It had been days. Hermione had stopped coming to their study sessions, Pansy had refused to speak to him — though her glaring hadn't let up — Daphne kept watching him with that unnerving smile, and even Theo and Blaise were beginning to grow uneasy.
"Right," Draco decided Wednesday morning, walking into the centre of the common room. "What is everyone's problem?"
The Slytherin common room fell silent as his voice cut across it. Pansy, seated on the sofa with a book she clearly wasn't reading, snapped it shut and fixed him with a glare sharp enough to draw blood. Daphne, perched in the corner with her legs crossed, raised an eyebrow but said nothing, her lips curving into that infuriatingly knowing smile. From their spot at the chessboard, Blaise and Theo exchanged a glance, silently debating who would be brave — or stupid — enough to answer first.
Draco's patience was wearing thin. He dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled.
Theo sighed, moving a chess piece. "Pansy's furious because you broke Granger." He said it simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Daphne thinks it's sweet. I'm enjoying the spectacle."
"Broke Granger?" Draco repeated, looking between them. "What does that even mean?"
Pansy huffed.
Draco narrowed his eyes at her, deciding she was the one who needed to talk. He crossed the room to her. "You haven't spoken to me since last Sunday. It's been over a week. I'm going out of my mind."
"Good," Pansy snapped. "You deserve it after what you've done to my friend."
"I haven't done anything!"
Daphne watched them bicker with that knowing smile that was really starting to grate on Draco's nerves.
He turned on her. "What?!"
Daphne looked at Pansy imploringly. "Can I please just tell him?"
"No," Pansy said flatly.
Theo leaned back in his chair. "You know she's going to tell him anyway."
Daphne leaned forward, chin resting in her hands. "Hermione Granger has finally, after years of thorough research, come to the conclusion that you, Draco Malfoy, are not simply a bumbling idiot."
Draco stared at Daphne as though she'd begun speaking in Parseltongue. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Daphne smirked, clearly savouring every moment. "It means that Granger has realised you're not entirely insufferable. In fact…" She let the thought trail off, blue eyes glittering with mischief.
"In fact, what?" Draco pressed, his voice laced with both irritation and a growing sense of dread.
Pansy groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Daphne, don't."
"Oh, come on, Pans. He has to know," Daphne whined.
Pansy scoffed, rising from the sofa. "No! He doesn't get to know. She's confused, and that's all there is to it."
"It's been days," Blaise said. "If she's still confused, she's not half as clever as people give her credit for."
Theo laughed. "Draco, mate — talk to Granger. It'll make more sense coming from her."
"Maybe I will." Draco huffed.
Pansy shook her head. "You can't. She needs time to sort through this."
"Try and stop me." Draco snapped, and stormed out of the common room.
When he entered the Great Hall, his eyes found Hermione immediately. She was seated at the Gryffindor table, her gaze fixed on her plate, her posture rigid — as though bracing herself for something. He didn't stop to think; his feet carried him toward her as if they'd made the decision on their own.
He stood at the edge of the table for a moment, uncertain how to begin. Hermione glanced up, her expression unreadable, though the tight set of her shoulders told him she wasn't exactly pleased to see him.
He scowled. "Move, Weasley."
"What?" Ron looked up, scoffing. "Like hell I—"
"Fine." Draco grabbed Hermione's arm and pulled her to her feet. "You're coming with me." He was already moving toward the doors, Hermione stumbling to keep up.
She wanted to argue — to dig her heels in and demand he release her — but he was so single-minded about it that she couldn't find the words.
"Malfoy, what are you doing?" she finally managed.
Not in his mouth, her mind unhelpfully supplied.
"Shut up and keep walking," Draco said, steering her into an empty classroom and locking the door behind them.
Hermione moved back, putting some distance between them, her thoughts muddled.
Draco took a moment to collect himself before turning around. "Everyone's saying I broke you. Pansy's furious and you've been avoiding me. I need an explanation."
She groaned, dragging her hands through her hair. "I'm not broken. I'm just confused."
