Snowman
The past week had been nothing short of unbearable. Hermione and Draco stole furtive glances at each other every time Aurélie and Charlie entered the Great Hall, sharing meals as if they were a real couple. Their knowing smiles ignited a storm behind Malfoy’s cold eyes and left a barely concealed look of distaste on Hermione’s face.
By Friday night, the Slytherin common room was buzzing with a party. Its location near the dungeons provided easy access to secret passageways leading to different parts of the castle—routes that every house knew like the back of their hand, making them the perfect escape plan when needed.
Hermione had only agreed to come because of Ginny’s all-too-familiar threat: “If you don’t, I’ll tell McGonagall it was you who took her Advanced Charms book without permission.” Honestly, Hermione had been tempted to confess that herself more than once, but here she was, facing the view of the Black Lake across the Slytherin room., drinking something that tasted like piss, and wondering how the hell she had let herself get dragged into this.
Ginny’s real interest in the party soon became obvious. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Theodore Nott, who seemed perfectly content in Lavender Brown’s company. The blonde had casually draped a leg over his, but he looked far more invested in holding Ginny’s gaze in a silent challenge than in actually enjoying Lavender’s attention.
Roger Davies approached the redhead, murmuring something into her ear. Hermione caught enough of it to understand—he was asking Ginny to teach him that tricky maneuver she used to deflect the Quaffle at an angle that made it look like a missed shot, only for it to miraculously curve into the goal.
Ginny let out a laugh, turning to face him with a smirk as she rested a hand on his shoulder.
—"Of course I can teach you, Roger."
Davies beamed, clearly pleased.
—"I can’t believe how generous you are, Weasley."
Ginny slid her hand down his shoulder, tracing a slow path across his chest. The color drained from Roger’s face before rushing back in a deep red flush.
—"I can be very generous," she said smoothly. "What do you say we go right now?"
—"At this hour?" Michael Corner blurted out, clearly taken aback.
Ginny leaned in close to Davies’ ear, but her voice was perfectly audible to Hermione.
—"We should take advantage of the empty pitch, Roger. Or would you rather I put on a whole show for everyone to copy?"
A grin spread across Roger’s face, and without hesitation, he grabbed Ginny’s hand, eagerly leading her toward the exit.
Hermione watched as they disappeared down the corridor toward the dungeons, but just as they reached a secluded passage, Ginny suddenly gasped and clutched her ankle as if she had twisted it. While Roger fussed over her, she deftly pulled away and slipped into a passageway that led straight to Gryffindor Tower, leaving a bewildered Davies behind.
Not that it mattered. Her real goal had been accomplished—Theodore Nott had left the party early.
Hermione made a mental note to inform her friend. After that peculiar—though admittedly cathartic—walk back to the castle with Draco Malfoy at the start of the week, she was certain neither of them would ever speak of it again. Nor would they confide in anyone about their "exchange." If he did, she’d have enough ammunition to retaliate. After all, they now held a secret over each other—one not only humiliating in its sheer misery but also dangerous given their status as students with a clear interest in two of their professors.
Apparently, she was developing a taste for urea because she couldn’t stop downing glass after glass of whatever they shoved in her hands. Watching Charlie practically melt over Aurélie was beyond irritating. She couldn’t remember the last time she had allowed herself to feel this vulnerable, this overwhelmed. Maybe in first year. After that, everything became more controlled—she built her reputation as a know-it-all, yes, but at least she was a know-it-all who excelled.
The moment she felt a little too dizzy for her own good, she decided it was time to leave the party. She made her way through the dungeons toward the passage that would lead to the Gryffindor Tower. A left turn, two staircases to the right—then, suddenly, she realized she had no idea where she was. Bloody hell. She really needed to stop drinking.
She considered retracing her steps, but the corridors all looked the same, and a creeping sense of disorientation settled in. Deciding not to panic, she sat down against the cold stone wall, hoping another student would pass by soon—preferably not a Slytherin. But of course, life, fate, or magic itself seemed determined to mock her.
She heard footsteps approaching and cast a soft Lumos. The dim glow at the tip of her wand revealed a pair of polished black shoes—immaculate and pristine. Her gaze traveled upward. Trousers, perfectly pressed without a single wrinkle. The blue and silver trim of a sweater. She muttered a curse under her breath.
