There were a great many things that captivated Hermione Granger in her first year at Hogwarts, but Draco Malfoy was not one of them.
She knew from the second they met that they would not be friends. So she'd focused her attention on the things that mattered more, catching up to her non-muggle-born peers- exceeding them, even- and cultivating friendships with Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, despite the trouble they always seemed to find themselves in. By the time her vision tunnelled to land on Nicolas Flamel and the Philosopher's Stone, she could hardly remember the voice of the pompous boy who had made a fool of himself in the Forbidden Forest. When she returned home that summer, still reeling from the shock of surviving the gauntlet and the ache of knowing she'd have to put a lid on her magic until school began again, she'd all but forgotten about the boy entirely.
In her second year, though, she got to know him very quickly- very quickly indeed.
She'd arrived that year with a burning desire to progress her magical education and an overwhelming relief to be reunited with her friends, who knew her in a way her friends at home, or even her parents, never could. Whereas Draco Malfoy arrived with only hatred in abundance; he was angrier than he had been the year before, his lip curled higher, his eyes narrowed further, and his voice carried with false confidence through the ancient stone hallways of the school grounds.
When he first called her Mudblood he hadn't even blinked, and her reply came to her silently, but clearly- I know you, I see through you, I see the hate that lives within you. Every time he tried to work his way under her skin that year she heard those words ringing true in her ears, and it squashed any attempts at intimidation; it was difficult to be scared of someone she pitied. Especially when there was a real threat in the walls, a real reason to check the corners. Draco might have carried that hate within him, but the Basilisk was the physical manifestation of it, and she didn't have enough time to worry about them both.
Time, however, was something she had no shortage of come her third year.
She'd never felt so exhausted, never had her plate so full, never felt quite as much pressure as she had that year- and yet, she loved it. That year tested her in every way; her friendships, her dedication to education, her moral fibre, her supposed Gryffindor bravery. The magical world had not lost its shine, but she'd been in it long enough at that point for her eyes to have adjusted; she saw the cracks, and it was becoming very difficult to ignore them. Unfamiliar feelings boiled within her; rage, as she'd never felt before, manifesting in ways she'd never expected.
Like when she'd smacked Draco Malfoy across his spiteful face after he'd insulted Hagrid. She'd felt the sting in her palm for hours after, and it felt good. Malfoy didn't know her, he had no idea how hard she had to work, how alone she often felt, how strong she had become despite it. But she knew him, down to his bones. And so, the memory of his muffled whimper as he ran from her palm served only to remind her of her capabilities, even in her darkest moments of doubt.
Fourth year was different, for everyone.
The tournament took precedence over the whole year, and there was no way to rest once it was over, for she knew that it was only a matter of time before she and her friends would have to pick up their wands and fight. Everything that had come before then suddenly seemed so small, so light, almost jovial, in the face of everything that lay waiting for them in the years to come.
Draco Malfoy, bitter and repugnant as he always was, had managed to surprise her that year. He'd warned her about the Death Eater riot at the World Cup, urging Harry and Ronald to shelter her in his own skewed way. And when she'd wrangled herself into that periwinkle dress and marched into the Yule Ball on the arm of Viktor Krum, he'd looked. Not just once, either. He'd looked all night; watching over the shoulder of Pansy Parkinson when they were dancing, he'd looked through his glass of wassail, he'd looked with a curled lip and a furrowed brow and a sheen in his eyes that she could only describe as distinctly other. When she'd curled up at the bottom of the stone steps at the end of the evening, visceral hurt in her veins after her fight with Ronald, he'd looked then too. He'd stopped as he made to walk by, he'd stared like he wanted to say something- mockery on his tongue, no doubt- but in the end, he'd let her be, just that once.
Fifth year was a whirlwind.
The war that had been lingering on the edge of her life since she was eleven had now spread to every corner, working its way to the middle like ink spilt on parchment. She hated it, every second of it. She hated how the light in Harry's eyes dimmed with each passing day, or how her feelings for Ronald became more confusing and impossible to navigate. She hated that her education was being robbed from her, that they had to teach themselves. She hated how sealed their fates seemed to become after that night at the ministry.
The only thing that she was sure of, that she knew, was that Draco Malfoy was her adversary. The totalitarian takeover of their school- a place that had once provided her with solace and refuge- had only worked to serve his growing feelings of superiority. She saw through it all, just like she had back in their second year. She saw the boy beneath it, crying out for the approval of his Death Eater father, and the feeling she had once named pity turned into something sour. Disappointment.
Sixth year brought about more questions than answers, in all aspects of her life.
The Horcruxes, the oncoming war, the death of their headmaster and all the answers he'd taken to his grave, the potions book, R.A.B. That was all without taking into consideration the things she'd been expecting to focus on; catching up with the education they were denied the year previous, her N.E.W.T exams, her swiftly developing and painfully unrequited feelings for one of her best friends.
What she'd not been expecting, what had shaken the very foundations of everything she thought she knew, was just how fervently her attention would be captured by Draco Malfoy that year. It began in Diagon Alley when he'd stopped her to mock the black eye she was sporting after putting Fred and George's boxing telescope too close to her face. He'd asked how it happened, declaring that he wished to send flowers to whoever was behind it, but that's not what stood out to her. What stood out to her was that he'd noticed at all. What stood out to her was that if one were to look beyond his snarl, to look a little deeper, they may have noticed the same thing she did; that his question was laced with stifled concern.
She hadn't known him capable of such a feeling.
And so, she watched him. She watched him skip meals and stare into nothing while his loyal band of followers spoke through him. She watched his eyes grow duller, his cheeks grow hollower, his uniform fall a little looser over his frame. She watched him pace the hallways and mutter to himself. She watched him break a sweat in potions class yet never raise a hand. She watched him become someone she didn't know, not at all. His once transparent persona had been buried under someone new, someone angry, someone desperate.
There was no seventh year, there was only war.
War was misery; death followed them, flying overhead like a hawk hunting mice. It changed them all in ways that would never, could never, be undone. It had broken them apart and glued them back together repeatedly until she couldn't remember what she'd looked like before. She couldn't remember what it was to sleep and feel rested. She couldn't remember what it was to love without fear, to live without grief.
