he swept her away on the train.

“You need to research something to help convince her to marry you?”

“It’s her family that needs convincing, but I’m afraid after this week, that ship has sailed. They’re dead set on Pansy marrying Malfoy.”

“But they can’t force her,” Hermione points out.

“No, but they can make her life difficult. And she loves them. It’s complicated.”

“I see.”

She doesn’t. She can’t imagine her parents dictating who she can and cannot marry, especially on the basis of wealth or status, and then still expecting to have a good relationship with her.

“We have a plan, and it’s half-baked but, well, who am I kidding, less than a quarter baked at the moment but…” He presses his hands together and raises them to his lips, like she’s his only hope. “Look, I know we’ve never been close. I’ve been a right arse over the years, but will you help me? Help us?”

She shouldn’t. She really, really shouldn’t.

But he loves her. And despite what he claims, Hermione isn’t so sure Malfoy has that depth of feeling for Pansy. If he does, he has a funny way of showing it.

She reaches for her locket. If two wizards could love Pansy—haughty ice princess Pansy— couldn’t someone, someday, love her? And wouldn’t she die if anyone stood in their way?

“What is it that you’re looking for?”

“Succession rights. Magical trusts. Pansy’s familiar with the legal elements but not the execution.”

Hermione ponders this a moment, then raises her wand. With a flick of her wrist, she submits her request to the library, and a dozen books fly over to the carrel. They land in two neat stacks, almost obscuring Goyle from view.

“Start here,” she says as she rises from her seat. Then, as an afterthought: “You’ll want to be out of here before five. Madam Pince opens the doors at five-thirty, but sometimes she’s early.”

Goyle opens the topmost title and paws through it, scanning pages. “Thank you. This is… Wow. Much better than I would’ve found on my own.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Granger,” Goyle calls softly as she reaches the double doors. She looks back to where he sits alone, reading by wandlight. “Some advice, if you want it: once you’re in with Malfoy, you’re in.”

She hopes the darkness hides the way she bites her lip. “How do you mean?”

“There’s no halfway with him. I don’t know if he even realises that about himself. So if you’re not sure if you can handle it, it’s better to walk away now. For both of you.”

He turns his attention back to his book. Hermione slips into the corridor, pondering Goyle’s unsolicited, strange advice all the way back to her room.

How have they fooled Goyle? More than anyone, it should be Goyle who would never believe Malfoy would take up with a muggleborn. Where’s the shock? Where’s the outrage?

Is everyone worried about crossing Draco Malfoy?

A few hours of much-needed sleep and a hot mug of tea later, she readies herself for Defense Against the Dark Arts. A letter from her mother lies open on the bathroom sink next to her muggle makeup, sent along with a box of chocolates and her love. Her mother is the absolute best.

Hermione opens the bathroom door to find Malfoy waiting, her robes draped over his arm.

“Wyrdwood is tomorrow,” he says as he helps her into them. “If you still care.”

Suppose they’re launching right into it then.

“Have you ever considered using some of those famed pureblood manners of yours? ‘Good morning. How did you sleep? Thank you for feeding the cats and making sure they don’t kill each other’?”

He ignores her. “Flying carriages leave after tea.”

“Is it really so difficult for you to practise having a conversation with your future-betrothed?”

“Pansy is my future-betrothed, but since I gather you’re misguidedly referring to yourself, yes, you are astoundingly difficult.”

She scowls at him as she summons her books and shoves them into his hands. “You accuse me of not putting the effort in, but when you’re asked to stretch even the tiniest bit beyond your comfort zone, you can’t be arsed. What happened to ‘we both want something, let’s get it?’”

“Beyond my comfort zone? Granger, I’m so far out of my comfort zone I may as well be in the middle of the Atlantic.” His grey eyes gleam with restrained anger. “My mother’s written, concerned about my mental fitness. Most of my team hates me; Pucey’s been riding my arse all week, and it’s not because I need the reps. I haven’t started any of the essays due next week—”

“Oh, poor you. Can’t believe you have to put in actual effort.” She splays the back of her hand against her forehead for maximum dramatic effect. “What’s the world coming to?”

“And my fake girlfriend—touching—” Malfoy grabs her arm and sets it atop his. “is acting like she wants to sabotage the whole thing before it even gets off the ground.”

As they walk towards their door, her brain abandons preparations for a witty retort and skitters to a stop. “Is that what we’re calling ourselves? Girlfriend and boyfriend?” She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Fake girlfriend and boyfriend?”

He looks at her like she’s Fluffy: drooling and sporting three heads. “Unless you prefer a different label?”

