Professor Flitwick was mid-lecture on advanced Banishing Charms, her quill was poised, her parchment half-filled with neatly organised notes — and Draco Malfoy had poked her in the back with his quill for the third time in as many minutes.
She didn't turn around.
Instead, she adjusted her posture, slightly stiff, and continued scribbling. Flitwick's voice rose just enough to signal he was about to demonstrate something, and she was determined to watch closely.
Poke.
She exhaled through her nose, murder barely restrained. Then, delicately, she reached down and unfolded the bit of parchment that had appeared beside her elbow.
It was a single word.
Frustrated?
She huffed, rolling her eyes as she wrote back.
Focused. You should try it sometime.
She flicked it back, listening as Draco reached to catch it.
A beat passed before another piece of parchment appeared at her desk.
She glanced over at Ron, who luckily wasn't paying any attention, before unfolding it.
I can focus. I can focus on the way you're rolling your eyes as you read this, or the way you keep tapping your foot, or how you moan whenever I—
She flipped the paper over without finishing it and wrote on the back.
We are in class, you absolute menace.
She reached back to place it on his desk.
She heard him snort before poking her again.
She reached her hand back, letting him slip the note in.
Unfurling it in her lap, she read.
You're hot when you're mean to me.
She pressed her lips together to keep from smiling as she scribbled back.
How hot?
He made a noise as he read the note, quickly covering it with a cough.
She heard him scribbling a response and had to bite back her laugh as the note slipped back into her hand.
Hot enough that I'm having trouble staying seated. Entirely your fault, by the way.
She could feel the heat creeping up her neck. She glanced around — Harry and Ron still distracted — before she grabbed her quill, wrote back, and tossed the paper over her shoulder.
Well, maybe I can help you with that problem. Unless you're particularly fond of your hand.
She heard him choke behind her.
An actual, muffled, almost-passed-out-from-shock kind of choke. Followed by a low hiss of breath and the distinct scrape of his chair shifting as he sat back.
Hermione sat very still, pretending to be absorbed in her notes while her entire body hummed with smug satisfaction.
There was a long pause before she heard him scribbling, and she wondered if she'd pushed too far.
The note found its way onto her desk.
Help me how?
Her quill hovered above the parchment as she formulated a response, running through her options.
She pressed the tip to the page, let the ink soak in for a moment, then wrote.
She tossed it back.
I'm open to suggestions.
She could practically sense him reading it. Could feel, in the subtle stillness behind her, the exact moment he leaned forward and dropped his forehead into his hand like he needed a moment to recover.
Then:
Suggestion: You, me, after class, empty classroom. Let's see you put your wandwork to the test.
She laughed quietly to herself before scribbling back.
And is this hands-on or strictly theoretical?
She would have sworn she'd never heard anyone write as fast as Draco did in that moment.
He poked her with his quill, this time low on her back.
She took her time, finishing her notes on whatever Flitwick was demonstrating, before taking the note.
Absolutely hands-on. Unless you'd prefer mouths.
She inhaled sharply, closed her eyes, then scribbled back one last note.
Transfiguration classroom is free. Meet me there.
She slid it onto his desk as she rose to her feet, Flitwick dismissing them for the day.
Draco took his time packing up.
Hermione stepped out into the corridor with Harry and Ron, who were already mid-conversation.
"You know, I completely forgot I promised McGonagall I'd help with grading during lunch today." Hermione said apologetically. "I'll see you both at dinner, yeah?"
Harry raised an eyebrow with an all too knowing look on his face, but she chose to ignore it for her own peace of mind, heading down the corridor toward the empty classroom.
She was sitting on the desk when the door finally opened again, Draco stepping in and locking it behind him.
Hermione sat with one leg bent up on the desk, her skirt riding a little higher than strictly school-appropriate, her hands folded neatly in her lap as though she hadn't just spent half of Flitwick's lecture writing increasingly indecent notes.
Draco's eyes swept over her — slow and deliberate — and when they met hers again, he looked frankly wrecked. Flushed. Hungry.
"You're evil." He said.
She shrugged. "I don't know what you mean, Professor Malfoy. I'm just hoping you'll teach me a thing or two about handling wands."
Draco groaned as he stepped toward her, settling between her legs. "Again with the Professor thing, Granger. I'm starting to think you have a thing for it." He murmured as he kissed her.
Hermione smiled against his lips, placing her hand on his chest to stop him for a moment. "Only because I like how red you get when I say it."
Draco huffed a laugh against her mouth. "You're going to be the death of me."
Humming, her hands ran down his chest and slipped under his shirt. "I don't know what you mean. I was just hoping for some extra credit, Professor."
His breath hitched as he kissed her — soft and eager — until he felt her drag her nails up and down his abs.
"You'll give me a complex if you keep that up." He murmured, his hand finding the small of her back as he kissed just below her ear.
She let out a sharp, delighted laugh, until it was cut short when he kissed her again.
Sighing against his lips, she let his tongue slip in her mouth, her hands still teasing the skin beneath his shirt.
Her fingers, featherlight, danced against his skin as she kissed him back, tracing the ridges of muscle under his shirt, until her hands began wandering lower — just barely grazing the waistband of his trousers.
They kept wandering, tracing idle, curious shapes. The barest brush of knuckle and nail where skin met fabric. But then she did it again, slower this time, dragging the pad of her finger just beneath the hem as though she wasn't thinking about it at all.
Draco made a noise — something low and half-broken in the back of his throat — and the hand at the small of her back pressed just slightly harder.
For a moment he forgot how to kiss, forgot what words were, forgot everything except the way her touch made his spine melt and tense all at once.
"'Mione," he mumbled into her mouth — half plea, half warning.
Hermione's only response was to lean closer, her fingers curling around his belt loop.
"You're not exactly subtle." He breathed against her jaw.
Hermione hummed. "No idea what you're talking about."
"You're not aware that your hands have been flirting with my waistband for the last five minutes?"