She did not think of Draco Malfoy very often, not until she had to. Not until she was lying prone on the floor of his family drawing room, weeping under the wand of his aunt. Over the chorus of curses and distant bellowing from her friend, her lover, she'd caught the eye of the enemy and silently begged him not to say anything. There had been a moment, merely a flicker in time that had stretched to minutes in her mind, where his eyes had filled with sickness and fury. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced with a slate of cool indifference, and he'd turned his head from her writhing form.
She had survived that night, just as she survived the nights that followed, just as she survived the end of what had been a cruel and bitter war. Survival, she realised, was not the same as living. Her relationship with Ronald survived, though her affections could never run as deep as they once had- she was no longer capable. Her friendships survived, although they often felt like obligations. Her thirst for knowledge survived, but what had once been fulfilling now became a crutch.
And so, when she saw Draco Malfoy at his trial, looking as empty as she felt, there was only one thought that ran through her mind - I know you, I see through you, I see that nothing lives within you. Those words followed her to the stand, where she testified on his behalf despite the pleas from people she loved.
When life settled into its new normality and Harry and Ronald turned down the offer of an eighth year at Hogwarts in favour of Auror training, she found herself surrounded by many open doors and no will to walk through any of them. This is exactly why she found herself signing up for that additional year at Hogwarts; perhaps she would be able to find herself where she'd lost herself, perhaps she would stumble upon her old ambitions one day in the corridors between classes.
She knew Hogwarts. She knew how to be a student, and a bloody good one at that. She knew the dormitories, staircases, and portraits on the walls that whispered as she walked by. What she didn't know, what she could never have expected, was that Draco Malfoy would walk into the Great Hall on reintroduction day and that the first thing that came to her mind was not contempt, but a question.
Who are you?
Eighth Year
Horace Slughorn had returned to his post as Hogwarts' potions master, a move that while initially unexpected, now seemed to make perfect sense to Hermione; he had always been a name chaser, and now the school was filled with heroes.
It was exceedingly odd to be back in this room, sitting at these tables, surrounded by the rebuilt structure of the dungeons. She'd not been sure what to expect, what feelings would bubble under her skin when she stepped back in here. She'd expected to feel something. Instead, she felt nothing. It was just another room, another lesson, and she was just another student.
"I thought we'd start with something a little easier this year, to ease us all back into it!" Professor Slughorn stood at the front of the classroom, looking out at the sparse and war-ravaged faces. "Who in here has experience brewing sleeping draught?"
Yes, she thought, but did not raise her hand. She'd brewed it for the first time in her second year and used it to spike cupcakes for Crabbe and Goyle. Simple, but powerful. Not a potion that they should be brewing this far into their education, but she supposed he had said it was only to ease them in. She noticed only a few hands went up and wondered how many, like her, were lying.
"Can anybody tell me what flowers are used?" Slughorn asked gleefully.
Four sprigs of Lavender, four more of Valerian.
She let someone else say it.
"And how many times do you stir it?"
Seven .
"Clockwise or counterclockwise?"
Clockwise.
This continued for a long while; Slughorn explained the properties of the potion, the history of its use, the method of its brew, all while Hermione paid enough attention to follow but not enough to engage. She swiftly realised that she was not going to locate the parts of herself she had lost here in the potion's classroom, brewing basic draughts.
"You will pair up and prepare your ingredients, but the potion will not be consumed until our next lesson," Slughorn clapped his hands with excitement that may well have been feigned. She couldn't tell anymore. "In the interest of fairness pairing will be made at random, your names have all been placed inside this rather pleasing hat." He lifted a battered tweed flat cap and waved it. "Once your name is called, please move to sit with your partner."
She had no doubt that this would be the first of many paired assignments they were to be given this year, across all their classes. A showing of unity, she imagined. A way to reconnect students who had spent the better part of the last two years actively trying to kill each other. She wasn't sure that extracting Flobberworm mucus was going to do the trick, but only time would tell.
"Miss Davenport, you are with Mr Finicus- yes, please- that's it, shuffle over. Mr Banks, you are with Mr Dlamini. Miss Warrick, please move beside Miss Bosko- do make room, Lisa, there we go. Miss Granger, you are with Mr Malf-"
Slughorn stopped abruptly, his face draining of all colour as he held the torn piece of parchment in his hand. Mr Malfoy, he'd been about to say. Draco Malfoy. Merlin had a sense of humour, at least.
"Miss Granger...we can-"
"It's fine," she said, collecting her books and pushing up from her chair. All eyes in the room followed her, the only sound was the clack of her shoes as she marched towards the table at the back.
She might have fought it, two years ago. She might have demanded reselection, she might have felt fury at the prospect of being paired up with someone who had wished for her death on more occasions than she could keep count of, based on nothing more than his belief in the inferiority of her blood. But it wasn't two years ago, it was now, and she couldn't find that much energy within her anymore. So, she sat herself beside Malfoy without even offering a glance in his direction.
Unity. That's what the fight was all about, was it not? Years of animosity would not be dismissed by brewing a simple potion together, but it was surely a start.
Slughorn gave each pair a small basket of ingredients and a set of instructions, and then they were left to it. Hermione began crushing two measures of Standard Ingredient into a powder, expecting her noticeably silent partner to start collecting Flobberworm mucus, but he made no move to. She tried not to look at him; it was painful enough without eye contact, but his lack of movement was...unsettling. She collected the mucus herself. He didn't move. She set up the cauldron on their shared table. He didn't move. She let it heat while she mixed the ingredients. He didn't move. It wasn't until the mixture was brewing that her patience finally ran out.
"Is it to continue like this?" she snapped, finally turning her full attention to him.
What she saw startled her; he was gaunt, his eyes were flat and hollow, his head sagging forward as if he were about to topple over. He'd probably not moved in over fifteen minutes, and it wouldn't surprise her to discover that he'd neither breathed nor blinked in that time.
She'd seen it before, of course- Occlumency. Snape had taught Harry in their sixth year; it made sense that he would have taught Malfoy too. She'd long had suspicions that he'd called upon the rare skill, ever since that night at the manor when he'd turned his head from her, ever since she'd watched him sit on trial and listen to various testimonies without so much as flinching. She'd never been close enough to see it like this before. It was horrifying. He wasn't there at all, merely the shell of a boy she'd once known, once hated.
"Malfoy?" she asked, softer now, but he remained still. "Malfoy."
