Hermione had always prided herself on being a logical, pragmatic witch. She read books with purpose, studied magic with discipline, and engaged in intellectual debates with fervor. But even the most dedicated minds had their moments of weakness.
And hers came in the form of a stunningly handsome, pixelated Slytherin named Cedar Hawthorne.
It had started innocently enough. Over the summer, Hermione had gone back to the Muggle world, where video games had seemingly become the most celebrated form of entertainment. At first, she’d scoffed at the idea. Games? What could they possibly teach her that books couldn’t?
But then she had seen Hogwarts’ Legacy . The name alone had piqued her curiosity. The game promised an immersive experience in a Hogwarts set centuries before her time, with spellcasting, magical creatures, and dueling. It had seemed like a harmless way to relive the enchantment of school without the life-threatening Triwizard Tournaments or cursed Ministry-sponsored games.
And then—she met him.
Cedar Hawthorne.
A blond Slytherin Prefect with a voice smooth as silk and a face sculpted by Merlin himself.
His sharp jawline, those piercing gray-blue eyes, the way he strode through the halls of Hogwarts with effortless grace—he was perfection pixelated. More than that, he had a roguish smirk and a sarcastic wit that made Hermione’s stomach flip. He was intelligent, ambitious, and had just the right amount of arrogance to make things interesting. Hermione, to her eternal mortification, was completely smitten.
Now, back at Hogwarts, she had found herself caught in an absurd predicament: she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Every time Draco Malfoy—actual, living, breathing Slytherin Prefect—walked past her, she felt the ridiculous urge to compare him to Hawthorne .
Malfoy had the sneer, but Hawthorne had the smirk.
Malfoy had the platinum blond hair, but Hawthorne’s had texture .
Malfoy had the attitude, but Hawthorne had charisma .
And, most importantly, Hawthorne didn’t insult her or make her question all of her life choices every time he opened his mouth.
Naturally, she had to share this newfound obsession with her closest friends.
"Hermione, have you gone mad?"
The first person to hear of Cedar Hawthorne was Ginny. They were sitting in Hermione’s dormitory, the fire crackling softly as Hermione booted up her enchanted Muggle laptop. She had found a way to make it work at Hogwarts—some clever spellwork and a bit of sneaky borrowing from Arthur Weasley’s collection of Muggle artifacts.
Ginny leaned over her shoulder, watching the screen flicker to life. Hermione clicked on her save file, and there he was—Cedar, standing in the Slytherin common room, arms folded, smirking like he owned the place.
Ginny blinked. "Wait. Who is that?"
Hermione sighed dreamily. "Cedar Hawthorne," she said, as if reciting poetry.
Ginny narrowed her eyes at the image. "He looks—hold on—why does he look like Malfoy?"
"He does not look like Malfoy!" Hermione said, scandalized.
Ginny gave her a look. "Hermione. Blond, Slytherin, Prefect — "smug" ? Are you kidding me?"
Hermione huffed. "That’s where the similarities end! Cedar is refined. Suave . He doesn’t throw insults or act like a complete ferret ."
Ginny snorted. "I don’t know, I think if Malfoy had a video game version, he’d look exactly like this."
"Shh," Hermione shushed her, completely undeterred. "Watch this." She clicked a button, and Cedar Hawthorne delivered a line in his deep, drawling voice.
"A duel? You think you stand a chance against me? How amusing."
Ginny’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh no. Oh no ." She turned to Hermione, eyes wide. " You have a crush on a fictional character. "
Hermione clutched her heart dramatically. "Ginny, I think I’m in love."
Luna was next.
Unlike Ginny, she was much more accepting of Hermione’s newfound fixation. In fact, when Hermione showed her Cedar’s portrait in the game, Luna simply nodded and said, "Yes, I see why you’d be drawn to him. His aura is quite… commanding."
"You think so?" Hermione asked eagerly.
Luna tilted her head. "He does look a bit like Malfoy, though."
Hermione groaned. "Why does everyone keep saying that?!"
"I mean it as a compliment," Luna assured her. "Draco Malfoy has a very striking face. If you like this Hawthorne fellow, maybe you should consider Malfoy in a new light."
Hermione choked. "Absolutely not!"
Luna simply hummed. "Suit yourself."
The final test was Pansy Parkinson.
Hermione had not intended to share her Cedar Hawthorne obsession with Pansy, but one fateful afternoon in the senior student common room, she had been caught red-handed.
"Granger, what the hell is that?"
Hermione had been mid-swoon when Pansy’s voice cut through her daydream. She scrambled to close the laptop, but Pansy was faster. With a flick of her wand, the screen was frozen in place, showing a glorious image of Cedar Hawthorne mid-duel, his wand raised, a confident smirk on his lips.
Pansy blinked. "That’s… Malfoy."
"It is not Malfoy!" Hermione shrieked.
Pansy stared at the image, then turned slowly to Hermione. "Are you telling me you’re obsessed with a Malfoy look alike?"
Hermione threw her hands in the air. "Why does everyone keep saying that?!"
Pansy burst out laughing, absolutely cackling . "Oh, this is rich," she wheezed. "Granger, you’re thirsting over a digital Malfoy."
Hermione scowled. "It’s Cedar Hawthorne, and he’s infinitely better than Malfoy."
Pansy wiped a tear from her eye. "Does Malfoy know you’re pining over his virtual twin?"
"Malfoy doesn’t need to know," Hermione muttered.
Unfortunately, fate had other plans.
Because at that moment, Draco Malfoy himself strode into the common room, pausing as he noticed the way Pansy was barely holding back laughter and Hermione looked seconds away from setting something on fire.
"What’s going on?" he asked suspiciously.
Pansy smirked. "Nothing , darling. Just found out Granger here has a type."
Draco’s eyes flickered to Hermione. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
Before Hermione could make a swift escape, Pansy tapped the laptop with her wand, unfreezing the screen.
Draco looked down.
Then, to Hermione’s absolute horror, his face twisted into a look of sheer, incredulous offense.
"What the hell is this?"
Pansy collapsed into laughter. Hermione, meanwhile, wished the ground would swallow her whole.