One hand was tucked casually into his pocket, while the other—pale enough for the blue of his veins to be visible—clutched an amber-colored bottle with alarming intensity. She didn’t need to hear his voice to know who it was. But when he finally spoke, his tone was unrecognizable.
"I must admit," Draco drawled, "that under normal circumstances, I would have thoroughly enjoyed watching you wallow in your apparent misery, Granger. But lately, I find myself... disappointed. No one would expect this from the Head Girl. And since I have the misfortune of sharing the title with you, I can’t say it’s particularly pleasant to see you debasing yourself like this. Get up. Now."
Hermione made an attempt to stand but quickly reconsidered. Obeying Malfoy of all people? Absolutely not. Without thinking—perhaps just to irritate him further—she dropped to all fours and started crawling like a common quadruped.
It worked.
A second later, she felt an arm wrap tightly around her waist, hoisting her up with the same ease she would use to scoop up Crookshanks. The strength in Draco’s grip surprised her. He had always seemed tall but lean, and yet he lifted her as if she weighed nothing.
When it became clear he wasn’t letting go, Hermione began kicking her legs in an attempt to break free.
"Let me go, Malfoy!"
"You really don’t want me to do that, Granger. The floor here is disgusting."
"You’re disgusting! Where the hell are you taking me?"
"I don’t know yet," he admitted, his voice unsettlingly neutral. "I have a lot of ideas."
For some reason, Hermione panicked—would he curse her?
As soon as Draco recognized the hallway leading to the sixth floor, he pushed the door open, still carrying Hermione. She had stopped struggling, now trembling instead. That seemed to satisfy him. Draco valued positions of power, and having her at his mercy was no exception. However, he finally decided to release her at the end of a long stretch of wall. At that moment, a massive door materialized before their eyes.
“The Room of Requirement,” Hermione stated, adjusting her blouse.
“How observant, Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor,” Draco drawled sarcastically.
Hermione dusted off imaginary dirt from her clothes and cleared her throat, appearing slightly more sober. “Well, I’ll leave you to whatever it is you’re planning to do.”
“Scared, Granger?” His gaze locked onto hers, debating whether it was wise to push her further. He felt tempted to tell her what he had just witnessed before taking the passageways to the dungeons—Charlie Weasley and Aurélie, sitting together on a bench in the castle’s west wing courtyard. Hermione would be devastated, no doubt. And why not? A dark part of him had enjoyed seeing her in agony, mirroring the torment he was desperately trying to rid himself of through sheer force, while she handled hers in a far more pathetic—albeit civilized—manner.
He scanned the hallway and recognized the old Enchantments classroom. Its windows overlooked that very spot. The Room of Requirement had stretched along the entire corridor, always adapting to their needs. He convinced himself that Hermione needed to see this, though deep down, he wanted to see her break even more than she had in the passageway. At the same time, he secretly hoped Aurélie or Weasley would be alone on that bench—it would mean they were no longer together, easing his own discomfort.
Without a second thought, he grabbed Hermione’s hand and led her to the classroom. She had no choice but to stumble along, unable to protest too loudly—they were already making enough noise and risking getting caught.
The moonlight illuminated their faces as they stepped inside. Draco shut the door behind them, releasing her hand, only to take it again and pull her toward the window. Hermione’s gaze wandered over the landscape, from the rolling hills to the Quidditch pitch, before settling abruptly on a fixed point below. Draco recognized it immediately and braced himself for the inevitable—her unraveling. He knew he’d have to drag her back from her misery once again.
In that moment, he fully grasped the twisted satisfaction he found in breaking her apart just to force her back together—whether with scathing remarks or, at times, through sheer physical intimidation. Was it sick? Perhaps. No more than the fact that he’d been in love with an older woman since he was ten. Dragging Hermione down into the pit she had dug for herself, putting her in a position as wretched as his own, was something he simply couldn’t resist. He hated her, too. And if he was going to drown, then pulling her under with him felt utterly... irresistible.
Yet Hermione’s expression revealed nothing.
Draco stepped closer. Surely, to his relief, one of them would be sitting there alone. Or, better yet, neither of them would be there at all. But then—where else would they have gone together?
