Fake It
When Aurélie Dumont submitted her application to work at Hogwarts, she was fleeing from a cruel twist of fate at the American Ministry of Magic. She had built a successful career there, but before throwing away everything she had achieved, she decided to take a step back. Thanks to the connections she had gained seven years ago while working as Draco Malfoy’s tutor, she knew that the ever-vacant position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts was the perfect opportunity to put not one, but two oceans between herself and her past—whether she looked east or west from magical Britain.
Aurélie, a pureblood witch of French descent, possessed an innate elegance and an ethereal beauty inherited from her Veela grandmother—a trait she shared with her younger cousin, Fleur Delacour. Related through their mothers, who were sisters, this characteristic had always drawn stolen glances and sighs in her direction. Over time, she had also developed a presence that commanded respect wherever she went. During her school years, she stood out for her intellect and dedication, which led to her first job as Draco’s tutor when he was just ten years old. It was then that the young Malfoy, mesmerized by her intelligence and charm, fell hopelessly in love with her. Aurélie had known it from the start—and, in a way, she relished it.
Aurélie loved watching them unravel—how their confidence melted into hunger, how even the proudest ended up seeking her out with their hands, their mouths, with the desperation of someone who knows they are lost and no longer cares. She needed no enchantments, no potions. Just a touch, a lingering glance, a barely-there smile. She knew exactly how far to pull the string before it snapped.
And when it did—when desire turned them into docile creatures, willing to follow her every whim—then, and only then, did she allow herself to savor it.
Because there was no sweeter pleasure than watching them surrender, knowing that, in the end, it would always be her who held the reins.
For a fleeting moment, as she observed the man Draco had become, she wondered what it would be like to be Lady Malfoy. However, she dismissed the thought immediately. She knew she would never be considered a suitable candidate in the eyes of his family, and that alone would bring her more trouble than she cared to invite. While she still carried the prestige of her lineage, her family had fallen from grace after a disastrous business deal with a Muggle that left them in financial ruin. Many of her ambitions had been thwarted, and the failure had not only damaged her reputation but had also left deep scars on her pride.
In private, Aurélie harbored a deep disdain for Muggles—a sentiment she had to keep carefully in check to maintain the approval of most witches and wizards. Even so, she much preferred working alongside purebloods or, at the very least, tolerable half-bloods. Thus, she chose to feign cordiality and respect, despite the resentment she kept buried within.
She had known many men, both professionally and intimately, but when she laid eyes on Charlie Weasley, her newly appointed colleague at Hogwarts, something about him felt different. His gaze did not carry desire but rather the same admiration and devotion that Draco had shown her as a child—as if there was nothing in this world, or any other, more valuable than her.
She knew, without a doubt, that he desired her. That much was obvious.
But above all else, there was something more.
At first, she tried to keep her distance in a composed manner, but the more she caught him stealing glances at her with that almost delicate innocence, the more intrigued she became. Where could this possibly lead? She knew that relationships between professors at Hogwarts were not forbidden, but they did invite unwanted attention. And that was a real problem—she had no desire to attract unnecessary scrutiny.
Within just a week, she found herself feeling a sense of gratitude toward Professor Weasley. He had recognized her exceptional nature, had made her feel even more powerful and superior. His admiration only strengthened her confidence—more than she already needed—and stirred in her a peculiar fondness for him.
Yet, on Friday morning, during her class, she noticed something that made her skin crawl: the exchange of glances between Draco Malfoy and a Mudblood.
Hermione Granger.
The mere sight of it was repulsive. A Malfoy should never set his eyes on a Muggle-born witch. Surely, the Malfoys would be far from pleased if they witnessed such a thing. At that moment, she knew that, if necessary, she would personally bring the matter to Lady Malfoy’s attention.
For now, though, she found far too much enjoyment in watching that filth called Hermione squirm with jealousy whenever she approached her new colleague.
Nothing was more satisfying.
Charlie Weasley, the second of seven siblings, had always valued peace and independence above all else. Since childhood, he had felt that the hustle and bustle of the Weasley home was too small for him—that his family’s love was a warm cloak, but sometimes too tight. So, as soon as he graduated from Hogwarts, he left without looking back, seeking his own path far from the Burrow. In the vast lands of Romania, among dragons and open skies, he found the peace he had always longed for.
