The one
The Hogwarts Express carried back the echo of a routine that no longer belonged to them—not entirely. Not after the days spent at home, the nights together in Hermione’s room. Not after the shared warmth, the full plates at lunch in her house, or New Year’s Eve dinner at the Burrow, and the way their hands never let go beneath the table.
Draco watched the castle rising through the snow from the window of the carriage. Majestic, but cold. As if winter had settled not only on the stone but also on the decisions waiting inside.
Hermione sat across from him, with Ginny at her side.
Theo was next to him, silent.
The carriage brought them to the castle steps.
Draco crossed the entrance hall with his usual elegance. He headed straight for the Head Students’ quarters. Hermione had gone ahead—she was already unpacking.
During the evenings they had spent discussing how to divide the space they now shared—at least for the remainder of the school year—they had decided to keep the room with the window overlooking the grounds. The other one had become a makeshift storeroom, filled with Hermione’s forgotten library books and Draco’s Quidditch gear and uniforms.
Even though they’d spent months in the same space, something felt different now. It was warm. Like home.
The first day back was always a kind of organized chaos: brooms forgotten in corners, voices echoing down stone corridors, professors firmly reminding everyone that Christmas was over. But Draco moved through it all with unusual clarity. He knew exactly where he was going.
He found her in the North Wing corridor, where only the faint whisper of frost-covered stained glass could be heard. Hermione stood leaning against a column, murmuring schedules under her breath.
“You’re pretending to be busy,” he said, walking up to her.
She didn’t look up right away.
“I’m trying to memorize everything before McGonagall drags us into Charms.”
“You still have time. And I have five minutes.”
“Five?”
“Maybe four,” he corrected, already in front of her.
She didn’t step back. She never did. But this time, she didn’t move forward either.
“I’d rather not get on Sprout’s bad side,” she muttered. “I’m starting to think she likes you and doesn’t appreciate seeing me near you.”
Draco looked scandalized.
“For Merlin’s sake, Hermione—your curls are far more respectable than hers. I’d never leave you.”
Hermione laughed.
She leaned in, as if the castle itself had granted them a moment of peace. She kissed him calmly, without rush, without the desperate fire of their first times.
When they broke apart, Draco rested his forehead against hers.
“Everything feels easier in this place. With you.”
“It is. Until someone reminds us it’s not supposed to be,” Hermione whispered, without bitterness.
The days passed quietly. The Head Students’ common room was empty. Hermione had gone out early to retrieve a few texts McGonagall had left for her in the restricted eastern library. She returned slowly, not expecting to find anyone there.
But something in the air shifted as she walked down the hall.
Footsteps. Low voices.
She froze at the sound of them.
Draco. And a deeper voice.
It wasn’t common to see Lucius Malfoy at the castle—and certainly not outside the pre-approved “school board affairs” schedule. If he was here, it meant something. Hermione knew it instantly. And even more so when she heard his voice, cold and sharp as steel:
“There are some unpleasant rumors circulating, Draco.”
Hermione pressed herself against the wall, hidden behind the curve of stone that framed the entrance to their shared room. She shouldn’t be listening. But she couldn’t walk away. Not now.
Inside, silence fell briefly.
“And since when do you bother with rumors?” Draco replied, his tone neutral.
“Since they threaten what I’ve spent decades building with discipline,” Lucius responded. “Since they whisper that my son is sharing more than responsibilities with a Muggle-born. And judging by a few items I’ve seen around here, it appears to be true.”
Hermione felt her breath catch.
For a moment, only the faint crackle of magical fire could be heard from somewhere in the room.
And then, finally, Draco’s voice:
“Not everything that’s said deserves an answer.”
Hermione closed her eyes.
Lucius scoffed, unsurprised.
“You’re not exactly denying it. That, frankly, is more than unsettling—it’s repugnant.”
“Well, whatever scandalous rumors you’ve heard, it seems the answer is right in front of you,” Draco said, gesturing toward the Gryffindor scarf resting beside Crookshanks.
“This conversation ends now. Whatever is happening here ends today. And I expect you’ll have the time to reflect on this disgraceful lapse in judgment.”
“It’s not a lapse, Father. It’s a relationship. My choice.”
Hermione stifled a gasp.
The silence that followed was glacial.
Lucius studied his son as if he no longer recognized him.
“And you think you can mingle with a Muggle-born without dragging our name through the mud?”
Draco smiled. Not mockingly. With something closer to… compassion.
“No one’s afraid of getting their hands dirty anymore, Father. That’s your world. Not mine.”
Lucius gripped his cane tightly.
