More Than A Memory

Hermione hovered over the parchment, quill tip darkening the square next to Malfoy’s name. She could leave it blank. He wouldn’t care. Or would he? A quick glance across the ballroom told her nothing - he wasn’t paying her a single second of attention. 

And yet the thought of his name sitting there unchosen made her stomach twist. With a sigh, she inked the box and dropped the ballot into the box.

She’d caved. She’d wanted to be strong and defiant and live up to her gryffindor instincts, but she’d caved and voted for Malfoy. Hermione still hadn’t even seen his bloody photo, but she was worried he’d be embarrassed if he had no votes at all. With her and Luna, he had at least two. That was respectable enough, she thought. 

“The votes have been counted and then recounted by someone that hasn’t drunk as much wine as I have, and I have the winner here.” Pansy announced. “So we’ve got six votes among the others, but with the rest of the room all voting for the same person, I’d say it’s quite clear who is taking the cover.” She waved her hand, and the tables in front of the stage were covered in copies of the calendar, Pucey’s face plastered across the front. Hermione wasn’t terribly surprised. She was more surprised when the man grabbed her from behind and tried to kiss her, though. The whole room watched as she shoved him away. He grinned like it was his right to grab her, his fingers biting into her arms as he pulled her back toward him. His breath was warm against her cheek, and the smugness in his voice made her stomach curdle. 

“Baby, I won! Let me celebrate.” He insisted, leaning back in, all arrogance and misplaced confidence. A surge of anger, hot and immediate, snapped through her limbs as she shoved him again, harder this time. He stumbled, blinking in surprise.

“Touch me again and you’ll lose a hand.” Hermione snapped. All eyes were on her, and suddenly, it was too much. She ran for the doors, and disappeared out into the gardens, not knowing or caring where she was going. 

Somebody was calling after her, probably Harry or Ron, but she carried on until she couldn’t hear them anymore. She slumped down against a tree, not sparing a thought for the state of her dress, and cried. 

The night air was crisp, the scent of damp earth and garden roses lingering in the cold. Somewhere in the distance, the music from inside the Manor drifted through the air, muffled by the grand doors and thick hedges. 

Hermione barely heard it. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heart.

“Granger…” Malfoy said softly. She jumped, and he winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. You can’t really hide from me in my own garden, though. I know all the best spots.” 

“I’m fine, Malfoy. You should get back to Luna.” 

“Luna will be alright by herself for a while. I can’t go back in there yet anyway. I’d rip Pucey’s head off if I did.” He muttered darkly. “I told you he wasn’t good enough for you.” 

She scoffed. “That’s what you followed me out here to say? I told you so?” 

He sighed, sitting down next to her. “No, it wasn’t. I’m sorry, this isn’t going how I wanted it to.” He ran a hand through his hair before dumping one of the calendars in her lap. 

“Am I finally allowed to look?” She asked, sniffing and wiping her eyes. He nodded, and she flipped through to September. Malfoy’s face looking back at her made the air leave her lungs. 

***

Eighth year

“It’s a quidditch uniform, I’m telling you. Broom thighs and all those laces. There’s nothing more attractive.” Pansy insisted, swaying slightly from all the firewhiskey she’d drank. 

“A girl in my jersey would probably kill me, to be fair.” Blaise agreed. 

Hermione shook her head. “Mm, I disagree.” 

“Oh, now there’s a surprise.” Malfoy drawled next to her with a smirk. “Come on then, enlighten us.” 

“Shirtless, in a library, in front of a fire, with a cat in his lap.” She replied, and Theo hummed. 

“She makes an excellent point.” He pointed at her. “If I happened upon a man in that situation, I’d melt into a puddle.” 

“Who gives a shit about books when they could be on a broom?” Pansy exclaimed. “You’re wrong, Granger.” 

“I can’t be wrong about my own fantasy, Parkinson.” Hermione replied. “It’s subjective.” 

“And you’d melt? In that situation?” Malfoy asked her. Hermione nodded. 