He cherished the moments spent with his family during Christmas or summer, but there was always a quiet relief when he returned to solitude. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. Over the years, that solitude—once so comforting—began to weigh on him in ways he couldn’t quite understand. It wasn’t that he longed for constant company, but some nights, the silence didn’t feel as welcoming as it once had.
He had never been in love, and truthfully, he had come to accept that perhaps he never would be. But ever since Ginny hinted that Hermione Granger—the same Hermione who had grown up alongside his siblings—might be interested in him, something inside him shifted. At first, he dismissed the idea with a short laugh. Hermione was, to him, almost a sister. Like Ginny. Thinking of her any other way felt… wrong. Not because of the age gap—after all, six years meant little in the wizarding world—but because he had simply never seen her in that light.
And yet, when he saw her that Friday night in the tunnel leading to the Quidditch pitch with Draco Malfoy, he had to admit he didn’t like it one bit. He had never considered himself a jealous brother, but apparently, he was more so than he had realized. However, what truly unsettled him wasn’t their closeness—it was Hermione’s demeanor. She looked different, changed. No longer the bright, noble girl he remembered from her visits to the Burrow; in her crisp uniform, standing tall with an air of unshakable confidence, she seemed invincible. And sharper than anyone gave her credit for.
But as much as that scene with Malfoy lingered in his mind, there was only one woman who truly occupied his thoughts: Aurélie Dumont, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
There was something about her that drew him in, though he couldn’t quite explain it. It wasn’t just her ethereal beauty or the effortless grace with which she moved through the halls of Hogwarts—it was the way she seemed so utterly aware of the effect she had on those around her. The way she looked at him, a faint smile on her lips, as if she already knew exactly what he was thinking before he even realized it himself.
Charlie wasn’t the kind of man to be easily swayed by emotions, let alone by fleeting desire. But with Aurélie… he wasn’t sure it was fleeting. And that unsettled him more than he was willing to admit. And yet, he found no issue in being open about it—if he sensed even the slightest opportunity from his new colleague.
The atmosphere at Hogwarts was as it always was—the murmur of conversations, the clinking of silverware against plates, the glow of hundreds of floating candles overhead. Nothing in the air suggested that the routine was about to shatter in mere seconds. That Monday evening, during dinner, the two new professors had no idea that Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger were about to shake the Great Hall to its core.
Aurelie Dumont, seated at the staff table, stared absently into her goblet, pretending not to hear the dull chatter of her colleague to her right. In truth, her attention was fixed on Draco Malfoy. She couldn’t help it. There was something disturbingly tempting about him ever since he had arrived at Hogwarts. His natural confidence, the way his gaze seemed to promise things no one else knew. But above all, the way his eyes locked onto Hermione Granger in that precise moment.
Draco lifted his head in perfect sync with Hermione, who had shot to her feet.
Her chair scraped loudly against the stone floor, but she didn’t care. Her knuckles were white around her wand as she crossed the distance between the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables. Her steps were firm, her fury palpable. Draco stood as well, and the two met in the center of the Great Hall—halfway between their respective tables, between two opposing worlds.
"Why don’t you say that again, Parkinson?" Hermione challenged icily, her voice cutting through the air, addressing the Slytherin witch over Draco’s shoulder.
Draco didn’t take his eyes off her. Not because he wanted to protect Pansy. Not even because he cared about what was happening. It was something deeper. An invisible thread pulling him toward Granger, compelling him to move in sync with her.
Aurelie felt a slow burn in her chest, but she made no move to intervene. No—this was far more revealing than she had anticipated.
Beside her, Charlie stiffened. There was fire in Hermione’s eyes, a determination he hadn’t seen in her before. This wasn’t the same girl he had left behind at Hogwarts years ago. There was something different about her, something he couldn’t quite grasp.
Draco smirked, but there was no mockery in his gaze.
"Always so passionate, Granger."
The air crackled between them.
Hermione stepped forward. So did Draco.
And then, he knew.
Draco looked at her as if he was truly seeing her for the first time. As if, in that instant, something clicked into place. As if he suddenly understood what he had been holding back since the Quidditch match on Friday. His eyes roamed her face with hunger, with an almost dazed recognition—like he couldn’t fathom why the hell he hadn’t done this before.
