Tonight, Tonight
Tuesday’s breakfast was an absolute disaster.
Hermione walked into the Great Hall with a tight knot in her stomach, feeling as if every gaze in the room was on her. She wasn’t sure if it was just her imagination or if every whisper and sideways glance were truly directed at her.
Fortunately, Ginny was already there. Her demeanor remained unchanged—calm, unaffected. But not everyone shared her neutrality. Lavender and Parvati shot her looks that hovered between frustration and disbelief, as if they had lost a bet they were certain they’d win. Seamus and Dean exchanged puzzled glances, frowning, while Neville, though not outright disapproving, avoided making eye contact for longer than necessary.
Ginny, on the other hand, acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary. She simply motioned for Hermione to sit beside her, and Hermione did, hoping the rest of breakfast would pass uneventfully.
But, of course, peace was never an option.
Ron and Harry entered together, as they always did. Ron had a hand resting absentmindedly on Harry’s wrist as they talked in hushed voices, and though the gesture was subtle, there was an intimacy in it that anyone with eyes could notice. It wasn’t a revelation to anyone—this was just how they were.
Ron barely took three seconds to lock eyes with Hermione before blurting out, his usual sarcasm dripping from every word:
—"I thought you’d be sitting with your new friends in the snake pit."
Hermione closed her eyes for a brief moment, willing herself to keep her irritation in check, but before she could reply, Ginny shot Ron a warning glare.
—"Careful, Ronald."
Ron raised his hands in mock innocence, but the look he gave Hermione was anything but playful. Tired of the passive-aggressive remarks, she simply asked:
—"Should I assume we’re not friends anymore?"
Ron blinked, clearly caught off guard by her bluntness. He opened his mouth, but Harry beat him to it.
—"We’ll always be friends," he said with unwavering certainty, his tone as natural as if he were stating that magic existed.
Hermione felt a wave of relief wash over her and offered Harry a grateful smile. Without thinking too much about it, she reached out and gave his hand a light squeeze.
And that’s when she felt it.
A cold, piercing stare, cutting through the air like an unspoken spell.
Draco.
She didn’t need to turn around to know he was watching. She could feel it.
From his place at the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy, with his naturally imposing presence, had a perfect view of the scene. His gray eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw clenched, and with the subtlest tilt of his head, he sent a silent message that Hermione understood with disturbing clarity.
An unspoken order.
Let go.
And she did.
She didn’t know why. Maybe because she didn’t have the energy to deal with the consequences of disobeying Draco when she had no idea how far he would go. Maybe because, like it or not, in the eyes of everyone around them, she was his girlfriend.
And if there was one thing Hermione knew about Draco Malfoy, it was that he didn’t share what he considered his.
He had proven it more times than she could count.
Like that time in second year, when Pansy Parkinson tried to grab his Quidditch scarf as a joke, only for him to yank it back instantly, muttering coldly that “no one touches what’s mine.”
Or in sixth year, when a Ravenclaw fifth-year—whose name Hermione couldn’t even recall—admired Draco’s new broom a little too enthusiastically in the corridor, and Draco simply raised an eyebrow before replying:
—"I hope you’re not expecting me to let you try it. I don’t share my things."
And now, Hermione Granger was his thing.
At least, that’s what Hogwarts believed.
Was this in the terms of the pact that I could not remember clearly?
The problem was that, as she met Draco’s gaze, feeling the intensity in it that didn’t seem feigned at all…
For the first time, Hermione wondered if he was starting to believe it too.
Then, Draco rose from his seat at the Slytherin table and, without his usual air of superiority, walked toward the Gryffindor table. This time, he didn’t glance at his housemates as if they were beneath him, nor did he carry his trademark sneer. Instead, he took a slow breath, offered a small—almost polite—smile, and greeted them with a composed:
—Good morning.
The reaction was immediate. The sheer improbability of Draco Malfoy willingly approaching the Gryffindor table was akin to a snowstorm in the tropics. And yet, there was nothing performative about his demeanor.
Without waiting for an invitation, he slid into the empty seat between Neville and Hermione, settling in as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Seconds later, Theodore Nott arrived, wearing his signature smirk of quiet amusement, and claimed the chair next to Ginny without hesitation. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he took in the stunned expressions around them.
Just like that, two Slytherins were now sitting comfortably at the Gryffindor table, flanking its members with blatant familiarity.
—Careful, Malfoy. You might break out in hives sitting here —Ron scoffed.