“Have you forgotten what it cost to build and preserve our legacy?”
“Yes,” Draco said. “It seems to be the only thing that’s ever mattered since I was old enough to understand.”
Lucius stepped closer. No longer poised. Tense.
“She doesn’t understand the weight of our name. She won’t know how to protect you.”
Draco held his gaze.
“I’m not asking her to protect me. Just to stand beside me. And she’s done it better than anyone.”
Hermione felt her eyes sting.
Lucius stayed frozen, his mouth tightening as if the words scorched him.
“So you're willing to throw away generations of blood for… sentiment?”
“For a simple, insignificant little witch?”
Draco took a breath, then answered—voice steady, calm, unshakable.
“Her name is Hermione Granger. And you won’t erase her from my story.”
Lucius didn’t respond. Didn’t leave. Just stood there, a statue refusing to accept it had already cracked.
Draco turned and walked to the door.
He didn’t tremble. He didn’t hesitate.
And when he crossed it, he knew that something inside him had finally been set free.
The note appeared on her desk like an enchanted whisper.
“Hermione, I’ll be in the greenhouse garden at five. Please come.”
— N. M.
It said nothing more. But it said everything.
Hermione spent hours getting ready—hours that passed in minutes. She didn’t dress up. She simply chose something that made her feel like herself. Draco didn’t say much when she told him. He wasn’t worried about the meeting; just days before, Narcissa had visited him personally to inform him that his father had revoked his access to the Malfoy vault. She’d reminded him, quietly and without pity, that he would always have access to her personal one.
When Hermione arrived, Narcissa Malfoy was already there. Standing among the winter plants that clung stubbornly to the season’s end, dressed in pale gray, her hands covered by fine dragonhide gloves.
“Mrs. Malfoy,” said Hermione, her voice firm even though her stomach was twisting.
“Miss Granger,” Narcissa replied. No smile, but no sharpness either.
There was a brief pause. Then Narcissa extended a hand—not to shake hers, but to gesture toward a stone bench.
“Please, sit with me.”
Narcissa didn’t rush to break the silence.
Hermione sat beside her on the bench, her back straight, fingers laced in her lap. The greenhouse was softly lit by floating enchanted orbs that shimmered like fireflies. Among the hardier winter blooms, a cluster of white narcissus grew with quiet determination—exactly the color of the name that still stood between them.
“I’ve always liked narcissus flowers,” Narcissa said at last. “Not for the reasons people assume.”
Hermione turned slightly toward her.
“And why, then?”
“Because they bloom when no one expects them to. When everything else seems asleep.”
Hermione didn’t answer immediately. Sometimes, answers ruin truths.
“You know it’s your flower,” she said quietly.
Narcissa nodded, still not looking at her.
“And I don’t mind. Not all names are inherited with pride. Some must be scrubbed clean through choices.”
The words hung there, heavy but not hostile.
“Was it hard,” Hermione ventured, “being a Malfoy?”
“It was. And sometimes, it still is. But the hardest part,” Narcissa said, more to the air than to her, “was raising someone who could carry the name without becoming its prisoner.”
Hermione pressed her lips together.
“Draco isn’t a prisoner. Not anymore.”
Narcissa turned to look at her. Her eyes were a clear, icy blue—like her son’s, when he wasn’t lying.
“No,” she agreed. “But it’s taken work.”
Another silence followed, less stiff than before. Narcissa leaned forward slightly, as if confiding in a peer rather than addressing a threat.
“Do you enjoy reading out loud?”
Hermione blinked at the shift in tone.
“Yes… I suppose so. When I’m alone.”
“Draco was a difficult child. Brilliant, but… unruly. He wouldn’t sleep unless someone read to him. Stories of ancient duels. Treatises on magical history. He preferred Cicero to Beedle the Bard.”
Hermione smiled despite herself.
“Some things haven’t changed.”
“No,” Narcissa said. “But now he doesn’t need someone to read to him. He only needs someone who’ll listen—when he’s ready to speak.”
Hermione lowered her gaze. She knew exactly what that meant.
“I listen. Even if he doesn’t always realize it.”
“I know,” Narcissa replied. “And I know he hears you more than he lets on. I saw it in his eyes when he told me he no longer depended on us. Still—” she added, with quiet finality, “—let me assure you, Miss Granger, that you will always have my support. In every way that matters.”
Hermione turned to her, throat tight with emotion.
“Are you angry with him?”
“No,” Narcissa said, her voice as composed as ever. “I’m proud. Despite everything... And I assure you, Miss Granger—Lucius will be proud too. Even if he refuses to admit it for now.”