She narrowed her eyes when he remained marbled, her unease turning swiftly to irritation, and tapped her wand against the top of his hand, sending a tap of electricity across his skin. He jumped violently at the touch, and it was like watching someone emerge from deep water, gasping for air. His pupils widened, his chest expanded as he sucked in a breath, his lips parted as he seemed to finally realise she was there. She might have felt bad about it, had he not left her to extract mucus for the last quarter of an hour.
"Am I to brew this alone?" she asked, placing her hands on her hips.
He glanced between her and the cauldron, something akin to humility flickering in his expression. "This is a children's brew," his voice was not at all like she remembered. It was hoarse and torn like it hurt to speak, and she wondered if these were the first words he'd uttered that day- or possibly that week. "Surely you don't need help?"
She didn't need help with this one. Especially not from the puppet of Draco Malfoy. But she'd be damned if she would let him take credit for her work, not when she'd spent so many years in this very room, trying to beat him.
Her hand dropped from her hips, and she raised one finger to the storeroom on the other side of the classroom, where a small line of students had formed. "Four Valerian Sprigs."
His mouth pressed into a hard line, and it looked, for a second, like he was going to argue. But then he did something that she did not expect, something she only noticed because she'd done it so often herself lately; he deflated. His eyes drooped, his shoulders sagged, his spine curled as he folded, and he slipped off the stool and slowly dragged himself to join the line.
She watched him move like he was crawling, like every step was over shards of glass, and she had to swallow something rising in her throat before she turned back to the cauldron and began stirring clockwise.
#
Houses were encouraged to integrate significantly more than they were before the war. The tables in the great hall were no longer separated by house, and there was no more competition for a meaningless cup. Students of any house and year were welcome to dine, study, and sing with each other. They might have done away with the houses entirely; had they not offered some much-needed comfort.
There were not many that had returned for the additional year, almost nobody that Hermione had known from her previous school years, and certainly nobody that knew her as anything more than one-third of the now infamous trio. Still, she pulled her mouth into a painful smile and slotted herself beside a girl she recognised from her Astronomy class and a boy who had picked up the book she had dropped on the stairs a few days prior.
They smiled at her, warm and welcoming, and she tried to care about what they were saying- she really did. She tried to listen, to remember, to learn, but nothing was sticking anymore. As the girl- Masie- told the boy- Ajay- about the unfair nature of her Charms' homework, Hermione let her hand slip to the inside pocket of her robes, her eyes fluttering as her fingers brushed against the folded parchment she'd stored there; a letter from Ronald, expressing his admiration for her return to education and his desire to visit.
She'd not yet replied, worried that she'd only express her guilt that his admiration had been so wasted on her.
The voices of her new friends died quickly when Draco Malfoy entered the hall and did not pick up again until he was seated. He did not join them, not any of them, instead opting to segregate himself at the end of the least populated table. A plate of eggs appeared in front of him, and Hermione watched as he pushed them around with his fork, never once taking a bite.
"It's good to be back here, isn't it?" Ajay asked, and it took Hermione far too long to realise that his question was directed at her.
The question stumped her. It should have been good to be back, shouldn't it? This had been her home for so many years, a place she'd fought to protect, a place she'd retreated to with the fragments she had left. Her eyes snagged again on Malfoy, who was now looking at a glass of orange juice as though inspecting it for poison.
"Isn't it..." she echoed numbly, unsure of what else to say.
#
Sleep was something of a distant memory at this point in her life, her rest instead came in the forms of ill-timed power naps whenever her eyelids got too heavy to pry open. She'd relied on draughts for the first few months after the war, but there was something about a slumber that deep that made her skin crawl. If she'd learned anything over the last few years, it was the importance of being easily roused.
And so, she read. She curled up into the restored armchairs of the common room and lit the fire, and she made use of the last year she'd have access to the extensive library offered at Hogwarts. She considered herself fortunate to be able to do it, especially when so many of her other hobbies had been left in a tent somewhere in Loch Etive.
She was reading muggle fiction- it reminded her of home, and a building that miraculously still stood, lived in miraculously by her parents, who had miraculously survived the war thanks to the safety that the other side of the world and a few memory modifications afforded them. It had not been easy to reverse the effects of her inexperienced spell, but every day brought about new improvements.
One day, when she was more like the daughter they'd known, she'd reunite with them with more than infrequent flying visits. She'd reunite with everyone, not just her parents, she'd use that tone of voice that had everyone rolling their eyes, and they'd all laugh like they used to.
She closed the book on her lap, its final words already forgotten, and began to tap her foot as she stared into the fire. It was always like this; in search of constant distraction, she could never just be. She'd already completed her homework, she'd already read the books stacked on her bedside table, and everybody else she could hope to distract her was asleep. She shot out of the chair and reached for her robe, heading out of the common room with no real direction, book tucked under her arm.
She could walk to the library and swap out her book, maybe she'd take out A Guide to Ancient Ruins again, it had been a week since she'd completed it last. She could stop at the owlery, write a letter to Ron, and let him know that she was healthy and happy, even if she wasn't. She could reply to Harry, she could ask him to take care of Ron for her, she could apologise for not being there with them, for not moving on just yet.
The school had lifted the restriction on wandering the corridors during the nights, instead leaving the sconces flaming and lighting the way for the masses of traumatised children who no longer found sleep so easily. The Great Hall was open for all, at any time of night, and provided an endless supply of hot chocolate and light snacks. She avoided it like the plague.
It wasn't until she was crossing the courtyard, her robes pulled tight against the foul autumn winds, that she took a second to take in her surroundings. There, perched on a bench under the vast and ancient canopy of a Yew tree, sat a boy with white-blonde hair. He was hunched over, his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking- but not with cold. Hermione pulled her robes tighter, and despite her better judgment, she took a few tentative steps towards him.
"Malfoy?"
It was almost inhuman, the way he stiffened at the sound of her voice. She watched his hands drop from his face and clench into fists, as a breath left his body in a slow tremble. By the time she made it to where he sat, his eyes had retreated to that hollow slate of grey. She pointed at the bench beside him, but he did not move an inch.
"Alright then," she muttered, taking her perch.