And that was how Malfoy vs. Hawthorne truly began.
Draco Malfoy was having a crisis.
Not the kind where you forgot a Potions essay or got hexed by a vengeful ex—no, this was worse. Because Hermione Granger had once had a crush on him. And he had ignored it.
And now—NOW—she was in love with a bloody Muggle-made video game character.
Unacceptable.
Completely. Utterly. Unacceptable.
Fifth Year.
He hadn’t thought about it in ages, but now, with the revelation that Granger used to like him, the memory hit him full force.
Late-night Prefect rounds. Just him and Granger, bickering down an empty corridor like they always did.
And then—out of nowhere—she had sighed, shoved her hands into her robes, and mumbled:
"It’s stupid, anyway. I don’t even know why I ever liked you."
He had paused.
He had stared.
And instead of acknowledging it, instead of questioning it, he had simply let it go.
Because surely she had been joking.
No one had ever liked him—not in a way that mattered. The girls who flirted with him only cared about status. No one had ever genuinely wanted him.
So he had brushed it off. Had pretended he hadn’t heard. Had assumed it was a moment of temporary insanity on Granger’s part.
But now, years later, she was swooning over a fictional Slytherin Prefect.
And Draco Malfoy—who had never taken her feelings seriously before—was now confused, annoyed, and slightly, horribly jealous.
Meanwhile, Hermione was doing her absolute best to forget that Malfoy had seen her shamelessly fawning over Cedar Hawthorne. It was fine.
Everything was fine.
So what if Malfoy now knew she had a thing for arrogant, blond Slytherins with sharp jawlines and devastating smirks? That was none of his business! Hermione stormed through Hogwarts, firmly ignoring the fact that Malfoy was following her like a bloody shadow.
"Granger," he called.
She walked faster.
"Granger."
Faster.
"Hermione."
That made her pause.
He almost never called her by her first name.
Slowly, she turned around, folding her arms. "What?"
Draco smirked. "So. How long have you been hopelessly in love with this knock off version of me?"
Hermione gawked. "He is NOT a knock off version of you!"
"Oh, please," Draco scoffed, falling into step beside her. "He’s blond, he’s a Slytherin, he’s a Prefect—he even has my exact smirk. The only difference is that he’s fictional —which, honestly, is the only reason I assume you can tolerate him."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "First of all, he’s better looking than you."
Malfoy made an offended noise.
"Second, he’s charming."
"I’m charming," Malfoy muttered.
"You’re insufferable."
Malfoy snorted. "Oh, and I suppose Hawthorne doesn’t insult people?"
"No, he doesn’t!" Hermione snapped. "Cedar is—" she sighed dreamily, "—intelligent, confident, and effortlessly cool."
Draco gagged.
"Granger, be serious."
"I am serious."
Draco stared at her. "You genuinely think this Muggle-created twat is better than me?"
Hermione smirked. "Yes."
Draco gasped, looking utterly betrayed.
"This is outrageous," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. "Unacceptable. Unbelievable."
"Oh, get over yourself," Hermione laughed, pushing open the door to the Ancient Runes classroom. "Just accept that Cedar Hawthorne is—"
"Inferior in every way," Malfoy interrupted, sliding into the seat beside her.
She scowled. "Why are you sitting next to me?"
Draco smirked. "Because, Granger, I have decided to prove a point."
Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples. "Oh, Merlin help me ."
Draco leaned in, voice low and smooth.
"Tell me something, Granger," he drawled. "If I had a dramatic, over-the-top name like ‘Cedar Hawthorne,’ would you have confessed your crush on me properly instead of just muttering it under your breath years ago?"
Hermione’s quill snapped in half. The entire class turned to look at her.
She turned to Draco, expression blank, brain short-circuiting, face on fire.
He smirked. "Oh? Struck a nerve, did I?"
Hermione hated him.
Because of course he remembered.
Of course he knew exactly what she had said all those years ago.
And now, instead of ignoring it like before, he was using it against her.
She took a long, slow breath, then—very calmly—whispered, "I will set you on fire."
Draco just grinned. This was war.
By the time the lesson ended, Draco was on a mission. He had one goal: utterly destroy this Cedar Hawthorne nonsense.
🪄
Step One: Research.
The moment Hermione left for dinner, Draco snuck into the library and pulled out every single book on Muggle technology.
Madam Pince glared at him suspiciously as he piled the books onto his desk.
"What exactly are you researching, Mr. Malfoy?"
Draco smirked. "Muggle nonsense."
She frowned. "You mean… video games?"
Draco’s eye twitched. "Unfortunately."
🪄
Step Two: Interrogation.
He needed to find someone who knew more about this ridiculous game.
Preferably someone who would not tell Hermione.
Draco scanned the Great Hall during dinner, eyes narrowing.
His gaze landed on Luna Lovegood.
Perfect.
A few minutes later, he was sitting across from her, ignoring Ginny’s suspicious glance.
"Luna," he said smoothly. "Tell me everything you know about Cedar Hawthorne."
Luna blinked, then smiled serenely.
"Oh," she sighed dreamily. "He’s wonderful, isn’t he?"
Draco barely contained his groan. This was going to be harder than he thought.
Draco Malfoy had one goal.
Utterly destroy Cedar Hawthorne.
Unfortunately, this was proving significantly harder than anticipated. It had been twenty-four hours since he had discovered Hermione’s unholy obsession with a fictional Muggle-made fraud, and so far:
- His library research on “video games” had been useless (apparently, the books were outdated, and Madam Pince refused to order more).
- Luna Lovegood had spent forty minutes sighing dreamily about Cedar’s “powerful aura” and zero minutes giving him any useful information.
- Pansy had found out about his investigation, and now every Slytherin in their year was mocking him relentlessly.
Which left Draco with only one logical option: He had to become Cedar Hawthorne.
🪄
Step One: The Hair Situation
Draco had always considered himself better-looking than most men.
It was a simple fact. He had sharp features, pale skin, and the kind of hair that looked effortlessly perfect even after flying through a hurricane.
But apparently, this was not enough for Hermione Granger.