The answer was neither comforting nor satisfying. The scene was the same as before: Aurélie, smiling at that filthy excuse for a wizard, Weasley. And, as if the moment couldn't possibly get worse—it did. He gestured toward something in the distance, and Aurélie leaned into his shoulder.
Hermione snatched the bottle from Draco’s hand and drank as though it were water. Yet her face remained unreadable, unshaken. Her expression hadn’t changed in the slightest. Only the flush spreading across her freckled cheeks and a small, sharp exhale betrayed the storm raging inside her. Or perhaps she had simply drunk too quickly.
Draco took the bottle back, muttering a spell that refilled it instantly.
“I suppose that must be some cheap trinket you’re drinking from,” he remarked. “Otherwise, it wouldn’t refill itself.”
“It’s a translation charm,” she said flatly. “The wine from the Manor’s cellar depletes while this bottle fills.”
Draco lifted the now-brimming bottle to his lips.
Hermione hadn’t looked away from the bench where their so-called mentors remained seated. This time, Draco handed her the bottle again. She took another swig—slightly smaller, but just as desperate.
"I have to admit, she's quite beautiful"
Draco lifted the bottle to his lips again, taking a deep swig—almost half of it in one go.
Beautiful wasn’t enough, and he knew it. She was brilliant. And not just that—she was everything the woman he was meant to marry should be. Pureblood. Well-mannered. Cultured. From a family that, while not particularly renowned, still upheld the traditions of their kind. And, without a doubt, the most stunning woman he had ever seen. Her dark hair contrasted sharply with her midnight-blue eyes. Her delicate features clashed with the biting wit of the letters she used to write to her sisters—letters he had snooped through more times than he cared to admit as a child. Her curves—he didn’t even need to look to know that she was more voluptuous now than she had been seven years ago. The graceful way she spoke, the way she carried herself... and yet, all of that was in the hands of a filthy Weasley.
Draco refilled the bottle with a flick of his wand and downed it slowly, his lips never leaving the glass, his gaze fixed on the bench ahead—just like Granger’s. A sharp pain shot through his skull, and dizziness took over. He reached to refill the bottle once more, but Hermione snatched it from his hands just before he could.
"I think we’ve both had enough for tonight, Malfoy."
What the hell was wrong with this witch? He was the one who made the rules. He was the one who was supposed to drown her in misery and then pull her back out. And yet, something in her gaze gave him pause. The fierceness in her eyes? Or maybe the liquid courage she had consumed, making her bold enough to challenge him?
"You don’t get to tell me what to do, Granger."
"I have a better idea. You can keep drinking. We both can."
Draco straightened to his full height, trying to intimidate her, but she simply lifted her chin, refusing to back down. He liked that. He had nothing to lose by listening to her. Though he highly doubted Hermione Granger was capable of coming up with anything remotely entertaining. She was only amusing when she was suffering—what other kind of fun could she possibly offer?
"Fine, Granger. I’m listening. But if this involves books or scrolls, I’m out."
Hermione rolled her eyes and sat cross-legged on the floor, gesturing for him to sit across from her. With an exasperated sigh, Draco obeyed—grudgingly.
"I’ll go first. If the bottle lands on you with the bottom facing you, you take a drink. If the neck points at you, you answer a question—truthfully."
Draco smirked. "And then it’s my turn?"
She nodded. "Same rules apply."
He stretched his arms, interlacing his fingers and cracking his knuckles. "I never thought I’d say this, Granger, but this might actually be fun." His smirk shifted into something more predatory, and Hermione—despite herself—felt a flicker of satisfaction at seeing her so-called enemy acknowledge her as something other than an insufferable know-it-all.
"Who’s first?"
"Ladies first."
Hermione reached for the bottle, but Draco snatched it away. "Since there aren’t any ladies here, I’ll start."
That should have irritated Hermione, but maybe the alcohol was softening her, because instead, she let out a huff of amusement, barely suppressing a laugh.
Draco spun the bottle, and it landed with the bottom pointing at Granger. He wasted no time, refilling the bottle just enough to cover the bottom, wanting to take things slow at first. If it got boring, he could always fill the bottle and knock her out with alcohol.
She sighed, took the bottle, and emptied it. "You’ll have to teach me the spell in case you’re too drunk to cast it later."
"Nice try, Granger."