“No, no. I just didn’t know what I was supposed to call you.” She huffs a laugh. “It’s not just me, you know. You’re bad at this, too. We’re terrible at fake courting.”

They’re quiet as they make their way across the castle to Sirius’s classroom. No ghosts cross their paths, and most of the portraits’ inhabitants are dozing.

“It’s not for long. I think it’s working.” If she’s not mistaken, he cracks a small, self-satisfied smile. “I’ve received more anonymous howlers this week than I’ve ever had, which is saying something. Mostly from the Parkinsons. If they’re angry enough to post howlers, they’re still on my side.”

The smile fades from Hermione’s face as her stomach sinks. If she succeeded in helping Goyle this morning, it won’t matter what Pansy’s family has to say.

He saves her from the indignity of replying when he hums, “The hair thing played well.”

Her cheeks burn. She’d say what hair thing but she knows exactly what he means. In another context, with another wizard, the hair thing would have her on her knees. In Potions, it simply emptied her head and ceased all her motor functions. It wasn’t a reaction to Malfoy. She hadn’t expected it, was all. The firm tug on her scalp, the confident hold, the slide of his hand down, down, down her ponytail where he laced his fingers through the ends of her curls.

It played well because she wasn’t pretending when her eyes went glassy. It played well because unfortunately, that kind of thing turns her on, and even more unfortunately, no one’s ever done it for her. And here Malfoy is, sleepwalking into it.

Not that he knows what he did. And he’ll never know. She’ll take that little secret to the grave.

Though she wouldn’t mind if he did it again between now and their fake breakup.

“You can touch my hair, if you want. I mean, if it helps. You don’t need to ask.”

No. No, no. That’s not what she meant to say.

“I didn’t ask before,” he smirks as they enter the classroom. The largest in the castle, the DADA classroom is not colourful and cosy like Sirius’s quarters, but rather conducive to battle. Instead of the traditional desks and chairs, he’s carved out tiered stone benches, amphitheatre-style, curving into a semicircle around a levitating duelling platform. It’s impressive spellwork.

“Are you going to be a prat or are you going to—oh—” In a flash, he drops her arm, and she feels him twist her hair into a bun at the base of her skull. “That won’t hold.”

“It will.” With his free hand, Malfoy takes his wand and shoves it through the thick knot of hair. He tugs it twice to make sure it’s secure. “Take care of this for me.”

He leaves her standing at the front of the room, slackjawed.

“Boys are so obsessed with marking their territory.” Lavender comes up from behind Hermione and pulls her to a seat in the front row. She adjusts her too-short skirt over her thighs, then pops a familiar-looking sweet into her mouth—one of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes’ most popular items, whisperwafers. They’re perfect for when you don’t wish to be overheard. Hermione helped Fred and George perfect them two summers ago, thanks to combining her potioneering expertise with her sensory sensitivity—she added a sound-dampening agent to the vanilla icing. “It’s a wonder we achieved modern civilisation.”

“Have we, though?” Theo chimes in from the row above.

Hermione is forced to consider the matter, but her thoughts are rudely interrupted by a pushy Lavender.

“So? How is he?” She glances, giddy and without a hint of subtlety, back at Malfoy.

Hermione’s eyes pull to him like a magnet. Malfoy sits alone in the back row at the very top of the classroom, looking down his nose at everyone as if the stone beneath him is not a bench, but a throne. Sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows casts his features in deep crimson. There’s always been something devilish about him, but now he looks the part: the myriad chains criss-crossing his black robes, his elbows perched on his knees, his hands pressed together against his lips.

His grey eyes lock onto hers, and she can’t look away. She slides her hand into her hair and touches the tip of his wand. Frost coats her fingertip.

She jerks her hand and her gaze away.

Theo leans forward, chin propped on his fists. “Yes, how is he, Hermione? Inquiring minds want to know.”

Unused to the lack of personal space, Hermione leans away from them both. The angle is terrible for her neck. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Lavender says, handing her a whisperwafer.

Hermione chews slowly, stalling for time. She knows they’re not asking after his health, but they can’t be asking what she thinks they’re asking. Can they?

She needs to make a decision tree with potential questions and answers before Wyrdwood.

“I’m not playing anything.”

“Give us something,” Lavender whines, sticking out her glossy lips in a pout. “You owe me. You snogged my Won-Won.”

“He wasn’t your Won-Won at the time,” Hermione retorts as Sirius strides to the front of the room. Thank goodness he can’t hear them.

“I’m not here to quibble over timelines, I’m here to get some good gossip and you are making it damn near impossible! Don’t you want to brag? You, a muggleborn—no offence—bagged the most eligible pureblood wizard out there, and you don’t want to tell anyone how you managed it? I get a cheeky shag between the Head Girl and Boy, but courting? And his mother caught you?”