Hermione swallowed hard. Narcissa stood, brushing off her gloves with graceful precision.
“I didn’t come to test you. I came to see if you were real.”
“And…?”
Narcissa looked at her, that familiar, unreadable calm settling over her features.
“You weren’t what I expected,” she said, without malice. “And that, believe me, is a compliment.”
Hermione smiled faintly, remembering how Draco once told her that his mother often formed opinions of people before meeting them—and that if those opinions ever changed, it could only be for the better.
Narcissa turned, took a few steps forward, and then paused—without looking back.
“If you can get Draco to stop fighting his name as much as he’s willing to fight for what he wants… then keep choosing each other. While you can.”
And then she was gone.
When Hermione returned to the Head Students’ common room, Draco wasn’t there.
Only the familiar silence.
The fire, low and glowing.
An open book on the sofa.
His cloak, still hanging.
But she didn’t need to see him to know that he, too, had changed.
Something had shifted between the Draco who had accompanied her to the station and the one who now left quiet traces of himself across the room.
Because the bond between them was humming—not with anxiety, but with something else.
A kind of serene force that ran over her skin like an ancient enchantment.
He had faced his father. She knew.
He hadn’t spoken of it, hadn’t boasted, hadn’t worn it like armor. He had done it out of conviction—not to prove anything to her, but to himself.
And that, to Hermione, was worth far more.
She walked to her room. It was empty too.
She crossed the hall to the other room.
She found him with his back to her, organizing books that refused to fit on the shelf.
Draco turned slowly, unsurprised.
“How was it?” she asked plainly.
“Brief,” he answered. “She’s practical. Just like you.”
“Draco,” Hermione said, her voice neither low nor loud—just real. “Are you okay?”
She didn’t look down at him. Not from above. Not from expectation.
“I’m burning,” she whispered.
Draco didn’t move.
He didn’t need to.
She was the one who crossed the distance between them.
And kissed him.
The kiss wasn’t rushed.
It was a line drawn with precision, as if Hermione had been waiting for exactly this moment to mark the end of every fear she’d ever had. There was no urgency. Just deliberate pressure. A quiet certainty.
Draco didn’t respond immediately.
Not because he hesitated, but because there was no need to hurry.
Hermione was there—not just in her body (he knew that well), but in the way she chose him again, as if every touch was a renewed decision.
When he raised his hands, it was slowly. He cupped her face with a reverence that bordered on awe, as though he still couldn’t believe he could touch her like this without everything breaking apart.
Their lips found each other again—deeper, more sure.
Hermione exhaled against his mouth, trembling slightly. Not from nerves, but from that electric sensation that comes when desire no longer hurts, no longer demands, only stays.
Draco drew her closer, guiding her gently to his chest like he needed to feel the heartbeat of something he had long thought he didn’t deserve. His hand slid down the curve of her spine, resting just at the hem of her shirt. The fabric was thin—like all the things that separate people who know each other too well to fear touch.
Hermione traced her fingertips along his jaw, down his neck, to the first button of his shirt, which quivered ever so slightly with his measured breathing.
She looked at him. Didn’t ask for permission.
And he, without a word, dipped his head slightly, as if giving consent had become unnecessary.
Hermione slipped off her sweater, then her cloak, and then her tie.
Each motion was slow, intentional—a silent way of saying “I see you” instead of “I want you fast.”
Their eyes were transparent to each other in that moment, in a promise that didn’t need to say “I love you” because it was already deeper than that.
Draco, always composed, always in control, closed his eyes when she placed her lips just below his collarbone.
His skin smelled like winter and faint spices—a mix of the common room, worn books, and his badly stashed broomstick.
When Hermione leaned back to pull off her sweater completely, revealing her shape beneath a nearly sheer shirt, Draco didn’t move.
He didn’t reach for her.
He just watched—with devotion. With hunger.
With respect.
She had never felt more seen than she did in that moment.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, no adornment, no exaggeration. Just truth.
Hermione flushed, but didn’t look away.
“I know,” she replied with a soft smile. “You made me believe it.”
Draco ran his hands down her waist, steady and firm, as if he could anchor her to the world with just his touch.
He lifted her slightly and sat her on the edge of the desk.
Hermione looked at him with a mischief only he knew how to draw out.
“Are you laughing at me?” he asked, pulling off his shirt.
“No,” she grinned. “I’m laughing at how lucky I am. Have you seen yourself lately?”
He leaned in, resting his forehead gently against hers.
“If anyone’s lucky here, it’s me.”
And then he kissed her.