"Have they?" She asked innocently, tugging his belt loop down slightly as she pressed her thumb to the now-exposed skin.
His eyes fluttered shut. "I thought we were doing this the right way."
"We can," Hermione answered instantly.
"We are." Her voice was softer that time. "That doesn't mean we can't do… other things."
Draco blinked at her as though he were trying very hard to hold on to something — reason, maybe, or dignity. Possibly both. Unfortunately for him, her thumb was still brushing slow, lazy circles against his skin just below the edge of his waistband, and both of those things were rapidly slipping through his fingers.
"Other things?" he echoed, voice low and incredulous, as if the words had been knocked out of him.
Hermione nodded, eyes wide, feigning innocence with enough precision to make it artful. "Other things," she repeated softly.
Draco leaned in just slightly, lips grazing her cheek as he murmured, "You're going to have to be a bit more specific, Granger. Not sure my imagination can handle it right now."
"Oh, I think your imagination's doing just fine." She said, turning her head to steal a kiss. "Let me touch you, Draco."
His hands came up to her face as he kissed her desperately, as if she'd undone something he hadn't known she was holding together.
His fingers slid into her hair as he tilted her head back, deepening the kiss with an urgency that made her stomach flip and heat pool low in her belly.
She took that as her answer, moving to his belt buckle and pulling it free.
Her fingers worked with unhurried confidence, tugging the leather from its loops as Draco exhaled sharply against her lips, his hands tightening in her hair.
The buckle clicked faintly as she set it aside on the desk.
She popped the button of his trousers open and pulled the zip down.
And then his hand was on her wrist, and he was pulling away, and it was a miracle she didn't throw a tantrum.
He was breathing hard, lips kiss-bitten and flushed, but his eyes — his eyes were searching hers with something closer to panic than desire. Still close enough to taste her, still so obviously undone by her touch, but holding her wrist firm between them.
"Wait," he said, voice rough. "Just — wait a second."
Hermione watched him for a moment, and then her fear found its way out of her mouth. "Is it because I'm a Muggle-born?"
Draco blinked. He watched how Hermione's face twisted, her brows pulling together as if she hadn't meant to ask. But he could see it on her face — how much the question had been gnawing at her, how long she'd been wondering. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and assure her that wasn't it.
He wanted to explain. He really did. That he wanted her in every way a man could want someone, but that he couldn't have her.
That he was already putting her in danger simply by dating her — putting himself in danger — and that no matter how hard he tried, when everything came down to it, she'd hate him when she finally learned about his Dark Mark.
No matter how badly he wanted her, he couldn't have her until she knew the truth. And once she knew, he wouldn't have the option anymore.
"I just need to know if this is another hurdle you'll clear with time, or if the Muggle-born thing is going to shadow everything else." She said, her eyes searching for any sign she wasn't wasting hers.
"Everything else?" He asked, stupidly.
She hesitated, her face growing warm. How could she explain what she meant by everything else? That she didn't do things by halves. That if he was going to be her boyfriend — which he was, they'd established that — then there had to be the possibility of a future. She hadn't even thought further than a few months until the words had left her mouth.
"I mean… is the fact that I'm a Muggle-born going to stop you from ever being able to love me?" Her voice had gone quiet, as if it were a secret she didn't want to share.
Draco stared at her. Her question rang between them like a cast curse — sharp, irrevocable, raw with honesty.
Is the fact that I'm a Muggle-born going to stop you from ever being able to love me?
He wanted to tell her no. Gods, he wanted to tell her no with every part of himself that wasn't already falling to pieces.
Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her deeply.
He kissed her like it was the only answer he had, the only thing he could give. And maybe it was.
Hermione pushed him back after a moment. "That's not an answer."
Draco rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. "I've been taught that you're beneath me for years, Hermione. That doesn't simply shatter because I — I fancy you." He whispered. "And it's not the answer you want to hear, but it's the only one I can give. That I'm trying. I'm trying to break it."
Hermione stayed perfectly still beneath the weight of his words. Her heart thudded in her chest — loud and angry and confused. She wasn't sure what she'd expected — some sweeping declaration, perhaps, or at least a firm denial. Not this quiet, honest in-between that felt far too much like almost.
"You're trying," she repeated flatly.
Draco opened his eyes, guilt sharp behind them. "I know it's not enough."
"It's not that it's not enough," Hermione said.
His hand was still on her wrist, but looser now. He let go of her gently, as if he knew she needed space to think. Or move. Or bolt.
"I want you. But I can't pretend I don't hear my father's voice in the back of my head every time I think about it. I can't pretend I don't imagine the look on my mother's face when I say your name. I wish I could unlearn all of it, Hermione, but it's harder than you think."
Her eyes found his again — clear, sharp, and aching.
"You're the only thing that makes sense anymore." He whispered, begging her to understand.
She hated how easily he could make her feel everything at once: angry, adored, terrified. She didn't even know what the tears were for — frustration, maybe. Or relief.
"Am I just an exception to your rule, then?"
"There is no rule," he said quickly. "Not anymore. I swear to you, I —"
He stopped. Not because he didn't know what to say, but because he couldn't say that word.
Not yet.
And she saw it. Saw the way he choked on it — the way he folded it back down into his throat as though he wasn't allowed to let it out.
It wasn't the answer she wanted. But perhaps it was the only one she could have right now.
He hadn't said it. And she hadn't either. Maybe that mattered less than it felt like it did.
Because he had said other things. Important things. Brave things. Honest things.
And those counted for something. They had to.
She reached up, cupping his jaw. "You're trying," she repeated, but her voice had changed — less accusation now. More acceptance.
Draco nodded as if he didn't trust himself to speak.
Hermione's eyes searched his face — every flicker of pain, every furrow of hesitation, every piece of him that looked like it wanted to run and couldn't. She felt something unexpected settle in her chest.
She understood him.
Not entirely. Not everything. But enough.
