Disarm
The day unfolded beneath twinkling lights and the crisp bite of winter air, signaling the imminent arrival of Christmas. Hermione had spent the afternoon with her mother in central London, weaving through shops with bags draped over her arms, making a barely convincing effort to keep her mind off the anticipation waiting for her that night.
“This would look lovely on you,” her mother remarked, holding up a burgundy wool sweater.
Hermione smiled, accepting it without much thought. Her mother had no idea about the whirlwind of thoughts consuming her, the silent countdown ticking away in her heart. Between gift shopping and a brief stop at a café, she managed to feign normalcy. Yet, when they came across a shop window displaying elegant lingerie, something inside her hesitated.
“Would you like to try something on?” her mother asked, her tone casual, unaware of the turmoil beneath Hermione’s calm exterior.
She nodded with a faint smile, stepping into the store as if indulging in a fleeting whim. She chose a deep blue lace set—nothing too obvious, but something special enough to make her feel different. She didn’t think about him. She didn’t consider the possibility of him seeing it. At least, she didn’t admit it.
By the time night fell over London, Hermione found refuge in the shadows of the cemetery. The cold bit into her skin, but the real unease came from the passing minutes with no sign of him. She hugged herself, her breath forming delicate clouds in the air. Every sound made her turn, every stretched-out shadow made her hold her breath. But Draco never came.
Disappointment seeped through her veins like poison. She felt foolish. It had been a mistake to think he would actually show up. Pressing her lips together, she closed her eyes for a brief moment before turning on her heel and vanishing into the night.
Their pact had once forced them to stay close, unable to be apart for too long without suffering its consequences. But as their feelings had begun to shift, so had the magic binding them. It had adapted, no longer demanding their constant proximity. And so, Hermione could only assume that he no longer needed her near to steady his magic.
Aurélie had noticed throughout the afternoon that Draco seemed more impatient than ever. His gaze kept drifting toward the southern exit of the manor—the same one he had once confessed to her, as a child, that he used to sneak out through to fly his broomstick around the gardens, secretly hoping his mother would catch him, no matter the hour. There was no doubt in her mind: Draco was planning to escape.
During dinner, Aurélie made sure to stall him as much as possible. She took her time with every bite, stretching out a conversation about MACUSA with studied patience. Across the table, Draco clenched his fists beneath the wood. He had tried to slip away more than once, but Aurélie had proven to be far craftier than he’d expected. She skillfully steered the conversation with his father until Lucius was the one keeping him occupied, launching into an endless monologue about the family’s future, expectations, and everything Draco had no interest in hearing at that moment.
Every passing minute chipped away at his patience. Every word from his father was a reminder of what he was losing, of what truly mattered, and of the damned expectations weighing on him—expectations that did not include Hermione.
By the time he finally managed to slip away from the manor’s watchful eyes, it was already past midnight. His breath came in quick, uneven bursts as he Apparated to the cemetery… only to find it empty.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He cursed under his breath, but only the wind answered. Running a frustrated hand through his hair, he exhaled sharply.
He had failed.
But he wasn’t about to let it end like this.
With his heart pounding, he reached for the snitch Hermione had given him for Christmas. His fingers brushed against its surface with something close to reverence, and the object responded immediately. A sharp pull tugged at his chest, a direction settling deep within him.
Desperation gripped him as he felt the weight of the pendant resting against his collarbone. Hermione had told him the snitch’s magic would guide him to what he desired most.
Without hesitation, he let it go.
The small silver sphere fluttered into the air before darting off into the night. Draco followed without a second thought. The snitch weaved through cobbled streets and past iron-gated gardens, leading him into a neighborhood completely foreign to him. He moved cautiously, wand in hand, knowing full well he couldn’t use it outside of Hogwarts but unwilling to let his guard down.
Then, suddenly, he collided with something—or rather, someone.
—"Oi, kid! You got somewhere to be, or do you just go around running people over?"—grumbled a man wrapped in a thick coat, a poorly knitted scarf hanging loosely around his neck, and a beanie covering half his face.
Draco staggered back, momentarily stunned. A Muggle. A real, flesh-and-blood Muggle. He had never been this close to one without the barrier of Hogwarts or the safety of an insult to create distance.
—"What… what are you?"—he blurted out, frowning.
—"What am I?"—The man gave him a baffled look.—"You hit your head or something? Now move along."