Unsure of what to say, Hermione stays mum. After a moment, Lavender sighs, clearly put out.

“Don’t give up, Lav,” Theo says affectionately, nicking a whisperwafer from the open packet. “We’ll get it out of her eventually. Did you see the way he handled her hair? Like he’s done it a thousand times. And the wand! I don’t think he ever loaned Pansy his wand.”

Lavender’s brown eyes go wide. “Really? Oh, that’s juicy.”

“It’s not on loan,” Hermione protests. “Right now it’s mostly a hairpin.”

“True. And it’s not like it’ll respond to you,” Theo says.

Except just now, when she touched it.

“Attention, everyone.” Sirius shoots sparks into the air with only his fingers, and everyone whips their heads in his direction. “Over the past few weeks, we’ve been revisiting the defenses you learned last year and adding a few offensive techniques to your repertoire. While there’s a time and place for evasive manoeuvers, there’s also a time and place to attack. Today, I’d like to see your new skills in action. Remember, I’m looking for you to find opportunities to put your opponent on the backfoot as early in the duel as possible, but you still need to emerge the victor.”

“What ensures a victory?” Milly asks from the other side of the room. Pansy sits next to her, along with Daphne, Hestia, Crabbe, Goyle, and a whole host of other Slytherins. A few rows down, the Ravenclaws, including Luna and Mandy Brocklehurst, review their notes from the last class. The Hufflepuffs, predictably, are having a snack.

“Good question. Stunning or temporary incapacitations are preferred, but seeing as this is a class and not a real battlefield, if your opponent yields, that is also a victory. I’ll pair you up today based on current skill levels. Those who’ll benefit most from feedback will go first.”

“That means you’re going last,” Theo whispers to Hermione.

She looks around at the other Gryffindors. A few of them she knows by name, but they’ve never really spoken. She’d thought Ron would’ve taken DADA with her, but he’d decided he had quite enough of the Dark Arts, thank you very much. That leaves Lavender, who’s mostly in it to ogle Sirius in his tight trousers, and Dean and Seamus, both of whom shoot Hermione dirty looks.

Her stomach performs a haphazard somersault.

Perhaps she didn’t give this whole Malfoy thing enough thought when it came to how most of the Gryffindors might feel about their so-called courtship. Dean and Seamus (and others like them) are faithful to their fearless leader Harry, not her. Without him by her side she looks like the worst kind of traitor, considering how much Malfoy and Harry loathe each other. Why hadn’t she considered this consequence when she decided to help save the world?

Seamus is rather quick on his feet, and Hermione wonders if she’ll go up against him. At least she won’t have to face Malfoy. He hasn’t taken this class the past two years. There’s no way he can keep up with her.

Hermione turns the other way and smirks at him over her shoulder. Malfoy, unnervingly, smirks back.

Sirius peers down at the scroll in his hands. “Let’s begin with Mr Goyle and Ms Parkinson.”

Whispers erupt as Goyle helps Pansy up from her seat, surprisingly gentle for someone of his bulk. The chatter only amplifies as he guides her down the stone steps, the echo of her sharp heels ringing through the high-ceilinged classroom. When they reach the floating platform, he lets her go up first, bowing with unexpected formality as she passes.

Sirius waves his wand and extinguishes half the candles floating overhead, dimming the light. Conversations come to an abrupt halt.

“Wands at the ready, please. On my mark, turn and fire your first spell.” The class holds its collective breath as Sirius counts backwards from ten. “Duel!”

They both turn impressively fast, but no sparks fly. Goyle’s wand is still in its holster.

“I yield,” he calls out, holding his hands up in surrender.

Pansy lowers her wand, her expression unreadable.

“That’s interesting,” Theo murmurs so only Hermione and Lavender can hear. “Pansy’s terrible at this, but not so terrible that her beau needs to yield.”

Lavender scrunches her nose and passes him another whisperwafer. “Why’s she taking this class if she’s so bad at it? It’s a hell of a lot more effort than Muggle Studies.”

“Think for a minute about what you just said, Lav. Can you really see Pansy in Muggle Studies?”

Sirius heaves a sigh. “Mr Goyle, Ms Parkinson. You need to take this seriously. Your NEWTs—”

“Sod the NEWTs,” Goyle says.

“You’re going to need high scores if you want a job at the Ministry, Mr Goyle.”

Goyle’s face darkens. He folds his arms in front of his chest, solid as a brick wall. “Get real, professor. You think the current Ministry wants to install someone with the last name Goyle on their Auror squad?” He scoffs. “I’m never working with Saint Potter.”