"Confused about what?" Draco pressed.
Hermione looked at him, biting her lip. "You."
He blinked, tilting his head. "What do you mean, me?"
Hermione's heart hammered as she struggled to organise her thoughts, which had become a thorough mess. She could hardly believe this was happening — she'd spent days avoiding Draco, only to find herself locked in a classroom with him, forced to confront feelings she didn't fully understand herself.
She sank into a chair, trying to think. What was she supposed to say? That she'd made a mistake when she pulled him toward her on the stairs? It had been meant as a joke.
She was the brightest witch of her age. Surely she could explain this without admitting the full truth.
Her eyes went wide, and she looked over at Draco. "I'm beginning to think of you as a friend." She let the words out carefully.
It wasn't a lie. Not the whole truth either, but not a lie.
Draco stared at her, brow furrowing. "A friend?" he repeated, as if the word were entirely foreign to him. "You've spent days avoiding me, Pansy's on the warpath, Daphne keeps giving me that insufferable smirk — and all of it is because you've started thinking of me as a friend?"
Hermione nodded. "More or less. Strange, isn't it? The idea of us being friends."
"It's not the strangest thing that's happened this year," Draco muttered, shaking his head as he walked toward her.
"No, I've seen some extraordinary things, Malfoy, but this takes the prize." Hermione sighed.
He had no idea just how strange it truly was.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you're — you're you. You're cruel and egotistical. You've spent years attacking me and tearing me down."
Draco scowled. "You're not exactly making me want to be your friend, Granger."
Hermione groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "That's the problem, isn't it? You're Malfoy — except sometimes you're not. You're not supposed to be nice, or tolerable, or attractive, or—" She stopped herself, but too late.
A smirk spread across Draco's face, slow and deliberate, and she wasn't sure whether she wanted to hex it off or close the distance between them.
Maybe both. She'd examine that later.
"You think I'm attractive?" he asked, voice low in his throat.
Hermione's eyes went wide. She shot to her feet, face flooding with colour.
Draco's smirk widened as he watched her begin to pace the room as though her entire world were coming apart.
"This is not happening. I did not say that." Hermione whispered.
"You literally just said you find me attractive," he said, leaning back against the desk with his arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself. Which only made her angrier. Angry. That's all she was.
"Don't you dare make this worse." Hermione hissed, turning to glare at him.
He was watching her with those eyes of his, amused and piercing, looking straight through her.
"And stop looking at me like that."
He tilted his head, the movement slow and deliberate, like a predator toying with its prey. "Like what, Granger?" he drawled. "How exactly am I looking at you?"
Hermione scoffed. How was she meant to explain that his gaze made her weak in the knees? That the way he was looking at her right now had been plaguing her dreams for a week?
"Like I'm one of those witless girls who throw themselves at you."
"I'm flattered you find me attractive, Granger, but you've got it all wrong."
"Don't be," Hermione snapped, crossing her arms. "This is just — temporary insanity. Stress from NEWTs. Lack of sleep. I'll get over it."
Draco was laughing. Actually laughing at her.
"Oh, sod off!" She snapped.
"Granger—"
"No." Her eyes flashed. "You are so arrogant—"
"Granger—" He was moving toward her.
"You think everything is just—" Her arms flew out.
"Hermione!" Draco caught her hands. "Merlin, you're impossible."
She froze, caught by his grip, heart hammering, the room suddenly too small and too warm. She tried to pull away, but his hold was firm. The look in his eyes made her breath catch.
Draco held on, ignoring the way his pulse had spiked the moment her hands were in his. Just because she found him attractive didn't mean she wanted him. He'd known Daphne and Pansy long enough to understand that much.
"You just called me Hermione." She whispered, her gaze dropping briefly to his mouth before she caught herself.
"You weren't listening," he muttered. "Granger, Daphne finds me attractive. She's always trying to set me up with someone else. The fact that you said you think I'm attractive doesn't mean I've suddenly convinced myself you're some lovesick admirer."
