Veritas et Poena (English)

Christmas at Malfoy Manor had never been festive.

There were no carefree laughs, no warm conversations. Only a display of power, of status, of traditions meticulously preserved over generations. At the main table, the porcelain dishes with silver detailing gleamed under the light of floating candelabras. The cutlery was perfectly aligned, and the air held a subtle scent of spices and mulled wine.

Draco sat with tense posture, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched. He knew that one wrong word could spark the explosion that would ruin the evening. But what truly gnawed at him was the presence of Aurélie, seated elegantly across from him, radiating that unwavering air of self-sufficiency.

She knew.
The whole school knew.

Draco had lost count of how many times, over the past few days, he’d felt her gaze fixed on him during dinner or the long conversations that followed. Her expression was never one of surprise—but rather a twisted sort of delight. She hadn’t said anything… yet. But he sensed the latent threat in every word exchanged between them.

And now, here she was, at Christmas dinner, playing her favorite game: the slow torture of uncertainty.

It was Lucius who finally broke the silence, his tone cold and unmistakably haughty.

“Curious how some families can destroy generations of lineage with a single poor decision,” he said, elegantly swirling the wine in his glass. His gaze slowly shifted to Aurélie, who smiled with that studied serenity she wore whenever she was preparing for a calculated strike.

“Oh, yes…” she replied, exhaling with disdain. “My father was… reckless. He believed Muggles could be useful. That their money held the same value as ours.”

Draco felt a knot form in his stomach.

“Davet was far too naïve, really,” Lucius let out a dry laugh, clearly relishing in someone else's disgrace. “How humiliating.”

Aurélie didn’t respond right away. She simply lowered her gaze to her plate, letting her fingers glide along the rim of her glass.

“Muggles did what they do best,” she continued calmly. “Steal. Lie. Destroy. My father never recovered from that mistake. And we…” —her eyes flicked briefly to Draco— “learned that mingling with their world only leads to ruin.”

The comment struck with surgical precision.

Aurélie lifted her glass to her lips, savoring the moment. Draco knew she wouldn’t say anything outright—but she was making it very clear that she could, anytime she pleased.

Lucius nodded slowly, as though the conversation only confirmed what he had always believed.

“Your father’s mistake, Miss Dumont, was trusting them. You cannot expect honor from inferior creatures. It’s like trying to civilize house-elves. A waste of time and resources.”

Narcissa, silent until that moment, traced the edge of her plate with graceful fingers. Though she didn’t contradict her husband, Draco noticed the slight squeeze in the napkin she held.

Aurélie shifted slightly toward him.

“I suppose you understand what I mean, Draco. You, more than anyone, should know.”

Her tone was casual, but he felt the trap hidden in every syllable.

And then, his mind betrayed him.

Because he remembered.

He remembered earlier that very day.

He had visited Hermione’s house, right in the heart of Muggle London. He knew she’d never ask him to come—her pride was as fierce as his own—but one of the nights he had shown up in her bedroom unannounced (something he did every night, actually, a habit Hermione had tried to break with threats, spells, and a flying pillow), he had overheard a conversation he wasn’t meant to hear.

That time, they had almost been caught.

He had stayed hidden inside the wardrobe, squeezed between a coat and some ridiculously short summer dresses that sparked all sorts of improper thoughts, cloaked under a rushed “Notice-Me-Not” charm cast by Hermione.

From there, trapped and ready to apparate if needed, he listened as Mrs. Granger spoke to her daughter.

“Herms, remember what you promised? You said you’d introduce us to that boy.”

Draco’s chest swelled with pride.

She was talking about him.

About him—not some other idiot who’d tried to kiss her in the corridors.

That pride lasted exactly two seconds.

“I want to meet him. You seem too excited about him. That boy you once mentioned—McCormac?”

“Cormac McLaggen, mother,” Hermione corrected her.

“That one. You never even mentioned him, actually—I only knew about him because Harry brought him up when he was here. And you certainly never let us meet him.”

McLaggen.