Hermione glances back at Malfoy. His eyes are glued to the platform. To Pansy.

“That’ll be ten points from Slytherin. Not for sharing your opinion, but for refusing to participate in today’s lesson,” Sirius says evenly. “Seeing as I have nothing to provide feedback on, Ms Parkinson, anything you’d like to add?”

Pansy shakes her head and takes Goyle’s hand as they disembark.

The next few duels are a blur of bad form and even worse spellwork. Hermione watches, arms folded and ankles crossed, as hexes fail and jinxes fizzle out.

“Blimey,” Dean chuckles from two rows back. “Maybe Harry wasn’t the chosen one, just the one who could actually land a blow.”

Seamus rolls his eyes. “What did you expect? We’ve mostly been taught defensive spells for the last seven years. No one’s going around cursing each other in the corridors.”

“Too true.”

“If anything, we fool around with the harmless stuff; jelly legs and whatnot. If we ever actually happened upon a dark wizard, we’d be royally fucked.”

“Good thing we won’t,” Lavender whispers.

“Don’t be so sure,” Theo whispers back. Hermione whips her head around to look at him, but he’s focused on Luna’s lacklustre battle with one of the Hufflepuffs.

Hermione sighs and tries to give the duel the better part of her attention. She’s just seen Luna cast a rather good shielding spell when she feels something coil around one frilly-socked ankle. She nearly jumps out of her seat when she looks down.

It’s a paper snake.

Oh God, what does he want now?

Chapter Text

Draco sits at the very back of the DADA classroom, perched above the other seventh year students scattered on the stone steps below. Usually he’s not alone. Usually, he’s got at least one of the Slytherins by his side, but all of them have abandoned him for more pleasant company.

It’s not his fault he’s hacked off.

It’s Granger’s fault. It’s been her fault since she set the Head Boy badge in his hand and tied their fates together. They won’t remain linked for long, though. This is a temporary strategy borne of—well, not desperation, Malfoys have never been desperate. Cunning. Yes, cunning, because no one could be more Slytherin than Draco, and this is the most Slytherin plan he’s ever had. It’s too bad its success relies on a Gryffindor.

He stares down at Granger. He’s still relishing the look on her face when she realised he’d secured her mop of curls not with a modified sticking charm, or with a hastily transfigured barrette, but his own hawthorn wand. He’d thought that move would earn a fraction of Pansy’s attention, but her interest in Granger over the past few weeks seems to have already waned. That won’t do. That won’t do at all.

Granger startles as his parchment snake coils around one frilly-socked ankle. Draco doesn’t know why she acts so surprised; he told her he’d pass her notes, and he doesn’t need a wand to charm a decent secret missive. It even camouflages itself—white against her sock, cream against her skin. Touching her slender little ankle with his snake does not count as him touching her with his hands. He’s already touched her there, anyway, when he healed her; he hasn’t thought about how soft and delicate she is since.

Pansy is neither soft nor delicate, and Draco cannot for the life of him understand why Goyle stood down during their duel. It’s a gutless thing to do. The old Draco might’ve done the same thing if it were him, but that’s neither here nor there. It was a stupid move on Goyle’s part.

The duels since have been just as dull, which is the subject of his note to Granger. He watches intently as she reads.

He’s disturbed by Jade Macnair, one of the seventh year Slytherin witches he’s less familiar with. She tends to fade into the background, despite the fact—or perhaps because—she’s a metamorphagus. She’s not Sacred Twenty-Eight or from a particularly respectable house. Her father is a marked Death Eater, but claimed to be under the Imperius curse when he served the Dark Lord during the wizarding war. It was a load of bollocks, according to Draco’s father. The Macnairs were never welcome at Malfoy Manor.

She lowers herself to the seat beside him. Draco angles his body away from her, pretending to be focused on the unfolding duel between a pair of hapless Hufflepuffs.

“Lord Malfoy,” Jade murmurs silkily.

Draco ignores her. Perhaps she’ll take the hint.

Unfortunately for him, she does not.

“I was so sorry to hear about what happened between you and Pansy,” she says, in a way that implies she was not sorry at all. She coils an aquamarine strand of hair around one finger. “I wrote to my mother about it immediately, thinking perhaps she had some insight into what might’ve been running through her mind. Surely she couldn’t throw her future away like that so easily?”

That gets his attention. Draco meets her assessing eyes for the first time. They flash red, then green. “And did your mother reply?”

“Oh, yes. It’s all to do with this mad infatuation of hers, which I’m sure you know. But what you might not know is that a few days ago, Gregory Goyle was seen at the Parkinson family seat.”

“And?”