Hermione's mouth dropped open. She could barely process what he was saying. She didn't like him like that. That was the conclusion he'd landed on? She had spent the past week and a half tormented by this sudden, unwelcome attraction to the blonde prat — and all he had to say was you don't like me like that?
Taking her silence for agreement, Draco released her hands and tucked his own into his pockets. "So — are we done with this misunderstanding? Can you go back to not avoiding me?"
Hermione let out a sound of pure outrage, then launched herself at him — pushing, hitting, absolutely furious.
Draco stumbled back, trying to deflect. "Granger! Granger, stop!" He fumbled to catch her hands and failed entirely.
"You insufferable prat!" Hermione shouted, striking him again. "I've been losing my mind, Malfoy! Completely out of my mind! And you just—"
She screeched again, wand out, eyes blazing with a fury that could rival a Hungarian Horntail.
"You drag me out of the Great Hall, you have me stumbling after you like a fool, you lock me in an empty classroom, you mock me over one stupid moment I've been going mad over for days, and you're smug about it! Actually smug!" she yelled.
Draco stumbled back, hands raised in a token gesture of defence, though his eyes never left her. There was something undeniably captivating about Hermione Granger in a fury — her cheeks flushed vivid pink, her chest heaving, her eyes blazing with that furious certainty. Her words hit him like hexes, but he couldn't stop the smirk creeping back onto his face.
"Stop smirking!" Hermione snapped, throwing her hands in the air. "I am pouring my heart out at you, and all you can do is smirk?! Are you emotionally incompetent or just wilfully obtuse?!"
What was he supposed to say? That watching her like this was captivating? That he didn't mind being on the receiving end of her temper, that he was utterly bewitched by the fact that he could provoke this kind of reaction in her?
Hermione's chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, her face flushed a deeper shade of red.
She glared at him with such ferocity that for a moment, Draco forgot how to breathe.
Here she was, screaming at him like he was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, and his chest was tightening. He didn't want her to stop. Not the yelling, not the flushed expression, not the way her eyes burned.
He had accepted a few weeks ago that he was beginning to fancy her. It had been easy enough, knowing there was no world in which she could ever fancy him back. She'd called him attractive, but that didn't mean anything had changed. It didn't mean she fancied him. Even if she did, there was nothing to be done about it.
But she didn't — and that had been manageable when all he felt was a growing infatuation. Here, though, with her raging at him like this, so vivid and alive and passionate about it all, his innocent fancy was becoming something far more inconvenient. His trousers were certainly not helping matters.
"I need to go," he decided abruptly, the clarity of it dawning on him. If he didn't leave now, he would do something deeply foolish.
Hermione sputtered, watching him start toward the door. "You don't just get to leave!"
Draco spun around. "What do you want me to say, Granger? You didn't like it when I teased you about calling me attractive. And you didn't like it when I said I understand that noticing me doesn't mean you fancy me."
"I want you to stop acting like you get to decide how I feel." Hermione slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor. "I — I don't. I don't fancy you. But that doesn't mean you get to... you don't get to make that decision for me."
The words landed like a stone in still water. I don't fancy you. He could repeat them, think them a thousand times — but hearing them from her mouth was something different. He couldn't decide if he was relieved or gutted.
"You like me," he said quietly.
She scoffed. "I just told you not to tell me how I feel."
"As a friend," Draco corrected himself, looking anywhere but at her. "You like me as a friend. I can — I can manage that. We can be friends."
Hermione sat on the cold floor and stared at him as though he'd grown a second head. Friends. She didn't want to be his friend.
"Friends," she echoed.
Draco nodded. "Yeah. Friends. No ulterior motives. No snide remarks. Just — friends."
Hermione rested her chin on her knees, biting her bottom lip. "I still think you're an arrogant git most of the time."
He scoffed. "And I still think you're an insufferable know-it-all." He glanced toward the door. "I should get back to the dorm. Need to change before class." He left without waiting for a response.
---
Theo, Blaise, Daphne, and Pansy sat in the Slytherin common room, waiting.
"I bet she hexed him," Pansy said, moving a chess piece for Blaise.