“Any discerning witch would.” 

“But you specifically?” He continued. 

“Well, yes.” She replied. He hummed thoughtfully, visibly mulling it over. “What about you?” She asked. Malfoy shrugged. 

“I’m not fussy.” 

“No taste, that one.” Theo shook his head disapprovingly. “Now, let me tell you mine. You’ll need a large bath and several litres of whipped cream…” 

***

“You remembered?” She asked, looking at the photo of him with a ginger cat in his lap. 

“I remember everything about you.” He replied. 

“I voted for you.” She blurted. Not what she meant to say. Not even close.

He huffed a laugh, tipping his head back against the tree. “I know.”

“I hadn’t even seen the photo.” She swallowed, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I just didn’t want you to have no votes.”

He smirked, but it was softer than usual, almost… fond. “So it wasn’t because you liked it?”

“I hadn’t seen it yet.”

“And now?”

She hesitated. Her throat felt tight. She glanced down at the page again, at the stupid, unfair, infuriatingly attractive image of him sprawled in a chair, a book open on his lap, a ginger cat curled against him, firelight flickering at his side. He was smirking in the photo, smug in a way that made her stomach turn in knots.

It was perfect. He was perfect.

She snapped the calendar shut. He was also not hers. “It’s alright.” She said, nonchalantly, forcing a slight shrug.

Draco made a deeply unimpressed noise. “I was promised melting, Granger.”

She let out a breathless, nervous laugh. But it wasn’t enough to shake off the way he was looking at her - like he saw everything. Like he had been waiting for her to catch up. His fingers brushed her skirt, tracing the fabric absently. It wasn’t a grand, sweeping motion - just a touch. A small, stupid, devastating touch.

She forced herself to look away, staring at the grass instead. “But Luna…”

Draco let out a sharp breath before shifting closer. “Granger. Luna isn’t my anything.”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“She asked me to dance at your Christmas thing. You know that Pans has been paranoid about her friendship with Longbottom, so I stepped in so she wouldn’t get the wrong idea.” He shook his head. “You thought I was dating her?”

Hermione swallowed, her ears ringing. “She’s… she’s gorgeous. And funny. And-”

“Not you.” Draco’s voice was firm, low, entirely certain.

She blinked at him, her mouth suddenly dry. “I brought Pucey to make you jealous.”

“It worked. Dress did, too.” His eyes flickered down across the green corset before returning to her face. “I have wanted you for as long as I can remember.” He admitted, his voice quiet but sure, the words spilling out like he had no control over them anymore.

Hermione swallowed hard, her heart rattling in her chest. “Draco-”

"No, just- Let me say this." His exhale was sharp, uneven, like he’d been holding onto these words for years. "I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know the exact second I fell in love with you, or which moment tipped me over the edge. Maybe it was a hundred little things. Maybe it was all at once. But it doesn’t matter, because I look back at everything we have - all the memories, all the ridiculous arguments, all the times you’ve infuriated me and made my life impossible, and I just... I just know." Her breath caught in her throat, but he kept going, like stopping now would be impossible. "I should have known when you made me stay up all night testing potions with you, and I let you steal my jumper like it was nothing." He let out a short, quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Or when you yelled at me in front of Theo and Blaise because I forgot to eat, and you shoved a sandwich in my hands like you were personally offended by my existence. Or maybe it was that night in the library when you fell asleep mid-sentence, drooling on my sleeve-"

"I did not drool on you." Hermione cut in automatically, heat rising to her cheeks.

"You absolutely did." Draco smirked, but then his expression softened, and she realised how raw he looked, like this was something fragile he was holding out to her, something breakable. "But if I’m honest, it was probably before that. Because you’ve been in my head since we were eleven, Granger. Before I knew what to do with that. Before I even realised who you really were.”

Hermione's pulse roared in her ears. The weight of the moment, of his words, of all the things they had been building toward - it was too much and not enough all at once.