“And I’m sure in her next letter, my mother will have more to say on the subject. My parents are quite close with the Parkinsons, you know.”

Draco does not know. But any information, even from an unvetted source, is better than none.

“Perhaps you can keep me informed.”

Jade smiles, all teeth. “I would be quite pleased to introduce you after our dance at Wyrdwood tomorrow. If you recall, our tea leaves show we have much in common.” He narrows his eyes, but Jade’s smile only widens. “Unlike your current distraction.”

He doesn’t recall what their tea leaves said, if anything. But perhaps Jade had been wearing an entirely different face that day.

“One dance?”

“Unless you think we shall require more.” Her eyes flick to Granger below, who looks to be scribbling a reply to his note. “I know you tire of your playthings quickly.”

He barely suppresses a flinch. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Some of the other witches are put off by it, and I don’t blame them, but not all of us are so inflexible.”

Sirius calls out the next pairing, and Jade slithers back to the nest of Slytherins. Draco realises he’s missed the end of the Hufflepuffs’ duel.

Granger’s reply slinks up to him, its forked paper tongue flicking in a startlingly lifelike fashion, as if it can taste the magic-stained air. He tugs the tail, and it unfolds in his palm.

Draco rereads his missive.

These Hufflepuffs couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. I’ve seen garden gnomes put up a better fight, and they don’t have wands.

Granger has written back with her opinion. Unfortunately, it draws a chuckle from his lips.

The only thing worse than their aim is their pronunciation. It’s like their mouths are full of biscuits.

He hastily writes back: Brocklehurst didn’t have that excuse.

She has an accent, Granger quips. As if he doesn’t know. He expected more from her, both in terms of witty repartee and length of response. Now stop distracting me. I need to know what I’m up against.

I told you I’d send you notes, he writes, sending his snake back down the stone steps.

Draco watches its descent, ignoring the unfolding battle between Romilda Vane and Michael Corner.

He hasn’t been in DADA for a few years now, and only signed up because he thought it’d be an easy O. And, well, he hates to admit it, because he surmised that Potter would also take DADA, and Draco wanted nothing more than the chance to duel him off the quidditch pitch. He’s much improved since he cowered in front of the boggart that had shifted into his father in third year. This year he’d intended to put Potter in his proper place.

He hadn’t known his estranged cousin had been installed as the new DADA professor. How odd, that Draco should be attending his final year with his godfather absent, and Sirius is here without his godson.

One thing has been bothering him about the whole Potter business: he’s been mysteriously absent from the public eye. Not that Draco reads the Prophet with any sort of regularity—he has solicitors for that now, doesn’t he?—but in his casual perusals over a cup of Yorkshire Gold, he’d expected to see at least a few photos of Potter. But there’s not even a shit-quality image of him in Auror trainee robes and those smudged spectacles of his. Nothing of him ducking into the Ministry. Nothing at all.

Surely mentioning they’ve conscripted the Chosen One into service would do wonders for the Ministry’s public relations. The Prophet could use the boost in readership, too, considering they don’t have a Dark Lord dominating the headlines anymore.

Granger’s response slithers up his leg.

If you must share your thoughts with me during class, at least choose one where we’re both ahead in the reading.

Are you not ahead in the reading? I’m shocked, truly. What is the world coming to?

Shut up. You should be focusing. One of these Ravenclaws is going to wipe the floor with you.

You’ve no idea what I’m capable of.

Draco is about to send the snake back to Granger when feels the weight of eyes on him. He looks up and sees Pansy looking his way with an openly sceptical expression. He gets the distinct impression that the shine of his plot is wearing off, and that Pansy’s keen to find out what’s beneath the glamour.

He needs her interested, true, but not like this.

Draco taps the feathered end of his quill against the parchment, thinking of what he might add to get the kind of reaction he wants. He needs to write something that will make Granger blush deep enough to be seen clearly from the other side of the arena. Something that intrigues Pansy enough to ask him about it when they dance at Wyrdwood.

He knows they’ll dance because her name shines brightly on his dance card. It doesn’t take more than a rudimentary grasp of divination to know that she wants to talk.

There are several paths their conversation might take. He’ll simply have to wait and see how the evening unfolds. Anything can happen at Wyrdwood.

According to his mother, if you look into the bonfire’s flames at the right moment, when the full moon crests the treetops and the bowtruckles go silent and the wind whips into an otherworldly frenzy, you’ll get a glimpse into your future. A gossamer-thin vision, suspended in flame. A flicker. A heartbeat of truth. Blink, and you’ll miss it.