Blaise shook his head. "Nah. I bet he snogged her."
Theo smirked, balancing his chair on two legs. "You're both wrong. She's probably given him one of those lectures — the kind where she uses so many words that even I start questioning my own intelligence."
"When aren't you questioning your intelligence?" Daphne muttered, leaning against his shoulder.
"Draco doesn't have the nerve to snog her. He'd get within an inch of her face and then bottle it." Pansy shook her head.
"What's the over-under on how long before they actually do snog?" Theo asked, earning a sharp glare from Pansy.
"Never," she said firmly.
Blaise snorted. "By end of day."
"Two weeks," Daphne offered. "They're both far too impossible to let it happen any sooner. They probably need a drink or two in their systems first."
Pansy scowled. "As if Hermione would let herself within arm's reach of Draco if she'd had a drink."
Daphne stood up with a broad grin. "We should throw a party."
Theo rolled his eyes, pulling her back onto the sofa.
The common room door opened. They all looked over to see Draco walk in. He stopped when he noticed them staring.
"What?"
"Well?" Pansy sat up straighter. "What happened?"
Draco's jaw tightened. "Nothing."
Blaise snorted. "Nothing? You've been gone nearly an hour."
"If she hexed you, you're holding up remarkably well," Theo observed.
"She didn't hex me!" he snapped.
"Did she snog you?" Daphne asked, more invested in Draco's personal life than anything she'd read lately.
Draco scowled. "She spent the better part of an hour screaming at me and at one point hitting me. For someone who spends so much time in the library, she's got a terrifying right hook."
Pansy raised an eyebrow. "She hit you?"
"Multiple times," Draco confirmed, rubbing his chest as though he could still feel it.
Blaise frowned. "What exactly was she saying?"
"That I've been driving her mad, and I'm an insufferable prat. Same as always. She went all red and she was glaring at me like she could set me on fire, and her chest was heaving, and she couldn't catch her breath, and I — I..." He trailed off, an incoherent noise escaping him. "I need a moment."
He was already heading toward the dormitory stairs when Theo burst out laughing and Pansy groaned.
"What?!" Theo managed between laughs.
Draco turned back. "What?! I like it when she yells at me, apparently! Is that so shocking?!"
Daphne stared at him. "By Salazar's name, you're pathetic." She concluded.
"I've heard of stranger preferences, mate," Blaise said, shaking his head, "but be careful — this is how bad habits start."
"I'm not doing this. I'm going to the dormitory. Don't come in." Draco muttered, heading up the stairs.
The common room fell silent as his footsteps faded. Theo and Blaise exchanged knowing looks, both fighting — and failing — not to burst out laughing.
"Stop laughing!" Daphne hissed, grabbing a pillow and whacking them both with it.
---
The dormitory door closed, and Draco leaned back against it, eyes shut, breathing hard through his nose.
She didn't fancy him.
Fine. Of course she didn't.
He didn't care.
He really, truly, didn't care.
A friend.
That's what she'd said.
He could be that. He'd offered it himself. He meant it, didn't he?
That was, until she'd started hitting and screaming at him.
Until her chest was heaving and her eyes were blazing, and she was absolutely furious — because of him. Because he had made her feel that way. All flushed and breathless.
"Friends," he muttered. "Brilliant bloody idea, Malfoy."
It would be simpler if she hated him again. If she called him a ferret and went back to ignoring his existence unless he hexed someone in a corridor. That was clean. Predictable. Easy.
But this grey area — friendship with Hermione fucking Granger?
How was he supposed to manage friendship when he now knew exactly how to make her come apart?
Draco opened his eyes, then looked down at himself. He groaned.
He was still half hard.
More than half, if he was being honest.
Bloody brilliant.
He pushed off the door and paced the room like a caged animal, dragging a hand through his hair. It wasn't as if he'd meant for this to happen. It wasn't as if he wanted to be this pathetic.
But the yelling, the flushed cheeks, the wand trembling in her hand — he'd be lying if he said it hadn't done something to him.