Draco didn’t even look at him. Instead, he plucked a piece of fruit from Hermione’s plate and popped it into his mouth as if it belonged to him.
Before he could respond, Theo spoke up in his usual languid drawl:
—If sitting here gives you hives, and they make you look like that, Draco, I’d strongly suggest you leave before it’s too late.
Ginny elbowed him, torn between defending her brother and laughing.
—Not enough room at the Slytherin table? —Harry asked, his voice neutral.
Draco, rather than answering, picked up another piece of fruit, this time holding it up toward Hermione’s lips. She hesitated, attempting to move her hand away as politely as possible, but she caught the soft, barely audible sound of disapproval from Draco.
For the sake of keeping the peace—and to avoid unnecessary drama—she decided to accept the offering. The moment she did, Draco set down the fork with a satisfied expression and, with infuriating ease, slid his hand across Hermione’s back.
—What can I say? I like spending time with my girlfriend.
Then, as if he hadn't just sent an entire table into stunned silence, he reached for Hermione’s goblet and took a sip of her water without the slightest hesitation.
The reaction was immediate.
Harry watched him with unreadable calm, in stark contrast to Ron, who looked seconds away from combusting. However, before Ron could lash out, Harry squeezed his hand under the table, drawing soothing circles over the back of his palm with his thumb.
—Well, I suppose that’s fine then —Harry said simply.
Apparently, that was all it took to diffuse the tension, and the group reluctantly resumed their breakfast.
Seizing the moment, Theo decided it was the perfect time to start his usual round of sarcastic observations.
—You know, I never thought I’d be having breakfast with Gryffindors. It’s quite the experience. For example, I had no idea anyone could pour tea with that much intensity.
He nodded toward Neville, who was pouring milk into his tea with extreme focus.
Neville blinked, unsure whether that was meant to be a jab or an actual observation. Theo just grinned.
—Tell me you at least use magic to stir it and not a spoon like a Muggle.
Ginny groaned, elbowing him again.
—Leave him alone, Theo.
But Nott was already turning toward Seamus and Dean.
—Ah, Gryffindor’s golden couple. Ten Galleons says Dean’s the one who always forgets anniversaries.
Seamus frowned.
—Hey, that’s not true.
Dean glanced at him.
—Yeah, it is.
—No, it’s not!
Theo’s grin widened.
—It’s sweet seeing you argue. Reminds me of my parents before the divorce.
A heavy silence fell over the table.
Ginny let out an exasperated sigh.
—Merlin, Theo.
Unfazed, Theo turned to Hermione next, propping an elbow on the table and watching her with mock curiosity.
—And you, Granger? What’s it like being Draco Malfoy’s girlfriend? Has he given you an official rulebook yet, or is he still in the subtle conditioning phase?
Draco shot him a glare, but Theo merely winked at him before taking a sip of his coffee, thoroughly enjoying the quiet chaos he had orchestrated.
Hermione exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over her face. The day had barely started.
And she was already exhausted.
The entire day had passed in relative calm, with Draco at Hermione’s side, accompanying her to every class they shared—which, as it turned out, was all of them. Without realizing it, they had identical schedules. When lunchtime arrived, it played out much the same as breakfast, except for one notable absence: Theo never appeared.
Afterward came Herbology, a class where Draco practically dragged Neville away from Hermione with just his glare. Neville, who was usually Hermione’s lab partner, had no choice but to work with a thoroughly indignant Pansy Parkinson—Draco’s usual partner.
Neville tried to remain neutral, but when Pansy started barking orders, expecting him to do all the work for both of them, he didn’t hold back.
“You’re the most infuriating witch I’ve ever worked with, Parkinson. One would think all that refined education you boast about would reflect in your behavior, but if you expect me to sit the N.E.W.T.s for you as well, I’d rather work alone. I’ll explain the situation to Professor Sprout.”
Draco expected Pansy to explode with indignation, but instead, she just gawked at Longbottom in stunned silence. She grabbed the small pair of scissors to trim the asphodel stems, but before she could begin, Neville—this time with a bit more tact—reached out and stopped her.
With surprising gentleness, he took her hands, guiding them to release the scissors and handed her a tiny scalpel instead, its edge barely visible. “The scissors will ruin it. Hold this firmly,” he instructed, wrapping his hand around hers to demonstrate the proper grip.
Draco waited, amused, expecting Pansy to snap and possibly stab Longbottom with the very instrument he had given her. But, to his utter surprise, Pansy simply let herself be guided. Neville released her hand, and Pansy—perhaps for the first time in her life—was utterly focused as she carefully and precisely removed the delicate thorns from the thin stem.