Draco can’t fathom missing it. He wants to see the look on Pansy’s face when she realises they’re inevitable. He’ll hint that he’ll overthrow Granger for her in a heartbeat, and Pansy will be so eager to steal him away that she’ll likely agree to become his betrothed right then and there.

Yes, tomorrow night, he’ll walk under faerie-lit boughs with Granger, but it’ll be Pansy who he sees in the bonfire. It’ll be Pansy who comes back with him in the carriage. It’ll be Pansy, just like he always planned.

He’ll show her their future in the flames, and she’ll be relieved to know that her first choice had indeed been her best one. He’ll be happy, her family will be happy, and Goyle will rue the day he decided to cross the new Lord Malfoy.

In the meantime… What will make Granger blush?

It doesn’t have to mean anything, what he writes. It merely has to be effective. Granger will forgive him once the suitors come crawling out of the woodwork. Not that he cares about earning her forgiveness.

It’s only, he has received a lot of positive attention since he adopted his new and improved personal styling. There have also been a fair many howlers mocking or outright threatening him over consorting with a muggleborn, but he expected that. What he didn’t expect was the surprising amount of hooded glances from across the Great Hall, and even the occasional compliment. He’d admit it only under penalty of death, but Granger was right about switching up his appearance. She has… decent taste, for someone who didn’t grow up in an upstanding pureblood household. He might consult her for his wedding day look. On the sly, of course.

It takes him the entirety of the next duel to figure out what to write. He feels strangely out of breath as she reads his words.

You’ve no idea what I’m capable of.

You’re gripping that quill like it offended you. Thinking of me?

The tips of her ears turn pink, and it’s the most satisfaction he’s felt in weeks.

Then she burns the snake in a burst of blue flame.

No matter. He’ll just send another.

Tell me, do you always get this flustered when someone sees through you, or am I just special?

She turns that one into a pile of ash, too. He’s starting to enjoy the way the redness creeps up the back of her neck.

He sends the next snake without thinking.

I wonder if you blush like that everywhere?

This one she returns.

You’re mental.

“And lastly, Ms Granger and Mr Malfoy.”

Draco snaps to attention at the sound of his name. He got so caught up in passing notes that he didn’t realise the rest of the class has already duelled.

He stands and descends the steps like a man approaching the gallows. Granger hasn’t moved, frozen in her seat.

Fuck. He’s going to look like such an arsehole if he duels her for real after Goyle let Pansy win.

He reaches the front row and offers her his arm. A few snickers echo off the high ceilings, but he keeps his focus on Granger and her flaming red face. After an infinite second, her body seems to catch up with her brain, and she barely drags her heels as he pulls her from her seat and guides her to the floating platform.

Unlike when Pansy allowed herself to be helped up by Goyle, Granger stumbles onto the stage. Her eyes go wide when he yanks his wand from her hair, sending her curls tumbling down her back, releasing the faint, sweet scent of marshmallows. He bows to her, but when she curtsies in return, she dips just low enough to be technically proper.

She’s making a mockery of him. Of this.

“Don’t,” he warns, letting the unspoken threat linger.

“Don’t what?”

He searches her big brown eyes for proof that she’s taking the piss, but he knows Granger. The tilt of her head, the tremble in her casting arm. Something’s up. Nerves, maybe?

“Do you need me to be dreadfully explicit with you at all times?”

Her tongue darts out to lick across her lips. “Yes.”

Draco has a biting retort ready, but for some stupid reason he doesn’t understand, he pivots. “Don’t duel. Let me be the gentleman and forfeit.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. He spins on his heel and marches to take his place at the end of the platform. Draco glares at Sirius as the professor starts the countdown. Sirius arches an eyebrow, as if to say are you ready to prove your worth, cousin?

Draco grips the handle of his wand even tighter.

Sirius gives the signal, and Draco is in the middle of setting down his wand when Granger’s first hex hits him in the shoulder. He hears both his robes and shirt tear at the same time boils erupt across his skin, fierce and hot.

“What the—” He hisses through clenched teeth as another hex slashes through one of his knees. It gives way, and he stumbles before falling forward. His superior reflexes mean his hands hit the platform right before he eats shit, leaving him in a vulnerable crouching position.

Granger storms across the platform, lightning crackling in her hair, sparks raining down from her wand.

“Malfoy, get up,” she whispers furiously. “You need to mount a defense.”

Blood pours from the gash on his knee. She drew blood. First blood. Pure blood.

No one else did that today. They stuck to inconvenient jinxes and stunning spells.

Granger is for fucking real.

But Malfoys don’t let others get in the way of what they want.

He turns his face up to hers, channeling all his contempt into his death stare. “I don’t think you understand how this relationship works. I tell you what to do, and you do it. Now let me forfeit.”