"You’re serious?" She asked, voice barely above a whisper. "You-"

"I love you." He said, simply, easily, like it was the truest thing he’d ever spoken.

She was going to cry. She was actually going to cry. Because how had she spent so long convincing herself this was nothing when it had been everything all along?

Her fingers curled into the lapels of his jacket, yanking him forward, and she kissed him - kissed him like she should have done months ago, like she should have done years ago, because she knew too, now. Knew it in the way his hands settled on her waist, in the way he melted into her like he’d been waiting for her just as long.

"You absolute idiot." She whispered against his lips, breathless, grinning.

"Accurate." He murmured back, thumb brushing along her cheekbone. "Took you long enough."

"Took you long enough." She corrected, and he huffed a soft laugh, resting his forehead against hers.

"So, we’re really doing this then?" He asked after a beat, like he just needed to hear her say it.

"We’ve been doing this for a long time, Malfoy." She murmured, smile still lingering at the corner of her lips. "We just didn’t realise it."

He pulled back after a moment. “I can’t watch you be hurt by pricks that don’t deserve you anymore. I don’t deserve you either, but I’m incredibly selfish, and you know what they say. If you want something done properly, do it yourself.” 

“What do you mean by that?” She smiled up at him. 

“You deserve the world, Hermione, and I’m going to give it to you.” He promised. She rolled her eyes.

“I don’t need the world, Draco.” 

“Don’t care. You’re getting the world.” He grinned. 

“Bloody ridiculous man.” She shook her head. “I love you.” She added, realising she hadn’t said it back. His response was an utterly radiant, wide smile. She could cast a thousand patronuses from the feeling of it.

“I’d ask if you wanted to go back inside and dance but I’m shattered.” He said, and she burst out laughing. “I’m serious, do you have any idea how demanding Luna is?” He wrapped his arms around her, her head leaning on his shoulder as she continued to laugh. Then a thought occurred to her. 

“Why did you want September? For the calendar?” 

He chuckled softly. “Blaise had the same idea as I did. I wanted to give you something nice to look at in your birthday month.”

“Bloody ridiculous man.” She repeated fondly as she pulled him back into another kiss, the calendar falling from her lap onto the ground, the fire in the background of the photo flickering gently.

As if that fire had burnt them both, they sprung apart a moment later, startled by a high pitched shriek. 

A slow, almost eerie grin spread across Theo’s face as he took in the scene he’d stumbled across. He inhaled sharply, dramatically. Hermione had about half a second to dread whatever was about to come out of his mouth before he lost his mind.

“Fucking finally!” He shouted, throwing his arms in the air as if the sky itself had blessed him. Before either she or Draco could stop him, he summoned his patronus and exuberantly shared the news like a child on Christmas morning. “Code purple! It’s a confirmed, sexy as fuck code purple!” He screeched, and the Kudu galloped back towards the Manor with urgency. Theo was incredibly proud of his patronus, with its twisted horns and vaguely smug expression. Apparently, it was also ‘stag-adjacent’, making him and Harry predestined after all. Even for Theo, Hermione felt like that was a reach.

“I don’t feel like any of that bodes well.” Draco muttered, and she burst out laughing as she watched Harry stick his head out of the door and jog across the lawn towards them.

“You worked it out?” He asked, smiling as Draco rolled his eyes and stood, offering Hermione his hand. 

“It really didn’t need quite so much fuss, Potter.” 

“Oh, it absolutely did. You’ve just won me a shit load of Galleons.” His smile broadened into a grin as Theo snickered at his shoulder. 

“Tell me you weren’t, Harry.” Hermione huffed.

“Fuck’s sake.” Draco said as the pieces clicked for him. “How long?” He asked, sounding tired. 

Theo giggled. “Betting on you two? Years, Drakey cakes. Bloody years.”

Their friends were pouring out of the doors then, all of them smiling and shouting across the lawn. Padma trailed at the back, hands clutching her stomach, but her smile was just as bright.

“It worked then?” Pansy smirked up at Draco, referencing the calendar page she’d worked so hard to keep from Hermione. Draco smirked right back at her.