She wasn't sure why she didn't mind sitting with him- she should mind. She should be thinking of every name he'd ever called her and every laugh he'd aimed her way, of the teeth that he'd mocked until she altered them forever. But this Malfoy...this shell of Malfoy...he did not remind her of that boy. And she wondered if perhaps that version of him was somewhere within these walls, laying prone beside that version of her, if perhaps he was here for the same reason she was.
"Do you occlude a lot?" she asked, peering over at his rigid form. His eyes darted to her, flaring slightly beneath the mask of stoicism. "Oh, come on. You aren't particularly subtle."
He opened his mouth three times before he finally managed to speak, it was like watching someone drown. "I didn't think anyone would notice."
"Well, I did." She crossed her arms and leaned back against the bench. It was cold out tonight, as it usually was up in the Scottish Highlands, but if Malfoy wasn't going to shiver then neither would she. "How many hours of the day do you remain this way?"
"Almost all of them," he croaked quietly.
"And the night?"
He paused, hands clenching tighter until his knuckles whitened. "Almost all of them."
She hummed, tapping her fingers on the hardcover of the book she still hugged to her chest. "Can you stop? It's unsettling."
"You could go elsewhere," he spoke through his teeth; the first sign of irritation he'd shown, and it offered her a sense of unexpected relief.
"I could."
She did not; she would not. Malfoy let out a long, slow breath, and with it, his body sagged as he returned to himself. It was an awful thing to watch, but not nearly as awful as it had been to see the brittle layer he'd hidden behind. His shoulders curled forward as though they suddenly weighed a thousand pounds, his jaw slacked as he let out strangled breaths, his pupils dilated, and his hands shook. And she watched it all, unblinking.
"Why are you here?" he whispered.
She shrugged. "The same reason as you are, I imagine. I couldn't sleep."
"No," he was shaking his head, and when she caught his eye, she had to stop herself from flinching. He was more exposed than she'd seen him in years, possibly ever. The bravado was stripped, the boy seeking to please his father through acts of petty cruelty was gone, the blank slate of sediment that he'd slipped behind since the beginning of sixth year had been crumbled, and all that was left was a pulsing wound. This, she thought, was the first time she'd ever really seen him. "Why are you sitting here with me?"
"Would you like me to leave?"
"Yes," he hissed, before squeezing his eyes shut and gripping the edge of the bench like it had wronged him. "No. Fuck. No. I'm sorry."
"Are you?" she asked quietly, hoping he knew what she meant; she'd never heard him say those words before, certainly never to her.
"More than you could ever know," he sighed, letting his head drop into his hands.
She forced her mouth into a smile, even though he wasn't looking. "I know rather a lot."
"Not that."
Then tell me , she thought. Tell me that you're sorry for what you called me. Tell me you are sorry for wishing me dead. Tell me you are sorry for ruining my education, for belittling my magic, for making me hate the way I looked. Tell me you are sorry for letting your father and his friends hurt us, for aiding them. Tell me you are sorry for turning your head. Say you are sorry. Say it a thousand times.
But what would she do with it if he did? Is that all it would take for her to forgive him? Did she even have the energy to hear it?
"There is a lot to forgive you for," she eventually said, frowning at her book.
"I'm not asking you to. You shouldn't."
"I don't."
"Right, good."
"Not yet anyway."
He turned to face her then, his head moving so fast that it might have hurt, his eyes were searching for something she wasn't sure she had to offer. "Don't toy with me, Granger."
Why not? You've toyed with me plenty.
She sighed. "Stop occluding and start pulling your weight in Potions, we'll see how it goes."
He let out a hollow breath. "Why are you even talking to me? I have been unfathomably cruel to you for as long as we've known each other."
She looked at him then, only for a minute, but it was long enough to see it all. The way his hair shone like silver under the moonlight, the way his skin glistened under a sheen of sweat despite the bitter temperature. His eyes were bright and desperate and heartbreakingly beautiful- she'd always thought that, even when they'd been filled with malice. He was a man made of sharp edges, and yet all of them were dulled in the dark of the night. Here on this bench, under this tree, sitting beside her, he looked like someone new.
"I don't think we've ever known each other," she murmured in response, and his brows pulled together.
The silence that followed lingered, but it was not unpleasant. Two people, bound by the thin thread of insomnia and shared history, lit by high-up sconces and the glow of the moon.
"What are you reading?" he asked after a while, and she held up the book. "The Winters Tale? "
"It's Shakespeare, he was a Muggle playwright-"
"I know who Shakespeare is."
She let the book drop again, her attention rounding back to the man beside her- who looked considerably more relaxed than he had when she'd found him, and knew about Muggle playwrights...apparently. "How?"
He ruffled a hand through his hair; she liked it so much better without all the gel. "Mandatory Muggle Studies."
"Mandatory..." she echoed, nodding along.
"I would have taken it anyway, I think," he was wincing at the tree now, hand scratching over his chin. It was the most fluidly she'd seen him move in a notably long time. "There is a lot I didn't know...would never have known, otherwise."
"Like Shakespeare?"
His mouth quirked, so subtly she thought she might have imagined it. "Yes. Although I haven't read that one."
"It was my parent's favourite," she said, and then held out the book before she could change her mind. "Take it. I was going to return it anyway."
He stared at it for too long. "You want me to return your book?"
"Or you could, you know, read it."
"Hmm."
She shook it slightly. "It's not bad."
"What a review," he mumbled, but he took it from her nonetheless, placing it neatly on his lap.
"Shut up," she tossed him a swift eye roll before pushing off of the bench and brushing down the front of her robes, pulling them closer to combat the growing winds. "Go inside, Malfoy, you'll get sick."
She turned on her heel and marched for the corridor, deciding to forgo her trip to the owlery tonight. She did not miss the low call of farewell from Malfoy, still seated on the bench, her favourite story still clutched in his hands.
#
In her palm lay the promise of peace. The option to relax, for the tension to leave her body in one swift wave, to rest. Merlin, she wanted it. She wanted all of it to herself. Which is exactly why she couldn't have it.
"You should drink it."
"What?" Malfoy stopped arranging the pillows on the lounge chair. "But you brewed it."
She raised an eyebrow. "Think I'd poison you in the middle of a lesson?"
The room was filled with pairs all arranging their lounge chairs, some were already under blankets. It was time to drink their sleeping draughts, and Malfoy had so far been remarkably present. Taut, silent, but present.
