Fractures
19 April 1997 – Saturday Evening
Hermione sat curled up in the Gryffindor common room, knees drawn to her chest, watching the fire flicker in the hearth. It had been weeks since she and Draco had repaired—and hexed—the Vanishing Cabinet. Weeks since their so-called work should have ended. And yet, she still found herself slipping away to the Room of Requirement night after night.
They weren’t working anymore. Not really.
They were training, she told herself. Practicing Occlumency and Legilimency, sharpening their mental defenses. But more than that, they had begun to trust each other. And Malfoy’s trust, Hermione realized, was intoxicating. She wanted more of it—this secret they had built between them.
“Alright, Hermione.” Ron’s voice yanked her from her thoughts. “We’ve been patient. Well, Harry has. I haven’t.”
She blinked, looking up to find Ron and Harry standing over her, arms crossed, their faces identical masks of concern.
“What’s going on with you and Malfoy?” Harry asked voice level but edged with suspicion.
Hermione schooled her expression into neutrality. The Occlumency training had made it easier, even when she wasn’t actively using it. “We’ve been working.”
In early March, Ron nearly died after drinking poisoned mead in Slughorn’s office—meant for Dumbledore—right after being dosed with a love potion intended for Harry. The whole thing had been utterly ridiculous. Harry had saved him with a bezoar, quick thinking on his part. That damn Potions book he found had been so useful it made Hermione deeply suspicious.
Not long after, Ron finally ended things with Lavender—though not by choice. Muttering Hermione’s name in the hospital wing while recovering had effectively sealed that deal. But that didn’t magically mend the way she felt about Ron—about how he had made her feel abandoned in ways she couldn’t quite reconcile.
And then, there was Malfoy. She had kissed him a few more times since then. Not exactly necessary. Certainly not planned. And definitely not just part of their act.
Come to think of it, she couldn’t even remember the last time she had to plan what to say to him.
Ron scoffed. “You fixed the bloody thing weeks ago! So what exactly are you doing with him now?”
She hesitated, carefully choosing her words. “We’ve been practicing Occlumency.”
Harry’s frown deepened. “With Malfoy?”
“He’s good at it,” she defended quickly. “Better than Snape, maybe! He’s been doing it since childhood.”
Ron threw up his hands. “Oh, that makes me feel loads better! Learning mind tricks from the Death Eater-in-training!”
“Ron,” she warned.
“No, he’s right,” Harry added, his green eyes sharp and unwavering. “Malfoy is dangerous, Hermione.”
“He trusts me. He wouldn’t hurt me,” she countered, “this is exactly where you both wanted me to be by buddying up with him!”, then added quieter, “And I trust him.”
Ron let out a disbelieving laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “That’s what worries us.” He exhaled heavily and slumped onto the couch beside her, a little too close. His voice was softer now. “Look, ‘Mione… I know you like to see the best in people, but Malfoy’s not some poor lost soul looking for redemption.”
She met his gaze head-on. “You don’t know him like I do.” that’s exactly how she would have described the Draco she’s seen.
Silence stretched between them.
Ron glanced at Harry, who looked equally unsettled, but neither of them pushed her further.
For now.
Later that night, she returned to the Room of Requirement, finding Draco already inside, stretched across the conjured couch in a crisp white button-up and black trousers—distinctly not his school uniform with their fine fabrics but reminiscent of his school day look.
“You’re late,” he murmured, eyes closed, voice low and familiar.
“I was interrogated.”
He cracked one eye open, happy she had shown up again. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Potter and Weasley?”
She nodded, sitting on the floor across from him, folding her jean-covered legs beneath her. “They think I’ve lost my mind.”
“Maybe you have,” Draco mused, finally sitting up, rolling his shoulders. “Willingly spending time with me? That’s definitely mad.”
She rolled her eyes. “Shut up and let’s start.”
He didn’t argue. She had grown sharp— dangerously sharp—at Legilimency. Sometimes, she wondered if he let her win. Let her in. But there were moments, rare ones, where he’d look at her after a session, impressed, and tell her she was a natural. She believed him more and more.
She closed her eyes, wand resting at her side, silent incantation already forming in her mind. It no longer required words, only focus. A deep breath, and then she was inside—slipping into his consciousness like diving into a deep pool, immersed in memory.
Draco knew what she’d see. Wanted her to see it. Maybe it was selfish, maybe it was reckless, but he craved the way she looked at him when she saw past the sneer and the name and the house crest. She made him feel like he could be something else. Someone else.
He also knew she might leave. She should leave.