“Like a dream, Pans.” 

Hermione opened her mouth, and then closed it again. A thousand memories flickered through her mind - late nights in the library, quiet conversations over books, the way he always made sure she had an extra quill back in school. Things she’d never noticed before, but now - now they were impossible to ignore. Maybe she’d always known it would be him. Perhaps not consciously, not clearly, but it had been there. It had always been there.

*** 

Eighth Year

Theo was uncharacteristically conflicted. A golden opportunity to take the piss had fallen into his lap, and there he was, feeling like he shouldn’t take advantage for once.

He’d woken up at an ungodly hour of the night, mouth drier than it had maybe ever been. He’d been groggy and annoyed after only three hours of sleep, with his body apparently deciding that was enough for some reason, but he’d gone in search of some water anyway. A light in the depths of the library had caught his eye, and in following it curiously, he found them.

Draco and Granger, curled up together on the battered old sofa in what had become ‘their’ section of the library. Books were scattered across the floor around them and there was ink smudged on Granger’s fingers, as per usual. Her quill was abandoned on an open parchment, whilst Draco’s head was tipped back against the armrest, mouth slightly open, looking more at peace than Theo had ever seen him. Certainly in recent years, at the very least.

He was conflicted because they weren’t just sleeping. Granger’s hand was loosely fisted in Draco’s jumper, like she’d been holding onto him before drifting off, and Draco had an arm draped over the back of the sofa, fingers just slightly wrapped in her curls, as if he’d been absentmindedly playing with her hair. It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t necessarily romantic, even. It was just comfortable. Domestic. Gods damn adorable. 

Shaking his head, Theo grabbed a blanket that was draped across a nearby armchair and tossed it over them, deciding to leave them as they were. Because, for all his teasing, Theo knew that if there were two people who deserved to know that kind of peace, however brief, it was Draco and Hermione. He joked about the extra quills Draco carried around in case Granger forgot one, and when Granger would be the first to notice Draco skipping meals, he would giggle as he watched her sequestering any number of items from dinner into her pockets to take up to him. The pair of oblivious morons maintained that they drove each other mad, and perhaps they did, but Theo knew better. Draco actually ate when Granger told him to. They’d slipped into something so simple that they hadn’t noticed. He had no idea if they’d ever get to a point where they could identify it as love, but he supposed that it didn’t truly matter. They had something they both deserved, someone that saw them. Salazar, they were essentially married already.

He idly wondered, as he traipsed back to his room, how long he’d have to wait to say ‘I told you so’. Perhaps he ought to lay some money down with someone on that. 

***

Pansy was staring out at a starlit sky, legs swinging above nothing as she perched on the edge of the Astronomy Tower. She was most of the way through a bottle of Blaise’s expensive firewhiskey, hoping idly that it might make her feel something other than loathing. So far, it wasn’t particularly working well.

Coming back to Hogwarts post-war had made something perfectly clear to Pansy - she was no longer welcome in the world she’d lived in before. She didn’t want to live in it, not when she knew she’d be back to being surrounded by bigots and racists, but she thought it might have been nice to find her friends again. She didn’t know where to go from there. She, Pansy Parkinson, once Queen of Slytherin and all she beheld, had fallen from grace. She had been discarded, her name just another stain in the history books. She had tried to laugh it off. Tried to act like she didn’t care, but she’d ended up on the Astronomy Tower, a bottle of stolen firewhiskey at her side, feeling too much and not enough all at once.

And then Granger appeared.

“Alright, Parkinson?”

Pansy snorted, tilting her head up toward the stars. “Oh, just brilliant, Granger. I love sitting alone in the dark, drowning my sorrows.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Fucking observant as ever.” She spat back. Pansy had expected Granger to lecture her. Judge her and tell her she was pathetic. She was reckless, just so stupid. But she didn’t. Instead, Granger sat down beside her. Pansy blinked at her. “You can leave, you know.”