Because Cedar Hawthorne had better hair.
Draco scowled at himself in the mirror, ruffling his platinum-blond locks.
"What does he have that I don’t? " he muttered.
A voice behind him drawled, "A girlfriend, apparently."
Draco whirled around. Blaise Zabini was leaning against the Slytherin dormitory door frame, arms folded, smirking like he had all the time in the world.
Draco glared. "Go away, Zabini."
Blaise ignored him, strolling in. "I mean, I always knew you had some kind of weird tension with Granger, but watching you have a jealous mental breakdown over a Muggle-created character is truly something else."
Draco scoffed. "I am not jealous."
Blaise arched an eyebrow. "You’re literally trying to recreate his hair right now."
Draco froze.
Then—violently—he shoved his wand into his pocket and stormed out of the dormitory.
Blaise just laughed.
🪄
Step Two: The Personality Overhaul
Hermione had made it very clear that Cedar Hawthorne was suave, confident, and effortlessly cool.
Draco could do that.
He could do that better than anyone.
And so, during breakfast the next morning, Draco Malfoy made his dramatic debut as The New & Improved Cedar-Fied Version of Himself™.
It started when Hermione walked into the Great Hall, completely oblivious.
Draco, leaning casually against the Slytherin table, smirked dangerously and murmured, "Running off so soon, Granger? Tsk. I expected more from you."
Hermione froze mid-step.
Her entire body tensed.
Because that was exactly what Cedar Hawthorne had said in her daydream yesterday.
Her eyes snapped to Draco. "What did you just say?"
Draco grinned, tilting his head. "Nothing, love."
Hermione choked on air.
Ginny, sitting at the Gryffindor table, immediately dropped her pumpkin juice and shrieked.
"DID YOU JUST CALL HER LOVE?! "
Luna, unfazed, hummed. "Oh, how fascinating."
Neville looked moments away from a heart attack.
And Hermione Granger?
She looked ready to spontaneously combust.
Draco, pleased, leaned closer and whispered, "Intelligent, confident, effortlessly cool—sound familiar? "
That was when she realized.
That was when it hit her.
Draco Malfoy was trying to be Cedar Hawthorne.
Oh.
Oh, no.
🪄
Step Three: The Full Cedar Experience
By lunchtime, Draco’s deranged campaign to outshine Cedar Hawthorne was in full force.
His efforts included:
- Leaning dramatically against walls and looking mysterious whenever Hermione walked by.
- Casually saying things like "You think you can beat me? How amusing." whenever someone challenged him in class.
- Calling Hermione "darling" in the most obnoxiously posh voice imaginable.
- Practicing smirks in every reflective surface (including, but not limited to, his gold goblet at dinner).
At one point, he even strolled into Charms late, flicked his wand effortlessly, and drawled, "Some of us are simply built different, Professor."
Flitwick nearly expelled him on the spot.
By the time dinner rolled around, Hermione was at her limit.
Draco had just flashed her a Cedar-esque smirk, leaned down, and whispered, "Granger, if you wanted to stare at me all day, you could’ve just said so."
And that was it.
That was the final straw.
Hermione slammed her fork onto the table, stood up, and—
"MALFOY, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! "
The entire Great Hall went silent.
Draco, unfazed, smirked. "Whatever do you mean, darling?"
Ginny shrieked in laughter.
Ron looked genuinely terrified.
Neville’s soul left his body.
Hermione, fuming, jabbed a finger at him. "You are acting like a complete lunatic!"
Draco shrugged. "I’m simply proving a point, Granger."
She threw her hands up. "WHAT POINT?!"
Draco grinned, standing up and stepping closer. "That I am better than your precious Cedar Hawthorne."
A horrified gasp echoed from the Ravenclaw table.
"BLASPHEMY!" someone yelled, probably some half-blood.
"HOW DARE YOU INSULT CEDAR!"
Draco ignored them completely, eyes locked onto Hermione’s.
"Admit it, Granger," he murmured. "You like me better. "
Hermione’s brain malfunctioned.
" I—YOU— "
Her face was on fire.
The Great Hall was watching.
Draco was smirking like he had already won.
And in a moment of pure, unhinged panic—
Hermione turned on her heel and RAN.
Draco watched her flee the Great Hall and smirked.
Checkmate.
"Bloody hell," Ron muttered, still looking pale. "What did we just witness?"
"History," Ginny whispered, eyes gleaming.
Luna hummed. "I do think she fancies him now."
Draco, pleased with himself, sat back down and grabbed his goblet.
But before he could fully enjoy his victory, Pansy leaned in, smirking dangerously.
"So," she drawled, "Does this mean you actually like her back, or are you just competing with a fictional character for fun?"
Draco froze mid-sip.
Pansy smirked wider.
Draco lowered his goblet, face suddenly blank.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
It had been three days since Pansy had smirked at him and asked, “Do you actually like her, or are you just competing with a fictional character for fun?”
Three days.
Seventy-two hours.
Four thousand, three hundred, and twenty minutes of existential crisis.
Draco had spent all night staring at the ceiling, replaying every single encounter he’d had with Hermione Granger since this insane, idiotic rivalry began.
And the more he thought about it, the worse it got.
Because—Merlin, help him—he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Not just the arguments. Not just the smirks and the glares and the way her voice got all sharp and biting when she called him insufferable.
No—his stupid brain had started noticing other things .
The way she tilted her head when she was focused on a book.
The way she bit her lip when she was thinking too hard.
The way she pushed her hair behind her ear absentmindedly, completely unaware of how utterly distracting it was.
And that was when he knew.
This wasn’t just about Hawthorne anymore.
Draco Malfoy liked Hermione Granger.
And worse—far, far worse—he had probably liked her for a long time without even realizing it.
He had been so busy competing with a fictional Slytherin that he hadn’t noticed he was actually competing with himself.
Because if Granger liked Hawthorne—the arrogant, confident, smirking blond prefect—
Then…
Oh.
Oh, bloody hell.
Draco did not handle this well.
In fact, he handled it in the worst way possible—by doubling down on his Hawthorne-related nonsense and refusing to acknowledge his very real, very inconvenient feelings.