Something primal.
Something deeply inconvenient.
He kicked off his shoes and dropped back onto his bed, head hitting the pillow with a frustrated thud.
She'd been absolutely murderous. Her fists fast and unsparing, no pulling of punches. He could still feel the ache across his chest where her knuckles had landed. Not enough to bruise — probably. He wouldn't be surprised if they did.
He should have been repulsed.
At the very least, alarmed.
She'd drawn her wand on him, for Merlin's sake.
Huffing, he pushed himself up onto his forearms.
One second.
Two.
"Sod it," he muttered, reaching down and popping open his trousers, his hand slipping inside.
He hissed through his teeth as he wrapped his hand around himself. Nothing graceful about it whatsoever.
Raw, frustrated, desperate — driven entirely by the image of her flushed and furious, screaming at him like she wanted nothing more in the world than to hex him into oblivion.
He tightened his grip, picking up the pace as he watched himself with something close to self-disgust.
This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.
She'd been raging at him, and here he was, acting like some fourth-year who'd just discovered a Playwitch magazine.
His hips rolled upward and he groaned.
Absolutely pathetic.
His mind kept replaying it — Hermione's cheeks a vivid pink, her curls wild, her voice cracking as she screamed at him. The way she'd spat his name like it burned her tongue. The way her chest had heaved, eyes blazing.
Gods, he wanted to do it again. Wanted to be the cause of it again.
She'd looked at him like she was two seconds from losing all control.
He wanted her to lose it. Wanted to see what happened when Hermione Granger stopped thinking.
His hips stuttered upward at the thought. He bit his tongue, a sound pathetically close to a whimper escaping as the image took shape.
The thought of her finding him like this — hand wrapped around himself, making an utter fool of his dignity.
"Granger—" he gasped, tightening his grip, forcing himself to slow. Not yet.
He didn't close his eyes.
No — if he was going to do this, he was going to witness every second of his own humiliation.
He watched himself fist his cock in his trousers, the image of Hermione furious and breathless at the forefront of his mind. The thought of her walking in. The look on her face.
He should stop. He should shut this down, bury it under whatever scraps of dignity he had left.
But he couldn't.
His mind dragged up that image again — lips parted, cheeks flushed, wand shaking with righteous fury, eyes burning like she could curse him out of existence.
Gods, she was brilliant. Brutal. So damnably alive.
He stroked harder now, the heat rising, coiling tight in his gut. The frustration and want and ache wound together until they were indistinguishable. Every movement brought it closer, all of it circling back to her.
His eyes closed — just for a moment — long enough to make everything worse.
Because now she was there. Not really. But his treacherous mind conjured her anyway. Her silhouette in the doorway. Arms crossed. That scowl carved into her face like it had been made for him.
"What in Merlin's name do you think you're doing?" she'd say, voice sharp and indignant.
He could hear it perfectly. See it perfectly. Her watching him.
"I — fuck —" he groaned, hips jerking up into his fist.
She'd curl her lip. Call him a deviant. Perhaps hex him into next week.
Perhaps not.
He swallowed hard, his strokes turning rougher, more desperate. He couldn't hold back the moan — low and guttural.
He'd agree. To anything she said.
"Yes — fuck, Granger. That's exactly it."
His hand wouldn't stop. Couldn't.
"Getting yourself off over a row?" He could hear her in his head, wearing that expression she reserved for when she knew she was under his skin.
He groaned, his hips rolling harder into his fist.
Gods, she'd been breathless when she'd yelled at him. Chest heaving.
His thumb slid over the head, slick now, and his hips jolted at the pressure.
"Is this what does it for you? Me screaming at you?"
He'd nod. Gods, he'd nod like a complete fool, cheeks burning with shame. He'd agree to anything if it meant she'd stay. If it meant she'd look at him like that.
He twisted his wrist, feeling the familiar burn coiling low in his abdomen. He wasn't going to last.
His mind shifted — away from that imagined Hermione and back to the one in the classroom.