Her fingers slid up, threading through his hair. "That voice. The one that says I'm not good enough?"
"It's quieter."
"Is it why you won't touch me?"
He met her eyes, tilting his head into the touch of her hand. "It's part of it."
Hermione's thumb brushed his cheek, and she gave a slow nod as if she were letting the answer sink into her bones. Not to forgive it — she wasn't there yet. But to know it. To finally see it, laid bare between them.
"I'm not going anywhere." She assured him, pressing a kiss to his lips. "We'll work through it."
"You shouldn't have to." He sighed.
She shrugged, rolling her eyes. "Everyone has their damage, Malfoy. You're not special."
He huffed a laugh. "I don't know about that. I'm starting to think being catastrophically broken is my only character trait."
She hummed. "That, and your complete inability to let me unbutton your trousers without suffering a moral crisis." She whispered, half-teasing.
He groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "You're cruel."
She laughed. "Sorry." She said, not remotely apologetic. "I'll stop whenever you ask me to. I'm in no rush."
"Liar." He muttered, his hands finding her waist.
"Okay. A little bit of a rush." She said, leaning back to look at him. "But I can wait. Now that I know why I'm waiting." She paused. "Can you really blame me, though? My boyfriend is fit."
Draco lifted his head, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He reached back for her wrist — just as he had before — but rather than stop her, he brought her hand back to the waistband of his trousers.
She met his eyes. "Draco —"
"Touch me, Granger." He hissed, claiming her mouth in a kiss.
Her hand slid inside the waistband of his trousers — palm warm and slow, testing, claiming.
Draco made a sound that was undeniably filthy — something primal and undone. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, and she didn't pull away, didn't tease. Just touched. Steady. Curious. Intentional.
He swore under his breath, head falling to rest against her shoulder, his voice muffled into her neck. "Merlin, Hermione —"
"Definitely not subtle." She breathed.
He let out something between a laugh and a groan, pressing his forehead harder to her shoulder. "You're evil."
She only hummed, shifting her hand with growing certainty as she listened to every sound he made, the way his hips twitched into her touch.
She wanted to know what made him shiver, what made him curse under his breath, what made his breathing stutter. She wanted to learn him like a language — every sharp inhale, every low groan, every inch of him that made him falter.
And Merlin was he faltering.
He was kissing her neck, his teeth grazing her skin, his gasps loud against her ear, and it was driving her absolutely mad.
"You're — Merlin, Hermione —"
Her name sounded dangerous in his mouth. Worshipful and wrecked. His hands gripped her waist.
"This is entirely unfair," Draco breathed, somewhere between a whimper and a growl, as she gave him a slow, deliberate stroke.
"Unfair?" She asked, tightening her grip to hear that desperate sound he made. "What exactly is unfair?"
Draco's breath hitched again, his hips stuttering into her hand as he dragged his mouth to her ear. "That you're fully dressed and I'm about to lose my mind."
Her eyes fluttered shut, feeling him against her ear, her hand speeding up its rhythm.
"Oh, poor Professor Malfoy," she murmured, letting the title drip from her tongue like a Confundus Charm. "So flustered — over this?"
He groaned, his hips bucking into her hand, head falling back to her neck. "You're an arse."
Her touch didn't falter, didn't slow. If anything it moved with more purpose — more control. As if she'd tested her theory, confirmed it, and had every intention of following through.
"It's why you like me." She murmured. "Because I make you lose all that perfectly composed control you've spent years practising. Coming undone for me, and all I've done is put my hand on you."
He made a strangled noise against her throat — half curse, half prayer.
Her strokes slowed, lazy and deliberate, as she brought her free hand up to his face and pulled him away from her neck so she could watch him unravel. "Already so desperate. And I've barely touched you."
He opened his mouth to tell her to sod off, but it came out as a groan instead.
"All that snark," she said, tightening her grip again. "All that pureblood superiority. And you're begging for a Muggle-born's touch."
Draco let out a strangled noise — half Unforgivable, half prayer.
Her lips brushed his with maddening softness as she murmured, "You like it, don't you? This is what you wanted? What you think about after a day of snogging me in empty classrooms? Or would you rather have me on my knees? Or do you simply like it when I'm the one in charge?"
Draco's hips bucked into her hand again, and she tightened her hold.
She tilted her head, voice honey-sweet for the filthy things she was saying. "Tell me you like being mine. How desperate you are for me. How you think of me when you're alone in your bed."
"Hermione —"
"Tell me. And I'll let you finish."
He whimpered — actually whimpered — and it cracked something open in her chest.
"Please," he finally gasped, voice unsteady, desperate. "Hermione — I'm yours. I'm bloody yours, alright? Is that what you needed to hear?"
She didn't stop. Didn't look away. "It's a start."
His whole body shuddered.
"There's no one else," he rasped, the confession spilling from him like it had been under pressure for months. "There won't ever be anyone else. You ruined me. You own me. Every time I'm alone it's you I see. Your mouth, your voice, your hands — Merlin — your hands —"
Her hand sped up, and she arched slightly as her free hand fell between her own legs.
"Come for me. Just like this, Draco. Still dressed, still standing — just because I told you to."
His response was a sound torn straight from his chest, his knees nearly buckling as he pressed his lips to hers, letting her swallow the sounds he made as he tipped over the edge, his hips thrusting into her hand as he rode it out.
Hermione didn't stop until he was gasping and twitching, until he was whispering, "Please — can't — Merlin —"
She withdrew her hand, smoothing it against the fabric as she looked up at him. "Did I do a good job, Professor?"
Draco was panting, catching his breath. "Arrogant arse." He laughed.
Hermione grinned — utterly unrepentant — as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear, watching him struggle to recover. His hair was mussed, his shirt rumpled, his tie askew. She loved it — this completely wrecked version of Draco Malfoy that only she ever got to see.
"Don't look so pleased with yourself," he muttered, but there was no real heat in it — just awe, and maybe a little surrender.