“There you go,” Neville murmured, watching her work. “You might actually have a natural talent for Herbology, Parkinson.”
A slow smile spread across Pansy’s face as she continued with the same level of concentration.
Draco and Hermione exchanged looks, both equally bewildered.
“We don’t have to work together all the time, Malfoy,” Hermione remarked. “It’s enough that we’re in the same space and not too far apart.”
“I know,” he replied coolly. “I just want to work with you, that’s all. Unless my presence bothers you—which, let me guess, it doesn’t.”
His signature smirk stretched across his lips as he carefully dried the angelica leaves.
“I don’t mind,” Hermione admitted. “I actually assumed you’d be a decent lab partner. But I think our… proximity might be making others uncomfortable.”
Draco glanced toward Pansy and Longbottom, who were now completely engrossed in their project. “Doesn’t look like they’re all that uncomfortable anymore. Besides, if they were, they’ll just have to get used to it. You’re my girlfriend—my place is at your side.”
“Malfoy, you do remember we’re pretending, right?” Hermione leaned in to whisper, not wanting anyone else to overhear.
Professor Sprout cleared her throat, making Hermione straighten up so fast that her face turned bright red. Draco, thoroughly entertained, placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and rested his head against hers—leaning down a little too dramatically.
“Sorry, Professor,” he said smoothly. “I just can’t be away from her.”
“Well, you’d better learn to keep your hands to yourself in my class,” Professor Sprout warned. “I won’t tolerate any nonsense here.”
Draco sighed theatrically and pulled away. “Of course, Professor.” His smile this time was deliberately fake, but effortlessly elegant.
“I was reading over the weekend,” Hermione said, shifting the conversation.
“And?”
“I need to know if you’ve remembered anything else. I need to give the research some direction—I can’t just read at random, even though there’s always something new to learn, of course. Or something old to reinterpret or review—”
Draco rolled his eyes.
“But I was hoping you’d recalled something.”
“I told you we need to clarify our thoughts before we can focus, Granger,” he drawled. “But if you must know, the only time I’ve remembered anything—vaguely—was during our little performance yesterday at the Great Hall.”
Hermione’s cheeks flushed, and she tried not to stammer. “Are you suggesting that…?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Granger. I’m asking you to be practical and a little less uptight. Surely you weren’t this stiff with McLaggen.”
“What I did with McLaggen is none of your business.”
“It is now.” His gaze was unwavering, challenging, as he lowered his voice so no one else could hear. “We may be pretending, Granger, but I refuse to look like a fool—and I trust you’ll know how to behave like a charming and devoted girlfriend.”
“Will you?”
“You didn’t notice at breakfast?” His smirk deepened.
“So that means we’ll be having every meal together?” Hermione asked, mortified.
“No, just some,” he replied smoothly. “Just enough to reinforce our position. Though, I must say, I’m not particularly keen on eating next to Weasley—I’ve never seen anyone mix so many things in their mouth at once.”
Hermione chuckled, and something warm flickered in Draco’s chest. He shoved the thought away immediately and focused on what mattered.
“I think we should make sure we’re together whenever Professor Weasley or Aurélie are in the Great Hall,” he suggested. “We can’t waste a single opportunity to get under your dear tormentor’s skin, Granger.”
“I think you’re about to become my torment, Malfoy. And not a dear one.”
“Don’t doubt it for a second.”
The sound of a promise
The rest of the day passed in a tense calm, but when night fell, Draco slipped into her dreams like a curse—his dazzling smile, his feigned interest, the elegance and grace of every movement. In the dream, he was murmuring things in her ear, his voice a hushed caress as they sat on a bench in the west courtyard. She melted beside him, laughing softly, his lashes brushing his cheeks in a whisper of movement. But just as the moment seemed to build toward something more, a sharp meow startled her awake.
Crookshanks was nudging her cheek with his muzzle, his whiskers tickling her skin. Hermione let out a frustrated sigh, not just at the rude awakening but at the realization that her dream had been cut short before a kiss could happen. No. Not a kiss—she didn't want that, she didn't want anything from Draco Malfoy. Shaking off the remnants of sleep, she forced herself up, preparing for what was sure to be another turbulent day.
But Draco never showed up to escort her to breakfast, nor to sit beside her during any of their meals. At first, the distance was a welcome relief, but by midday, an inexplicable exhaustion settled over her. It was different from the usual fatigue of studying or stress—this felt like something was being drained from her as she slept, leaving her depleted before the day even began.