Granger shrugged. “Or I can stay.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. Pansy drank. Hermione didn’t.

The stars above them burned quietly, the castle alive with distant laughter and the hum of people moving on with their lives. It made Pansy want to scream.

Instead, she blurted out bitter words she’d meant to keep to herself. “Everyone fucking hates me.” She hadn’t meant to say it. She hadn’t meant to say anything, really, but once it was out, it felt like the floodgates had opened. “It’s been months, Granger, and it’s still the same. My old ‘friends’ look at me like I’m a stain on their robes, and the rest of the school is just waiting for me to prove them right. Like I’m still that same girl who made one bad fucking choice at sixteen, and now I don’t get to move forward. Not like you. Not like Theo. Not like Draco.”

She’d expected Granger to say something sanctimonious. Something self-righteous, about how actions had consequences.

“That’s bullshit.” Granger declared instead.

Pansy blinked. “Excuse me?”

“That’s bullshit, Parkinson.” She repeated. “You’re not the same person you were at sixteen. Neither am I. People can change, you just have to let yourself.”

“Yeah? And what if I don’t know who I’m supposed to be?”

She sighed, leaning back against the cold stone. “Then you figure it out. And if you need help, well…” She nudged Pansy’s knee with her own. “You’re not alone.”

The next day, Pansy expected Granger to pretend the night before hadn’t happened. That’s what people did, they pretended vulnerability wasn’t real, that secrets shared in drunken confessions weren’t weapons waiting to be used. Granger didn’t do that, though. She smiled at Pansy across the Great Hall. It wasn’t smug or expectant, it was just friendly. Like it was normal. Like Pansy wasn’t broken, or a lost cause, or something to be fixed.

The following realisation would be something that always stayed with her. Hermione Granger wasn’t like the rest of them - she didn’t play games, she wasn’t two-faced. She was just Hermione. Straight-up, what-you-see-is-what-you-get Hermione.

And for the first time, Pansy didn’t hate that. For the first time, she realised that Hermione Granger might actually be a friend. That maybe she didn’t have to do any of this alone.

Because Granger was the first person in a very long time who had seen her - really seen her. Not as a spoiled pureblood princess, not as a snide self-important Slytherin, but as a person. A flawed, complicated, imperfect person.

As their eighth year progressed, Pansy began to succumb to a feeling of inevitability around Granger and Draco. Not because of some grand love story, not because of fate or destiny, but because Hermione was the only person Pansy had ever met who would tell Draco Malfoy the truth without flinching.

And that? That was something Pansy could respect.

***

The Leaky Cauldron was half-empty that afternoon, save for a few lingering patrons nursing late lunches and escaping the rain. They didn’t have long before they needed to return to the castle, but they’d wanted to make the most of the time off McGonagall had granted them. A game of wizard’s chess sat between them, pieces shifting restlessly, waiting for their next move.

Blaise leaned back in his chair, swirling the Firewhiskey in his glass with lazy arrogance. He hadn’t been concerned when Granger had challenged him to a game. It was supposed to be entertainment - lighthearted fun to pass the time before Theo and Draco arrived.

It was not supposed to be this.

The board was a battlefield, one she commanded with unnerving ease. Blaise had started the match with his usual calculated strategy, expecting her to play with that same textbook intelligence she always did. But somewhere along the way, he realised she wasn’t just intelligent. She was ruthless.

Every move had been a trap - each misstep he made had already been predicted, countered, and used against him. His fingers tapped against his glass as he studied the board. He had two moves left. Neither would save him.

Granger, meanwhile, simply observed him with calm confidence, chin resting in her palm as she twirled her wand absentmindedly between her fingers.

Blaise exhaled sharply through his nose. "You're enjoying this." He muttered.

Her lips twitched. "Obviously."

He sighed and moved his knight, knowing full well it was useless. With calm precision, she flicked her fingers, and her queen swept across the board, cornering his king.

Checkmate.

Blaise stared at the board. Then at her. Then back at the board.