The bond between them burned.
The magic that tied them together tightened in the air, an invisible tether, a serpent coiling around their bodies—urging them, daring them, demanding something from them.
And Draco gave in.
In a single moment—without thinking, without restraint—he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him.
Hermione barely had time to gasp before his lips crashed against hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle.
It wasn’t a kiss.
It was an intrusion, a storm.
Her body shuddered from the impact, but instead of pushing him away, she clung to him. Her mind went blank, her magic igniting. She hadn’t expected this. It was as if the ground beneath her feet had vanished, leaving only him. This wasn’t just lips meeting—it was fire, it was vertigo, it was both an anchor and an abyss.
Hermione had kissed before. She knew what it was like to feel the press of lips against hers, the shiver that ran down her spine when hands found her body. But this… this was different.
Because with just one kiss, Draco Malfoy was tearing down everything she thought she knew about herself.
Draco kissed her with the certainty of someone who had found something they had been searching for without realizing it. As if, by doing so, he was claiming something that had always been his. His fingers tightened around the fabric of her robes, pulling her closer—because even this wasn’t enough. His ears were deaf to the explosion of noise around them.
There were gasps, shouts, frenzied murmurs.
Some clapped, others cried out in shock, some jumped to their feet without knowing what to do. The chaos was absolute.
Charlie felt his jaw tighten. His instinct was to stand, to separate them, to do something. But his body didn’t move. He could only watch, bewildered, as a dull anger simmered inside him, without understanding why.
When Hermione and Draco finally broke apart, they did so with difficulty, their breathing uneven. Hermione blinked, her lips still parted, still feeling the fire on her skin, the vibration of magic in her chest.
Draco looked at her as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just done—but there was no regret in his gaze. After all, it was simply a manifestation of what they had agreed upon.
And then—
"SILENCE!"
Professor McGonagall’s voice thundered through the Great Hall, instantly snuffing out the chaos.
"Would someone care to explain what this means!?"
Snape rose to his feet, a murderous glint in his eyes, his robes billowing behind him.
"To your seats, all of you! Except for Granger and Malfoy—to the Headmaster’s office, now."
The command was immediate.
But Hermione and Draco remained locked in place, still staring at each other, oblivious to everything else.
The walk back was steeped in thick silence, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Hermione could barely process what had happened. Her mind oscillated between stopping and seeking a solution with the professors—an option Dumbledore had already dismissed with his usual cryptic manner—or pressing forward. And that last option… was the most tempting one.
Because, as irrational as it seemed, in those brief moments inside the Quidditch pitch tunnel and the ones that had just unfolded in the Great Hall, she hadn’t felt lost. Quite the opposite. She had felt more like herself than ever. Free from expectations, from the need to uphold the flawless image everyone had of Hermione Granger.
When they reached the point where their paths diverged—hers leading up to Gryffindor Tower, his down to the dungeons—Hermione stopped him. She wasn’t sure why she did it; she just followed the impulse before she could overthink it.
"I don’t regret it, Malfoy," she admitted outright, meeting his gaze. "It was… too much. Overwhelming. But I’m in this with you. This is what we agreed to. We just need to be more careful with whatever is happening with our magic. But I definitely want to continue. I’ll understand if you don’t."
Draco crossed his arms, raising a brow with amusement.
"And why the hell wouldn’t I want to continue?"
"Maybe because, after the spectacle we just put on, your parents are bound to find out sooner rather than later… and I doubt they’ll be pleased."
Draco let out a low, careless chuckle.
"Leave my parents to me, Granger. It’s not like we’re getting married."
He said it lightly, as if that stripped the matter of any real significance. But somewhere, buried deep within, he felt a pang. A treacherous longing for at least some part of it to be real.
"No more kissing in public," Hermione stated, emphasizing the words by drawing air quotes with her fingers. "I think it’s already clear enough that ‘we’re dating.’"
Draco tilted his head slightly, his smirk stretching with mischief.
"If it bothers you, I’ll restrain myself… at least, I won’t do it with so much enthusiasm."
The way his gaze flickered over her face made Hermione tense.
"But that doesn’t mean I won’t do it in private."
"Malfoy, this is a farce," she reminded him firmly.
Draco stepped closer, just enough for his voice to drop into a smooth, velvety whisper against her ear.
