The castle felt different now. Less like a sanctuary, more like a place caught between the past and whatever came next. The war had scraped its name into the stones, left ghosts behind in the whispers of empty corridors and the careful way people stepped around one another, as if the wrong word might shatter what little peace was left.
Draco Malfoy moved through it like a shadow, quieter than he'd ever been. He knew how they looked at him—like something they weren't sure should still be here. He didn't blame them. Some days, he wasn't sure himself.
He hadn't expected to return for an eight year, not after everything. But his mother had insisted, and with his father locked away and his family's name stripped of its weight, her insistence was all that mattered. So he came back, swallowed his pride, and existed. That was enough. It had to be.
And then McGonagall paired him with Hermione Granger.
He should have seen it coming. She called it an effort at unity, a chance to rebuild what had been broken. Draco called it a cruel joke. He doubted Granger found it any funnier. She'd glared at him when their names were read aloud, lips pressed into a thin line, fingers twitching like she wished she could hex the words out of the air.
He supposed he deserved that.
Their project was research-based. meant to dissect magical theory and modern application—dry, tedious work that required long hours in the library. At first, they barely spoke. Hermione sat hunched over parchment, scrawling in her sharp, deliberate handwriting, and he read through books without taking in the words. They worked in silence, and Draco preferred it that way. It was safer.
But the silence changed, stretched into something else. Something that lingered between them, unspoken and heavy. It wasn't just hatred, not anymore. It was something messier, tangled in the past and what remained of them now. He caught himself watching her too closely—the way her quill moved too fast when she was irritated, the way she bit her lip when she was deep in thought. The way she rubbed her temples when she thought no one was looking, exhaustion written into every inch of her frame.
She was tired. And if he admitted it—only to himself, only in the quiet—so was he.
One night, she fell asleep mid-sentence, head resting on an open book. Draco sat frozen, staring at her strands of hair that had slipped from her ponytail, the slow, steady rise and fall of her breath. He should have woken her, should have said something sharp enough to remind them both of who they were. Instead, he let her sleep.
And something shifted.
The next evening, when he arrived at their usual table, there was already a seat saved for him. Hermione didn't look up as he sat down, didn't acknowledge him beyond the slight tilt of the book she nudged in his direction.
He didn't thank her. But he read the passage anyway.
And then silence between them didn't feel quite so heavy anymore.
It was subtle at first. The way she no longer flinched when he reached for the same book. The way he no longer bristled when she sighed at one of his remarks. The way their quills scratched in tandem, filling the quiet with something steady, something constant.
Then came the words.
"You miss a semicolon," she murmured one evening, eyes never leaving the parchment in front of her.
Draco blinked. Not because of what she said, but because it was the first thing she'd voluntarily said to him in days.
He leaned back in his chair, lifting an eyebrow. "Are we really going to pretend this is some grave academic offense, Granger?"
She finally looked at him then, exasperation flickering in her brown eyes. "It is if you want McGonagall to take your work seriously."
His lips twitched, but he refused to let the smirk take form. "How tragic, I'll be sure to mourn the loss of my academic credibility."
A huff of irritation, but there was something else beneath it. Something lighter. Something that, if he didn't know better, almost sounded like amusement.
The conversation didn't last long, but after that, the silence wasn't as rigid. They exchanged remarks—short, clipped, but not unkind. She corrected his citations without asking, and he let her, though he rolled his eyes when she got particularly pedantic. And sometimes, when the night stretched long and the candles burned low, he caught her looking at him as if she were trying to puzzle something out.
Draco didn’t ask what it was. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
The first time they argued, really argued, it was past midnight, and they were the only two left in the library. The air was thick with dust and the remnants of dying candlelight, flickering shadows dancing against the stone walls.
“I don’t see why you’re so insistent on this theory,” Hermione said, voice tight as she pushed a book toward him. “The evidence clearly supports the alternative.”
Draco scoffed, barely glancing at the page. “You’re so convinced that just because it’s written down, it must be the only truth?”
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you implied.”
Hermione let out a sharp breath, leaning back in her chair. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Act like everyone is out to get you.”
Draco stilled. The words shouldn’t have cut—they were simple, logical, but they landed like a hex, striking too close to something raw.
He schooled his expression into something indifferent, shrugging as he turned a page. “Force of habit, I suppose.”
Silence. Then—
“I don’t think you realize that people are trying.”
His jaw tensed. “Trying what?”
She hesitated, then said, softer, “To see you as something more than who you were.”