She had destroyed him. And not just in the way most people lost to Hermione Granger. No, this was different. This wasn’t just her intelligence - this was strategy. This was foresight, adaptability, patience, and an absolutely cutthroat instinct that only a handful of people he knew possessed. This was a game won by cunning. By persistence. By ruthlessness.

Something in his mind clicked.

Draco didn’t need soft. He didn’t need delicate. He needed this. Her.

Someone who could push back against him, challenge him without ever fearing him. Someone who understood war and strategy and control and what it meant to fight for something tooth and nail. Someone who didn’t just fight back, someone who won. She was the only one good enough for him.

He blinked. The realisation was so sudden and so obvious that he was annoyed he hadn’t seen it before. Sitting opposite Granger when she was like this reminded him so strongly of sitting with Draco before the war. Back before he’d been forced to make the worst decisions, before he knew loss quite so acutely. Gods, they were so damn similar.

Hermione frowned at him. "You good, Zabini?"

Blaise just shook his head and nodded once, slowly - the kind of quiet, knowing respect he rarely gave out freely.

"Yeah." He knocked back the rest of his drink and stood, glancing toward the door as if Draco might materialise at any second. "Just realised something." He said.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"

Blaise smirked, a slow, amused grin pulling at his lips. "Draco’s fucked."

And with that, he tossed a few Galleons on the table and left before she could question him further. He’d let her figure it out on her own.

***

Ginny took a sip of her tea, watching Hermione across the table with quiet amusement.

The woman who had dragged Ginny out for coffee was a different Hermione than the one she’d seen six months ago.

Back then, Hermione had been exhausted - not just tired, but worn out, hollow-eyed and too thin, with a sharpness to her that even Ginny found hard to reach through.

Now, Hermione was rolling her eyes at Blaise Zabini, who had just appeared behind her chair and was draping himself dramatically over the back of it.

“Granger, I have a serious dilemma.”

“You always do.” She replied, arching a brow but not pushing him away as he stole a biscuit from her plate.

“You don’t understand, Theo and Draco won’t stop arguing about which type of coffee is superior, and I fear I may have to take a side. I loathe conflict, Granger.”

Hermione snorted. “You thrive on conflict.”

“Yes, but only when I’m winning.” Zabini smirked, finally standing up straight and winking at Ginny before sauntering off.

Hermione shook her head, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “Prat.” She muttered.

And Ginny laughed. She laughed because this was the Hermione she’d been missing. Not just the brilliant, overachieving, fiercely protective friend Ginny had always known, but the Hermione who could breathe again.

The war had taken so much from them all, but as Ginny watched her friend share a lighthearted moment with one of the Slytherins they had once called enemies, she realised Hermione was getting something back. And Ginny would take any version of Hermione that smiled like that.

Her smile did not dim as she watched Hermione argue with Draco Malfoy, of all people, over at the counter. It seemed as if he’d settled their bill for them, and Hermione was ranting about autonomy and feminism or something, but Ginny wasn’t really listening. She was looking at the delighted twinkle in Malfoy’s eyes as he had Hermione’s full attention. The fire in her fully burning, the one Ginny had worried would be forever extinguished. 

Oh, this was going to be interesting. 

***

Harry leant back against the old wooden bench, tipping his head toward the sky. The stars were clearer here by the Burrow than in London, stretching infinitely above them, and for the first time in years, he felt like he could breathe without worry. Nothing was lurking around the corner for him. Nothing was coming to ruin this, not anymore.

Ron was slouched next to him, tossing pebbles at a fence post, whilst Hermione sat cross-legged in the grass, her curls tumbling over her face as she scribbled something into a worn notebook. The sight was so normal that it nearly choked him with gratitude.

They made it. The three of them survived.

It didn’t matter how bruised or battered they’d been, how lost they’d felt rebuilding their lives - they were alive. Not just breathing but laughing, making plans for the future. There had been a time - years, in fact - where Harry hadn’t been sure they would ever get to.