---
The dormitory was quiet, save for the soft rustle of parchment.
Daphne lay on her bed stomach-down, working on a Potions essay.
Pansy emerged from their shared bathroom but didn't move away from the door.
Daphne didn't look up — the essay was already three days late, and if she didn't hand it in soon, Slughorn was going to have her head.
"What's wrong?" She asked.
Pansy didn't speak for a moment. "I'm late."
Daphne paused mid-sentence, her quill hovering above the parchment as her brain caught up with those words. Slowly, she turned her head to look over her shoulder.
"What do you mean, late?" she asked, voice flat but sharp around the edges.
Pansy leaned against the wall. "I mean I was supposed to start two weeks ago. And I haven't."
Daphne sat up, setting her essay aside. "Well, it's not as if you're shagging anybody, so it's probably just stress. Merlin knows you're all under enough of it lately. We all are."
Pansy looked away, pressing her lips together.
Slowly, Daphne moved off the bed. "You are… not sleeping with anyone right now?" She asked, walking towards her.
Pansy looked at her, worrying her bottom lip. "You know how I was meant to distract Potter?" She whispered.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
"You didn't."
Silence.
"Pansy, tell me you didn't shag Harry bloody Potter just to keep him from spying on us!" Her voice rose with disbelief.
"Not the first time!" Pansy huffed, crossing her arms.
Daphne stared at her. "I don't know who's more foolish — you or Draco."
"Oi —!"
"No, I'm serious. A Death Eater's son dating Muggle-born golden girl Hermione Granger, and his best friend shagging the Chosen One."
Pansy scowled. "I'm not dating him, we're just — it's not serious." She pointed out. "And what do you mean dating? Draco and Hermione aren't —"
Daphne gave her a look that managed to convey both you're an idiot and you haven't been paying nearly enough attention.
"As of two weeks ago. Congratulations — your pregnancy scare aligns perfectly with their future anniversary." She drawled. "Put your shoes on. We're going to the Hospital Wing."
"I can't. It'll be on record. My mother will find out." Pansy argued.
"Your mother won't care, Pans. She's perfectly reasonable. As reasonable as a pureblood can be."
"The rest of my family will!"
Her friend tilted her head, considered the problem, then nodded. "Right. Hermione can brew it."
---
"No — give it back!" Hermione laughed, reaching for her dragon as Draco held it out of reach.
They'd been in the Room of Requirement for a couple of hours — working on the cabinet, Hermione lying on the bed with the dragon propped under her chin — until Draco apparently decided he'd had enough of watching her ignore him.
"I'm really beginning to regret gifting that thing to you." He said, holding it well above her reach.
"That thing has a name, in case you've forgotten." Hermione pointed out.
He rolled his eyes. "Ferret, was it? You could've just called him Draco, Granger."
"You're jealous."
"Yes!" He laughed. "He gets far more of your attention than I do."
She was grinning from ear to ear. "You're cute when you're jealous. Even if it is a stuffed animal you're jealous of."
"Yes, well. I'm certain he's seen more of you than I have."
She scoffed, smacking his arm. "Screw you!"
"I'm just saying, he spends far more time in your bed than I do."
"And whose fault is that?" She tilted her head, sneaking a kiss just long enough to distract him so she could grab the dragon when he dropped his arms.
She smiled as she pulled away, clutching Ferret to her chest. "If it makes you feel better, you're still my favourite."
Draco hummed, pulling her toward him. "Help me finish this so we can go out." He murmured, kissing her.
His lips were still pressed to hers when the door opened.
Hermione pushed him away, spinning around, eyes wide.
"Rude." Draco huffed, brushing away non-existent dust.
Hermione turned back to him. "Sorry," she whispered, slightly guilty. "Did you tell anyone else?"
"You stopped talking to me, remember?" He hissed. "Just act normal."
Daphne turned through the shelves, smiling brightly when she saw them both. "Well, this place is much nicer now that you're not brooding." She declared.
Draco snarled. "Charming."
"No, she's right." Pansy agreed, following behind. "It's… cosy, actually. Oh, you've even got a bed." She pointed at the blue-curtained bed.
Hermione flushed. "It's not — it's just more comfortable than the floor."
"Of course it is. How did I not piece this together sooner?" Pansy sighed.
Daphne snorted. "Because we got so used to them acting oddly that we didn't notice when the odd had changed."
Pansy walked over to Hermione. "I need to talk to you." She whispered in her ear, glancing at Draco. "Alone."
"No." Draco interrupted.
Hermione looked over at him. "No?"
Draco glanced from one girl to the other. That had been a mistake — saying it so plainly, as if Hermione couldn't make her own decisions. He knew he'd overstepped.
But he was also worried about what Pansy might say to her. What if she told her about the Vanishing Cabinet? What if she told her about the Mark on his arm? It was a risk he wasn't willing to take.
"I just mean —"
"I know what you mean." Hermione cut him off. "Pansy's my friend. Remember?"
Draco looked at Daphne for support.
She stepped back. "Not getting involved, mate."
He sighed. "Fine. Whatever. Go ahead."
Hermione rolled her eyes, pulling Pansy away to the far corner of the room.
"You absolute idiot." Daphne shook her head.
Draco looked at her. "She doesn't know." He whispered.
Meanwhile, Hermione and Pansy were speaking in hushed tones.
"What do you mean late?"
"I mean your brilliant best mate doesn't always bother with a Contraceptive Charm." Pansy hissed.
Hermione stared at her. "How long?"
"Two weeks."
"Two weeks?!" She said, slightly louder than intended, glancing back at Draco, who was pretending very poorly not to listen.
She turned her back on him, lowering her voice. "Is this why Harry says you haven't spoken to him?"
Pansy groaned. "I knew he was going to get sentimental. It's not serious."
"If you're pregnant, it is."
"I really could just be late." She whispered. "Can you brew the potion or not?"
"Yes. Of course, Pans, anything."