Draco didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Because the truth was, he didn’t know if he wanted them to.
And yet, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure he wanted them not to, either.
He let the silence stretch, the weight of her words settling into the space between them. Hermione sighed, shaking her head as if disappointed, but she didn’t leave. Instead, she flipped a page in her book and kept reading, the candlelight flickering between them like a heartbeat.
Draco found himself watching her again, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way her fingers curled slightly as she read. And for the first time since returning to Hogwarts, he wondered what it would be like—to let someone see him, truly see him, and not turn away.
Maybe, just maybe, he wanted to find out.
The next evening, when he slid into his usual seat, she glanced at him. This time, she didn’t look away so quickly.
“Late again?” she murmured.
Draco smirked. “Thought you’d appreciate the peace.”
She didn’t deny it. But she didn’t send him away, either.
The hallway was bustling with students on their way to classes, the chatter echoing off the stone walls. Draco kept his head down, his steps quick as he made his way toward the next lesson, eyes fixed on the floor ahead of him. It was a routine that had become second nature—move quickly, avoid the crowds, and ignore the lingering gazes.
He didn't expect anything out of the ordinary, but then it happened.
Hermione Granger, of all people, barrelled into him.
He barely had time to register her presence before her shoulder collided with his, and she stumbled back, her books falling from her arms in a flurry of parchment and ink.
"Bloody hell," Draco muttered, instinctively stepping back to avoid knocking her over.
Hermione, her face flushed in frustration, shot him an irritated look as she knelt down to gather her scattered things. "Watch where you're going, Malfoy."
Draco blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sharpness in her voice, before he stooped down to help her. "You were the one who—"
She cut him off, not looking up as she snatched her books from the floor. "I know exactly what I was doing, thank you."
There was an awkward pause as they both straightened, each holding a portion of the books. Hermione’s gaze flickered toward him for a brief second before she sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Honestly, you could’ve moved."
"I was walking," Draco said, slightly defensive but trying to keep the conversation neutral.
She looked at him then, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Well, I’m sorry my existence disturbs you so much."
Draco stifled the urge to respond sharply, a retort lingering on his tongue. But before he could, she took a step back, organizing the books in her arms as if the exchange never happened. "Just... try not to take up the entire hall next time."
And just like that, she turned on her heel, her back straight, and walked away. No more words. No more lingering animosity. Just a quick, curt dismissal.
Draco stood there for a moment longer than necessary, watching her retreating form, the echo of her footsteps fading into the noise of the hallway. Something about the way she had looked at him—something softer than the usual disgust—lingered in the air, even if she hadn’t meant for it to.
He shook his head, unwilling to entertain the thought any longer. But the encounter—small as it was—had left him with a lingering sense of something. Something that wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been before.
Not that it mattered. He was just... tired.
The following days passed in a quiet sort of rhythm, the routine of their late-night library sessions becoming something they both seemed to settle into. Draco wasn’t sure when the tension had started to unravel, but it was there now, woven into their exchanges like a silent agreement. There was an understanding between them now, a subtle shift, like the first spring breeze that begins to promise warmth but isn’t quite there yet.
But one evening, as the shadows grew long and the night settled in around them, something more than the usual exchange of looks and half-spoken sentences happened.
Draco had arrived late, as usual, but he found Hermione already at the table, her face buried in a book, her brow furrowed in concentration. She didn’t look up when he sat down, but the air between them felt different tonight. There was an intensity to it, something almost palpable.
He tossed his bag onto the table and started to unpack, but before he could reach for his own book, Hermione spoke.
“You’re not going to finish this, are you?”
Draco glanced at her, frowning. “Finish what?”
“The project,” she said, her voice steady but tinged with something he couldn’t quite place. “You’re not going to finish it.”
He blinked at her, taken aback by the directness of her words. “You don’t know that.”
She looked up then, and for a brief moment, their eyes met—his cool, calculating, hers burning with a determination that wasn’t unfamiliar to him, though he had seen it most often in the form of anger, not this quiet resolve.
“Are you even trying?” she asked, her tone softer now but no less pointed. “Or are you just going through the motions?”
Draco stilled, his hand frozen above his parchment. He knew what she meant. He wasn’t putting himself into this project—not really. He hadn’t put himself into much of anything since he’d returned to Hogwarts. Since everything had fallen apart. It was easier to remain distant, detached. But she saw through it. Of course, she did. She always had that ability.
The words hung in the air between them, fragile and delicate. Draco stared at her, unsure of how to respond, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t have a clever retort, didn’t have a shield ready to raise.