She grinned smugly before spinning the bottle. This time, Draco had to answer a question. Hermione met his gaze. "On your honor, Malfoy, you’ll answer truthfully."
Damn witch. He could lie, but she knew as well as he did that the honor of his name was not to be tarnished—especially not one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
"Of course, Granger."
"How long have you known Professor Dumont?"
"Since I was ten."
He spun the bottle, and once again, it landed on its bottom, pointing at Granger. Begrudgingly, he poured a slightly larger drink this time and handed it to her. She downed it without hesitation before spinning again. Another question for him.
"You enchanted the damn bottle."
"I thought you were smart, Draco. You can’t double-enchant an object—it’s already under your refilling spell."
Damn witch was right, as always. "I was testing you."
"Sure, Malfoy, whatever helps you sleep at night. Now answer—why do you know her? And be more specific this time."
It wasn’t a problem. He wasn’t revealing much. Aurélie was a professor at Hogwarts now. Saying she had tutored him wouldn’t give anything away.
"She was my tutor the year before I started at Hogwarts. She had just graduated from Beauxbatons and needed my mother’s recommendation to advance her career."
"I see. So it’s a Pureblood tradition—to use people."
Draco tensed but didn’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. That was what she was expecting. Instead, he spun the bottle, watching with satisfaction as it landed on her. His turn for a question. He weighed his options. He wouldn’t pry into what truly interested him—not yet. Not until she was a little drunker. Instead, he’d mirror her questions.
"You have about a dozen Weasleys to choose from. Why that one?"
Hermione knew that trying to hide her obvious infatuation with Charlie from Draco would only insult his intelligence. It was clear by now that both of them were harboring feelings for their professors. At least she was for Charlie.
The first memory of meeting him surfaced in her mind, and before she could stop herself, the words started spilling out...
“It was the Christmas break of our first year. I went home and stayed with my parents until Easter. Harry...” Hermione hesitated before continuing; she didn’t want to reveal how terrible Harry’s relationship was with Lily’s family, who had taken him in. “He was invited to the Burrow.”
Draco arched an eyebrow and interrupted, “Burrow?”
“That’s what the Weasleys call their home,” Hermione clarified.
“Couldn’t it be something more... ordinary?”
“I don’t think they care about your opinion, Malfoy.”
Still, Draco reflected for a moment. Perhaps it was their way of embracing how utterly shabby they were. And yet, he found himself resenting the idea that someone like Aurélie—who deserved nothing less than a mansion like his—could end up in a place called the Burrow. He decided he wanted to know more.
“Go on, Granger, or I’ll be old by the time you get to the point.”
Hermione sighed in exasperation, regaining her composure. It seemed neither of them could resist provoking the other.
“Harry asked me to go with him. Ron was his best friend, but I was his best friend too, and in a way, I was his support. You know, we had both grown up in the Muggle world, and if something was strange for him, it would be strange for me too.”
“How very Hufflepuff of you, Granger.”
Hermione sighed again. “Are you going to interrupt me the whole time, Malfoy?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “I suppose I should apologize. But I won’t. Continue.”
“Anyway, my parents allowed me to go, and we arrived at the Burrow on New Year’s Eve. Harry was already famous for being Harry Potter; I was just the Muggle-born girl who seemed to be brilliant. All the Weasleys’ attention was focused on Harry. However, two of them welcomed me from the start. Somehow, they ‘preferred me.’ Charlie and Ginny made me feel like part of that chaotic family from the very beginning.”
“And did you fall in love with Ginevra Weasley too?”
“No, Draco, I didn’t fall in love with Ginny, but she did become my best friend as soon as she entered school, despite not being in the same year.”
“How touching, Granger, but get to the point. I’m sobering up again.”
Hermione let out a breath that sounded almost like amusement.
“Charlie is different from his brothers, you know. It’s not that he has one defining trait—he’s just whatever he wants to be. He left his family without a second thought, but the moment he’s back with them, he enjoys their company to the fullest. I suppose I like that kind of contradiction in a person. He can be gentle but also strict, calm but volatile. He’s deeply passionate about what he does, and every time I see him again, he has a thousand stories to tell. He knows me so well that I could swear he’s a Legilimens.” Hermione finished with a sigh.
“That was disgustingly sentimental, Granger.”