Which was how he ended up cornering Hermione in the library again the next day.
(Because if there was one thing Draco Malfoy was excellent at, it was making absolutely terrible decisions.)
Hermione was standing by a window, bathed in the soft glow of afternoon sunlight, flipping through a massive book on Ancient Runes, looking completely lost in thought.
Draco took one look at her and felt his stomach do a complicated, ridiculous flip.
This was a bad idea.
A very, very bad idea.
And yet, before his rational brain could stop him, he was already leaning against the bookshelf behind her, arms crossed, smirking like an absolute menace.
"Granger."
Hermione visibly tensed.
Then, very slowly, she turned around, her brown eyes narrowing. "Malfoy."
Draco grinned, voice dropping into his best impression of Hawthorne’s infuriating, arrogant drawl. "Avoiding me, darling?"
Hermione gaped at him.
Her face did something complicated—a mix of outrage, horror, and what might have been the beginnings of a nervous breakdown.
"Did you just—"
Draco tilted his head. "What’s wrong, Granger? You don’t like the pet name?"
Hermione made a strangled noise, gripping her book so tightly that the pages crinkled. "You—you are the most insufferable person I have ever met."
"And yet," Draco murmured, stepping closer, "you’re still standing here talking to me instead of hexing me. Interesting."
Hermione let out a sharp breath, nostrils flaring. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
Draco smirked. "A confession, obviously."
Hermione blinked. "A what?"
"That you like me better than Hawthorne."
There was a long, stunned silence.
And then—
"YOU ARE STILL ON THIS?!"
Draco shrugged, looking far too pleased with himself. "I’m nothing if not persistent."
"Persistent?!" Hermione threw her hands in the air. "Malfoy, you are completely deranged!"
"And yet," he drawled, stepping closer, "I still seem to have your attention, don’t I?"
Hermione’s mouth opened—then snapped shut.
Because damn it, he wasn’t wrong.
She had spent the last week thinking about him way more than she should.
Not just about how infuriatingly smug he was.
Not just about how completely unhinged this rivalry had become.
But also—inconveniently, horrifyingly—about how unfairly attractive he was when he wasn’t talking.
And how he had been smirking at her a lot lately.
And how his voice had gotten all low and smooth and deep when he called her darling.
No. NO. Nope. Not happening. Absolutely not.
Hermione shook her head, steeling herself. "You are delusional."
Draco arched an eyebrow. "Am I?"
"Yes!" she snapped. "You are an arrogant, self-absorbed, egotistical—"
Draco leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. "And yet," he murmured, "you still haven’t walked away. "
Hermione immediately stepped back, face on fire. "I hate you."
Draco smirked. "No, you don’t."
"I do."
"You really, really don’t."
"I— "
Hermione let out an inhuman noise of frustration—then, before she could stop herself, she grabbed the nearest book and THREW IT at his head.
It hit him directly in the forehead with a loud thud.
Draco stumbled back, blinking.
Then, very slowly, he lifted a hand to his forehead, eyes wide in mild betrayal.
"Did you just throw Hogwarts: A History at me?"
Hermione, still shaking with frustration, jabbed a finger at him. "I SWEAR TO MERLIN, MALFOY—IF YOU SAY ONE MORE WORD—"
Draco, ignoring her completely, turned to Pansy, who had appeared out of nowhere and was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes.
"Pansy," he deadpanned. "Granger just assaulted me with a library book. Am I allowed to press charges?"
Pansy wheezed. "I think I just witnessed the moment you fell in love with her."
Draco choked. "WHAT?!"
Hermione let out a horrified gasp. "EXCUSE ME?"
Pansy smirked. "Oh, this is going to be fun."
Draco turned back to Hermione, eyes wide. "You threw a book at me."
"YOU DESERVED IT! "
He grinned. "Gods, I think I might actually fancy you."
Hermione’s brain blue-screened.
"WHAT?! "
And that was the moment Hogwarts exploded into absolute chaos.
None.
Zero.
Absolutely none at all.
Because one second ago, he had been standing in the middle of the library, smugly watching Hermione Granger lose her temper—which had been the plan. But then—somehow—he had let the words, "Gods, I think I might actually fancy you," slip out of his own accord.
And now—
Now.
Hermione was staring at him like he had just proclaimed his undying love for a giant squid. Pansy was gasping for breath, practically on the floor in hysterics. Blaise, who had appeared out of nowhere, was grinning like Christmas had come early.
And Draco?
Draco wanted to die.
Hermione blinked. Then she blinked again.
Then—slowly, carefully, like she had hallucinated the last ten seconds of her life—she said, "What."
Draco, still reeling, stared at her. His own voice echoed in his head.
Gods, I think I might actually fancy you.
Oh.
Oh, no.
That was not what he meant to say. He had not planned on saying that out loud.
That was supposed to stay inside his head, locked away, buried deep, deep down where no one could ever find it. Hermione’s mouth opened—then snapped shut. She took a deep, slow breath, like a woman on the verge of either passing out or committing murder.
Then—
"No."
Draco blinked. "No? "
"No, " Hermione repeated, shaking her head so aggressively her curls bounced. "That’s not— You don’t— No. "
Draco narrowed his eyes. "You’re telling me I don’t fancy you? "
"Correct."
There was a long, excruciating pause. And then Blaise actually started laughing. "Oh, this is fantastic," he cackled. "Malfoy just confessed his feelings, and Granger is straight-up rejecting reality."
Hermione whirled on him. " HE DID NOT CONFESS ANYTHING. "
Blaise smirked. " Oh, really? " He cleared his throat, then dramatically repeated, in an exaggerated impression of Draco’s voice, "Gods, I think I might actually fancy you, Granger."
Pansy screamed with laughter.
Draco, fully regretting every choice he had ever made in life, buried his face in his hands.
Hermione’s entire soul left her body.
"NO." She pointed an accusing finger at Draco. "YOU TAKE THAT BACK RIGHT NOW."
Draco snapped his head up. "What?!"
"TAKE IT BACK."