She thought back to what he'd looked like in the courtyard, how easily the shadows had found places to hollow his face. Hermione may have trouble sleeping, but she could at least nap, whereas Malfoy looked like he'd all but entirely forgotten how to do either.
"Maybe," he mumbled, placing his hands on his hips. "I thought you'd want...since you did all the work..."
His eyes darted around the room, lingering on their peers with subtle hesitation- ah. Of course.
"I won't let anyone near your chair," she said quietly. "Take it. Get some sleep."
He looked at the vial in her hand, eyes narrowed. "I dream loudly."
She shook her head. "Not with this, I promise."
"Alright, chums!" Slughorn called from the centre of the room. "Take your places- Merlin's beard, sit down first, Lisa! That's it. Now, drink up when you are ready."
She held the vial out to Malfoy, who was still eyeing it like he was looking for the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes logo to appear upon it. "Malfoy, just-"
"Fuck it," he said, snatching it out of her hand and downing it in one before she could say anything else, like, perhaps, sit down.
"Malfoy!" she gasped, holding out her arms and barely catching him as he went down like a ton of bricks.
Draco Malfoy had experienced a growth spurt during their fifth year, he'd shot from slightly tall to extremely lanky over merely a handful of months and had only continued his upward trajectory since. Hermione was not exactly short, in fact, she was perfectly average, but she almost buckled under the limp body now draped over her.
"Oh my..." she groaned, wrapping her arms around his waist to re-shuffle him, trying not to linger on how prominently she could feel his ribs. "Bloody... useless ..."
Ronald had repeatedly offered for her to join him while he worked out, and she'd always said no. Why would she put herself through that by choice? She regretted it, of course, now that her knees were buckling from the effort of keeping Malfoy's skull from smacking into the stone floor of the dungeons.
She staggered forward, dragging him along with her, and set him down upon the lounge chair as gently as she could- which is to say that she let his head roll around limply a few times before she managed to secure a pillow under it. She'd broken into a sweat by the time she had him lying down, blowing escaped curls from her eyes as she settled his arms across his stomach. Only when she took a step back did she allow herself to process the scene before her.
He looked different while he slept. Peaceful, almost. Like the world had not touched him with anything other than gentle hands. She reached down for the blanket and draped it across his shoulders, casting a swift warming charm to the material, before settling into the chair beside him and getting to work on her notes.
She couldn't help but see his acceptance of the draught for anything less than an olive branch between them; letting himself be vulnerable, trusting her to guide him through it in a room full of foes. She tried to focus on her notes and not on the sharp lines of his face, all softened by slumber.
"Surprised you didn't let him drop," Jacob Davies, a boy she'd only ever spoken to once before and did not care to speak to again, snickered from where he sat opposite her, watching over another sleeping figure. "If you give him a sharp kick to the nose, I won't say a word to nobody."
Hermione tightened her grip on her quill. "And why would I do that?"
Jacob laughed, gesturing limply to Malfoy. "Because he deserves it."
When Jacob stood up fifteen minutes later to deliver his notes to Slughorn, his trousers had mysteriously split down the middle. On an unrelated note, Hermione's wand remained tucked under her robes, and firmly pointing in the direction of Jacob's chair.
When Malfoy stirred, his eyes fluttering open slowly, he found her face first. She saw it all wash over him- surprise, relief, perhaps a little bit of gratitude. But more than anything else, he looked rested. The deep colour under his eyes had rescinded ever-so-slightly, the corners of his mouth were not pulling down so harshly, his sharp eyes had a gleam to them once again. When he looked down to see the blanket she'd covered him with- no doubt noticing how unnaturally warm it was- he only settled further beneath it, like he wanted a few more minutes. When he spoke his voice was lighter, not as coarse as she'd heard it over the last few weeks. His eyes caught hers, and she held her breath.
"Thanks, Granger."
#
Hermione was tired of many things. She was tired of false smiles, of the stares from professors when they asked a question that they knew she could answer, of lying in the letters she sent home, of trying to find a quiet corner of the library, of listening to Ajay and Masie debate the merits of Divination. She was tired of pretending, of searching, of coming up empty-handed.
But mostly, she was tired of watching Draco Malfoy push that egg around on his breakfast plate.
"Eat it."
Malfoy looked up from his place, shock flooding the lines of his face. She'd not even bothered to excuse herself from the conversation she'd been pretending to partake in before marching over here; she couldn't bear it any longer.
"Excuse me?" he choked.
She jutted her chin towards his plate. "You've been mashing that egg for weeks. Eat it."
He looked back down at his plate before returning his gaze to her, a slight glint in his usually flat eyes. "I doubt that it's the same egg, Granger."
She huffed and dropped down onto the bench opposite him, leaning her elbows on the table and pinning him with what she hoped was a glare hypnotic enough to convince him. Alas, he only seemed to reel back further.
"What are you doing?"
"Sitting."
"Here?"
"Looks that way."
The Malfoy that she once thought she knew would have curled his lip at her arrival and bit with his words, he would have been surrounded by peers who feared his father more than they loved him, he would have laughed at her. But this Malfoy, this new and unknown Malfoy, simply let his chin tuck to his chest as though he were trying to disappear.
"Why?" he asked, and she felt a sharp stab of something akin to sympathy.
"So, I can watch you eat your egg."
"What?"
She sighed, threading her fingers together and resting her chin atop them. "I'm not sure which part of this you are having difficulty understanding."
He shook his head. "All of it."
"Do you think I haven't noticed you sitting over here by yourself, day after day, hardly touching your food?" she asked, and his eyes widened. "It's like sixth year all over again, and I won't stand to watch you slowly kill yourself any more than I'll stand to watch you waste another perfectly cooked egg- I mean really Malfoy, look at the yolk, it's golden."
He seemed to be caught mid-breath, as though she'd reached over and plucked it directly out of his lungs. When he spoke again, it was hardly more than a whisper. "You sound like Pansy."
She snorted, taking herself by surprise with the sound. "Somehow, that is the cruellest thing you've ever said to me."
It was subtle, so subtle that if one were not looking quite as intently as she was, they surely would have missed it- the corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "You need to relax more, Granger."
"You sound like Ron."
He winced, though the malice she'd once seen in the expression was nowhere to be found. "Saying things like that does nothing to restore my appetite."