“It’s a fake relationship. My fake boyfriend doesn’t get to tell me what to do.”

“But a real one does?” he sneers.

She slots her wand under his chin, and he has to strain his neck to avoid it digging into his skin. The classroom is so silent you could hear a pin drop.

Shouldn’t Sirius step in at this point? Not that he’s afraid Granger will kill him, but the implication is certainly there. He swallows audibly.

“I want a real fight. A proper one.”

Her wand falls away, and Granger casts a spell that has him up on his feet, slightly swaying on the platform.

“Ordinarily, I’d give you one, with pleasure,” he spits. “But Goyle let Pansy win. Therefore, I need to let you win.”

They’re circling each other now, like birds of prey jockeying over a carcass. Salazar, his shoulder burns. His knee has gone numb.

“That makes no sense.”

“You’re so bloody smart, Granger. You’ve more brains than anyone I’ve ever known. And yet it’s like you don’t account for anyone else’s perspective.”

For a split second, her face falls. “And that’s all you do, isn’t it? Account for other people’s perspectives?” Granger fires a nasty jinx at his other shoulder, but he blocks it easily. “It doesn’t matter what the duel looks like. The record book will say you lost.”

“A loss in battle is better than a loss of life. You’re killing me here. What has fighting me gotten you thus far, hm?”

“You’re a coward.”

“How original,” he quips, but the words still sting. “I’m not saying you always have to give in easily. But sometimes giving in is the only way to win.”

“I don’t want to,” she whispers, and Draco sees his opening.

“No, you’re afraid to. Expelliarmus.”

Her wand sails into the air, and he reaches for it, but Granger is too quick. She calls it back and, horrifyingly, his wand tags along with hers. Granger catches both, then casts a shield of fire around herself before Draco, wandless and dumbfounded, can find his footing. His half-hearted attempt at a wandless hex doesn’t breach her wall of magic, and within moments, he’s paralysed, falling on the cold, hard platform with a bone-crunching thud.

That’s his other shoulder. His vision starts to fuzz.

Grand, just grand.

The next thing Draco knows, he’s alone, laying atop a bed in the infirmary, wearing nothing but his pants and several bandages. His wand is by his side, and a fresh set of linens sits at the foot of the bed. Maybe he bled through the first ones.

It’s been awhile since someone else tended to his wounds. Usually if he’s in the infirmary, it’s in the cushy visitor’s chair, not atop this slab masquerading as a mattress. He sneers at his surroundings with twice the usual disgust. The pale yellow privacy curtain, while clean, is older than Dumbledore, and the whole place smells of sanitiser and half-dead “Get well soon!” bouquets destined for the bin.

A tempus tells him he’s only been there an hour or so. He summons the clipboard hanging to his right and reads Madam Pomfrey’s notes.

They’re thorough, almost as thorough as the notes he keeps.

Patient presents with a laceration approximately 7 centimeters in length, located transversely across the anterior aspect of the left knee, just inferior to the patella. The wound is deep, extending through the epidermis and dermis, with partial exposure of the subcutaneous tissue. Mild to moderate capillary bleeding is present. Surrounding tissue shows signs of abrasion and localized swelling.

He lifts the bandage on his knee and grimaces, agreeing with her assessment. It was a rather nasty cut. Thank Merlin for dittany.

He’s interrupted before he can read about his shoulders.

“Malfoy,” Granger breezes through the privacy curtain and stops short at the sight of him. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t—”

Her embarrassment immediately makes itself obvious. This time, she blushes scarlet, roses adorning each cheek.

That blush. He never tires of it.

Instead of grabbing for the spare linens and covering himself, Draco tucks his arms behind his head and flexes his abs. It’s probably the pain potions.

The metal rings of the curtain slide along the rod again to reveal Madam Pomfrey. Draco scrambles—well, not scrambles, more like grabs in a lordlike manner—for the sheet, covering himself as well as he can. Unfortunately, in the mad dash to preserve his dignity, he rips the fresh skin on his knee.

Bugger.

“Mr Malfoy, do not tell me that you’ve just ruined my work.”

“Apologies,” Draco mumbles.

Madam Pomfrey sighs and crosses muscled, no-nonsense arms over her starched shirt and crisp apron. Smart of her to forgo healers’ robes. The loose sleeves only get in the way, and the lime green colour clashes with nearly every skin tone.

“I’m going to have to keep you here ‘til tomorrow. Can’t have you bleeding all over the castle.”

Draco drags both hands over his face and lets his head drop back onto the pillow.

“But… Wyrdwood! We need to prepare,” Granger pouts, but Madam Pomfrey wags a finger at her, chastising her into silence.