Draco blinked incredulously. "That’s not how this works, Granger."
"Yes, it is!"
"You can’t just—" He gestured wildly. "I already said it! "
"Then UNSAY IT!"
"That’s not how SPEECH WORKS!"
"TRY HARDER!"
Draco groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Merlin, this is the most Gryffindor reaction you could possibly have."
"Oh, I’m sorry," Hermione snapped, "EXCUSE ME FOR PANICKING, MALFOY."
"You’re panicking because you like it."
"I AM PANICKING BECAUSE YOU’RE A MENACE TO SOCIETY."
Pansy, at this point, had fully collapsed onto a library bench, clutching her stomach.
"Oh, this is better than I ever could have dreamed," she gasped. "Granger is losing her mind."
"I AM NOT LOSING MY MIND!"
Draco smirked. "You kind of are, though."
"I hate you."
"You really, really don’t."
Hermione let out a frustrated screech, then—because clearly, she had lost all sense of self-preservation—she turned on her heel and stormed away.
Hermione marched through the castle like a woman on a mission. She had one goal.
Escape.
Because she needed to get out of here.
She needed air.
She needed distance.
She needed at least seven business days to process what had just happened. But—of course—Draco Malfoy was not a man who let things go.
"GRANGER."
"NO."
"GRANGER, STOP WALKING."
"IF I STOP WALKING, I WILL HAVE TO PROCESS THIS, AND THAT IS NOT HAPPENING."
Draco, completely ignoring this statement, grabbed her wrist and spun her around.
"Granger—"
"MALFOY, I SWEAR TO MERLIN, IF YOU SAY ONE MORE WORD—"
"I LIKE YOU, YOU ABSOLUTE NIGHTMARE."
Silence. Total, complete silence. The corridor was empty, save for the two of them, but it felt louder than a Quidditch stadium inside Hermione’s skull.
Her brain stopped functioning.
Her lungs stopped working.
Her entire body went very, very still.
Draco, still holding her wrist, stared at her.
And then, as if finally realizing what he had just said, his own face went completely blank.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
The next ten seconds were the most painfully awkward in Draco Malfoy’s entire existence.
Hermione was still frozen, eyes locked onto him like he had just announced he was secretly a mermaid.
Draco, meanwhile, was losing his mind.
Because why.
WHY.
Why had he just said that out loud?!
Why had he spilled his own feelings like an absolute idiot instead of shutting up and walking away?!
This was not how this was supposed to go.
Hermione’s lips parted slightly.
Draco braced for impact.
And then—
She turned and ran.
Like—full-on, Olympic-level sprinting in the opposite direction.
Draco gawked. "Oh, for fuck’s sake—GRANGER, ARE YOU SERIOUS?!"
A distant, muffled shout echoed back: "DENIAL IS A PERFECTLY REASONABLE RESPONSE!"
Draco let out a long, tortured groan and dropped his head into his hands. He was never living this down. Ever.
Meanwhile, in the Gryffindor Common Room, Ginny Weasley had never witnessed a more pathetic sight in her life.
Hermione Granger was curled up on the couch, face buried in a pillow, aggressively screaming into the fabric.
Ginny took a sip of her Butterbeer. "Malfoy finally confessed, didn’t he?"
Hermione let out a muffled scream. "That’s a yes," Luna mused from her chair.
Ginny grinned. "So, when’s the wedding?"
Hermione threw a cushion at her face.
It had been seventy-two hours since the catastrophe that was his accidental, spectacular, life-ruining confession.
And Hermione Granger—the absolute menace of a witch that she was—had been avoiding him like the plague. No eye contact. No sarcastic remarks. No scathing insults.
Just… silence. Which meant Draco had one option left.
Extreme measures.
Which was why, at precisely seven in the morning, he sat at his desk in the Slytherin dormitory, quill in hand, writing a desperate letter to his mother.
Dear Mother,
I require your guidance on a matter of great importance.
There is a girl. A very specific girl. A girl who is, unfortunately, both brilliant and utterly infuriating, which makes things very complicated.
I may have, quite by accident, confessed my feelings to her in the middle of a corridor. She responded by running in the opposite direction.
This is not ideal.
As you are the most elegant, sophisticated, and terrifyingly effective woman I know, I ask for your wisdom:
How does one successfully woo a witch?
With respect,
Your (mostly) devoted son,
Draco
P.S. Please do NOT tell Father. He will be insufferable.
Draco had barely sent the letter with his owl before he received a return letter only three hours later. Because, of course, his mother had prioritized this absolute disaster over everything else.
My Dearest Draco,
How delightful! I had begun to worry that you would never develop proper feelings for anyone beyond your own reflection.
Now, to your predicament.
Wooing a witch requires finesse, patience, and—most importantly—a strategy. Since you have already blurted out your affections like an overenthusiastic Hufflepuff, you must now proceed with precision.
Consider the following methods:
- Gifts – Something thoughtful. Not something ridiculous like jewelry. A token that proves you know her.
- Acts of Service – Assist her with something she values. Carry her books. Hex people she dislikes.
- Confidence – No sulking. No awkwardness. You are a Malfoy. Act like it.
Best of luck, my son. I expect updates.
Fondly,
Mother
P.S. Your father now suspects something and is very nosy about the details. Proceed with caution.
By the time dinner rolled around, Draco Malfoy was prepared for battle. He was going to woo Hermione Granger, and he was going to do it spectacularly. Unfortunately, his first attempt at ‘wooing’ turned out to be a complete disaster.
Step One: The Grand Gift Gesture (That Went Horribly Wrong)
Draco had decided that the perfect gift for Hermione was a book.
Not just any book, but a rare, first-edition copy of Advanced Arithmancy Theories, because he had actually paid attention to her study habits (not because he liked watching her bite her lip when she concentrated—definitely not).
The plan was simple:
- Casually slide the book onto her table during dinner.
- Smirk and say something devastatingly charming.
- Watch her fall madly in love with him.
Unfortunately, what actually happened was this:
Draco strutted into the Great Hall, full of confidence, book in hand.
Hermione was sitting at the Gryffindor table, surrounded by Ginny, Luna, and Neville, completely unaware of the romantic ambush about to take place.