Draco felt a cold stab in his gut. Of course that grinning, empty-headed gorilla had to make an appearance in the middle of his memory.

When they finally escaped the situation without being discovered, and Hermione mocked his “inability to hide among women’s clothes,” he didn’t miss the opportunity to throw a jab.

“Well, Granger,” he said, dragging the words with theatrical disdain, “I am your boyfriend. Not some temporary distraction like that poor idiot McLaggen. Or are you planning to keep me as a dirty little secret too?”

Hermione looked at him, unbothered. That expression of hers—half infinite patience, half you’re walking on thin ice—amused him more than it should have.

“The difference, Draco,” she said calmly, “is that you sneak into my room like a thief on the run. Maybe McLaggen would’ve had the decency to knock.”

“Right. Maybe because he didn’t know how to apparate with style.”

Surprisingly, she didn’t argue further.

The following night, with one eyebrow raised and her hair still damp from a shower, she asked if he’d be free for tea with her parents on Christmas Eve.

Draco didn’t hesitate.

“As long as your father doesn’t try to shoot me in the back with one of those Muggle contraptions, I’d be delighted.”

Narcissa helped him sneak out that afternoon. She pretended to need him for a personal matter, gracefully freeing him from the suffocating presence of his “special guest”—and sent him off before Lucius could notice his absence.

Draco wasn’t sure how much risk his mother took with that lie, but he thanked her in silence. While he was off attending his first tea with the Grangers, Narcissa waited patiently at Aunt Andromeda’s house, under the guise of a formal visit.

Before he left, his mother walked him to the front hall, adjusted the collar of his coat, and looked at him as if he were five years old again.

“Don’t forget your manners, Draco. You’re not just a Malfoy. You’re also my son… and that makes you a gentleman.”

He nodded. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t reply with sarcasm.

Snow was falling softly onto the pavement when Draco appeared at the end of the street. For a moment, he doubted that this row of identical houses could contain anything remotely resembling a home. But he walked forward with steady steps, his black coat buttoned to the neck, and his silver scarf perfectly in place. He was a Malfoy. But also, that afternoon, he was just a boy trying to make a good impression.

Hermione opened the door before he could ring the bell.

"You made it," she said with a smile that melted the cold right off his shoulders. She wore a wine-colored jumper, and her hair fell around her face in charming disarray.

"Were you expecting I wouldn’t?" he replied with a half-smile. Hermione gave him a sideways glance.

"I was expecting you not to show up directly in the living room."

"I figured your parents weren't quite ready to witness magic in its most elegant form," he said, raising an eyebrow.

Hermione let out a nervous laugh.

"Behave."

"I’ll do my best."

She took his hand before he could say anything else. As he stepped over the threshold, Draco felt as if he were entering another world. There was something warm about the house: the furniture was simple but inviting, the lighting was soft. A Christmas tree decorated with handmade ornaments stood in the corner. The air smelled of cinnamon and freshly baked bread.

"Mum, Dad... this is Draco," Hermione said, a hint of pride in her voice.

Mr. Granger stood up from the armchair. He wore a grey sweater and an unreadable expression.

"Draco," he repeated, as if tasting the name in his mouth. He said it like someone appraising a wine far too expensive for his taste. Then he extended his hand.

Draco hesitated only a fraction of a second before shaking it.

"Mr. Granger. It’s a pleasure."

Mrs. Granger was warmer. She greeted him with a genuine smile.

"So you're the famous... young man. I've been wanting to put a face to the boy who shows up at my house unannounced," she joked.

Draco smiled, though slightly uneasy.

"I assure you, that won’t happen again. Hermione made that very clear."

"I wouldn’t be surprised," Mr. Granger said, sitting back down. There was something sharp in his gaze, like he was trying to see what lay beneath the polished accent and perfect posture.

Hermione led them to the sitting room, where a tray of tea, homemade biscuits, and an apple cake awaited.