Instead, he simply nodded.
The corridor was quieter than usual, save for the occasional clatter of footsteps and hushed voices drifting from nearby classrooms. Draco moved down the hall at a steady pace, head slightly tilted in thought, not paying much attention to the students around him. He’d just come from an exhausting meeting with one of his professors, and he was eager to get back to his room.
That was when it happened.
A figure rounded the corner ahead of him, moving too quickly to stop. Before either of them could react, Hermione Granger collided with him—again. This time, there was no time to even steady himself. His shoulder hit hers, and both of them stumbled back a step, the force of the impact enough to rattle them both.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake!” she exclaimed, her books sliding from her arms in a disorganized mess.
Draco blinked, momentarily stunned. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, already kneeling to pick up the scattered papers and books before anyone else could step on them.
“I didn’t see you there,” she said quickly, her tone laced with annoyance, but it wasn’t as sharp as it could’ve been. She knelt down beside him, grabbing the pile of parchment that had slid the furthest away.
Draco grabbed a stack of her textbooks, his fingers brushing hers briefly before he pulled his hand back. “Clearly,” he said dryly, handing her the books.
She huffed, her cheeks slightly flushed as she took them, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, though she quickly wiped it away. “I’m not usually this... distracted.”
He raised an eyebrow, pausing for a moment. “No, I suppose not,” he said, his voice teasing but not unkind.
The air between them felt... different this time. There was still tension, but it wasn’t as immediate. It wasn’t as heavy. Hermione, who usually would’ve snapped at him in an instant, didn’t. She simply adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder, letting the awkward moment hang between them for a brief moment.
“Well,” she said after a pause, standing up straight and dusting off her robes, “I suppose I owe you an apology for being... well, for walking into you again.”
Draco stood too, straightening his robes, his expression still slightly bemused. “Seems to be a habit of yours, doesn’t it?”
Her eyes flickered up at him, and for a second, he could’ve sworn there was a glint of amusement there, as though she was considering throwing something witty back at him. Instead, she let out a breath. “I guess I’ll have to work on that.”
Draco shrugged. “Wouldn’t hurt.”
She hesitated, looking at him for a moment, something almost reluctant in her gaze. But then, just as quickly as the moment had passed, she adjusted her books again and nodded. “Thanks,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost more sincere. “For... helping.”
Draco nodded, his lips quirking upward slightly. “No problem,” he muttered, before turning to walk away.
Just before he reached the end of the corridor, he heard her voice again.
"Malfoy."
He turned, slightly surprised. "What?"
"I really am sorry," she added quickly, as if she hadn’t meant to let the words slip out, but felt they needed to be said anyway.
Draco blinked, taken aback by her unexpected sincerity. “It’s fine, Granger. Just... watch where you're going next time,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
This time, when she walked away, there was no bitterness, no tension. Just a quiet moment that neither of them had expected.
The library was quiet, save for the soft rustle of pages turning and the occasional whisper of students in the far corner. The smell of old parchment and ink lingered in the air, a familiar comfort for Draco as he settled into his seat across from Hermione. He’d been expecting the usual silence between them, the tension hanging like a cloud.
But today, it was different.
Hermione was already there when he arrived, as usual, but she was no longer hunched over her work in the way she usually was. Instead, she was flipping through one of their textbooks, tapping the tip of her quill absentmindedly against the edge of the page. She looked tired, but there was something more... open about her today. Draco couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he felt it—the difference.
He set his bag down with a soft thud and sat across from her, pulling out his own parchment and books. For a moment, there was nothing but the quiet scratch of quills on paper, the soft murmur of words whispered over pages, both of them caught in the rhythm of their work.
After a while, Hermione broke the silence, looking up at him with a frown. “You missed a detail here,” she said, tapping the page he was reading.
Draco blinked, surprised at the interruption. He looked down at the section she was pointing to, squinting slightly. “I did?”
She nodded, her finger still on the page. “This theory, you didn’t quite get the reference right. It’s not just about the spell; you’re missing the context. The enchantment itself doesn’t work unless you account for the temporal shift.” She paused, looking at him with a mix of exasperation and something else—maybe amusement, though it was hard to tell. “Did you even read this part properly?”
Draco’s mouth twitched slightly. “It’s hard to concentrate with you always breathing down my neck,” he said dryly, but there was no malice in his voice. She wasn’t flinching anymore. Not like she used to.