He approached her table, cool and composed, and casually set the book in front of her.
Then—disaster.
Ginny immediately shrieked.
"OH MY GOD, HE’S GIVING YOU A BOOK."
Hermione, mid-bite of her pumpkin pasty, froze completely.
Ginny grabbed the book and waved it around like it was evidence in a criminal trial. "THIS IS A GRAND GESTURE. HE’S TRYING TO WOO YOU."
Hermione choked violently.
Neville looked deeply uncomfortable. "Should we—leave?"
Luna tilted her head. "I think we should observe."
Draco, quickly losing control of the situation, scowled. "Weasley, shut up."
Ginny grinned like a feral cat. "Make me, Malfoy."
Hermione, finally recovering from her choking fit, grabbed the book and THREW IT BACK AT HIM.
"I DO NOT ACCEPT BRIBES!" she shrieked.
The book hit Draco square in the chest.
The entire Great Hall went dead silent.
Draco stared.
Hermione stared.
Pansy—seated at the Slytherin table, witnessing everything—absolutely lost her mind laughing.
"THIS IS A DISASTER," Blaise whispered gleefully.
Draco, mortified, gritted his teeth, grabbed the book, and stormed out of the Great Hall.
Step Two: The Acts of Service Attempt (That Also Went Horribly Wrong)
The next morning, Draco doubled down.
Fine.
If gifts weren’t the way to go, then Acts of Service would have to do. So when Hermione walked into the library carrying a dangerously high stack of books, he saw his opportunity.
Draco strode over, confidently, and said—
"Here, let me carry those for you."
Hermione immediately recoiled. "WHY?!"
Draco blinked. "What do you mean, why?"
"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME, MALFOY?!"
Draco stared at her in pure exasperation. "I AM TRYING TO BE NICE TO YOU, YOU ABSOLUTE MANIAC."
"THAT’S SUSPICIOUS!"
"IT’S NOT SUSPICIOUS, IT’S CHIVALRY!"
"CHIVALRY FROM YOU IS VERY SUSPICIOUS!"
"FOR THE LOVE OF SALAZAR, JUST LET ME CARRY THE BLOODY BOOKS!"
Hermione hugged the stack closer to her chest and sprinted in the opposite direction.
Draco stood there, seething.
"You know," Blaise drawled from behind him, "this is getting tragic."
Draco threw a quill at his face.
Draco Malfoy had never trained for anything so hard in his life.
Dueling? Merely a hobby.
Avoiding Azkaban? A minor inconvenience.
But this? This was war.
And Narcissa Malfoy was his general.
It had been three days since Narcissa had arrived at Hogwarts, and in that time, she had transformed into the most terrifyingly efficient dating coach in wizarding history. Every night, after curfew, she summoned Draco into a hidden study room near the Astronomy Tower for intense, high-level, secret training sessions.
"Lesson One," she had announced on the first night, "How to Out-Charm a Fictional Rival."
Draco had scoffed. "Mother, I am already charming."
Narcissa had simply arched an elegant brow. "Really? Then why does Hermione Granger prefer an enchanted drawing over you?"
Draco had sputtered in outrage. "THAT IS NOT—"
"Exactly," she had interrupted. "You lack strategy. That is why we are here."
And thus, the coaching began.
Step One: The Voice
"A deep, confident voice is crucial," Narcissa instructed, pacing before him like a professor preparing for battle. "Hawthorne’s voice is—"
"Ridiculous," Draco interjected. "No one actually speaks like that. "
Narcissa gave him a pointed look. "Regardless, Granger seems to enjoy it."
Draco scowled. "So what do I do, start narrating my life like some tragic novel protagonist?"
"Yes."
Draco blinked. "What."
"Dramatic men get attention, Draco. Look at Gilderoy Lockhart. The man was an absolute buffoon, yet witches fainted in his presence. Learn from him."
Draco looked horrified. "You want me to become Lockhart? "
"Of course not." Narcissa waved a dismissive hand. "I want you to be better than him."
Draco rubbed his temples. "Fine. Fine. How do I practice?"
"You must practice delivering lines with the correct amount of mystery and allure."
"Like what? "
Narcissa tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Try this: ‘Ah, Granger, we meet again. Fate is truly a cruel mistress, keeping us apart for so long.’ "
Draco stared at her. "Mother, we see each other every day. "
"That is irrelevant. Now, try it."
Draco rolled his eyes, took a breath, and murmured, "Ah, Granger, we meet again. Fate is truly a cruel mistress, keeping us apart for so long."
Narcissa beamed. "Excellent. Now say it again while leaning against something."
Draco wanted to die.
Step Two: The Hair Toss
"A man must know how to use his hair to his advantage," Narcissa declared on the second night. "You have been blessed with superior genetics, Draco. Use them."
"Mother, it’s hair."
"It’s a weapon," she corrected. "Watch."
To Draco’s absolute horror, Narcissa did a flawless, slow-motion hair flip that somehow radiated pure elegance.
"Now, you try."
Draco sighed, running a hand through his platinum locks in a half-hearted attempt.
"No, no, no, " Narcissa chided. "That was passable at best. You must make it look effortless."
"HOW DOES ONE EFFORTLESSLY TOSS THEIR HAIR? "
"Confidence, darling. Try again."
Draco exhaled sharply, ran his fingers through his hair with purpose, and tilted his head just slightly, so the strands fell perfectly into place.
Narcissa clapped. "Brilliant! That was the Malfoy standard of hair flips. Next lesson! "
Draco collapsed into a chair. "Merlin, just let me die. "
Step Three: The Grand Gesture (That Went Horribly Wrong)
On the fourth night, Narcissa finally announced, "It is time. "
Draco, exhausted, peered at her blindly. "Time for what? "
"The Grand Gesture."
Draco sat up immediately. "Oh, no. Absolutely not. "
"Oh, yes," Narcissa countered. "You must do something so unforgettably romantic that she will be forced to acknowledge your superiority over Hawthorne."
"What, like serenading her in the Great Hall?" Draco asked sarcastically.