He could see it — the way her jumper had pulled just slightly across her chest when she shouted, the way it had strained with every indignant breath she drew. He hadn't meant to notice. He truly hadn't.
But Merlin help him, he had.
He imagined what lay beneath it. Imagined her breathing hard against a cold stone wall, curls clinging to flushed skin—
"Fucking hell," he groaned, voice cracking as his hips bucked upward, chasing the image like it was air.
His hand was frantic now, no rhythm left, no pretence of finesse — just desperate friction, heat rising, all of it anchored to her.
He imagined pushing her against the wall. Just once. Just enough to—
"Oh god—" he gasped. "Fuck — no, Granger — Granger — fuck — no — no — no—"
His voice broke. He groaned, loud and helpless, hips rutting hard into his fist as he finished, coating the inside of his trousers.
He let go, pulling his hand free, and stared up at the ceiling, pulse hammering in his ears.
That didn't just happen.
With a shaky exhale, he sat up, elbows braced on his knees, staring down at the mess he'd made. His wand sat on the bedside table just out of reach, and for a moment, he didn't even want to reach for it. Let it stay. Let it serve as a reminder of exactly how far gone he was.
Shame burned beneath his skin.
Gods, if anyone ever found out—
If she ever found out—
His stomach twisted. The humiliation curled low and hot, tangling with everything else: the lingering want, the ache in his chest, the wretched certainty that even after all that, he still wanted her.
She was going to be the death of him, and the worst part was he'd probably thank her for it.
---
That night, to Draco's considerable surprise, Hermione was already at the library table when he arrived, meticulously arranging her notes and books.
"You're here," he said, walking over.
Hermione startled, looking up at him. "Of course I am. We're friends, aren't we? Friends help each other."
He nodded. "Right. Friends." It still stung.
Hermione returned to her papers, trying to focus on anything but the way Draco smelled, standing so close. "I was actually working through your Ancient Runes translation while I... while we weren't talking."
"While you were hiding from me like I'd contracted Dragon Pox," Draco corrected.
She huffed, turning to face him. "Alright. I told myself I wasn't going to get worked up again after this morning. I know you're dying to mock me, so just do it and get it over with."
Draco studied her with a careful expression, as though trying to determine whether it was a trap. "Do you actually know how to have friends? Because this isn't how it works."
"Excuse me?"
Draco sat down. "Tell me about your family."
Hermione stared at him. "My family? Why, so you can mock them for being Muggles?"
"Friends talk about their families. I know more about Pansy's mum than I do about my own."
Hermione straightened, deciding that if they were going to discuss her parents, she was at least going to do it with some dignity.
"My parents are dentists."
Draco had immediate questions. "What's a dentist?"
Hermione blinked, thrown entirely by the sincerity of it. She had braced herself for a cutting remark. She cleared her throat. "A dentist is someone who looks after teeth — cleans them, repairs damage, that sort of thing."
Draco nodded. "Right. So how do they manage with all the magic?"
Hermione ducked her head, a knot forming in her stomach. "Oh, well — it's...complicated."
Choosing her words with care, she began. "They were actually somewhat relieved when Professor McGonagall showed up to explain the wizarding world. I...didn't fit in particularly well with my Muggle peers."
Draco listened without interruption, his gaze steady on her. It was such a departure from the Hermione he usually encountered — the one quick to deflect, to keep everything impersonal. There was a vulnerability in her now that he hadn't quite expected.
"I don't see them much. I don't enjoy going home. They're perfectly decent parents — don't misunderstand me — but they can't comprehend any of this, and even if I wanted to explain it, I wouldn't know where to begin." Hermione glanced at him. "If I told my mum Harry fought a dragon in fourth year, she'd have had me withdrawn from Hogwarts before I could blink."
Draco's lips twitched. "Can't exactly tell them you helped a convicted prisoner escape either, can you?"
She smiled. "Or that I was Petrified in second year."
"Or that Death Eaters had you in their sights last year."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Speaking of family — your turn."
Draco's hand stiffened. "There isn't much you don't already know."