Draco sat down without touching anything yet. He was observing. The tea set wasn’t porcelain, and the cutlery wasn’t aligned with magical precision. No elves were serving. But there was something different. Something warm.

"Sugar?" Mrs. Granger asked.

"Yes, thank you." Draco picked up the teaspoon, a little awkwardly, holding it like a delicate war relic.

Hermione noticed. So did he. A smile slipped out.

"It’s just a spoon, Draco. It’s not going to hex you."

Mr. Granger raised an eyebrow.

"So tell me, Draco. What do you do when you're not… making unexpected nighttime visits to my daughter?"

Hermione nearly spat out her tea.

"Dad..."

Draco met the man’s gaze with the same steadiness he used when facing Lucius.

"I study, sir. Top marks in Arithmancy, Transfiguration, Potions, and Charms. And I take care of your daughter as best I can, though that’s not always easy. She’s got quite a spirit." He shot Hermione a playful glance.

Mr. Granger seemed to bite back a smile. But he wasn’t letting up.

"And what are your intentions with my daughter, if it's not too bold to ask?"

"All the good ones," Draco replied without hesitation. "And a few quite serious ones."

The silence that followed was short, but heavy. Mrs. Granger glanced at her husband with a raised brow, as if silently scolding him for treating the boy like one of his difficult patients.

At last, she sighed and turned to Draco with a more genuine smile.

"Tell me, Draco... can you cook?"

Hermione blinked.

"Mum!"

"What? It’s important. I don’t want my daughter starving when she falls madly in love with someone who thinks kitchens clean themselves."

Draco raised an amused eyebrow. He wasn’t easily offended; Muggles had a peculiar way of handling things, and that unexpected bluntness… well, it was refreshing.

"I can make tea, Mrs. Granger. Using the traditional house-elf method... with supervision, of course. And I can peel apples with my wand. Does that count?"

Mrs. Granger let out a hearty laugh.

"That, Hermione, is a sign there’s still hope."

Hermione rolled her eyes, trying not to smile. Draco maintained his composure as if he were in front of a jury, but she could see the faint gleam in his eyes every time her mother laughed at his comments.

"I’m not opposed to learning, by the way," he added. "Especially anything your daughter likes. So if you have a family recipe, I volunteer as a test subject. Even if it means crying over chopped onions."

Mrs. Granger gave him an approving smile, as if Draco had just passed the first part of an unspoken exam.

"Good. So you’re willing to get your hands dirty. That’s something."

Mr. Granger, who had been silently observing the scene like reviewing X-rays, leaned forward.

"Tell me, Draco. What do you think your parents would say if they knew... about this?"

Hermione held her breath.

Draco held his gaze without flinching.

"My father..." —he took a second before continuing— "would probably disapprove. Strongly. He believes in paths that shouldn't cross, in traditions that shouldn’t be broken."

"And you?" Mrs. Granger asked softly.

"I believe my father lives in a world that’s falling apart. And if you don’t know when to change… you end up alone in the ruins."

There was a pause.

"My mother, on the other hand," he added, more calmly, "she’s harder to read. But I have a suspicion... that she might like Hermione. Perhaps more than she’d admit. They’re both just as bossy."

Mrs. Granger nodded, laughing as if she approved of both the answer and the calm way it was delivered.

"Well. You’re more mature than you look, and you seem to know Hermione quite well," she said, without sarcasm.

Draco gave a slight nod.

"Thank you. I try not to look it too often. Strategy."

Mr. Granger smiled, and for the first time, he seemed slightly more at ease.

They drank tea while Draco quietly marveled at every detail the Grangers shared in their private world.

"Thank you for coming, Draco."

Draco stood with him and shook his hand firmly.

"Thank you for having me. It was an honor."

When Hermione walked him to the back entrance of the small garden —a spot hidden among shrubs where he’d arrived discreetly and from which he’d walk to a safe point to Apparate— Draco leaned down and whispered:

"Your parents are lovely. Clearly the logical side of your inheritance."

"And the emotional side?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That’s what I claim for myself these days."