She leaned over and pinched an expertly sliced triangle of toast, dipping it into the yolk of his egg before taking a bite. It was still warm, kept so by the tender magic of the elves that worked tirelessly in the kitchens. He watched her, pupils dilating as she chewed slowly, and then she realised that it was the first time in a long time her tongue had noticed flavour.
"Eat it." She said again, pointing to the other triangles of toast waiting between them.
He took another few seconds to watch her, his eyes dancing over her in a way that should have made her feel itchy but instead left her feeling seen, and then he picked up a slice of toast, dunked it in his yolk, and took a bite.
#
She told herself it began happening by chance.
He just so happened to be in the library whenever she went to study, which was most nights, and with the amount of overlap they had in their classes, it made logistical sense that they would study together.
Seeing as they studied together, it only followed that they would walk back through the corridors together, parting for their respective dormitories at the last possible moment.
They didn't talk much, and she had to admit that she found some relief in the silence. When they did talk it was usually about classes, many of which they shared, almost all of which she had begun to sit beside him for. Purely because he sat at the back, beside a space that nobody else seemed keen to occupy, and sitting there meant she didn't have to deal with the disappointed glances from professors.
It was remarkably easy to be in his company, she never felt the pressure to be on, to be the brightest witch of her age- she could just be Granger. He'd obliged her request to limit the Occlumency in her company, which left him jittery and unsettled, but notably more alive. On the days when she found him closed again, his eyes shut down into that grey slate, she opted not to push.
She still sat with him at breakfast. He still ate his eggs.
Harry and Ron had expressed their concerns about her growing acquaintanceship with Malfoy in their weekly letters, but she could not bring herself to regret telling them about it. It was the first honest thing she'd said to them in months. She would soon see them over Christmas and deal with their concerns in person, but for now, she would just enjoy feeling a little less lonely.
"Can anyone tell me the fruit we use to brew this invisibility potion?" Slughorn was half asleep at the front of the class, leaning against his desk with his eyes barely open, his question a slurred jumble of sounds- insomnia was more common than not, she supposed.
Cherries.
"You know the answer," a smooth whisper met her ear, and she snapped her head around to where Malfoy was sitting, his upper body leaning into hers, his lips merely inches from her cheek.
"So what?" she hissed in return, electing to ignore how warm his breath felt on her temple.
"You never raise your hand anymore."
"Neither do you."
"You used to struggle to stay in your seat."
She knew...she knew, God , she knew. And she missed it, the feeling of wanting to be heard, to be called upon, to be correct. She missed the validation; she missed wanting it.
"That was then," she snapped, turning her attention back to the Professor, who had begun to lean at an uncomfortable angle.
There was a pause before Malfoy's whisper met her again, gentle as anything. "And now?"
She sighed. "I thought you'd be relieved to no longer be shown up by me in every class-"
"You never beat me in Potions." The affronted little whine in his voice gave her a sick thrill.
She turned her attention back to the boy beside her- not quite yet a man, but certainly no longer a child- and watched as his eyes danced with a competitive edge that she'd almost forgotten existed. They had battled relentlessly for the top spot over the years, and she'd won almost every time, but it had never felt entirely rewarding. It had been, after all, a spiteful and venomous fight between them, and he'd always ensured she suffered for her victories.
This gleam was different, it called to a part of her that had been buried under the crashing waves of her former self, it reached in a hand and dragged her to the surface. Fight me, it said, get out of the water and fight me.
"Not yet." She whispered, and the smirk that formed on her lips was entirely of its own volition.
"And what kind of cauldron does this particular potion need to be brewed in?" Slughorn called from the front of the room, rubbing at his eyes.
The hands of Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy shot into the air so fast they nearly hit each other.
#
Christmas break was spent at the burrow, as they had been for many years now. All the Weasleys were in attendance, except the one that never would be again. George separated himself from the others, opting to skip the festivities and lock the door to his room. He'd been doing that a lot, according to Ron.
Her parents called, they apologised for not being able to attend, and she feigned disappointment; in truth, she was relieved that they would not be coming, she only had so much to give, and they needed a lot more than she had.
Harry and Ginny spent most of the day wrapped up in each other, and who could possibly begrudge them? It wasn't until much later in the afternoon when she was packing up leftovers in the kitchen while the others argued over wizard chess, that she got a moment alone with him.
"So..." he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Malfoy-"
"I don't want to talk about Malfoy," she cut in, handing him a plate of pheasant.
"Alright," he said, holding the remnants of the bird in front of him like a shield. "No Malfoy, understood."
It wasn't that she felt shame or guilt for having become his acquaintance, it was just that she'd long run out of the energy to defend herself. Harry mercifully dropped it, for now.
Hermione received books, piles of them, more than she would be able to carry with her.
"Leave them here," Ron had offered, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, and pulling her in close. She inhaled the familiar scent of him, trying to find comfort within it. "We can store them in the attic until we have our own place."
"Our own place?" she'd echoed, her heart picking up speed.
Ron shrugged, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. "Yeah, once you finish school, I thought we might...didn't you?"
No, she hadn't.
She supposed it would only be natural, they were together, after all. It made complete sense to move in together; it would be cost-effective, they could afford a nicer place if they were splitting the rent, and they would spend their evenings together anyway, would they not? It seemed ridiculous to suggest anything besides co-habitation.
Ron, having noticed her stiffen- he always noticed- had cradled her head between his large hands, sapphire eyes meeting hers, full of worry and devotion and...hope.
"You don't want to?" he'd asked, and she couldn't lie.
"No," she admitted, blinking back the tears. "It's just...you've had time, you know? To find your feet out here, to start your life. I...I think I'll need that too."
He nodded slowly, patiently- always so patient. "Alright."
"Are you upset?" she whispered.
His smile was laced with sadness, but it still brightened every inch of his freckled face. "I'm not over the moon about it, but I understand."
"I love you," she said, and she did, she really did.
"I love you too," he replied, ducking low and bringing his lips to hers.
He tasted like everything she thought she'd ever wanted, like stability, like assurance, mixed with a little bit of wassail and cranberry sauce. She settled into the kiss, letting her arms wrap around his waist as his fingers moved into the curls of her hair.
She tried to enjoy it, she tried to want it, and she almost did.