“I know.”
Hermione grabbed the bottle. “Fill it.”
“What am I, your bloody house-elf?” Draco looked at her, momentarily stunned.
“They’re beings who feel just like we do, not mere servants. But I don’t expect you to understand that, so just fill it.”
Draco was ready to walk away at her insolence, but the moment he saw Hermione’s eyes fill with tears, the twisted part of him that enjoyed seeing her unravel gave in. He poured enough to fill about a fifth of the bottle and watched as she drank it all in one go—slowly, but without stopping to breathe.
Their eyes met, and for just an instant, he felt like he could see inside her. Her pupils were blown wide, contrasting with the golden flecks around her irises. Her skin wasn’t as pale as his, but the tiny freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose seemed almost perfectly symmetrical. Her dark brown curls framed her sharp, delicate face, her long lashes brushing against her thick, well-defined eyebrows. Her nose was no longer the small, round thing he remembered from their early years at Hogwarts—it had refined with time. Her lips, from this angle, looked redder, fuller, something he wouldn’t usually notice.
Draco forced himself to keep looking lower, down her long neck and to her pronounced collarbones, which met at a dip where—under different circumstances—he might have been tempted to sip the very whiskey they were drinking.
Merlin, what the hell was he thinking?
No matter how drunk he was, he needed to snap out of it. The best thing to do was to fill the damned bottle and let Granger drink herself into unconsciousness. A quarter should be enough.
Hermione smiled, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. When she lifted the bottle to her lips, she drank with such eagerness that some of the whiskey spilled over, trailing down her neck and onto her chest.
By Salazar’s wand—he was staring at Granger’s chest.
He didn’t know when exactly she had loosened her tie and unbuttoned just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her skin. Now, a few drops of whiskey ran over her exposed collarbone and lower, past the edge of scarlet fabric peeking through—the color of Gryffindor.
For once, that damned color didn’t seem so irritating.
No. He had to put a stop to this.
Draco snatched the bottle from her hands and downed the rest of its contents himself, ignoring Hermione’s protests.
He felt dizzy again, but at least his vision started to blur slightly. That way, he wouldn’t have to see Granger in so much detail. She snatched the bottle from him and seemed intent on finishing it, but upon realizing it was empty, she simply let it drop with irritation.
“My turn,” she said, spinning the bottle. Cola.
Draco only poured a little. He wanted to get out of there. They couldn’t find him half-conscious with Hermione Granger by his side. He drank without thinking much of it and spun the bottle again. Now, his question.
“Why did you ask about Aurélie?”
Hermione stood up and walked to the window. He knew the professors were no longer outside when he saw her return and collapse into her seat with an uncommon lack of grace. Her skirt rode up just enough for Draco to catch a glimpse of her underwear and the shape of her thighs.
“I want to know what he saw in her,” she replied indifferently.
Draco let out a dry laugh.
“You’ll never be like her.”
“I don’t want to be like her. I want to know what he saw in her.”
“For what? If you don’t plan on imitating her, what’s the point?”
“So I can throw it in his face,” her voice turned into a sharp whisper as she leaned closer, taking the bottle from his hands. Draco didn’t look away. For the first time that night, it felt like they were playing a game they both understood.
She spun the bottle again. Her turn to ask.
“You have it too easy, Malfoy. That woman exudes elegance, glamour, and I already found out—she’s a pureblood. Is it just her age?”
Hermione stared at him, a mix of challenge and expectation in her gaze. She wanted an honest answer. She needed to sink deeper into that pit of misery to see if, at some point, she’d hit the bottom.
Draco didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he filled the bottle halfway and downed it in one gulp.
“You broke the rules,” she pointed out with a crooked smile.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
Hermione burst out laughing.
“Are you expecting me to believe you’ve never broken the rules before this?”
“I’m an exemplary son.”
“Oh, really? Funny, I don’t remember that when I caught you snogging Parkinson in fifth year during my patrol.”
“I said son, Granger, not student. I’m talking about the important rules, not the ridiculous school ones. I don’t expect you to understand. That’s undoubtedly your biggest difference from Aurélie. She’s a grown woman. Not a know-it-all little girl who wears her uniform almost to her knees because she’s afraid of losing her virginity to a suggestive glance.”