She nodded. "Thank you. But you cannot tell Potter. Or Draco."
---
Hermione made her way to the Hospital Wing, eyes wide as she hurried in, crossing to where Harry and Ginny were standing.
"What happened?"
"Ron ate some pumpkin pasties Romilda Vane had meant for Harry," Ginny explained. "Laced with Love Potion."
Hermione huffed. "Harry, I warned you!"
"I didn't give them to him!" Harry argued. "They thought they were his — I'd meant to throw them out."
"Why would he think they were his?"
"Thought someone had sent them for his birthday," Ginny answered.
Hermione blinked.
Merlin.
She'd been so distracted, so preoccupied — in empty corridors, in the library, in the bloody classroom that very morning. She hadn't even thought of Ron's birthday. Not at breakfast, not during lessons, and especially not when she'd had her hand down Draco Malfoy's trousers.
"Slughorn sorted out the Love Potion," Harry was still explaining. "We were celebrating after with some mead, but it must've been poisoned. Barely got the Bezoar in time."
"He'll be alright, though?" She asked quietly.
Harry nodded. "Yeah. Pomfrey says we can go in."
Hermione nodded but didn't move.
Ginny frowned. "Are you not coming in?"
"Well, he's probably still asleep, isn't he?"
Ginny's brow furrowed. "He is, but… still. Don't you want to see him?"
Hermione hesitated, her gaze fixed on the worn stone floor. She did, and she didn't. She wanted to make sure he was alright, wanted to do something to make up for having forgotten his birthday. But she also didn't want to face the truth of how far they'd drifted — how much space had grown between them, and how much of that space was now occupied by Draco Malfoy.
"Yeah. Right. I'm right behind you."
Harry gave her a look as Ginny stepped inside. "Where were you today?"
Hermione looked over at him. "I had class. Same as you both."
"And after?"
She knew Harry wasn't pushing — wasn't trying to catch her out. But he did want to know if she'd been where he suspected.
Hermione held his gaze a moment too long. "Library."
Harry's expression flickered. "Right." He whispered.
Hermione didn't say anything more as she followed him in. Harry didn't either, and somehow that made her feel worse about the whole thing.
A year ago, she would never have forgotten. She wouldn't have been avoiding Ron and slipping into empty classrooms with Draco for a stolen kiss between lessons.
She hadn't even thought of his birthday. And now he was lying in the Hospital Wing, pale and still, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Mr and Mrs Weasley arrived not long after, though they didn't stay long — having gone to speak with Dumbledore about the incident.
Fred and George arrived about an hour later. Harry was filling them in, though Hermione wasn't paying much attention, sitting at the side of Ron's bed with her mind quiet and empty for once.
"But you said Slughorn had been planning to give that bottle to Dumbledore for Christmas," Ginny reminded him. "So the poisoner could just as easily have been after Dumbledore."
"Then the poisoner didn't know Slughorn very well," said Hermione, speaking for the first time in hours and sounding as though she had a bad head cold. "Anyone who knew Slughorn would have known there was a good chance he'd keep something that tasty for himself."
"Er-my-nee," croaked Ron unexpectedly from between them.
They all fell silent, watching him anxiously, but after muttering incomprehensibly for a moment, he merely started snoring.
Fred chuckled. "Well, that's one for the history books. The tragic love confession of Ronald Weasley."
Harry glanced at Hermione.
She wasn't laughing. Wasn't even smiling. Wasn't feeling much of anything, truth be told.
She was glad he was alright, and she felt guilty for having forgotten his birthday — but he'd been so unkind to her throughout the year. Was it really so shocking she'd forgotten?
He'd mumbled her name, and it landed on her like a weight she hadn't asked to carry.
There was no flutter in her chest. No warmth in her stomach. Nothing caught in her throat.
She just felt tired. It wasn't sweet that he was saying her name. It wasn't even fair.
He'd mocked her for Lavender's entertainment and refused to speak to her over her friendship with the Slytherins. He was the reason she'd been keeping her relationship with Draco a secret — not even out of any lingering hope that Ron might change his mind, but because she knew precisely how childishly he'd react.
She shifted in the chair. Had the Hospital Wing chairs always been this uncomfortable?
The guilt gnawing at her wasn't fair.
The way Harry looked at her when Ron said her name wasn't fair. As though he knew exactly what she was thinking — as though he could make out the guilt thawing beneath the surface.
The way Ron's voice had sounded made her feel as though she were betraying all of them.
And maybe she had been betraying them, in a way — but she wasn't betraying him.
She and Ron were never anything. They'd never been anything.
There had been small moments, chances taken and missed, perhaps some sparks. It had never turned into anything real. And then came Lavender. And the cruelty.
And then there was Draco.
Draco, whose eyes softened when she rambled, who smirked before dragging her into an empty corner of the library just to kiss her, who made her chest warm and her stomach full of butterflies.
Draco, who knew her better than she knew herself — even though they'd only truly known each other for a matter of months.
Draco, whom no one else knew. The one who'd made her biscuits at Christmas to cheer her up, who'd brewed her hot chocolate to keep her warm, who'd let her drag him out into the snow to play.
The one who brushed her hair from her face. The one who'd bought her a diamond necklace because he caught her looking at it once too long.
The one who — for some thoroughly confusing reason — wouldn't sleep with her because he wanted to do it properly. Whatever properly meant.
The boy whose arms she wanted to crawl into at this very moment.
She looked over at Harry.
He already knew. He always seemed to know things about her before she'd worked them out herself.
She looked down at her hands in her lap.
She was in love with Draco Malfoy.
And she had absolutely no idea what to do with that.
---
Hermione and Harry left the Hospital Wing that night, heading toward Gryffindor Tower.
They didn't speak as they walked, the castle quiet around them.
When they reached the portrait, the Fat Lady was asleep. Harry woke her to give the password, then looked back at Hermione.
"He's going to expect you to come by."