When she returned to Hogwarts a few days later, she felt her shoulders ease down from her ears. She dragged her trunk through the corridors, nodding to the portraits that tipped their hats to her as she went, slowly making her way up the staircase to the common room that would offer her the isolation she'd been craving. She briefly wondered if Malfoy had yet returned to the castle; if he'd been to visit his father in Azkaban over the break; if he'd occluded the entire time; if he'd eaten.
She pushed those thoughts aside as she entered the common room, walking past the vacant sofas- she was here long before anyone else had returned, thankfully- and pulling her trunk up the spiral stairs to the dormitories. She wanted to nap, as soon as possible for as long as possible.
And she would have, were a rectangular parcel not waiting for her on her bed; neatly wrapped in brown paper, tied with a delicate ribbon. She dropped her trunk with a loud thud and picked the parcel up, turning it over to inspect it for any note- nothing. Tapping her foot with impatience and a slight sense of suspicion, she carefully unravelled the ribbon and unfolded the paper, revealing the most magnificent leather-bound copy of a story she held dear- ' The Winter's Tale'.
It was exquisite. Hand-bound, surely. Old, much older than her, perhaps older than even her grandparents. It smelt divine; like time locked between the pages. The title had been carved into the leather and dusted with gold leaf, faded and dulled, and all the more breathtaking for it. She flipped open the first page and found a note tucked inside, the elegant penmanship now familiar, and she smiled without restraint as she read it.
"I do give lost; for I do feel it gone, but know not how it went ."
A line spoken by Hermione, the virtuous Queen of Sicily; a way of telling her that he'd found her within the pages of a story she'd shared. But she knew it was more than that, she understood the true translation of the words he'd chosen- I know you, I see through you, I see the grief that lives within you.
And for the first time in years, the tears on her cheeks were not derived from pain, but relief.
#
"Sweet mother of- fuck!"
"Sheffield! What is going on here?" Professor Smitty called, whirling from their demonstration. "Why are you bleeding?"
"I fell off my chair, Professor. I-I didn't mean to- oh fuck, my nose is broken! Sorry for swearing-shit-sorry-"
Hermione watched as the young man was promptly escorted from the Arithmancy classroom, his nose pinched between his fingers, Professor Smitty guiding him with hurried steps. He'd fallen asleep, right there at the desk, and tumbled to the ground hard.
She was surprised it hadn't happened sooner, with the amount of insomnia these walls harboured.
Traumatised and sleep-deprived though they were, they were also still at school, which meant that chaos erupted the second they were left alone. Students jumped from their seats and repositioned themselves among friends, voices carrying without care for volume, tables scraping as they were pushed together. Hermione remained beside Malfoy, blissfully isolated at the back, and continued with her work.
"Absolute pisstake!" Jacob Davies' voice rang louder than the rest, as usual. "All the blood these walls have seen, and the Professor is still in a twist about a broken nose!"
Hermione pressed her quill down harder onto her parchment, trying to ignore him.
"You'd think he'd not be such a fucking baby about it..."
She snorted, rolling her eyes at her paper. Not quietly enough, it would seem, as Jacob Davies' round eyes landed on her in an instant, his face heating with unexpected rage.
"Not that you'd know, Golden Girl," he spat, kicking away from his chair and stepping closer. "While you were off hiding, tucked away in some safehouse, the rest of us were here, being used as punching bags. Tell me, where is my fucking Order of Merlin?"
She sat up straight, watching him stalk towards the table, and wondered if she should be feeling anything beyond impassive curiosity. Jacob was seething like she'd rarely seen anyone seethe before, and it was somewhat fascinating.
"You three got away with everything from the start, didn't you? Never had to face any real consequences at school, and never had to face them in the war. I bet you just waltz into battle like-"
"Davies, I'll say it once," Malfoy was standing now; she'd not even noticed him move. His voice was calm, but his eyes were borderline lethal. And she recognised that look, she remembered where she'd seen it once before; while laying on the drawing room floor of Malfoy Manor, in that stretched moment before he shut down and turned his head. Fury. "You have no idea what you are talking about, none at all. You would be wise to shut your fucking mouth, before I-"
"Before you what? Tell your father? Roll up your sleeve and call another master?" Jacob spat.
"No," Malfoy replied steadily. "Before I take out your teeth."
Jacob laughed bitterly. "Ooh, scary."
"You think I'm joking."
"Come on then. I've been itching to hit you for a decade- I won't even use my wand."
Malfoy stepped out from behind the table. "Perfect."
Hermione wondered if she should be making more of an effort to prevent this from escalating. She'd usually been the one to stop these sorts of things, except for all those times she'd started them. But she was too enraptured by Malfoy's sudden energy that she didn't dare interrupt.
Jacob got the first hit in, splitting Malfoy's lip, and she winced. But Malfoy didn't let him gloat for long before socking him in the jaw with a swift right hook. Jacob stumbled back a few steps, and Malfoy looked like he was about to leap after him, when Professor Smitty opened the door and took in the scene.
"Oh, for the love of ...Mr Malfoy, Mr Davies, what is the meaning of this?" she demanded, pinching the bridge of her nose. The two boys were breathing heavily, neither of them offering an explanation. The Professor sighed, shaking her head with exhaustion. "Mr Malfoy, you are bleeding. You will need to visit the infirmary, but seeing as I cannot trust this class to be left alone for merely two minutes, it seems I'll need to call upon-"
"I'll take him," Hermione was out of her seat before the Professor could finish asking.
It was a mostly silent walk, Malfoy demanded to carry both of their bags even though he was the one bleeding, and they kept a reasonable distance as they meandered up the staircases. When they finally arrived at the doors of the infirmary he stopped and held out her bag, avoiding her eye.
She took it slowly, the question tumbling from her lips before she could catch it. "Why did you bother?"
He stared at the ground, fixated on something down there that she could not see. As the silence stretched out between them, she turned on her heel, accepting that it was a question he was not inclined to answer.
But his voice, small and hoarse, stopped her in her tracks. "Because they don't know...what you did, what you gave...but I do."
He was pushing through the doors of the infirmary before the words had even settled.
#
"You always sit over here," Malfoy said, watching her intently as she cut the whites off her eggs.
"Am I not allowed to?"
"Obviously," he sighed, leaning forward on the table. "But your friends are over there."
"You are over here," she countered, jabbing her fork towards him.
He blinked, his lips parting a few times before he spoke again. "Is that what we are then? Friends?"
She shrugged. "Wouldn't you say so?"