Hermione’s lips curled into a small smile, though she tried to hide it by adjusting her glasses. “You’re lucky I’m here, otherwise you’d be turning in half-baked work.”
Draco let out a low chuckle, the tension between them easing just a fraction. “I’d survive. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m not worried,” she said quickly, perhaps a little too quickly. Her eyes darted back to her parchment, though her cheeks were slightly flushed. “Just... trying to make sure we don’t fail this project.”
Draco nodded, the smirk fading slightly as he took in her words. She was trying. He could tell. Maybe it was a little absurd, how much that meant to him, but it did. It had been a long time since someone had genuinely tried to work with him. And for the first time in ages, he realized he wasn’t minding it.
“So, how should I fix it?” he asked, the sarcasm in his tone replaced by something that could almost be described as curiosity.
Hermione paused, clearly surprised by his lack of resistance. “Well,” she began, leaning forward a little, her eyes softening as she spoke. “You need to adjust the spell's theory to incorporate the alternate charm. It’s more complicated, but it’s the only way it makes sense with the evidence.” She glanced up at him. “You did read the supplementary chapters, right?”
Draco’s brow furrowed slightly. “Of course I did.” He couldn’t help but feel a little defensive. “You think I wouldn’t read the chapters?”
She smirked. “Sometimes, yes.”
Draco rolled his eyes but let out a small laugh anyway, surprising even himself. “Fine. I’ll fix it.” He leaned over and adjusted the notes he’d written, taking care to implement the changes she’d suggested. It wasn’t quite as hard as he’d thought.
Hermione watched him work for a moment, her fingers tapping against her book as she seemed to reconsider something. When he glanced up, he caught her looking at him with an unreadable expression, her brow furrowed slightly, as if she were trying to figure something out.
“What?” Draco asked, his voice quiet but steady.
She shook her head, as if shaking off a thought. “Nothing,” she said quickly, turning her attention back to her work. “Just... keep going.”
Draco didn’t press, though something about the way she’d said it made him wonder what she was thinking. He went back to his own notes, but the words felt heavier now, somehow.
The sun had long since set, and the library was nearly empty. Only Draco and Hermione remained, sitting at opposite ends of their usual table. The quiet was thick, broken only by the scratching of quills and the occasional turning of a page.
Hermione slammed a book shut with a sigh, rubbing her eyes. Draco glanced up, barely acknowledging her frustration.
“Stuck again?” he asked, his tone more casual than he intended.
She shot him a brief, sharp look before dropping her hands on the table, exasperated. “This doesn’t make any sense. The theory contradicts itself. How is that possible?”
“Could be you’re overcomplicating it,” Draco muttered without looking up from his own work.
“I’m not overcomplicating anything,” she snapped, clearly on edge. “It’s just wrong.”
Draco didn’t reply right away. He wasn’t used to Hermione showing this much frustration. Usually, she was calm, collected, determined. It wasn’t like her to get caught up in something so... messy.
“Maybe it’s just bad theory,” he finally said, glancing at her. “You ever think of that?”
She stared at him, dumbfounded for a second, then let out a frustrated laugh. “That’s your solution? To just give up?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes things don’t make sense. Might as well save the energy.”
She scoffed. “You don’t care about getting things right, do you?”
Draco leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly. “Of course I care. But I don’t see the point in beating my head against a wall.”
Her lips pressed together, eyes flicking between his work and his face. She didn’t say anything for a while, just went back to her book, clearly frustrated, but not willing to argue further.
The silence stretched on, thicker than before, but somehow less uncomfortable than it used to be. Hermione scribbled something on her parchment, the sharp scratch of her quill filling the air. Draco returned to his own notes, the quiet not feeling quite as stifling as it had before.
Then, a few moments later, she looked up again, her voice low. “You’re not as insufferable as I thought you’d be.”
Draco didn’t react at first, but when he did, it was with a raised eyebrow. “Oh?”
She shrugged, not looking at him now. “You don’t make everything harder than it has to be.”
Draco smirked, though there was no real humour behind it. “You’re welcome, Granger.”
For a moment, it was just the sound of quills on paper again, the two of them working side by side but not really speaking. The quiet was different now—less tense, more... familiar.
Draco didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. And neither did she.
The clock ticked in the quiet of the library, the soft rustling of pages the only sound between them. Draco leaned back in his chair, staring at the nearly finished project in front of them. Hermione was still writing, her quill moving rapidly across the parchment, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“I think we’re done,” Draco said, breaking the silence.
Hermione glanced up, a hint of surprise in her expression. “Really? You didn’t contribute that much.”