Hermione blinked, caught off guard. "I know."
"You're not going to, though."
"I know." She was quieter that time.
"And you're going to feel guilty."
"I already do." She gave a hollow laugh.
Harry nodded. "He's going to be angry when he finds out."
"Ron and I were never anything, Harry," she said, stepping toward him. "Nothing's going to change that now."
"You have to tell him."
She looked away. "It's not that simple. It's not… it's not just up to me."
"I thought you were keeping it a secret because it wasn't anything yet," Harry said. "But it is something now, isn't it? I saw it on your face."
Hermione hesitated. "If I tell you I trust him, will you stop having him followed?"
He shook his head. "No." He admitted.
She sighed, nodding. "Then don't be surprised when you check the map in the morning and find me in his bed." She whispered, stepping back. "I can't stay here tonight."
Harry watched her for a long moment, his brow furrowed. He could see it in her face — the resolve of someone who'd finally stopped second-guessing themselves. "Then don't be surprised if that's how Ron finds out."
---
"I just don't understand why McGonagall is making us write a five-page essay," Theo groaned.
Draco rolled his eyes, turning the page of his book — Pride and Prejudice. "Maybe if you stayed quiet, you'd finish faster."
Theo shot him a glare. "Not all of us have a Gryffindor who sweet-talks McGonagall into letting us off assignments."
He snorted, turning the page. "I don't have one of those. And even if I did, we all know Hermione isn't exactly the type to get anyone out of homework."
Blaise, lounging on his own bed, raised a brow. "Pretty sure she'd assign you extra homework just for suggesting it."
Draco smirked faintly, eyes still on the page. "Exactly."
Theo tossed his quill onto his half-finished parchment and groaned dramatically. "Then I don't get how you're still ahead of the rest of us when you spent half the week snogging her behind the library stacks."
Draco didn't look up. "Time management."
Blaise sat up. "So you admit it?"
His fingers stilled on the page. Merlin.
"I'm not admitting anything." He said as a knock sounded at the door. He stood, grateful for the interruption. "I hope it's Daphne come to yell at you." He said to Theo.
Theo groaned. "Don't do that to me."
Draco was already at the door, braced to roll his eyes at Daphne or Pansy — but when he opened it, he faltered.
Hermione stood in the doorway.
Her eyes swept over him. He was in black pyjama trousers, low on his hips, and a fitted white long-sleeved tee that clung to his frame.
He looked comfortable and far too attractive for someone who'd simply been lying in bed.
He followed her gaze, glancing down at himself, then — in a small panic — stepped back, shut the door, and turned to face the others.
He practically sprinted to the bathroom, seized his hairbrush, and called over his shoulder, "Both of you, act normal. Right now."
The sound of Draco frantically rummaging about the bathroom echoed into the room as Theo and Blaise stared at each other in bewilderment.
Theo raised an eyebrow at Blaise, who was still stretched across his bed, a slow smirk forming. "Well. That's interesting."
Hermione, standing just outside the closed door, blinked in confusion. She wasn't sure what she'd expected — but a door in the face hadn't been it.
Draco returned a moment later, his hair marginally more controlled, the flush on his cheeks distinctly not.
"Do you need to change as well?" Blaise drawled, watching Draco fidget.
"Shut up." Draco muttered under his breath, his irritation evident — though it didn't stop him glancing nervously at the door.
Theo snorted, clearly relishing every moment of Draco's composure crumbling. "Just let her in, Malfoy. Don't leave her standing out there like a lost ghost."
Draco ignored him and walked over to open the door.
Hermione raised her eyebrows, a smile playing at her lips. "Hi."
His shoulders visibly relaxed, and he smiled back. "Come — come in." He said, stepping aside.
She stepped in, waving at Blaise and Theo, who were watching her with far too much curiosity.
Draco shut the door and turned back around. His smile faded when he found them still watching.
He cleared his throat, instinctively running a hand through his hair. "You two haven't got anything better to do, have you?" His voice was pointed, but there was an undercurrent that almost sounded like nerves.
"Well," Theo drawled, clearly enjoying the tension. "I suppose this is a new form of entertainment — Draco Malfoy, flustered."
Blaise chuckled, folding his arms behind his head. "I think it suits him, actually. Shows a bit more depth than usual."
Draco shot them both a glare, though it lacked its usual venom. His cheeks were still tinged with colour, and he seemed to be doing everything in his power to avoid looking directly at Hermione. "Shut up, both of you," he muttered.
"We're just making conversation," Blaise said. "Hermione's our friend, remember?"
Draco narrowed his eyes and walked over to draw the curtains around Blaise's bed.
Hermione watched him, fighting the urge to laugh.
He turned to Theo. "Don't you have an essay to finish?"
Blaise had already pulled the curtains back open.
Theo sighed with great theatrical suffering. "I do. Unfortunately, watching your slow descent into a hopeless romantic is proving far more educational than McGonagall's essay prompt."
"I didn't realise my presence would cause such a stir," Hermione murmured.
Draco turned to look at her, apparently unable to believe she was entertaining them.
Hermione sighed. "Would you two give us a moment?" She asked, looking at them expectantly.
Blaise heaved an equally theatrical sigh, rolling off his bed. "Don't start shagging," he muttered. "Come on, Theo, let's go tell the girls."
Theo gathered his parchment with exaggerated suffering. "Can we at least get a timeframe? Five minutes? Ten? More?" He waggled his brows.
Draco shut the door on them and turned back to Hermione. "Are you alright?"
She didn't answer straightaway, sitting down on Draco's bed and picking up the book he'd been reading, turning it over in her hands. "Ron was poisoned." She said, as though it were casual dinner conversation.
"I heard." Draco said, sitting down beside her. "What about it?"
"I went to see him in the Hospital Wing. With Harry and Ginny." She said — she wasn't sure why she felt the need to add that she hadn't gone alone. "He was still barely conscious. He said my name."