He should have felt satisfaction at saying it, but instead, something inside him twisted with discomfort. He expected Granger to get angry, to hit him, to insult him… But what he got was a mischievous smile. Her eyes weren’t filled with rage, but something far worse—understanding.
“That was enlightening, Malfoy. I suppose the proper thing to do would be to thank you. And believe me when I say I’d rather be the pathetic little know-it-all who hasn’t lost her virginity than the insufferable heir who clings to the rules imposed by his parents. I bet they wouldn’t approve of a relationship with Dumont, would they? Being a pureblood isn’t enough. It would be a scandal because of the age difference, and of course, the Malfoys wouldn’t allow such indiscretions. So, you have to keep being the exemplary son you are.”
She paused and looked at him with cruelty.
“Or what, Malfoy? Would they disinherit you? Merlin forbid Draco Malfoy loses his inheritance and position. What would become of him? Would you be anyone, Malfoy? Would you even be something?”
The venom in every word sank into his skin, and his wand was in his hand before he even thought about it. Granger reacted immediately, raising hers and stepping so close he could almost feel her breath.
“You don’t want to do this, Malfoy.”
“Don’t tempt me, Granger.”
She didn’t seem like herself. Draco didn’t recognize her.
“You and I both know why we’re here,” her voice was a sharp murmur. “We wallow in our own filth. You and I know we will never be where we want to be. You are not Charlie. I am not Dumont. And this pathetic situation isn’t going to fix itself. We’re just seeking solace in each other because we suffer the same miserable pain. And that burns you as much as it burns me. It’s ironic, don’t you think? I never thought life would slap me so blatantly—putting you in front of me as the only witness to this wretchedness. Because we can’t admit it to anyone else. Because we’re too ashamed.”
Each word cut like a knife. Draco felt the weight of her truth with every syllable. He had always known it, but hearing it out loud, from Granger’s lips, made it real.
Aurélie would never see him the way he saw her. She had cared for him, yes—but as a younger brother. As a student. Nothing more.
He wanted to stop feeling.
His father had been right. Love leads to longing. Longing is just an unfulfilled desire. And unfulfilled desire is nothing but a lie.
But then he saw the fire in Granger’s face, and something inside him burned in response.
“You should make him see what he’s missing, Granger,” his voice was softer than he expected, almost tempting. “Maybe you have the hope I never allowed myself to have.”
Hermione looked at him defiantly.
“I know exactly what I am to him. And I know it won’t change.”
“You could make it change. Trust me, I see potential.”
“I’ll never be like her.”
“No one said you had to be like her. I’m saying you should make him feel what you feel. You look empty, Granger. Carve a hole in his chest.”
She studied him curiously but stopped herself, remembering who was in front of her. Trusting Malfoy was more dangerous than trusting a Nundu. And yet…
“Sounds like you have something in mind, Malfoy.”
“Maybe, Granger. How about a deal?”
“Let me guess. Are we scheduling our whining sessions?”
Her sarcasm amused him. She was different. Not so controlled. Not with him.
Draco cast a spell over the bottle, filling it again. He stood up and drank a quarter of it before extending his hand. Hermione took it, her wand still clutched in her fingers. He didn’t let go either.
At some point, it started to feel like a game. One Draco was willing to play. Hermione tried to pull away, but he kept her hand trapped, holding the one that grasped her wand. When she tried to break free, Draco wouldn’t allow it, and rather than scaring her, it sent a thrill of euphoria down her spine. She wasn’t sure when it happened, but suddenly, it became a battle of words. Draco crafted them with mockery and challenge, reminding himself of what he had meant to Aurélie despite his desperate wish to mean everything to her and ending up as nothing.
Draco started with a bitter smile on his lips…
“If love isn’t our fate, let it not be our end. We won’t seek it, we won’t recognize it, we won’t accept it.”
Hermione relaxed her grip, understanding what Draco was doing. So this was what he meant by a pact. With pride turned to fire, she played along…
“We won’t be salvation or solace. We won’t be longing or loss. If love didn’t want us, let it never find us.”
Draco looked at her with intrigue. It seemed they felt the same. He suddenly wanted to defy not just his family but also his very essence, his magic…
“Let this pact make us unbreakable, let it hold us when everything else fails.”