“I’ll hear none of it. Now, let’s see that knee again.”

Granger doesn’t move as Draco receives another round of dittany. He’s torn between making a fuss and making her feel guilty, or maintaining his aura of coolness and mystery, enduring the essence’s sharp sting with not even a wince. He settles on the latter. Can’t have Granger thinking she got the better of him.

He let her win, after all.

When Pomfrey leaves, Granger sinks down into the visitor’s chair, defeated. “How are we going to practice our dancing?”

“Perhaps you should’ve thought of that before taking me out at the knees.”

“It’s just the one knee.”

“Semantics.”

Once again, the curtain flies open, and he nearly swears, except: it’s Pansy. Her lipstick is uncharacteristically smudged, and her skin looks sallow under the cold, sterile lights of the infirmary. Draco’s heart skips a beat. Is she worried about him?

She doesn’t come closer, fingers clinging to the edge of the curtain. He waits for her to say something; ideally, that watching him get carted off the platform after refusing to take down his fake girlfriend in a duel made her reconsider their breakup.

“Draco, are you alright?”

He straightens up at the sound of his first name. “Never better.”

Granger clears her throat, and Pansy startles. She stomps over to Draco’s bedside and glares at Granger.

“You could’ve killed him,” Pansy says through clenched teeth. He holds his breath when she tugs his sheet up to cover his chest.

She doesn’t want Granger to look at him. This is the Pansy he knows—green-eyed with jealousy. Oh, this is priceless. They are so back on.

Granger rolls her eyes. “Please. These are surface wounds, easily healed.”

“And yet he’s in the infirmary,” Pansy seethes.

“He wouldn’t be if he’d actually fought me back.”

“He should never have been paired with you. He’s not built for duelling.”

Wait, what?

“Hold on a second,” Draco says, but Pansy keeps going.

“He’s a seeker, for Salazar’s sake. He’s fragile. And you come at him like a—a—a brute!”

Fragile? Did she not see his abs when she covered him up a minute ago?

Granger’s furrowed brow says she’s just as confused as he is. “I think he’s perfectly capable of handling himself in a duel.”

Draco folds his arms and lifts his chin. “Quite.”

Granger’s rather tolerable when coming to his defense.

“I’m the best in our year, and he held his own against me without putting up a proper protego—on purpose, which is stupid, but I digress.”

Nevermind. She’s impossible.

Pansy chews her lip. “How did you summon both your wands?”

Draco would also like to know how she managed that little manoeuvre. Maybe because he gave it to her at the start of class?

Her response is evasive. Full of secrets, Granger. “We were supposed to be aggressive; that was the whole point of today’s lesson.”

“I don’t understand,” Pansy says, turning her back on Granger. She spears him with her dark eyes. “You always said… We hate her.”

His mind whirls. Hate… Hate is a strong word. He loathes Granger, abhors her, detests and despises her. He has the utmost disdain for her frilly socks and smart mouth and those big brown eyes.

But hate? Hate is something deeper, nastier. More twisted than what he feels now. And he suspects Pansy doesn’t mean Granger specifically; when she says her, what she means is her kind.

Does he hate her kind?

His answer surprises him.

“I don’t.”

A barely-audible sound of astonishment escapes Granger’s lips. It’s something between a gasp and a squeak. He supposes it’s as shocking to her as it is to him.

But it’s all so tiresome, isn’t it? She doesn’t belong in their world, but she’s here anyway, and she’s a better witch than most. It isn’t her fault she’s a muggleborn. One wouldn’t even know she had inferior blood if they faced her in a duel.

Even if he’d given it his all, she probably would’ve won today anyway. Not that he would ever admit that.

Seconds tick by before Pansy answers, and her voice is oddly thick. “Suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“For our dance,” he replies quickly, leaning forward in the bed. He needs to hear her confirm it.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Granger slip out. He feels a surge of gratitude towards her. She’d played this well. Maybe she’d sent him to the infirmary on purpose, with the idea that Pansy might come running if she saw him near-fatally wounded.

Genius, really.

“Yes. For our dance,” Pansy confirms. She takes his hand and squeezes it. “At least she didn’t give you a concussion. Remember what happened to Crabbe? At the last Nott Christmas party? You don’t need me to remind you how to waltz again, do you?”

“Don’t worry. It would take more than Granger’s magic to do me in.”

Pansy pulls her hand back a bit too quickly for his taste, but her slight smile speaks to the warmth that once existed between them, as complicated as their memories together are. There’s enough to spark hope in him; fuel for the torch he’ll always carry for her.

Tomorrow night, he’ll see her in the bonfire. Tomorrow night, their future will be sealed in flame.