He looked like Angus Finch, but with worse hygiene and better teeth. It struck him then—Muggles looked just like any wizard. Just like any Squib, for that matter.
Draco opened his mouth, but the snitch resumed its flight, forcing him to follow. Without sparing the man another glance, he pushed forward, weaving through Heathgate and Hampstead Garden Suburb, completely unaware that he was about to arrive at Hermione’s house.
The Snitch finally stopped fluttering in the backyard of a house that looked suspiciously like his Aunt Andromeda’s. In fact, for a brief second, Draco wondered if he had somehow Apparated to the wrong place. The yard was well-kept, with a small winter garden climbing the back wall. Terracotta pots lined up next to a wooden bench, some filled with fragrant herbs, others with wilted winter flowers. A massive oak tree stood in one corner, its bare branches casting long shadows under the dim glow of a streetlamp. Snow had begun to pile along the edges of the stone path leading to the back door, where a warm light seeped through the curtains.
Draco felt the weight of exhaustion and uncertainty settle over him—but also something else. A strange, unfamiliar sensation.
For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was exactly where he needed to be.
He tried the back door with a deep frown. The handle didn’t budge. Locked. Of course. He clicked his tongue in annoyance and instinctively reached for his wand before immediately lowering his hand. Right. No magic. This was a Muggle neighborhood. He couldn’t risk it.
He glanced around for another option.
And then… he saw the oak tree.
It was massive, old, and, most importantly, it had branches thick enough to hold his weight. More importantly, one of them stretched close to a second-floor window that was slightly open. The Snitch hovered just beyond it, taunting him.
Draco narrowed his eyes.
"You have got to be joking."
But the Snitch did not, in fact, joke.
Draco exhaled sharply and pulled off his cloak to move more freely. He had never in his life climbed a tree. Malfoys did not climb trees. Malfoys used brooms, doors, or, if they were feeling particularly unhinged, a well-placed Portkey. But Draco Malfoy was desperate.
His hands gripped the rough bark as he pulled himself up with more effort than he’d ever admit. The first branch groaned under his weight, and he froze.
"Bloody hell,"—he hissed.
It held.
He kept climbing, muttering increasingly creative swears under his breath every time he scraped his hands or nearly lost his footing. Snow dusted the branches, making them slippery, and he could already feel the bruises forming on his shins. He had never felt less dignified in his entire life.
When he finally reached the branch closest to the window, the Snitch moved again.
Draco clenched his jaw.
"You absolute menace."
The gap wasn’t huge, but it was big enough to be a problem. The window was slightly open, and the Snitch was practically winking at him from inside.
He had no choice. He had to jump.
"Brilliant. Fantastic. Best idea I’ve ever had."—he muttered to himself.
With a deep breath, he pushed off the branch with all his strength.
He crashed onto the windowsill with all the grace of a falling Hippogriff. His knee slammed against the frame, sending a sharp jolt of pain up his leg. His hands scrabbled for purchase against the icy ledge as his body tilted dangerously backward.
The curtains shifted.
The window opened wider.
Draco barely had time to look up before he came face-to-face with a very disoriented, very sleepy Hermione Granger. Her hair was an absolute disaster, her eyes were squinting against the dim light, and she looked entirely unprepared to deal with whatever fresh nonsense this was.
They stared at each other.
Draco panted.
Hermione blinked.
Draco grimaced.
"Are you planning to help me or just let me die here?"—he asked through gritted teeth.
For a brief moment, Hermione looked as if she were considering it.
Then she sighed, grabbed his arms, and pulled with more strength than he expected. Between the two of them (and a lot of awkward fumbling), Draco finally tumbled forward—straight onto her bedroom floor. He landed with a very undignified thud.
Silence.
Then, from beyond the door, a voice rang out:
—"Everything alright, Herms?"
Hermione’s eyes widened. She held up a hand, signaling Draco to shut up.
She took a deep breath, and with the calm of someone who had definitely lied before, she responded:
—"All good, Dad! Crookshanks decided jumping off the oak tree was a great idea."
A pause. Then her father chuckled.
—"Crazy cat. Sleep well, sweetheart."
They waited until his footsteps faded down the hall.
Hermione turned to Draco, hands on her hips, unimpressed.
Draco, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, exhaled.
"For the record,"—he muttered,—"I hate that cat."