"Precisely! "
Draco choked. "MOTHER, NO."
"Oh, don’t be so dramatic," Narcissa scoffed. "It doesn’t have to be a song. Perhaps a poetic declaration of devotion."
Draco groaned into his hands. "Mother, she will hex me next year. "
"Possibly," Narcissa admitted. "But she will also think about you for the rest of her life."
Draco sighed. "Fine. But if I get murdered, I’m haunting you."
The next day, Draco put the plan into action. It was lunchtime in the Great Hall. The tables were full. The air buzzed with chatter and clinking goblets. Hermione was seated at the Gryffindor table, completely unaware that her entire life was about to change. Draco took a deep breath, stood up, and strode toward her with confidence.
He reached her table. Cleared his throat. And then—
"Ah, Granger, " he began, lowering his voice into a smooth, dramatic purr—" We meet again. Fate is truly a cruel mistress, keeping us apart for so long."
Hermione froze mid-bite.
Ginny spat out her pumpkin juice.
Neville looked wildly between them, as if debating whether to run.
Draco, ignoring the wide-eyed horror on Hermione’s face, flipped his hair effortlessly and continued," But know this, Granger— l" He placed a hand over his heart, fully embracing the drama. "Every moment spent away from you is a moment I consider wasted."
Silence.
A very long, excruciating silence. Then— Hermione slowly placed her fork down.
Blinked.
And whispered, "I am going to scream."
Ginny fell off her bench wheezing.
Draco smirked triumphantly.
Success.
That night, Hermione curled into a ball on the Gryffindor Common Room couch, screaming into a pillow.
Ginny, delighted beyond words, sat next to her, grinning. " So, Malfoy put on an entire romantic performance for you, huh? "
"I HATE EVERYTHING." Hermione’s voice was muffled by the pillow.
"You love it."
"I WILL THROW MYSELF INTO THE LAKE."
"Just admit you fancy him."
"NEVER."
Luna, sipping tea, hummed. "I do believe he’s winning, though."
Hermione let out a long, tortured wail. Draco Malfoy was going to destroy her.
A very, very big problem.
It had been three days since Draco Malfoy had delivered the most absurd, dramatic, soul-destroying romantic performance in the history of Hogwarts.
And Hermione—logical, rational, sensible Hermione—was losing her mind.
No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she denied it, buried it, screamed into her pillow about it, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
She could hear his voice in her head at all times. Not just his usual, annoying, insufferable voice—but the new one. The deep, slow, silky one he had started using recently. She would be minding her own business, reading in the library, and suddenly— "Ah, Granger, we meet again. Fate is truly a cruel mistress, keeping us apart for so long." And she would immediately combust on the spot.
She had started noticing things. Like how he smirked when he was trying to hide a real smile. Like how his hair always fell perfectly into place, no matter what. Like how he smelled like cedarwood and fresh parchment and something distinctly Draco.
Her brain had stopped functioning whenever he was near. Yesterday, Malfoy had walked past her in the corridor, said, "Morning, Granger," in that new voice, and she had proceeded to walk straight into a suit of armor. The armor had collapsed on top of her. Malfoy had stood there laughing for a full minute before helping her up.
She had started dreaming about him. Dreaming. And not just any dreams. Absolutely unacceptable dreams. The kind where he was leaning in too close, where he was smirking down at her, where he was whispering absolute nonsense in that stupid voice—and the worst part? She liked it.
"This is NOT happening."
Ginny looked up from her breakfast, completely unimpressed. "You’re panicking again, aren’t you?"
"I AM NOT PANICKING," Hermione hissed, panicking.
Luna, stirring her tea, hummed. "You do seem rather distressed, Hermione."
Hermione gripped the edges of the Gryffindor table, eyes wild. "Listen to me. Malfoy is playing some long con psychological warfare game and I REFUSE TO BE A VICTIM. "
Ginny raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Because you kind of look like a victim right now."
"I am not a victim. I am in CONTROL."
At that exact moment, Draco Malfoy strolled into the Great Hall—looking obnoxiously attractive, as always, hair perfect, robes immaculate, and—oh no.
Oh no.
He was heading straight for her table.
Hermione’s entire body tensed.
Ginny grinned. "Oh, this is gonna be good."
"NO," Hermione whispered urgently. "NO IT WILL NOT."
"Morning, Granger," Draco purred, stopping behind her seat.
That voice.
That. Stupid. Voice.
Hermione felt her entire soul exit her body.
She was not going to react. She was not going to give him the satisfaction.
So instead of looking at him, she stabbed her fork into her eggs with unnecessary force. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
Draco tutted. "So hostile. And after everything we've been through?"
Hermione gritted her teeth. "I swear to Merlin— "
Then—Draco leaned down, right next to her ear, and murmured, "You’re staring again, darling."
And that was when Hermione knew.
She was absolutely, catastrophically, in love with him.
Because her entire brain short-circuited. Because her heart did something terrifying in her chest. Because she wanted to kiss that smug look off his stupidly perfect face.
And worst of all—she wanted him to keep calling her darling.
She was in denial for hours after. This was NOT happening. She did NOT like Draco Malfoy. He was the ENEMY. This was just some—some prolonged exposure effect.
How DARE he make her feel this way? HOW DARE HE BE SO ANNOYINGLY CHARMING?
Maybe if she ignored him, it would go away. Maybe if she hexed him, it would go away. Maybe if she moved to another country, it would go away.
But it wasn’t going away.
She was doomed. Absolutely doomed.
Later that night, Hermione stormed into the Gryffindor Common Room, fully prepared to scream into a pillow again.
Ginny, already waiting, smirked. "So, how was your day?"
Hermione threw herself onto the couch, groaning into a cushion. "I AM IN LOVE WITH DRACO MALFOY AND I HATE EVERYTHING. "
Ginny choked on her drink. "I—WHAT?"
"YOU HEARD ME."
Ginny blinked. "Hold on—you're actually admitting it? "
"YES." Hermione flails wildly. "AND I CAN’T STAND IT. HE’S RUINING MY LIFE."