Draco had decided to keep his distance that morning—not because he wanted to, but because he needed to maintain just enough space to keep his magic from faltering. His dreams had been no kinder than Hermione’s. He had seen himself lying on the grass, his head resting on her lap as she ran her fingers over his face, brushing stray strands of hair from his forehead. She had smiled at him, her voice warm as she reminded him how handsome and brilliant he was. He had basked in her touch, his own fingers absentmindedly twisting the fabric of a delicate floral dress that hugged her waist and draped over her legs, revealing only a modest glimpse of skin. But Draco had reveled in that modesty, in the promise of something hidden beneath layers of fabric—a treasure yet to be uncovered.
When he saw her at breakfast, laughing at something that idiot Weasley had said, a reckless impulse surged through him. He wanted to cross the distance and kiss her. No. Not kiss her—he didn't want that. He didn't want anything from Hermione Granger. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stay rooted in place.
Theo, oblivious to Draco's inner turmoil, was already heading toward the Gryffindor table, cracking his knuckles. “This should be fun. I think I’ll mess with Andrew Corrigan and Leslie Wheeler today. Look, they’re sitting next to Longbottom.”
Draco caught his arm. “Not today. We’re giving my girlfriend a break, Theodore.”
Theo frowned. “Oh, I see. So, there’s only fun when you decide?”
“I’d prefer if you kept Granger out of your jokes,” Draco said coolly.
Theo scoffed, but his laughter faltered when he caught Draco’s sharp glare. “Of course, Monsieur Malfoy, I’ll follow your orders. Wouldn’t want your father to hear about this.” With that, he dropped into a seat beside Zabini, though his eyes occasionally flickered toward the Gryffindor table during meals.
Draco, however, kept his gaze firmly on Hermione throughout the day. In class, she had been exceptional—even more than usual. Especially in Charms, where she had managed to—
(HERE, INSERT HERMIONE’S NOTABLE ACHIEVEMENT IN CHARMS)
Draco felt an unfamiliar flicker of pride. His witch had outdone herself. And yes, she was his—to the rest of the world, at least. That knowledge made his chest swell just a little.
That’s when he decided—he had given her enough space.
But when he tried to close the distance, something unexpected happened. Hermione avoided him. Not subtly, not coyly—she fled. A slow, irritated burn coiled in his chest. Was she really trying to escape him?
His pride took an even greater hit when he realized Aurélie had witnessed Hermione’s blatant dismissal. The knowing glint in her eyes sent a sharp wave of indignation through him.
This wasn’t over.
Dinner had been a much-needed break. Hermione had seated herself between Ginny and Luna, both blissfully unaware of the tension simmering beneath her skin. Draco had kept his word—they hadn’t sat together—but that didn’t mean she had felt free of him. She could sense him even when he wasn’t looking at her.
And it was driving her insane.
She needed a moment of peace, a quiet corner where she could clear her head. Maybe the library, though the thought of running into Theo made her dismiss that option. The common room was out of the question too—she had spent the entire day with Draco practically glued to her side, taking advantage of their connection and the way he could leech off her amplified magic.
So she walked with no particular destination, letting her feet carry her wherever they pleased.
She wandered into a corridor on the seventh floor, where the torches burned dimly, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. She inhaled deeply. She just needed to breathe. Just a little solitude.
But fate seemed to have other plans.
The staircase to her right suddenly shifted, cutting off her intended path just as she was about to descend. Hermione clicked her tongue in frustration, turning on her heel to find another way—only to run straight into him.
Draco Malfoy stood at the other end of the corridor, hands tucked into the pockets of his robes, watching her with that lazy, infuriating smirk that made her want to slap him.
“Are you following me?” Hermione asked, folding her arms.
Draco took a slow step forward, the torchlight catching in his platinum hair, making it shimmer in gold and silver tones.
“Who, me?” His voice dripped with mock innocence.
“It’s hardly a coincidence that you’re here.”
He shrugged.
“Maybe the castle just wants us to keep running into each other. Ever think of that?”
Hermione exhaled sharply and turned away.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see you.”
“Running away again?” Draco drawled.
“I’m not running.”
“Oh, but you are. You’ve been trying to escape me all day. And yet, here we are. Funny how that works.”
Her jaw clenched. Before she could snap back at him, another staircase groaned and shifted, blocking her path entirely. She turned slowly, staring at him in disbelief.
“Tell me you didn’t do this.”
“I wish I could take credit for it,” he said, amusement flickering in his eyes.
