What They Deserve
Hermione’s POV
The elevator ride up to the Ministry was unusually quiet—but in the warm, comfortably charged kind of way.
Hermione stood beside Draco, shoulder brushing his just enough to notice. He didn’t move away.
She couldn’t stop thinking about last night. The way he’d whispered “I never stopped looking.” The way his forehead had rested against hers like it was the only place in the world he wanted to be. And the way she’d told him the truth—I stopped pretending.
They hadn’t talked about it since.
But everything felt different.
Draco was holding two coffees—one of which he’d clearly fetched for her without asking. He handed it to her silently, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“You’re staring,” he said, low and amused.
“I’m not,” she replied automatically, though her ears betrayed her with their flush.
He leaned in just a fraction. “That wasn’t a denial.”
She took the coffee and sipped it slowly. “You’re very pleased with yourself this morning.”
Draco smirked. “I have my moments.”
The doors chimed open.
They stepped out together, and for once, it felt like they fit—not pretending, not posturing. Just… them.
And that’s when it all went to hell.
“Hermione!”
The voice boomed across the atrium. Hermione froze mid-step.
No.
Not now.
Ron.
He was storming toward them like a red-haired tempest, shoulders hunched, fists clenched, fury pouring off him like smoke. And behind him—hovering, smug, Michael Corner.
Draco immediately shifted beside her—no wand, no words, but a presence that screamed don’t you dare.
“Hermione,” Ron snapped, stopping just in front of her, face red with rage. “What the hell is going on?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Ron turned his glare on Draco next.
“You—this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he seethed. “Trap her. Wrap her in gold and silk and call it love. You think you can buy your way into her life, into her heart—”
“Ron, stop,” Hermione said, her voice sharp.
But he was on a roll.
“You don’t love him. You can’t. Not after everything. He’s using you, Hermione. He’s playing some sick, twisted Malfoy game and you’re just—letting him.”
Michael hovered a few feet away, pretending to be concerned. Bastard.
Hermione’s hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
From fury.
“Don’t do this here,” she hissed. “Not in front of everyone.”
“Why not?” Ron spat. “Isn’t this what he wanted? A public scene? A show of loyalty? You really think he’s changed? He’s still the same spoiled little snake he was in school—”
That’s when Draco stepped forward.
Slow. Controlled. Lethal.
“I’ve held my tongue out of respect,” he said quietly. “But if you speak to her like that again, Weasley, I will ruin you.”
Ron laughed bitterly. “Of course. Threats. That’s all you Malfoys are good for.”
Hermione had had enough.
She stepped between them.
“You want the truth, Ron?” she snapped. “Fine.”
She turned to face him, her chin high. “I’m not being used. I’m not being controlled. And I didn’t fall into this marriage—I chose it.”
Ron’s eyes widened. “You didn’t have a choice—”
“I did,” she cut in. “And I’m still choosing it.”
She glanced at Draco, her voice softening but no less firm. “Because despite everything, he’s never lied to me. He doesn’t ask me to shrink myself. He doesn’t pity me or try to ‘save’ me. He just… sees me. And that’s more than I can say for some people.”
Michael’s smirk vanished.
Ron looked like she’d slapped him.
“You’ve changed,” he whispered.
Hermione stared him down. “Maybe. Or maybe you just never knew me as well as you thought.”
Silence fell.
Ron looked between her and Draco, then shook his head slowly. “Don’t come crying to me when he breaks you.”
“I won’t,” she said simply. “Because he won’t.”
He left.
Michael hesitated, but Hermione turned her back on him deliberately.
She didn’t see where he went.
She only felt Draco’s presence behind her, quiet and unmoving.
“Granger,” he said softly.
She turned around slowly.
Draco was staring at her like she’d just rewritten the universe.
“You meant it?” he asked.
She nodded. “Every word.”
He took a step closer. “Even the part about choosing me?”
Her breath hitched.
“Especially that part.”
His hand brushed hers—not enough to hold, just a graze of knuckles, a question.
She twined her fingers through his in answer.
Draco’s POV
They didn’t talk again until they got to the Manor.
She was quiet. Not withdrawn—just thoughtful.
He didn’t push.
They reached the library, and she finally turned to him.
“You didn’t have to threaten him.”
Draco gave her a look. “He’s lucky I didn’t hex him.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
He smirked. “And yet, you choose me.”
She stared at him, eyes searching his like she was looking for something beneath the bravado.
“You really never stopped looking?” she asked.
Draco’s throat tightened.
He stepped closer. “Not for a second. You were always… everywhere.”
Hermione’s eyes darkened, her voice a whisper. “Even when we hated each other?”
He laughed once, quiet and raw. “Especially then.”
She tilted her head, eyes soft. “I think I always looked too. I just never let myself admit it.”
He reached up slowly, brushing a curl behind her ear. His fingers lingered at her jaw, his gaze locked on hers.
“So what now?” he asked.
Her lips curved faintly. “Now we keep not pretending.”
And when she leaned in—close enough that her breath ghosted across his mouth—he thought she might kiss him.
Instead, she whispered, “Try not to fall too hard, Malfoy.”
He let out a breathless laugh, his eyes wild with want. “Too late.”