She frowned softly. "I don't know about your mother." She kept her voice quiet, offering him an out if he needed it.
She watched his fingers curl slowly into his palm, his eyes closing as though against an unwelcome memory.
"I'm sorry — I shouldn't have—"
"My father ruined her life," Draco said at last.
Hermione's eyes went wide, but she didn't speak.
"You've put him in Azkaban, and the Malfoy name is in ruins. Not to mention the bloody..." He stopped himself. He couldn't tell her about the Death Eaters who had made themselves at home in his house, or about the threat hanging over his mother's life, or about what he had been tasked to do.
Hermione reached out and took his hand. "The bloody what?"
Draco stiffened at her touch, his gaze falling to their joined hands. "It's nothing."
"It's clearly not nothing."
He looked up at her, and the expression on her face — so earnest, so desperately wanting to help — made his chest ache.
"I can help," she pressed. "I mean, look at my record. I'm rather good at it."
Draco let out a dry laugh, glancing down at their hands again. "You really do have a hero complex, Granger. If you want to help me, just help me translate this book."
Hermione withdrew her hand and picked up the volume. "Actually — I already did." She admitted, a faint blush rising. "I know you said you wanted to do it yourself, but I needed a distraction, and it was genuinely fascinating. I've never translated an entire book into English before. I don't know exactly what you need it for, but it's clearly to repair something, and I'd love to help with that — if you'd let me. I know I may be overstepping, but I did do all this work, so you might as well—"
"Merlin, Granger, do you ever stop?" Draco laughed, staring at her.
Hermione huffed. "You could say thank you."
He hesitated. "Thank you. You didn't have to do the entire thing, though."
Hermione shrugged, busying herself with organising her notes into a neat stack. "I wasn't doing it for you," she said quickly, her tone defensive. "I just needed something to keep my mind occupied."
"Well, if you keep this up, I have to say I'm becoming rather a fan of this friendship business."
Draco leaned back, skimming through her meticulous translations. His eyes moved over the pages. She'd done exactly what he needed.
Hermione cleared her throat, desperate to move the conversation along. "So — what do you actually need this book for? I can tell it involves repairing something magical. Something large enough that a simple Reparo won't do. The magic is complex. It could take days to cast properly."
Draco paused his reading. "It's for a... family heirloom."
"A family heirloom?" she asked, feigning nonchalance, though the curiosity was clearly nagging at her.
Draco shifted in his seat. He didn't like lying to her. "I could show you," he blurted out.
He blinked. Why had he said that? If she realised what he was actually doing, it would unravel everything.
He could see her eyes widen, her whole face brightening at the prospect of examining some ancient magical artefact.
"Really?" she asked.
He could come up with an excuse. Say no. But she looked so genuinely happy about it — how was he supposed to turn that down?
"Yeah. Sure. Why not?" Voldemort was going to kill him personally.
Hermione's face lit up, her excitement momentarily displacing the awkwardness that had been simmering between them. "That would be brilliant! Learning about a powerful wizarding family's history from the source itself?"
"I mean — it's not exactly a family piece. We simply... own it. It's very old."
"Can I see it tonight?"
Draco hesitated. "Tonight?" He didn't have time to find something else to show her. He only had the Vanishing Cabinet.
This may have been the worst idea he'd ever had.
Hermione nodded, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Why not?"
He groaned. "Fine. But it's late, so don't go turning the whole thing into a three-hour investigation."
She rolled her eyes. "As if I make a habit of sticking my nose where it doesn't belong."
Draco raised an eyebrow, standing up. "Let's go, Granger."
Hermione grinned, quickly packing up her things before following him out. They climbed through the castle until they were nearing Gryffindor Tower.
"Malfoy, where are we going?" she asked. She'd assumed they'd head toward the dungeons.
"I think you know, Granger," Draco answered, stopping in front of an empty stretch of wall. He closed his eyes, concentrating — asking the Room of Requirement to conceal the Vanishing Cabinet, to show only what he wanted it to show.
Hermione stood a short distance back, watching him.