Draco stared at her. A horrible feeling formed in his stomach — something close to dread — his brain already jumping to what he assumed was coming next. Weasley had said her name, and now she was going to tell him it was over.
He stood up, casting about for something to occupy his hands, his heart hammering in his chest.
He busied himself rearranging the already-tidy stack of books on his desk, fingers restless. He wasn't going to make it easy for her — wasn't going to look her in the eye and wait for the blow. If she was going to end this, he'd rather not watch it happen on her face.
Hermione watched him — the tension in his shoulders, the way he kept his back to her like it might save him from whatever truth she was about to drop. She set Pride and Prejudice gently beside her and stood, crossing the room to him slowly.
She reached out, placing her hand on his left arm.
He flinched away, turning to face her, his arm moving behind his back.
She blinked, taken slightly aback.
"So Weasley said your name." He said, voice clipped. "What exactly would you like me to do with that?"
She stared at him. "I'm not asking you to do anything," she said carefully.
He nodded, crossing his arms. "Right. You just thought you'd pop by and mention Weasley murmured your name like a lovesick idiot whilst unconscious, then? No big deal."
Her brows drew together. "You're jealous."
"Of Weasley? Don't make me laugh."
She couldn't decide whether to laugh or be frustrated. "You're angry," she said quietly. Not a question. She took a step back, arms folding over her chest. "You're angry," she said quietly, though it wasn't a question.
Draco's jaw tightened, but he didn't meet her eyes. "I'm not angry," he muttered, though something in his tone gave him away — something defensive, something almost vulnerable.
"Hermione," she whispered, correcting him. "I'm your girlfriend. It's Hermione."
"For what? The next thirty seconds?" He huffed, finally meeting her gaze.
Her expression softened. "Oh. Oh, Draco." She whispered, something clicking into place. "You think I'm here to end things."
Draco didn't answer. He stood there, arms still crossed, jaw clenched, throat bobbing as he waited. "You came all the way down here to tell me Weasley said your name in his sleep."
She shook her head. "I came down here because I felt guilty up there."
His jaw tensed. "Comforting. Truly."
"I felt guilty," she repeated, "because all I could think about was how much I'd rather be with you."
His arms dropped slightly.
"Can I spend the night?" She whispered.
He stared at her as if he hadn't quite heard right — as if she were speaking a foreign language.
His arms were still crossed, but looser now.
"You — what?"
She gave him a small smile. "Can I," she repeated, drawing out the words, "spend the night?"
She said it carefully, as if she understood exactly what it must sound like to someone who had spent the last two minutes convinced she'd come to say goodbye.
He just kept staring at her, flicking between her relaxed posture and the way her legs swung slightly from the edge of his bed.
"Granger —"
"Hermione." She said it again. "Just to sleep. Not to…" She moved her head side to side.
He exhaled. "If you stay here, Theo and Blaise will know."
She nodded. "Pretty sure Daphne's already told Pansy anyway. May as well tell everyone."
Draco shook his head. "Do you need something to sleep in?" He asked, already heading for his drawers.
Hermione watched as he searched through them, smiling to herself at the low muttering she could hear — him deliberating which to offer.
He turned and tossed her one of his Quidditch shirts.
Hermione caught it, looking it over with a snort. "You just want me wearing your name on my back." She teased, already heading for the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her.
Draco walked back to his bed, lay down, and stared up at his canopy.
The door opened and he turned his head.
"Where's Hermione?" Blaise asked, scanning the room as he stepped in, Theo behind him.
"Bathroom." He said, aiming for casual.
The bathroom door clicked open as if on cue, and Hermione stepped out in his Quidditch shirt — the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, her curls loose, a few damp strands curling around her face where she'd splashed water on it.
Draco sat up sharply, as if caught. His eyes landed on Hermione and he had to actively work not to react.
Theo let out a low whistle. "Bloody hell, Granger."
She rolled her eyes, though there was a small smile tugging at her lips. "Didn't your mother teach you not to stare?"
"Fortunately not." He replied.
Blaise laughed, settling onto his own bed. "So you two are done pretending you're not shagging?"
Draco stood and hurled a pillow at Blaise.
"We're not shagging." Hermione said simply as she climbed into Draco's bed.
He watched her settle under his covers with entirely too much ease, making herself completely at home.
He cleared his throat. "Right, then." He clapped his hands together. "You have the bed. I'll Transfigure the desk." He announced.
Hermione watched him with quiet amusement.
Draco started toward his desk, already sizing it up for the Transfiguration, and was halfway through muttering the incantation under his breath when Hermione sat up against the headboard and said, "Draco."
He froze, turning slowly. "Yes?"
"I'm not going to hex you in your sleep. Get in the bed." She said.
Draco blinked. "No."
"No?"
Theo snorted.
"You told me you hex in your sleep." He said, grasping at the flimsiest possible excuse. "You said so yourself."
Hermione turned to look at him fully, fighting the urge to laugh. "Draco. I am asking you — politely — to lie in your own bed. Next to your girlfriend. Fully clothed. In a room with our extremely nosy friends, who will gossip about it regardless of what does or doesn't happen."
"Girlfriend?" Theo and Blaise both said at once, as if they'd each just won the Quidditch Cup.
"Would you two try not to look so bloody delighted?" Draco muttered as he made his way to the bed and climbed in.
Hermione said nothing, though she looked enormously smug as Draco settled in beside her.
Blaise made a muffled sound that sounded very much like whipped, and Hermione giggled quietly.
Once the torchlight had dimmed to something soft and private, Hermione whispered, "You're being weird."
"I'm not being weird," he whispered back immediately, glaring at the canopy.
"You're rigid as a statue."
"I'm being a gentleman."
She snorted and turned to face him.
He was lying flat on his back, staring at nothing, when Hermione shifted closer and rested her head against his arm.