Potty and the Weasel knew now, or at least suspected more than she had shared. He had seen her wrestle with the decision—first trying to keep the details of their partnership hidden from her friends, only for the truth to bleed through a week later when she admitted he had helped with the cabinet hexing. She hadn’t needed to do that. Slytherins wouldn’t have forgiven a lie like that so easily. But Potter and Weasley... to their credit, he had to admit, they had respect for her and trusted her judgment.
Back when they started practicing, he had been certain her thirst for magic—her need to understand everything —would override the danger of continuing their companionship. And maybe it had. But then there were the kisses. Unexpected. Unnecessary. Unplanned. Forbidden.
He hadn’t stopped thinking about them.
And now, he wanted her to see. Needed her to know—how long he had noticed her. How far back it went. So, he lowered his guard and let her into his memories.
She saw herself—laughing at something Harry said in class, twirling a quill against her cheek while deep in thought, those little gestures she did, like when she tucked her hair behind her ear. Moments so small and unassuming, but he had cataloged them. From as early as the first year.
Then came the memory of her at the Yule Ball, radiant in periwinkle, smiling and dancing with Krum. His vision of it was tinged with jealousy, resentment, awe.
Hermione’s breath hitched as she pulled herself out of the connection. “Draco—”
But the word died in her throat. His sleeve had ridden up as he leaned forward, exposing the stark black Mark inked into his pale skin.
He noticed her gaze and moved to yank his sleeve down, but she reached forward first, her fingers wrapping around his hand.
His entire body went still. He didn’t deserve her touch. Not after what he had done. What he’d been forced to become. He shut off the stream of memories, drowning her presence in shadow.
She knelt before him, gently tugging his arm toward her and pushing up his sleeve to see all of it. He didn’t resist.
“When?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
His throat tightened. “Christmas.”
He had been too good at Occlumency. She had no idea; after weeks of delving into his mind with Legilimency. Until now, she had assumed he was just skirting darkness—not marked by it.
Her fingers traced just above the ink, not quite touching, but close enough that he felt the ghost of it. “Did you…” She hesitated; she hoped she knew the answer but had to ask anyway. “Did you want it?”
His laugh was bitter and hollow. “Does anyone?” his mind flashed him a crazy grin on his Aunt Bellatrix.
Hermione looked up at him, really looked at him—and he wanted to look away. There was too much softness in her, and none of it belonged near someone like him.
“They threatened my mother,” he said, each word like a stone in his chest. “Lucius is still in Azkaban. They expect me to take his place.”
Her grip on his hand tightened, she didn't exactly know what that meant for their cooperation. Hermione should be angry that he kept this from her, but she rationalized, that he started working with her after Christmas, after his mark. That further explained why he was so desperate and struggling at Slughorn's party, assuming what he would be forced to do over the holiday break. “I’m so sorry.”
Draco exhaled slowly, forcing the knot in his throat down. “Don’t pity me, Granger. You can’t afford to.” He had no right to her comfort. He’d almost killed Dumbledore. Indirectly. Cowardly. But it didn’t matter. His hands were dirty.
Using his first unforgivable curse, he used Imperius, and he forced Madam Rosmerta to give the poisoned bottle of mead to Slughorn. As far as he knew, no one suspected him. He did feel as though using that curse was far too easy for him to cast and it had opened a level in his controlling personality he didn’t want to exacerbate.
Ron had been the one who’d nearly died, sure—but Draco had aimed for a different target. Didn’t matter that it missed. Didn’t matter that Potter had saved him. What mattered was that Hermione was here, still choosing to be near him in her ignorance, and he didn’t know how to live with that.
He couldn’t blame her friends for hating him. If the roles were reversed, he wouldn’t want to share her either.
She studied him quietly, eyes searching. He was trying to be cold. To push her away. But she had already climbed the walls he’d spent his whole life building.
He opened his mouth—wanted to tell her. About Dumbledore. About the vow. About everything.
But instead, he pulled his arm back and stood abruptly.
“Enough mind games for tonight,” he muttered, turning from her.
He couldn’t tell her. Not because he didn’t trust her. But because it would trap her. And he wasn’t the secret keeper of his own damned fate anyway. That part belonged to Snape now.
She deserved someone better. And yet... he still wanted her. Selfishly. Stupidly. Completely.
Hermione watched him in silence, her mind racing. She knew he was hiding more. That there were layers beneath this moment he wasn’t ready to share. Just like she hadn’t told Harry and Ron everything.
Trust was dangerous.
But it was also intoxicating.
And Draco Malfoy was learning—slowly, painfully—how to let someone in.
And she knew she would wait.