"Oh, Hermione, this is BEAUTIFUL."
"NO, IT IS A NIGHTMARE."
Ginny, gleeful, grabbed Luna by the arm. "Luna. She’s finally lost it."
Luna smiled serenely. "I always knew this day would come."
Hermione let out a long, suffering groan.
"HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? HOW DID HE GET INTO MY HEAD?"
Ginny shrugged. "Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because he’s spent the last three weeks being dramatic, flirting with you, and calling you darling?"
" HE NEEDS TO STOP DOING THAT. "
"Do you really want him to stop?"
Hermione froze.
She opened her mouth—then closed it.
Because, horribly, disgustingly, the answer was no.
Ginny gasped. "OH MY GOD, YOU WANT HIM TO KEEP CALLING YOU DARLING."
"I AM GOING TO JUMP OUT THE WINDOW. L"
Luna sipped her tea. "Or, you could just kiss him and get it over with."
Hermione let out a high-pitched screech, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at her own face.
Draco Malfoy smirked, leaning back on the sofa.
"She’s going to crack soon."
Blaise rolled his eyes. "You’re both insane."
Pansy, filing her nails, smirked. "Oh, don’t be dramatic, Zabini. They’ll be snogging in a week. L"
Draco, grinning, tilted his head.
"I give it three days."
And for once—Draco Malfoy was absolutely right It had been three days since Draco Malfoy had taken it upon himself to personally torment her with his existence.
Three days of insufferable smirks.
Three days of weaponized charm.
Three days of "Morning, darling," in that slow, velvety voice that sent every single brain cell she owned into immediate disarray.
She was one second away from losing her entire mind.
And the worst part?
She didn’t even hate it anymore.
She couldn’t even bring herself to be properly mad at him, because the second she got close enough to yell at him, she would notice the way his lips curled when he smirked, or the way his silver eyes gleamed with amusement, or—Merlin help her—the way he always, always smelled ridiculously good.
So she was stuck in a waking nightmare, trapped between wanting to hex him into next week and wanting to grab him by the collar and snog him senseless. And at this point, she wasn’t even sure which urge was stronger.
It happened during Prefect patrols, because of course it did.
The corridors were quiet, dimly lit by torches, and the air felt thick, charged, like the whole castle could sense something was about to happen.
Hermione was determined to get through the night without incident.
Draco, on the other hand, had other plans.
"You’ve been avoiding me, Granger," he said smoothly, falling into step beside her.
Hermione stiffened. "No, I haven’t."
"Mmm," he hummed, smirking. "You have. And not very well, might I add."
She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to focus.
The corridor was empty.
She was fine.
Nothing was going to happen.
But then—he reached out. Brushed his fingers lightly against her wrist. Something deep inside her snapped.
She whirled around so fast that Draco barely had time to react before she grabbed the front of his robes, pulled him close, and kissed him.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t slow.
It was fire and frustration and everything she had been holding back for weeks.
Draco made a startled noise, but he recovered almost instantly. He grabbed her waist, yanking her closer, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, and Merlin, Hermione thought she might actually die.
Her heart was slamming against her ribs, her hands fisting in his robes as she poured everything into the moment—every argument, every glare, every second of tension that had built up between them.
And he matched her intensity perfectly.
One hand tangled in her curls, the other tight on her waist, pressing her against him like he was afraid she’d disappear. She could feel everything—the heat radiating from him, the way he sighed into her mouth, the sheer urgency of it all.
It was messy and desperate and completely overwhelming. And it was, without a doubt, the best kiss of her entire life.
When Hermione finally pulled away, she was breathless, dizzy, reeling. Draco’s lips were kiss-swollen, his silver eyes darker than she’d ever seen them. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the air between them thick with something undeniable, irreversible.
Then—
Draco smirked.
"Well," he murmured, voice hoarse. "That was unexpected."
Hermione gawked.
She had just—
SHE HAD JUST KISSED DRACO MALFOY.
" I—I— "
She took a horrified step back.
Draco raised an eyebrow, amused. "You gonna run away, Granger?"
Hermione made a noise that was somewhere between a squeak and a wheeze. "YES."
And then—she turned and sprinted down the corridor like her life depended on it.
Behind her, Draco’s laughter echoed off the walls. "You’ll have to face me eventually, darling!"
Hermione let out a muffled scream. She burst into the Gryffindor common room, looking wild-eyed and absolutely wrecked.
Ginny, lounging on the couch, barely blinked. "So, did you kiss him, or did you kill him?"
" I—I—I— "
"Oh, she kissed him," Luna said serenely, sipping her tea. "Look at her. She’s glowing."
"I AM NOT GLOWING."
"You totally are," Ginny grinned. "So? How was it?"
Hermione collapsed onto the floor, face in her hands. "IT WAS PERFECT, AND I HATE MYSELF."
Ginny let out a delighted shriek. "Oh, this is the best day of my life."
Draco Malfoy strolled into the Slytherin common room like a man who had just won the lottery.
Blaise looked up. "You look—" He frowned. "Are you smiling?"
Pansy sat up instantly. "Wait. WAIT. Did something happen?"
Draco simply collapsed into an armchair, smirking at the ceiling. "She kissed me."
Silence. Then—Pansy SCREAMED. "SHE WHAT?!"
Blaise stared. "Holy shit, she actually broke first?"
Draco grinned. "Told you. Three days."
Pansy jumped off the couch, spinning in circles. "I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. HISTORY HAS BEEN MADE. THE ENEMY HAS FALLEN."
Blaise sighed, shaking his head. "We’re never going to hear the end of this, are we? "
Draco, grinning like a king, stretched out comfortably. "Not a chance. Not now that that witch is mine and I’ll tell my mother that I just got myself a girlfriend.”
“I can kiss Hermione, that Hawthorne git can’t.”
Hermione didn’t sleep that night. She tossed and turned, replaying the kiss over and over and over.
The way he had sighed into her mouth.
The way his hands had held her like she was something to be treasured.
The way her entire world had tilted.
She was doomed. Absolutely, utterly, helplessly in love with Draco Malfoy. And worst of all? She was pretty sure he already knew.