“I still don’t know what I want to do.” Hermione admitted, closing her notebook with a sigh.

Ron shrugged. “I thought you wanted to work for the Ministry? Something about revolutionising magical law or whatever.”

“I did.” She said hesitantly. “But I don’t want to spend my whole life buried in parchment for people who only pretend to care about change.” She sighed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’ve been working with the boys on the apothecary plans a lot more lately. I’m starting to think more seriously about joining them.”

Harry grinned behind the rim of his butterbeer.

Ron scoffed. “The boys? You mean the Slytherins?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, Ron, the Slytherins. Theo and Blaise are helpful, but Malfoy is the best at brewing, obviously, so we-” She cut herself off, but it was already too late.

Harry watched with thinly veiled amusement as Ron’s eyebrows shot up. Hermione was oblivious, still rambling about brewing methods and the potions they were working on, but Harry caught it - the way she spoke about Malfoy. She barely mentioned Nott or Zabini when she spoke about the apothecary, she focused on him. “You should have seen Malfoy the other day - he was furious when this estate agent started questioning his plans for the shop like he didn’t know exactly what he was talking about. Honestly, he’s so-” She stopped, frowning when she caught the expression on Harry’s face. “What?” Harry just shook his head, chuckling. “What? Why are you laughing?” She demanded.

“Nothing.” He waved her off, still grinning. “Just enjoying the moment.”

Ron groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Merlin, you’re so gone for him.”

Hermione spluttered. “I am not!”

Ron and Harry exchanged a look before Ron shrugged, taking another swig of butterbeer. “Sure. Whatever you say, Mione.”

She glared at both of them before turning away, muttering something about immature, insufferable idiots, but the pink on her cheeks betrayed her.

Harry just leant back again with a content sigh, watching the stars above them. She’d figure it out eventually.

***

Ron had never thought much about how Hermione worked. He knew that she worked a lot - probably too much - but it had never really occurred to him to pay attention to the details of it.

He’d stopped by her apothecary after closing, not because he needed anything, but because he and Harry had gotten into the habit of checking in. Hermione had a tendency to lose track of time, and if someone didn’t drag her out of there, she’d end up sleeping in the brewing room with a pile of notes as a pillow.

Which, apparently, Malfoy already knew.

Ron stood near the door, mostly forgotten, watching as Malfoy moved around Hermione with a kind of casual efficiency that made Ron’s stomach twist. Not in anger, not in jealousy. Just… surprise.

“Granger.” Malfoy drawled, his voice bored but his hands careful as he plucked the quill from behind her ear, setting it aside before it got lost in her hair. “It’s nearly ten. Go home.” Hermione hummed, barely looking up from her parchment. Malfoy sighed. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“Just one more section-”

“Granger.” He said again, quieter this time, before he nudged a glass of water on the desk closer to her hand. Not quite pushing, not quite forcing. Just placing it where she couldn’t ignore it.

Ron frowned as Hermione reached for it automatically, taking a sip without pausing in her scribbling.

Oh.

Then, as if this was a routine, Malfoy flicked his wand, summoning her coat from the stand by the door. He held it out expectantly.

“You’ve got about thirty seconds before I start putting this on you myself.”

That finally made her glance up. She scowled, lips parting for what Ron knew would be a stubborn protest, but it never came. For whatever reason, she hesitated, meeting Malfoy’s eyes and having some sort of silent conversation. Then she sighed, stretching her arms out in defeat.

Ron gawked as Malfoy helped her into the coat without so much as a smug remark. What the fuck was this? Malfoy was an arsehole, sure, that hadn’t changed, but this wasn’t the kind of arsehole Ron was used to dealing with. This wasn’t malicious, or even patronising. This was what Ron did when Hermione got so caught up in things that she forgot to eat. What Harry did when she buried herself too deep in a problem to see a way out. This was care.

Ron didn’t know how to process that. He didn’t know what he was seeing, barely believed the evidence of his own eyes, so he did what he always did when confronted with something that made him uncomfortable - he just let any old thoughtless words tumble out of his mouth.