"The Room of Requirement?" she asked, as the great wooden doors began to materialise.
Draco didn't answer. He pushed the doors open and stepped inside, his pulse hammering. He had absolutely no idea how he was going to manage this.
Hermione followed closely, her gaze sweeping across the vast space — towering piles of forgotten objects, dust-draped furniture, the faint metallic tang of old magic hanging in the air alongside the smell of parchment.
Draco swallowed hard. He hadn't thought this through. What was he supposed to say? That he'd been secretly working dark magic in here for months? That this wasn't some family treasure but a vital instrument of the Dark Lord's plans?
"Last time I was here, you and your lot were getting us in trouble with Umbridge," Hermione said, glancing around with a fond kind of exasperation.
Draco rolled his eyes. "We weren't exactly friends then."
"So what I'm hearing is you wouldn't get me in trouble now." Hermione fell into step beside him. "Can you just show me already?"
"You're insufferable," Draco muttered, coming to a stop. And there it was. The Vanishing Cabinet.
It rose before them — dark wood, imposing, and unmistakably powerful — and Draco watched Hermione's face, half-expecting her to understand everything just by looking at it.
"It's... a cabinet," Hermione said simply.
"What a remarkable observation." Draco drawled.
Hermione gave him a look, then stepped toward it, running her fingers along the split and splintered wood. The soft hum of ancient enchantments buzzed beneath her touch, faint but unmistakeable. Magic always felt like something just beneath the surface — alive.
"What does it do?" she asked.
"It's broken," Draco replied, as though that answered anything. He had to be careful. She was far too sharp; one wrong word and she'd piece it all together.
She hummed, crouching to examine it more closely. "Where is it connected to?"
Draco went very still. How could she possibly know? He hadn't said anything to give it away.
"What?" he managed, voice hoarse.
Hermione looked up at him. "It's a Vanishing Cabinet. Fred and George used one on Montague last year. Where does it connect to?"
Draco felt the floor drop out from beneath him. Of course. Of course that's how she'd worked it out — the same way he had.
He could lie. It would be so easy to lie. Tell her he had no idea, or that it led somewhere harmless.
"Borgin and Burkes."
He didn't.
The words were out before he'd made a conscious decision, and he could feel the walls closing in as Hermione's expression shifted — working through it, placing the pieces together. That was what he had been doing that day at the shop.
Draco's hand moved instinctively toward his wand.
But then—
"I can help you fix it," Hermione said.
Draco's hand dropped. "What?"
Hermione straightened up, moving slowly around the cabinet. "I can help you fix it. I've already translated the book you were going to use. I might as well see it through." There was no hesitation in her voice. No fear or suspicion or the usual moral interrogation he would have expected.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. He had expected panic. Accusations. Demands for answers. Not this. Not Hermione Granger simply offering to help.
"Why?" he asked.
Hermione looked at him. How was she meant to explain that she could see, just by looking at him, that he had taken on far more than he could bear? That all she wanted was to help dig him out of whatever hole he'd fallen into?
"You don't even know what it's for," Draco said.
She shrugged. "Then tell me."
He shook his head, eyes wide. Part of him wanted to tell her everything — to scare her off — but she'd go straight to Potter, and Potter to Dumbledore, and everything he'd sacrificed would mean nothing.
"Malfoy?" she said after a pause.
Draco ran a hand through his hair. "I can't. I'm not just going to tell you."
Hermione tilted her head, studying him with that quiet, penetrating attention that always made him feel like she could see straight through him. Like she already knew he was in over his head.
"I'm still helping you," she said at last.
Draco stared at her. "You're unbelievable."
She only smiled faintly, reaching out to brush her fingers across the cabinet's surface again. "So — where do we start?"
She knew she shouldn't. She knew she ought to demand answers, drag him straight to Dumbledore. A few months ago, she would have done exactly that.
But she had accepted — quietly, without making a fuss — that she cared for him. Perhaps the way she cared for Harry or Ron. Perhaps more. Either way, she was going to dig him out of this, even if she had to get a little dirty to do it.