This time, it wasn’t slow.
It was deep, complete—like he needed to leave his name on her skin without a wand.
The wood creaked beneath her as she arched her back.
Her body knew his.
Their intimacy had become something like a ritual—a way to affirm one another again and again.
“Yours,” she breathed.
“Mine,” he whispered.
Draco’s hands moved along her ribs as if he were memorizing them. Hermione pressed her fingers into the small of his back, pulling him closer. They found each other with the ease of people who no longer needed to discover one another—only to inhabit.
They stood face to face, and the air between them felt so dense it almost had texture.
Hermione didn’t need words.
Neither did Draco.
The conversation had ended long before they ever touched.
Now, all that remained was the silence of two people who knew exactly what they wanted and were no longer afraid to show it.
She stepped forward slowly.
And when she was close enough to feel his breath against her collarbone, she raised her hands and began unbuttoning his shirt.
One.
Two.
Three buttons.
Each click slower than the last, as if she didn’t want to reach the end too quickly.
Her fingers moved with a delicate precision, like she was opening a book she loved.
Draco didn’t touch her—not yet.
He only watched.
Her eyes.
Her neckline.
Her lips.
Then her face again—always her face.
As if that was the only map he was truly afraid of losing.
When she slid the shirt off his shoulders, she did it with both hands at once, tracing the edges of his collarbones with her fingertips.
The fabric hit the floor as if it had fallen of its own accord.
Draco didn’t say a word.
But his breathing had changed.
Deeper.
Tighter.
Hermione stepped closer and placed her hands on his bare chest.
She felt it—beating fast, hard.
Not from nerves. From anticipation.
He lifted a hand and touched the fabric of her blouse.
At first, he just held it.
As if he wasn’t sure he should continue.
But she raised her arms, giving silent permission.
Draco began to lift the garment, sliding it over her waist, her ribs, her arms.
The brush of his fingers was warmer than the cloth itself.
By the time he reached her neck, the blouse was already falling away.
Only the straps of her bra and the bare skin beneath remained.
Hermione felt the air touch her before he did.
And then he looked down.
He looked at her with a mix of awe, quiet gratitude, and a desire so deep it carried softness with it.
He didn’t rush to touch her.
Instead, he ran the back of his hand along her shoulder, caressing without claiming.
Then he pressed a gentle kiss to the spot where the bone curved, light and reverent.
Hermione unfastened her bra with a quiet ease.
Draco swallowed.
He still hadn’t fully touched her, but with every passing second, she became more his.
Not as a possession.
As an offering.
She unbuttoned his trousers.
Never breaking eye contact.
Draco only looked down when he felt her fingers sliding against him with unerring precision.
She undressed him with the same reverence someone might use when writing a sacred name.
He helped her remove the last pieces of her own clothing.
It wasn’t clumsy.
It wasn’t rushed.
It was… necessary.
And when they stood there, both of them completely bare, there was no shame.
There was a pause.
And in that pause, they said everything.
With their eyes.
With their bodies.
With all the desire that had been held back—and was now finally free.
Hermione extended her hand.
Draco took it.
And led her to the bed.
Hermione climbed on top of him with the same calm she used when reading a difficult spell: focused, deliberate, with the certainty of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing—and why.
Draco looked at her as if he wasn’t sure whether to breathe or just lie there, still, surrendered.
His bare chest rose just slightly with every exhale, and his hands rested on either side of her hips, trembling, waiting.
Hermione placed one hand over his chest, right above his heart.
With the other, she guided herself onto him, sliding with precision, pausing consciously just before fully lowering herself.
It was a long moment, and a short one too.
A held breath.
A quiet gasp in both their throats.
Draco squeezed his eyes shut as his fingers gripped the sheets, like he needed to hold on to something more than her just to keep from unraveling.
Hermione felt him shudder beneath her, his body tense with the effort not to move, not to take over, to let her set the pace. To let her lead.
She leaned forward, touching his face with her fingertips, tracing slowly down his jawline, along his neck, his collarbones, his abdomen.
There were no words.
Only that thick, enveloping heat stretching between them like an unnamed spell.
Hermione began to move—gently, rhythmically—not chasing speed, but depth. Each time she sank back down, a moan escaped from one of them. Her mouth was parted, her eyes half-lidded.
His forehead was beaded with sweat, his lips trembling from all the things he wasn’t saying.
Draco placed his hands on her waist, as if to make sure she wouldn’t vanish.
But he didn’t guide her.
He just held on.
Hermione followed the rhythm her body knew: slow, undulating—more a dance than anything mechanical.