“You’re scarily good at that.” He said.

Hermione startled, apparently not having realised Ron was in the shop. Malfoy, on the other hand, just smirked. 

“You lot are useless at handling her, Weasley. Someone had to step up.”

Hermione swatted him on the arm, but her cheeks flushed slightly. Ron crossed his arms, watching the way Malfoy flicked a hand through his hair, clearly pleased with himself.

“Right. Well.” He scratched at his jaw, hesitating slightly before speaking again. “See you Sunday?”

Hermione smiled. “Yeah, of course.”

Malfoy nodded once - acknowledgment, not exactly an invitation - and Ron narrowed his eyes at him before turning to leave. He didn’t know what to make of it.

As he stepped out onto the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, one thought lingered in his mind. Hermione had spent her whole life taking care of everyone else - of him, of Harry, of the whole bloody world, really. And now, for the first time, someone was taking care of her. 

Ron exhaled slowly, half-amused, half-bewildered. If Malfoy was the one making sure Hermione was eating and sleeping… Bloody hell, maybe he’d have to start rooting for the git.

***

Narcissa watched her son as paced near the window, a teaspoon clicking absently against his saucer. He spoke animatedly, his usual composed manner unravelled into an uncharacteristic ramble.

“She’s impossible, Mother.” Draco huffed, shaking his head. “I don’t know how we get anything done, honestly. She argues about everything. I told her we should start with the minor healing draughts, but no, apparently, we need to prioritise a new batch of Wolfsbane because, and I quote, ‘werewolves deserve better than old, subpar potions.’” He let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “And she’s right, obviously. She’s always bloody right.”

Narcissa hummed, taking a slow sip of tea. “What a tragedy that must be for you.”

Draco waved her off, still lost in his thoughts. “And don’t get me started on how she talks to people - always so bloody earnest. It’s infuriating.” He paused, frowning slightly. “Except… it works. I mean, she even got Mrs Timpson, that old hag who used to glare at my Mark like I was about to curse her, to actually listen to me.”

Narcissa placed her cup down delicately. “It sounds as though you admire her.”

Draco scoffed. “Admire? No. I mean - she’s Granger. She’s insufferable and stubborn and-” He stopped abruptly, as if catching himself. “And brilliant.” Narcissa arched a single, knowing brow. Draco shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s just- We work well together, that’s all.”

Narcissa hid her smile behind her teacup.

It was a strange thing to see him like this. Her Draco, who spent his childhood with the weight of their family name on his shoulders, who was forced to carry burdens no boy ever should have, standing in front of her, rambling like a lovesick fool without even realising it.

Once, she had dreamt of a different future for him. One that followed tradition, one that upheld their bloodline, one that secured their place in pureblood society. Now, she dreamt only of his happiness.

For too long, he had been shaped by duty, by fear, by the expectations of men long buried. Now, she saw before her a son who was living. A son who was passionate, who was rebuilding a life he chose. And if that life included Hermione Granger? So be it. 

“You’re smiling.” Draco accused suddenly, narrowing his eyes. “Why are you smiling?”

Narcissa simply picked up her tea, regarding him with the same cool, unreadable expression she’d mastered over the years.

“No reason at all, darling.”

She took another sip, watching as her son turned back toward the window, still grumbling under his breath about insufferable Gryffindors who thought they knew everything.

Narcissa knew the truth. She knew Draco liked being challenged. He liked that Hermione seemingly refused to coddle him. He liked that she saw him for who he was, not who he used to be. The contract with the Greengrasses had been a mistake, she knew that now more clearly than anything.

Her son might not have put all the pieces together yet, but Narcissa didn’t think that mattered. He would eventually.

She smiled softly, pressing a hand to her locket - the one with the tiny photograph of baby-faced Draco, eyes wide with a world that hadn’t scarred him yet. As long as her boy was happy, then she was happy.

And Hermione Granger just might be the best thing that ever happened to him.