She swallowed, looking up at him through her lashes. "It really didn't mean anything to me," she whispered — afraid he was still thinking about Ron, about the name said in sleep. "That's why I'm here. Because all I wanted — all I needed — was to feel your arms around me. Someone to tell me it's alright to want this. Want you."
He turned then, looking down at her. "If you're going to go running to Weasley, I'd rather you just do it now." He whispered, his voice quiet, careful not to let the hurt in it carry further than necessary.
"I'm in your bed," she whispered back. "In your shirt. I could be in your arms, if you'd just wrap them around me."
He held her gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable — before shifting onto his side. His arm slid under her neck, curling carefully around her shoulders. He still looked a bit uncertain, as though the moment might collapse if he touched her too freely. But Hermione moved easily into him, her body folding into the space as if it had always belonged there.
---
The light was soft — low and shifting, dancing in from the water beyond the windows as morning arrived.
Draco stirred first. Not dramatically — more like a man who had just realised he was awake and wasn't yet willing to accept it.
Hermione was tucked in his arms, her face pressed to his chest, one hand folded under his shirt and palm flat against his skin. Her curls were an absolute mess on the pillow.
She made a soft sound in her sleep and burrowed closer. He smiled quietly, his arm sliding to the small of her back, rubbing slow circles.
"You run cold," she muttered against his chest.
He chuckled softly, resting his cheek against the top of her head. "Funny, considering you were the one monopolising the blanket."
She muttered something unintelligible — the sort of sleepy protest that wasn't meant to be understood — and shifted, her leg brushing against his. Her fingers flexed under his shirt and then stilled.
A beat passed. Then another.
"…Are you awake?" she asked, her voice clearer now, though still soft, as if she wasn't yet sure she wanted to break the spell of the morning.
"I am now," he replied, low and warm, the corners of his mouth curving into a smile before she'd even looked up at him.
Hermione blinked slowly in the light filtering through the tall windows. Her eyes found his, and there was something uncertain in her gaze — caught between comfort and hesitation. Her hand didn't move from where it rested on his chest.
Then: "You need to wear fewer shirts." She muttered, resting her head back down.
Draco huffed a laugh, the sound getting lost in the chaos of her curls. "Noted. Good morning to you too, 'Mione."
"What time is it?" She yawned.
"Too early." He replied, his fingers brushing up her spine. "Go back to sleep."
"We probably have things to do today," Hermione mumbled, making no effort whatsoever to move.
Draco hummed. "Rather hard to think about that with your leg pinning mine."
Hermione made a resigned sound, as if she'd just been informed she had no choice but to get up at that very moment.
Draco felt her shift, and despite himself, groaned. "Granger —"
But rather than climbing off the bed, she rolled on top of him, sitting up to straddle his lap.
She blinked down at him, curls falling like a curtain around her face, thighs bracketing his hips, hands planted on his chest. Sleep-warm and tousled, she looked both entirely herself and like someone he'd never quite seen before — at least, not like this.
"Merlin," he muttered, voice roughened by sleep and surprise. "You're trying to kill me."
Hermione raised a brow, head tilting slightly as if considering the accusation. "You started it. With the back-stroking and your — your chest."
"My chest. Noted." His smirk played at his lips as his hands slipped under the shirt she was wearing — his, and thoroughly oversized — settling at her hips.
She exhaled. "Keep touching me like that and I'll have to kiss you."
He pulled a face. "Not before you've brushed your teeth."
She swatted his chest. "You absolute git!"
He laughed — a proper, deep laugh — his thumbs tracing up and down her bare skin, brushing the edge of her knickers.
She shifted slightly, rolling her eyes, and he tightened his hold. She raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"
"If you keep moving, I will no longer be a gentleman, Granger." He warned.
She laughed at that — her head tilting back slightly — and he watched her, grinning.
"You're beautiful," he murmured, as though it were the most natural thing he'd ever said.
Her smile faltered slightly as she looked back at him. She swallowed and ducked her head. "Stop."
His brows pulled together. "Why?"
"Because you don't mean it." She whispered.
"Like hell I don't." He scoffed, his fingers still drawing soft shapes against her skin. "You're gorgeous like this, 'Mione. In my bed. In my shirt. My name on your back. Your hair a glorious disaster."
He sat up, letting her settle more fully in his lap, his hands moving to the small of her back.
His eyes flickered away from her then, his smile sliding off his face. He blinked once, then twice, a scowl forming.
Four familiar figures stood at the foot of the bed, watching them with varying degrees of amusement.
He closed his eyes for precisely one second. "This is not happening," he whispered.
Hermione turned around and immediately scoffed. Daphne, Theo, Blaise, and Pansy stood in a row. "You are all absolutely terrible people."
"I'm simply amazed Draco has a kind bone in his body," Theo admitted.
"Does this mean I can stop pretending I don't already know?" Daphne asked.
"Did you just call her 'Mione?" Blaise asked.
Pansy was simply shaking her head, as though she could not believe this was truly her life.
Draco dropped his forehead onto Hermione's shoulder. "Kill me."
Hermione laughed softly, shifting to climb off him — at which point Draco's hands tightened.
"Don't. Move." He hissed.
"I am not sitting on your lap with them all standing there." She hissed back.
He gave her a very deliberate look.
She blinked, then went still. "Right. Not moving." She turned back to the four of them. "Are you quite finished being nosy?"
"Absolutely not." Theo said. "He said beautiful, and he meant it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence."
"When did this happen?" Pansy asked. "Because we've had a pool going."
Draco glared. "Can you all leave?"
"New Year's," Hermione answered. "He kissed me."
Daphne grinned. "Pay up. I said he'd kiss her first."
Theo groaned, crossing to his desk, pulling out thirty Galleons and handing them over. Blaise did the same.
"At midnight?" Pansy asked.
"No," Hermione said.
Pansy extended her hand, and Daphne dropped the coins into it.
Draco groaned into the curve of Hermione's neck as the sound of Galleons changing hands rang like a mockery of his dignity.
"You people are insufferable," he muttered.