She turned to Draco with a frown and, without another word, pulled out her wand and cast a Muffliato with a swift flick. The faint hum of the spell filled the air, but what pleased her most was the incredulous look on Malfoy’s face.
“McGonagall got me a Ministry pass,” she said firmly. “I’m of age, and since I’m in my final year, I can use magic in the Muggle world.” She cleared her throat. “Apparently, they trust my discretion.”
Draco didn’t reply, but for some reason, the comment struck a nerve. He straightened up with as much dignity as he could muster, dusting off his coat and smoothing out the creases in his clothes with automatic motions.
Silence hung between them, heavy and unrelenting.
Hermione crossed her arms, her gaze sharp as a blade.
“What are you doing here? How did you get here?”
Draco wanted to close the distance between them, to kiss her without a second thought, to feel the warmth of her skin against his. But he knew he couldn’t. Not with the way she was looking at him—like she was holding back something far more dangerous than anger.
Keeping her waiting was practically unforgivable. Maybe not to everyone, but certainly to him. He didn’t want to dwell on her irritation because, deep down, what really unsettled him was her disappointment.
“I’m guessing you waited for me at the cemetery.”
“Ten points to Slytherin,” Hermione said flatly, not bothering to hide her sarcasm.
Draco let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of guilt settle over him.
“I wanted to leave earlier, but only my father could turn a simple conversation into a never-ending monologue… and Professor Dumont encouraged it.”
The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them.
But not as much as Hermione did. Her eyes widened slightly, her expression hardening almost instantly.
“Aurélie?”
Silence stretched between them, thick with tension.
Draco forced himself to hold her gaze, even though every instinct screamed at him to look away.
“I didn’t know she’d be at the Manor,” he finally said, his voice more measured than he felt. “My mother invited her to spend the holidays with us.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing him as if she were searching for the tiniest crack in his words. A chill ran down Draco’s spine.
“Well,” she murmured, her voice laced with something he couldn’t quite name. “How convenient.”
Draco frowned.
“What are you implying?”
Hermione shook her head, a tight, unreadable smile on her lips.
“Nothing. No point in talking about it, is there?”
A pang of unease settled in his chest, a mix of confusion and something far more unsettling. It wasn’t just about him being late. Not entirely.
“Hermione…”
“I don’t want to talk about you spending Christmas with her,” Hermione said, and though she tried to keep her voice steady, there was the faintest tremor in her tone.
Draco took a step toward her, but she immediately stepped back.
“Hermione, you know it means nothing…”
She looked at him then, and something in her expression made his breath catch. It wasn’t anger. Not entirely.
“Did it ever mean everything to you, Draco?”
Silence fell between them, thick and unyielding.
Draco didn’t know what else to say. He just wanted to hold her, to feel her against his chest and make her understand that she meant everything to him now. He had spent the entire day waiting to see her, longing for this moment, and nothing was going the way he had planned. But he wasn’t leaving without clearing things up, without fighting for her, even if the way Hermione was looking at him made him think that leaving him hanging from her windowsill wouldn’t have been a bad idea.
“It’s far too hypocritical of me to ask you to understand when I was the one who told you to stay away from Charlie Weasley.”
Hermione let out a short, dry laugh—completely devoid of humor.
“You said ‘any man,’ Draco.”
“I know what I said,” he exhaled in frustration, running a hand through his hair. “And now, Aurélie is in my own house.”
Hermione averted her gaze, her expression hardening as if trying to convince herself of something.
“It seems pretty clear to me. There’s nothing left to say.”
“Yes, there is. We need to talk about this.”
She shook her head, swallowing down the words that fought to escape. But then she looked at him again, her brown eyes searching his, perhaps for a truth she wasn’t ready to hear.
“If the situation were reversed, what would you do, Draco?”
The mere thought of Charlie being under the same roof as Hermione made his stomach turn. But what infuriated him the most was the truth—she had chosen not to spend the holidays at the Burrow for him. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she had wanted to spare him the discomfort that she was now feeling herself.
Draco closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled slowly.
“It would be unthinkable for me. You know I wouldn’t be able to handle it.”
Hermione tilted her head slightly, studying him, her voice softer now, but no less firm.
“Why?”
He wanted to answer without thinking. His first instinct, the most primal one, urged him to say that she was his, that she couldn’t be near anyone else because he wouldn’t allow it. But that wasn’t it. Or at least, not entirely.