Hermione smiled, and just as she turned to leave, he caught her in a swift, fleeting kiss. When he turned away, she stopped him with a gentle tug on his sleeve.

"Thank you for coming, Draco."

He turned back, looked at her for a moment, then pulled a small folded note from his pocket. He placed it in her hand.

“Tell me your favorite food. I want to learn how to make it.”

And with that, he walked into the darkness, vanishing among the trees.

Hermione closed the door with her heart pounding like a badly cast charm. He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t easy. But, Merlin... he was real.

The silverware still shone flawlessly under the floating chandeliers, as if nothing had happened. As if the air wasn’t heavy with barely-contained electricity. Draco had barely touched his plate since returning from Hermione’s memory.

Aurélie was still watching him.

Aware of it, Draco set down his fork with deliberate slowness and turned his head toward her, as if granting her attention she didn’t deserve.

“Well, Professor Dumont,” he murmured, wearing a lazy smile. “Such a tragedy about your father. It must’ve been hard—having a Muggle outsmart your entire bloodline.”

The blow was veiled in politeness. The silence that followed was absolute.

Narcissa didn’t lift her gaze, but her napkin slipped almost imperceptibly through her fingers, as if holding the tension before it shattered.

Aurélie didn’t respond immediately. Instead of taking offense, she lowered her eyes to her wine glass, swirled it slowly, then looked at him with a curiously soft expression.

“You’re usually more tactful at school, Draco. Though I admit, I prefer you like this… unpredictable,” she said, with a hint of irony and a trace of nostalgia. “It reminds me of the boy who didn’t need anyone—because he already believed he was better than everyone else.”

Draco kept his smile, tilting it ever so slightly.

“And you, just like back in school, still know how to wrap insults in compliments. It’s adorable.”

“Insults?” Aurélie laughed gently, brushing her neck with a hand in a gesture as rehearsed as it was effective. “I’m only talking about how much you’ve changed. I’m surprised… but I like it. You seem less restrained. Freer.”

The comment was gentle, but sharp enough to make Lucius narrow his eyes ever so slightly.

“Free?” Lucius echoed, turning his head very slowly toward his son. “And what chains, exactly, are we referring to?”

Aurélie took a sip, as if unaware of the weight of her own words.

“Oh, you know, Mr. Malfoy… those modern influences so abundant at Hogwarts. Curious company. Inconvenient conversations. Magic that smells… different.”

The air grew thick.

Draco placed his fork on the plate with a dry clink. Then he leaned back with nonchalance, as if untouched by any of it.

“Are you implying something, Professor Dumont?”

“Of course not,” she said quickly, with a warm smile. “I’m merely saying… there’s no need to fear the new. After all, not everything impure is unpleasant. Isn’t that right?”

Lucius frowned slightly. Draco caught, from the corner of his eye, his father scrutinizing him. But he also felt the quiet support of Narcissa, who now twirled her glass with the same calm she wore when things were beneath her.

Draco leaned toward Aurélie, his tone soft now, venomous.

“Are you offering me your understanding, Professor Dumont? Because let me make one thing clear: a Malfoy doesn’t need it.”

She smiled. Sweetly. Poisonously. And Lucius, regaining his composure, seemed almost satisfied with his son’s defiant pride.

“I’m offering my friendship, Draco. You might need it… if you’re keeping questionable company.”

Lucius straightened ever so slightly. He didn’t speak, but his gaze never left his son.

Draco, however, seemed unfazed. He simply reclined again, lifting the glass in front of him.

“We’ll see who needs whom,” he said coolly before taking a long, icy sip. “If I’m not mistaken, you needed my mother’s recommendation—a Malfoy’s—to get your foot in the door.”

Aurélie lowered her gaze and smiled with satisfaction. Lucius said nothing, but the moment had been noted.

And Narcissa… only glanced sideways at her son, with a look Draco knew well. A warning, yes. But also veiled pride.

He was gaining ground. Even if it meant declaring war on his own table.