"Not all of it is fake, Granger."
He brushed his nose against her cheekbone, his warm breath searing her skin before lingering at the corner of her lips. Hermione felt her pulse hammer wildly.
"Just let yourself go a little," he murmured. "That could be an advantage of this arrangement too."
And with that final provocation, he stepped away, leaving her there, the weight of his words clinging to her skin like a spell impossible to break.
Ginny was waiting for her in the common room, along with Harry and Ron. Her expression was carefully crafted into a mask of false displeasure, but the barely contained excitement in her eyes betrayed her. Unlike her, Harry and Ron looked downright furious.
“What the hell was that, Hermione?” Ron blurted out.
“What are you talking about?” she replied, feigning innocence.
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that Malfoy kissed you in the Great Hall?”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that!”
Hermione simply shrugged.
“It was just a kiss. Between two people.”
“Hermione,” Harry cut in, his voice steady but firm. “It’s Malfoy. He’s spent the last six years belittling you. You can’t seriously expect us to brush this off as just a kiss.”
“Well, that’s exactly what it was, Harry. And you’d better get used to it because Malfoy and I are dating.”
Ginny’s mask shattered in an instant. With an eager glint in her eyes, she lunged toward Hermione, gripping her shoulders.
“You have to tell me everything!”
She quickly caught herself under the weight of Harry and Ron’s disapproving stares. Clearing her throat, she straightened her posture and spoke with exaggerated dignity.
“Of course, what I meant to say is that it’s very noble of you to accept the apology Malfoy obviously gave you for being an insufferable git all these years. I assume he did apologize?”
Hermione hesitated for a fraction of a second. Lying outright wasn’t an option, but neither was telling the truth.
“We’ve come to… a mutual understanding and made certain agreements,” she said carefully. “Besides, we’re just dating, for Merlin’s sake. It’s not like we’re getting married.”
She hadn’t meant to, but she ended up parroting Draco’s exact words from earlier. And the realization hit her like a slap to the face.
“I think we should respect Hermione’s decision and support her,” Ginny declared. Hermione sent her a silent thank you for trying to put an end to this bizarre meeting about her fabricated love life.
Harry studied her for a long moment, his brow slightly furrowed.
“But are you happy, Hermione?” he finally asked. “I mean… do you feel happy with this?”
She took a steadying breath, carefully choosing her words.
“With Malfoy, I feel… different. Like I’m carrying less weight, like I can let go a little. And instead of scaring me, it excites me. So yes, I think that means I’m happy.”
Ginny hummed in approval, resting her chin on her hand.
“Well, if he’s willing to be with you despite what everyone else thinks, I suppose that means he’s changed his views on all that pureblood nonsense.”
Hermione said nothing. Ginny was doing her best to be supportive, but they both knew there was something more going on—something beyond just a shift in ideology.
Ron cleared his throat, but the displeasure on his face remained.
“I won’t say I told you so today. Or in a month. Or in a year. It’s your choice, Hermione.”
With that, he grabbed Harry’s arm and tugged him toward the boys’ dormitory. He let out an exaggerated yawn as he waved a lazy goodnight.
Harry glanced at her one last time before following Ron upstairs. His expression had softened—less anger, more concern.
The moment they were gone, Ginny turned back to Hermione, a wicked grin spreading across her face.
“For the love of Godric, Hermione, you just bagged the sexiest Quidditch player in Hogwarts. I can’t believe it.”
She gave her a playful punch on the arm. Hermione sighed and cast a Muffliato before responding.
“I’m assuming you already know why we’re doing this.”
“Oh, obviously,” Ginny smirked, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “But just because the thestral isn’t yours doesn’t mean you can’t ride it.”
She winked.
Hermione let out a long breath, shaking her head. Despite everything, a small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips.
She settled into an armchair by the fire, determined to stay there until it was late enough. She had no interest in facing her dorm mates’ endless questions. She wouldn’t step into that room until she was certain they were all asleep.
Draco walked into the common room to find a familiar scene awaiting him. Theo and Blaise were finishing up a game of wizard’s chess, while Pansy Parkinson stood nearby, practically spitting venom as she ranted about Hermione.
"She’s a filthy Mudblood, Draco! What the hell were you thinking, kissing her? There are better ways to shut her up."