Draco swallowed hard and looked at her, his face more open than he had ever allowed it to be.
“Because I know what it feels like to be close to you, Hermione,” he said, his voice rough, vulnerable. “Because I know the warmth in your voice when you talk about the things you love, because I’ve seen the way your eyes shine when you believe in someone. Because I know how easy it is to love you… and it terrifies me that someone else might realize it too.”
Hermione’s breath hitched, her body betraying her with the slightest shiver. Her lips parted, as if she was about to say something, but she didn’t.
And Draco knew, with absolute certainty, that she understood.
His confession hung in the air between them, fragile and raw. Hermione didn’t look away, but she didn’t say anything either. And Draco could only wonder if it was already too late.
“It’s not fair,” she finally said, her expression unreadable. “It’s not fair for me to ask you to understand when I never did.”
Draco frowned.
“What are you talking about?”
Hermione pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to say it. She didn’t want to admit that, deep down, a part of her understood all too well what he was feeling now.
“Charlie,” she whispered at last. “The way I was obsessed with him for years.”
Draco felt a sharp sting of jealousy crawl down his spine, but he swallowed it. This wasn’t the time.
“You’re telling me that what you felt for him was the same as what I felt for Aurélie?”
Hermione shook her head.
“I’m telling you that if you had asked me a year ago, I would have sworn Charlie was the only person I wanted to be with. And it wasn’t true.”
Draco watched her closely, catching the vulnerability in her voice, the weight of her words.
“What changed?”
She let out a breath, looking at him as if the answer was obvious.
“You.”
Something inside Draco loosened, as if an invisible knot in his chest had finally come undone.
“And you changed everything for me,” he whispered, stepping closer. “I’ve never told anyone else I was theirs, Hermione.”
Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, as if she were fighting something within herself. And when she opened them again, Draco knew she wouldn’t walk away.
Not this time.
He swallowed hard, lowering his gaze for a second before daring to say what he had never admitted—not even to himself.
“I think… no, I’m sure I’ve never belonged to anyone, Hermione. I only took. I only claimed. I never really cared. And even now…” He clenched his jaw. “That selfish, possessive feeling is still there. You know that. You can see it.”
His breathing was uneven, but his eyes held a kind of determination Hermione had never seen in him before.
“But I don’t want you to just belong to me,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want you to choose me. Not because I force it, or because I want it so badly it hurts. I want you to want to be by my side. Because you prefer me—with my possessive jealousy, my pride, and all my arrogance, and despite the pact.”
Draco felt his chest tighten with a truth he had always avoided.
“And it terrifies me,” he admitted, his voice carrying a trace of bitterness. “It terrifies me that someone else might see what I see in you. Because I know I’d lose you.”
Hermione trembled slightly, but she didn’t look away.
“Because I don’t even deserve you,” his voice cracked at the end. “I don’t know if I could ever deserve you after the way I treated you for the last six years.”
For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy wasn’t demanding. He wasn’t manipulating or staking a claim. He was offering himself.
And Hermione, with a lump in her throat, realized she had never truly known what she wanted… until now.
His confession took not only Hermione by surprise but also Draco himself, a wizard who had always been so proud. Saying it out loud made the weight of his feelings even heavier. He had waited so long for this—for something he once thought only Aurélie could give him. He had spent countless nights imagining this moment, rehearsing responses, convincing himself he didn’t need it. But he had never allowed himself to think about how easily Hermione could shatter him with just one word.
She looked at him with shining eyes, and Draco felt the ground vanish beneath his feet. Because she saw him. Truly saw him—without the masks, without the lies, without the armor he had built around himself for years.
And that terrified him.
Hermione took a step forward, and Draco felt his heart hammer against his ribs.
“Draco…” she whispered, her voice trembling with something he wasn’t ready to decipher.
He swallowed hard, unable to move away.
He didn’t know who closed the distance first—whether it was him, desperate to hold her, or her, finally letting all her walls come crashing down. The only thing that mattered was that, in the next moment, Hermione was in his arms, her fingers clutching his shirt as if letting go was never an option.
“Don’t ever say you don’t deserve me again,” she murmured against his neck, her voice breaking—shaking with something raw. “Don’t ever say I wouldn’t choose you.”
Draco shut his eyes tightly. The feel of her against him, her warmth, her scent—it was too much. It was everything.
He rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in like air after drowning.