The torches flickered. The air in the corridor felt heavier, as if the castle itself was conspiring to trap them here. A shiver ran down Hermione’s spine as Draco took another step toward her.
“You know what I think?” he murmured, voice low and edged with something dangerous.
“I don’t care what you think.”
“I think that no matter how badly you want to get away from me, your magic says otherwise.”
Her stomach tightened.
“That’s ridiculous.”
Draco tilted his head slightly, studying her with infuriating patience.
“I don’t think it is. You’ve been… brilliant today.”
Hermione frowned.
“Brilliant?”
“Stronger. Sharper. More… intense.”
The space between them felt smaller. Draco stepped closer. Hermione remained rooted to the spot.
“Magic feeds on emotion,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “And you’ve been full of emotion today, haven’t you, Granger?”
The way her name rolled off his tongue—low, slow, almost intimate—sent a shiver down her spine.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, though her voice lacked the conviction she wanted.
Draco smirked, closing the last bit of distance between them, close enough now that she could catch the faint scent of mint and sandalwood clinging to him.
“I think you do.”
The walls felt smaller. The air between them crackled with something charged, something electric. Draco lifted a hand, fingers grazing a loose curl that had slipped from her messy updo.
“You were right about one thing, Granger,” he murmured, his voice silk and embers.
“It’s not a coincidence that we keep finding each other.”
Her own breathing was the only sound she could hear. Her skin buzzed, every nerve on high alert.
And when Draco let his hand drop, his fingertips brushing her cheek in the process, Hermione felt her entire body react as if he had cast a spell on her.
Draco couldn’t resist the temptation to kiss her—just like a few days ago in the Great Hall. The closeness demanded it, consumed him. He couldn’t stand another minute. He tried to recall his father’s words, his governesses’ warnings, a lifetime of caution drilled into him: never get close to magical individuals with Muggle ancestry, much less to Muggles themselves. He tried to cling to those thoughts like an anchor, but it was useless.
A sharp, resounding—
“To hell with it.”
—filled the corridor before Draco claimed Hermione’s lips with the desperation of a man dying of thirst before a reservoir. He didn’t just want to taste her. He wanted to drown in her, to lose himself in her warmth, her scent, her presence.
Hermione was just as hungry. She met him without hesitation, fists clenched around his robes as if afraid he might pull away. She dragged him closer—closer than should have been physically possible when there was no space left between them. Draco felt her moan against his mouth, and the sound sent a shudder down his spine.
Hermione wasn’t thinking, only feeling. She wanted to feel him everywhere. His skin, his breath, his body pressing against hers. This was better than in dreams, better than any fevered fantasy she had ever dared to entertain. Reality was intoxicating.
It tasted of forbidden desire. Of sleepless nights with his name on her lips. Of danger. Of something as inevitable as fate itself.
And against all logic, she wanted more.
The air around them seemed to hum. A tingling sensation spread over Hermione’s skin, crawling from the base of her neck to the tips of her fingers, and she knew—it wasn’t just desire. It was magic. Her magic.
As if it had been restrained, held back for too long, and now it flowed freely, responding to Draco’s touch.
Draco felt it too. He knew it the moment the corridor seemed to darken around them—not from lack of light, but because the only thing that existed in his world was her. A familiar, dizzying heat coursed down his spine, and instead of fearing it, he embraced it.
It was his magic recognizing hers.
Like a river meeting its natural course. Like this—this undeniable pull between them—wasn’t a mistake, but an unavoidable truth.
Draco dug his fingers deeper into her waist, molding her against him as his lips moved with reckless abandon, lost in the storm they had unleashed. Hermione arched into him, feeling every wall she had built begin to crumble, feeling her own magic coil around her like a shield, as if it knew something she wasn’t ready to admit.
That this was right.
That this was where she belonged.
That Draco Malfoy and she were never meant to be apart.
Draco tore himself away from her lips with a final, desperate pull, as if his very body resisted letting her go. His breath came ragged and heavy, and when he opened his eyes, he found hers just as dazed, just as lost.
Hermione stepped back, as if distance could bring her clarity, but her back hit the corridor wall, trapping her in place. Draco didn’t move either. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, his hands still clenched like they were itching to reach for her again.
The silence between them was deafening.
They should speak. Say something—anything—that could put an end to what had just happened. But the words lodged in their throats, swallowed by the heat still clinging to the air, by the electricity crackling over their skin, the echo of what they had just done.
Because they knew this—whatever this was—needed to end.
But for the first time… neither of them was sure they wanted it to.