He took a long sip of his tea- the maniac took three sugars- and fixed her with a pointed look. "What would Potter and Weasley say about that?"
She huffed out a laugh. "They are not my minders. What would Pansy say?"
"Probably something grating."
She frowned, moving to cut up her sausages next. "That's not a kind thing to say about your girlfriend."
"What?" he blanched, setting his mug down. "She's not my girlfriend."
Hermione was shaking her head rapidly, smiling tightly. "I saw you making out in the alcoves-"
"In fourth year , Granger."
She stopped cutting at her breakfast, letting her eyes travel up the length of him, resting on his face- not as hollow as it once was. "You don't seem the type to remain friends with your exes."
He bit at the inside of his cheeks, his eyes narrowing. "I don't seem the type to be friends with you, either. And yet..."
"And yet," she replied.
When she arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast the following morning, she discovered Malfoy already sitting amongst the others, a plate of food and a space reserved just for her. She took a hesitant seat, sending him silent questions that he opted not to answer. He listened to Ajay complain about homework, he asked Masie about her schedule, and he took an extra slice of toast.
#
"Are you sleeping with your eyes open?"
"I'm honestly not sure."
He sighed, leaning back in the library chair. "Go to bed. There is nothing in that book that you don't already know."
"Don't tell me what to do," she groaned, pressing her face into the pages.
"Come on," he said, pushing up from the chair and holding out his hand for the book.
"Fine," she said, handing it over. "But only because it was, frankly, boring. I am perfectly capable of-"
Her words cut short as she tried to stand and the waist of her cardigan caught on the jagged arm of the chair, pulling her back down. She shot her hand out to catch herself on the table, which only served to upturn the ink pot she'd not yet resealed, sending spurts of it flying onto her cardigan. She recoiled instinctively and her arse hit the arm of the chair, sending her flying. She landed in a humiliating little heap on the floor, a pathetic yelp bursting from her lips that had Madam Pince letting out a menacing 'shhhhhhhh'.
Malfoy slapped his hand over his mouth and curled inward, his shoulders heaving with repressed laughter, but it burst out of his in waves regardless. He clutched at his chest as he cackled, tears formed in his eyes, and his face had turned magenta. She wasn't foolish enough to believe that her slip to the floor had been that funny, but he'd likely not laughed like this in years, and it seemed he was having difficulty stopping.
"OUT!" Madam Pince bellowed- ironically- her long finger pointing to the pair of them; Malfoy still wailing, Hermione still sitting on the floor.
"Sorry!" she called in return, which only made Malfoy howl louder.
Once he'd managed to collect himself within reason, he bent down to help her up, his hands wrapping around her wrists as he heaved her back to her feet. His smile was wide and unfiltered and glorious, she couldn't look away from it. Not as he held onto her forearms long after she'd been righted, not as his laughter fizzled- leaving a joyous ringing in her ears, not when his eyes slid to the ink stain that adorned her chest, remaining there for a fraction too long before travelling slowly upward. She watched his gaze linger on the column of her throat, the line of her jaw, her parted lips, before finally lifting to meet her own.
They were standing so close. Too close. Not close enough.
He blinked and took a quick step backwards, letting her arms drop to her sides. "I'll walk you back, exams start tomorrow, we should...we should rest."
Right, of course, their N.E.W.T's began in the morning. The final year they would spend in these walls was approaching its end, and the rest of their lives lay waiting. Malfoy would return to Wiltshire to manage his family's estates and affairs, and Hermione would...figure it out. She always figured it out.
They walked in silence to the entrance of the Gryffindor tower, and she tried not to dwell on Ronald and the guilt she felt for how much she'd enjoyed Malfoy's eyes on her. When he hands her bag over and his fingers brush against her own, she tries not to dwell on that either. Nor his whisper of ' Goodnight, Granger' and how her skin marbled at the sound of it, and certainly not on the way his graceful figure hovered for a moment longer than necessary before finally heading back the way he'd come.
God, she was exhausted.
#
They spent the journey back to Kings Cross much the same way they had spent the whole year; alone together, sharing space. Hermione had her copy of 'The Winters Tale' open on her lap, while Malfoy lay on the opposing bench, hands tucked behind his head.
"Granger?" he asked quietly, not opening his eyes.
"Hmm?"
"Can you read out loud?"
The question broke her heart. The further they got from the castle, the closer they inched to London, the more she struggled to tamper down the twisting feeling in her gut. She was going to miss him; this unlikely friend of hers who had sat beside her in every class and shared his breakfasts, who had walked her to her dormitory, who had beamed with unmasked pride when she passed her N.E.W.T's with flying colours.
And so, she began to read. She kept reading as the refreshment trolly appeared and she gestured for two cups of tea, she kept reading as the highlands morphed into cities, she kept reading as Malfoy's breathing turned shallow and the rise and fall of his chest evened out in slumber, she kept reading until her eyes grew heavy and she could read no longer.
When they arrived at the platform, she felt on the verge of hysterics. She caught a glimpse of bright red hair in the crowd and fixated on it, her heart leaping into her throat.
"Alright," she said, clearing her throat. "I-uh, I didn't think it would be this difficult."
Malfoy was pulling her trunk down from the overhead storage, he tucked his head to his chin, and she thought she heard him sniff before he spoke. "It is, isn't it?"
She nodded. "Dreadful."
"Mortifying," he whispered, looking pained.
She took a step towards him, knowing she needed to take hold of her trunk and disembark, to begin the life she'd been putting off for too long. But she didn't. She just held his stare. He swallowed and closed the space between them just an inch more. The smile he offered her was a combination of conflicting emotions, sorrow, grief, joy, and pride. She catalogued it all, determined to remember every facet.
She reached for the handle of her trunk and his hand shot out to stop her, wrapping around her wrist in a delicate but firm hold. She sucked in a low breath as his fingers brushed over her pulse point and stayed there. He didn't say a word about the way it rocketed, though he must have felt it.
"It's not goodbye," he whispered, sliding his fingers from her wrist, and linking their hands together.
She squeezed, and with it, she hoped to tell him everything she couldn't possibly say. He squeezed, and she heard it all in return.
When she finally disembarked from the train and ran to the open arms of her oldest friend, her lover, she tried to set aside the feeling that she'd left a fundamental organ back in that carriage.