“Say it, then,” he whispered, his hand sliding slowly down her back, holding her with barely restrained fervor. “Say it, and I swear I’ll never doubt it again.”
Hermione pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. Her pupils were blown wide, her expression fierce, and something about it made his blood burn.
“Yours,” she said, with a certainty that knocked the breath from his lungs. “Always yours.”
And Draco was lost.
Nothing else mattered. No more doubts, no more fears, no more hesitation. Just the sound of Hermione’s ragged breath as he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her with everything he had never allowed himself to feel until now.
There was no softness, no caution—only the desperate need to claim and be claimed, to prove that after everything, they were still here, choosing each other over and over again.
And this time, they knew.
It wasn’t because of the pact.
It was because of them.
The kiss wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.
Draco held her with the same desperation as a man clinging to his last hope at the edge of an abyss. His lips barely left hers before his hands slid down to her waist, as if he needed to feel her warmth, her presence—to make sure she was really there, that this wasn’t some fever dream woven from his own longing.
Hermione didn’t pull away. Instead, she looked at him with a tenderness that nearly undid him.
“Draco…” she whispered his name with a softness he knew he didn’t deserve.
He brushed his fingers along her cheek, as if she were something precious, something irreplaceable.
“Tell me you want this,” he murmured, his voice rough, unsteady.
Hermione’s lips curved into the smallest of smiles—one filled with love, with certainty. Her hands traveled slowly to the hem of his shirt, lifting it deliberately, as if savoring every second.
“I want this,” she said without hesitation.
And with those three words, Draco knew he was going to lose himself in her all over again.
Hermione pulled away just enough to turn toward the door, securing it with a soft click. Draco watched her do it with a mix of tenderness and growing desire. He saw her lean against the wood for the briefest moment, as if trying to steady herself beneath the weight of what was about to happen. Then, with quiet determination, she took his hand and led him toward the bed, drawing him into her silent resolve.
She lay back with effortless confidence, with a beauty that stole his breath. And only then, as the moonlight spilled through the window, illuminating her more clearly, did he notice.
Beneath her pajama top, deep blue lace peeked through the straps and neckline.
His breath caught.
She hadn’t taken it off.
Not because she hadn’t wanted him to see it… but because she hadn’t gotten the chance.
Draco nearly closed his eyes in frustration, imagining her waiting, wearing that for him. But the thought that truly shook him was another.
What if someone else had found her in the middle of the night? What if some stranger—like that damned Muggle he’d passed on the way back—had noticed her, alone, vulnerable? The very idea made his stomach twist. It made his blood burn.
And now she was here, lying beneath him, his in every way a soul could belong to another.
“Bloody hell, Hermione,” he murmured, his voice rough with reverence.
She blinked, not understanding at first. But when her gaze followed his, realization dawned, and the most beautiful blush spread across her cheeks.
Draco didn’t let her look away.
He leaned over her, bracing her between his arms, pressing soft kisses along her jaw, her neck, her collarbone—following the path of that maddening lace.
“You have no idea how beautiful you are,” he whispered against her skin, voice breaking.
Hermione shivered, her breath catching as her fingers dug into his back.
Draco wasn’t in a hurry. Not this time.
Tonight wasn’t about hunger or urgency, or proving to the world that they belonged to each other.
It was about them.
It was about every lingering touch, every shared breath, the way their bodies fit together so naturally that all the chaos surrounding them just moments ago faded away.
Draco loved her slowly, tenderly, with the kind of devotion only someone who had never truly had anything real could give.
And when their entwined hands finally fell to the sheets, when their breathing evened out and their bodies still sought each other even in the lull of exhaustion, he knew there had never been a moment more perfect than this.
Because there was no longer a pact.
Only them.
They fell asleep like that—fingers tangled, the silver glow of the moon casting soft shadows across their tired bodies.
But when the dawn painted the sky in warm golds and soft pinks, Draco woke first.
And he couldn’t stop looking at her.
Hermione slept soundly, her breath slow and even, her wild hair sprawled across the pillow, her hand still loosely holding his, as if even in sleep, she refused to let go.
Draco lifted his free hand, brushing a stray curl from her face, almost afraid of shattering the perfection of this moment. Was certain that nothing, not fate nor his own fears, would take him away from her side. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t let anything or anyone interfere with what he felt, because he knew, with overwhelming conviction, that his place was now beside her and that he would do whatever it took to stay there.