Every movement was a declaration.
I’m here, and I choose you. I’m yours without belonging to anyone.
The sound of skin meeting skin was barely audible, muffled by shared breath and the heartbeat between their ribs.
The world had narrowed to the space between them.
The brush of thighs, the press of hips, a gaze that didn’t flinch.
Draco slid one hand down the curve of her thigh, then up her waist, until it rested over her heart. He didn’t press down. Just left it there, feeling her pulse beneath his palm.
“Hermione…” he whispered, voice cracking, “I don’t know if I could ever feel this with anyone else.”
She leaned down, pressing her chest against his, and kissed him open-mouthed, with tongue, with hunger.
Not out of need.
But out of surrender.
They moved like that, slower each time, deeper with every breath.
There was no explosive end.
It wasn’t that.
It was something vaster.
Softer.
A kind of emotional expansion that left them empty and full all at once.
And when Hermione finally collapsed onto his chest, sweat still warm between them, Draco said nothing.
He just closed his eyes.
And held her.
Because that moment didn’t ask for explanations.
Only for memory.
Hermione didn’t move right away.
Her body rested against his, her cheek on his chest, her ear tuned to the echo of a heart that still refused to settle. Her skin was damp—not just from sweat. It was like the heat they had created between them refused to fade.
He wrapped both arms around her—one across her back, firm but warm, the other tracing slow, hypnotic patterns along her waist. As if now that he had her like this, he didn’t know how to stop touching her.
“You’re still shaking,” Draco whispered, voice rough, like his breath hadn’t quite come back.
Hermione didn’t respond at first. She only turned her head, brushing her lips softly against his skin.
“It’s not from the cold.”
“Then why?”
“I don’t want this moment to end.”
Draco closed his eyes. He kissed her forehead—soft, slow—as if he were thanking something sacred. He didn’t speak. He just pulled her closer, his hand running down her bare back as though he could etch her into memory by touch alone.
“Does it hurt?” she asked after a pause.
“No.”
“Nothing?”
“Only my heart.”
Hermione lifted her head slightly, resting her chin on his chest. She looked at him. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling—but his expression belonged to someone not thinking about tomorrow.
“Why does it hurt?”
Draco looked at her. Not with drama. Not with fear.
With a softness so rare in him, it could only have been born from this night.
“Because this…” he said, running his fingers gently along her bare arm, “this feels so perfect, so fucking real… that I’m afraid it’ll be the last perfect thing we ever have.”
Hermione swallowed. She brushed his jaw with her fingertips. Her body still buzzed with remnants of desire, but the emotion had surpassed everything else.
“Don’t say that.”
“I think it,” he replied, not breaking his gaze. “Sometimes I think nothing in my life will ever feel as clear as this. As you. And that scares me.”
She kissed him—not on the lips, but on the cheek, just beside his mouth. Then on his forehead. And lastly, over his heart, where it still beat too fast.
“I have you now. And you have me.”
Draco nodded. But his eyes still carried the wound of what might one day slip away.
“I don’t know if that’s enough.”
“It is,” Hermione said, without hesitation. “Because we’re here. Because after everything… you stayed. And we didn’t hide.”
“It wasn’t a choice at first,” he murmured with a hint of dry humor. “But I guess it became instinct.”
She smiled.
“Then even your instincts want me.”
He pulled her closer again, this time with their legs entwined, as if neither wanted to leave a single part of themselves untouched.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of a candle nearly burned out.
Outside, the night pressed on.
The castle slept.
Only they breathed.
Draco traced lines down her back with the tip of his finger, sometimes pausing to draw shapes that didn’t exist.
Hermione knew they weren’t idle touches.
It was like he was writing her words he didn’t yet know how to say out loud.
“What will you do after school ends?” she whispered.
Draco didn’t answer right away.
“I don’t know.”
“Will you stay in London?”
“That depends. On a lot of things.”
“On me?”
He looked at her.
That was the question.
The one neither of them had dared ask—until now.
“On us,” he said at last. “But I don’t want to tie you to my world, Hermione. Not if yours leads somewhere else.”
She kissed him again.
This time, on the lips.
Gently.
Without the heat that had consumed them moments ago.
It was a kiss full of love.
Of acceptance.
And of the quiet ache that only real love knows how to leave behind.
“I’m not leaving. Not yet,” she whispered. “Tonight is yours. And mine.”
It’s ours.
Draco closed his eyes.
She curled into his chest.
And together, finally, they slept.
Without fear.
Without masks.
As two people who had shared something unrepeatable.
Even if they didn’t know it yet.