Draco ran a hand down his face, exasperated, before loosening his tie.
"Honestly, Pansy, I’m not in the mood for a scene."
"This isn’t a scene, Draco!" she snapped, folding her arms. "Have you even considered what your parents will think?"
"What they think is none of your concern," he replied coolly. "So do me a favor—stay out of my business."
Pansy let out a sharp huff.
"And now that filthy bitch is going to think she has the right to talk to you? To look at you?"
At another time, Draco wouldn’t have cared about the insult. He might have even agreed. But now, an unfamiliar instinct kicked in—the need to defend Hermione, to make his stance crystal clear.
"I won’t let you call my girlfriend a filthy bitch, Pansy. So either control yourself, or I’ll silence you myself."
The weight of those words dropped over the room like a thunderclap. Pansy froze. Draco saw the way her eyes welled up, though she quickly blinked the tears away and lifted her chin, trying to salvage her pride.
She turned to Theo and Blaise, seeking support, but neither spoke. They remained silent observers, listening but refusing to interfere.
"She must have bewitched him," Pansy muttered under her breath, voice shaking with frustration. Then, louder, "Theo, Blaise, we have to do something. I’m sending an owl to your mother right now."
Draco caught her wrist before she could move.
"No, you’re not," he said firmly. "No one bewitched me. I’m with Granger because I want to be. End of story. I don’t expect you to understand—hell, you don’t have even a fraction of her intelligence—but I do expect you to keep some dignity."
Pansy ripped her arm free and stormed off toward the girls’ dormitories, barely managing to hold back her tears. Draco didn’t bother watching her go, but he did notice Daphne Greengrass standing nearby. He hadn’t realized she’d been there the whole time.
She got up, ready to follow Pansy, but stopped beside him for a brief moment.
"Don’t blame her, Draco," she said calmly. "You never took her seriously, and now, out of nowhere, you’re dating the girl you hated just a week ago. Even I think it’s strange."
Draco narrowed his eyes.
"You going to start trashing her too?"
Daphne gave a small, knowing smile.
"Not at all. Granger has always been kind to me—and to Astoria. And unlike Pansy, I don’t buy into that stupid blood supremacy nonsense we were raised on."
She rested a hand lightly on his wrist, her expression sincere.
"I’m glad to see you don’t either."
With that, she turned and left after Pansy, leaving Draco with a strange, bitter taste in his mouth. Maybe he really was starting to let go of those old ideas. But if it weren’t for the situation with Granger, would he have even considered it?
A sharp thump snapped him out of his thoughts.
Theo and Blaise had abandoned their chess game and were now watching him intently. Blaise, as always, remained unreadable, but the faint smirk on his lips told Draco he wasn’t planning to reprimand him. Theo, on the other hand, had a downright mischievous grin.
He grabbed a dark green cushion, hugged it to his chest dramatically, and made an exaggerated kissing sound.
Draco scowled.
"Don’t."
"Too late," Theo said, and hurled the cushion straight at his face.
Draco barely had time to react before it smacked into him. Without missing a beat, he grabbed a heavier pillow and launched it back with twice the force. Theo stumbled, nearly losing his balance, then burst into laughter before dashing up the staircase toward the boys’ dormitory.
Until that day, it had been unthinkable for Draco Malfoy to see Hermione Granger as anything more than a target for his disdain. And yet, the taste of her still lingered on his lips—a relentless reminder of everything that had transpired.
He let himself fall onto his bed, a frown etched deep into his face as he replayed every moment of the day. Kissing her had been a provocation, a reckless move… or just an excuse? He couldn’t deny it—at some point, he had enjoyed it. More than he should have.
It startled him to realize that he hadn’t even thought about rummaging through his trunk for his collection of Aurélie clippings since last Wednesday. How the hell had that happened? Hermione Granger had no right to push aside his obsessions, to worm her way into his thoughts as if she had always belonged there.
That night, sleep did not come easily. His mind wavered between the satisfaction of his defiance and the unease of what it truly meant. But in the end, he forced himself to cast aside any lingering doubt.
It didn’t matter what was coming. It didn’t matter what this stirred within him. He was still Draco Malfoy, and if the world wanted to be scandalized, so be it. After all, his natural arrogance and innate pride fit perfectly with his newfound rebellion.