The evening dragged torturously slow for Draco. He hadn’t planned to appear at Hermione’s room, but the urge to do so kept him wide awake. When he finally retreated to his quarters, sometime past midnight, he began undressing in silence… until the door swung open without warning.

Aurélie walked in without knocking.

“Anyone would think you were getting ready for bed, Draco.”

He turned coldly, wand still in hand.

“Is there something you need, Professor? I’d say yes—urgently—seeing as you didn’t bother to knock. And I must say I deeply dislike being intruded upon in my private quarters.”

Aurélie gave him a sideways smile, delicate and dripping with venom.

“Just a few months ago, things might’ve been different. I’m quite sure of it.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Professor Dumont,” Draco replied, voice ice-cold, “and I’d appreciate it if you left my room. Immediately.”

But Aurélie didn’t move. Instead, she stepped closer, slow and calculated, as if her footsteps could break past his walls. She stopped in front of him—too close.

“I’m talking about that box you kept in your school trunk. The one with my clippings in it.”

Draco’s brow twitched ever so slightly. Shit.

“I wasn’t aware professors were allowed to snoop through students’ belongings without permission. Coming from someone who boasts such refined manners… I find it rather vulgar, actually.”

Aurélie smiled, unaffected.

“That doesn’t answer the real question, Draco. What were those clippings doing there?”

Draco said nothing. He stood still, unmoving, even as Aurélie looped her arms around his neck. He knew he should push her away, do something—anything—but some foolish, primitive part of him wanted to see how far she was willing to go.

“You’re far too close, Professor Dumont. I doubt this behavior is sanctioned by Professor Weasley.”

Aurélie chuckled, low and dry.

“Professor Weasley doesn’t need to know. Neither does Miss Granger.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, feigning curiosity. “Oh, really?”

“Indeed,” she said, with a triumphant smile. “It can be our little secret. You know I’m good at keeping them. As you’ve already discovered.”

Draco studied her for a moment. Then he raised a hand and took her chin between his fingers, pulling her just a little closer—close enough to hear him clearly.

“I know. And that’s exactly why it disgusts me.”

He pushed her back gently, just enough to create distance. Then, hands in his pockets, he leaned against the desk.

“We both know what that box meant. And just this once, I’ll overlook your recklessness. But let me make something perfectly clear: a Malfoy doesn’t appreciate having his privacy violated. I won’t speak a word of this—of either matter—but know that the box and its contents were reduced to ash by my wand. Nothing remains.”

Aurélie smiled again, but something in her expression cracked. She pretended not to hear, as if she could still win.

“Ashes can reignite embers, Draco.”

“I assure you, Professor Dumont—those embers were scattered to the wind.”

A beat of silence. Then a bitter spark lit in Aurélie’s eyes.

“It’s fascinating how those filthy Muggles can deceive. But I never imagined a Malfoy could be so easily manipulated.”

Draco scoffed.

“You can believe whatever you like, Professor. The time when your opinion mattered to me ended months ago. Now, for the third and final time: get out of my sight.”

Aurélie looked at him for a few seconds longer. This time, she said nothing. She didn’t cause a scene. She simply turned on her heel, head held high, steps elegant—almost triumphant. But inside, the truth was different.

She wouldn’t have him. She never really had.

She had felt a spark of power over him the moment she discovered those clippings—when she realized Draco was slipping away and his attention was shifting to Hermione Granger.

And only now, seeing Draco unshaken in front of her, did she grasp the true magnitude of her loss.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Aurélie’s heels struck the marble with a quick, precise rhythm. She wasn’t running. She wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t crying. But inside… she was boiling.

She stopped at the end of the corridor and braced both hands against the wall, fighting the urge to scream. Her heart pounded in her throat, her temples, in every cursed fingertip. So that was it? Just like that?

Was her hold over him truly gone?

Draco Malfoy—the arrogant boy who couldn’t keep his eyes off her even when pretending not to care—had just thrown her out of his room like some random intruder. The years she’d had him under her thumb, the gestures, the unspoken words, the box of memories that betrayed him more than any confession—they meant nothing now.