He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “I didn’t argue every point you made. That’s contribution enough.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was a glimmer of something else there, something softer. “You’re impossible.”
Draco chuckled, but this time, there was no edge to it. Just a quiet laugh, shared between two people who had spent too many hours together to still feel like strangers. He glanced down at the finished project, the weight of it sinking in.
“I think it’s good,” Hermione said, tapping the parchment. “We make a decent team.”
Draco didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on her. “Yeah. We do.”
The change between them wasn’t immediate, but it was there, creeping in through the cracks like the first signs of a thaw. Their conversations stretched longer, their silences felt less weighted. Some nights, when the library was especially empty, Hermione would let out a soft sigh and say something completely unrelated to their research—something about a book she’d read, or a particularly frustrating lesson. And, against all odds, Draco found himself answering.
But just as something fragile seemed to take shape between them, reality pressed its cold hands against his throat and reminded him of who he was.
It happened on a grey, drizzling afternoon, the kind that made the castle feel even heavier with the ghosts it carried. Draco had been making his way toward the Great Hall when he heard it.
“Surprised she lets you sit near her without turning you into a ferret.”
The voice was unmistakable—Cormac McLaggen, loud and careless, words laced with the kind of cruelty that didn't need to be sharp to cut deep. A few others chuckled, not enough to be an outright attack, but enough to remind Draco that he would never be like them. That he would always be standing on the outside, looking in.
He clenched his fists, willing himself to keep walking, but then another voice cut through the space between them.
"That’s funny, McLaggen," Hermione said coolly. "I was just thinking the same thing about you and basic human decency."
Silence. A sharp, stinging kind of silence.
Draco turned before he could think better of it. Hermione was standing tall, her chin lifted, her expression unimpressed. McLaggen opened his mouth, closed it again, and then scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stalked away.
Draco didn’t realize he was staring at her until she turned to look at him.
"What?" she asked, arching a brow.
He swallowed, something thick in his throat. "You didn’t have to do that."
She shrugged, adjusting the strap of her bag. "I know."
And just like that, she walked away, as if it hadn’t meant anything. As if she hadn't just done something no one had done for him in a very long time.
Draco stood there, unmoving, the rain tapping softly against the windows.
Something inside him cracked.
It unravelled faster than he expected.
Not in a fiery, spectacular way. Not with arguments or slammed books or the kind of explosive fallout that made the air vibrate. No, it unravelled in quiet, subtle moments—so soft they could almost be mistaken for nothing at all.
It was the way Hermione started leaving the library before he arrived, excuses growing thinner each time. It was the way her eyes didn’t linger as long, the way her replies became clipped, efficient. It was the way she slowly, steadily, pulled away.
Draco knew why.
He saw it in the way her friends whispered to her, their eyes darting toward him before quickly looking away. He saw it in the way Weasley tensed whenever Draco entered the same room, in the way Potter's gaze darkened just slightly when he caught them sitting too close.
Draco didn’t blame them. He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t oblivious. He knew exactly who he was.
He just hadn’t realized how much he hated it.
The night it finally ended, it was raining.
Not the light, misty kind of rain, but the heavy, unrelenting downpour that swallowed the castle in sheets of grey. Draco had been avoiding the library, and it seemed Hermione had too. But fate had a cruel sense of humour.
They found each other on the Astronomy Tower.
She was standing near the railing, her robes damp, her hair curling at the edges from the mist. She must have heard him approaching because she didn’t turn, didn’t startle. She just sighed.
"Are you following me now?" she asked, her voice carrying over the rain.
Draco huffed a quiet laugh, though there was no humour in it. "Not everything is about you, Granger."
She let out a breath, almost a laugh, but not quite.
A beat of silence stretched between them before she finally turned, arms crossed over her chest. "Draco."
It was the first time she’d said his name.
He hated how much it hurt.
"You don’t have to say it," he murmured. "I know."
Her brows furrowed, but she didn’t deny it. She just looked at him, really looked at him, and he realized she had already made her choice.
"It’s not that simple," she whispered.
"It is," he said, his voice quiet, steady. "You and I both know how this ends."
Hermione swallowed, and for the first time, she looked uncertain. But then she shook her head, as if trying to convince herself more than him. "I—" She hesitated. "This was never meant to be anything."
Draco nodded. "I know."
And he did.
But that didn’t stop it from feeling like the cruellest lie she had ever told.
She turned to leave.
Draco let her.
The next day, their seats in the library were empty.