No.

Now she—Hermione Granger—was the woman who stirred his voice. His fury. His rejection.

And Aurélie knew it with a bone-deep certainty:

Draco no longer desired her.

And there was no greater insult.

In the end, Draco decided to break the promise he had made to Hermione’s parents. He Apparated into her room in the early hours of the morning, his heart beating faster than he would ever admit.

She was fast asleep, hair a tangled mess of gold and brown sprawled across the pillow, breathing with the peace of someone who believed she was safe. He sat on the far edge of the bed, careful not to make a sound, but even that slight movement was enough to wake Hermione.

She blinked slowly, and when she saw him, she didn’t say a word. She simply smiled—soft and warm, the kind of smile that disarmed every defense. With a flick of her wand, she cast the protective charm on the door, an instinct by now, and shifted to the side, making room for him.

Draco took off his shoes, then his jacket and tie, in silence. He slipped under the covers beside her as though it were the only place he could breathe.

Still drowsy, Hermione moved closer to him with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before. As if her body recognized his even in sleep. Draco closed his eyes for a moment, ran a hand down his face, exhausted, holding back everything he didn’t know how to say.

“What happened?” she asked softly, using that tone she reserved for the moments when she could tell something was wrong. That voice that wrapped around him like calm itself.

He shook his head without opening his eyes.

“Nothing worth remembering.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but didn’t press. Instead, she slid her hand across the sheets until she found his, lacing their fingers together like she knew exactly what he needed.

“I know you, Draco. When you purse your lips like that, it’s because someone’s pissed you off.”

He let out a short, rough laugh and gave her hand a small squeeze.

“Only when I purse my lips? I’m flattered. I thought I annoyed you most of the time.”

“Mmm…” she hummed, a sleepy little smile playing on her lips. “You annoy me ninety percent of the time. But right now, you’re in the remaining ten.”

Draco opened his eyes and looked at her. With just that small gesture, without even trying, she erased the entire night. His hands still trembled on the inside, but his gaze softened.

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” he said finally. “I just want to be here.”

She didn’t ask again. She didn’t demand explanations. She just rested her head on his shoulder in a gesture full of quiet intimacy. As if she knew that, in that moment, her presence alone was enough to hold him together.

Draco felt her warm breath through his shirt. And for the first time all night, the world stopped spinning. There was no Aurelie. No Lucius. No weight of legacy or expectations or memories threatening to drown him. There was only her. Hermione. And peace.

“You know,” she whispered, barely audible, “I think this might be the best Christmas gift.”

He tilted his head, curious.

“What is?”

She shrugged, still nestled against his chest, that sleepy little smile stealing the air from his lungs.

“This. That no matter what happens, we always find our way back to each other.”

Something tightened in his chest. Not pain. Something better. Deeper. Like his soul had known that truth long before she spoke it aloud.

He looked at her and lowered his forehead to rest against hers. His lips brushed her nose in an unconscious gesture.

“Yeah…” he murmured. “I think so too.”

Because when they were alone, and the world was reduced to a shared space and a whispered truth, nothing else mattered.

He tightened his fingers around hers and closed his eyes. Just for tonight, just in this moment, nothing else mattered. Not the names. Not the rules. Not the threats.

The only real thing was her.

Draco found peace. Not in his name, not in his inheritance, not in the endless rules that had shaped him since childhood.

He found it in Hermione’s arms, where the world became a distant murmur and the future, a truce worth hoping for.

Hermione squeezed his hand a little tighter, and without needing any more words, Draco knew. No matter what the world said, no matter what poison others tried to spread between them—this was real.

And though he would never say it aloud, he knew Hermione was right: there was no greater Christmas gift than being together.

And no greater punishment than imagining a world where he couldn’t be.

Because not everything that burns leaves ashes… sometimes it just reveals what was real, and what was only smoke. And in the house of Malfoy, one woman walked away without glory, and another—without legacy—became everything an heir could ever want.