Flashback: 1997
The Room of Requirement was always unpredictable—shifting to meet whatever need you had at the time. Tonight, it was the room of lost things. The flickering candles barely illuminated the space, and the weight of the world outside seemed miles away. Hermione paced back and forth, her mind racing. She had always prided herself on control, on logic, on being the one who had all the answers. But tonight, she had none. Tonight, she wasn’t even sure what she was doing here with Draco.
Draco stood by the Vanishing Cabinet, his hands resting at his sides, looking like he was miles away from this room—lost in his own thoughts. It had started as a confrontation, her finding him out, but somewhere along the way, it had become something else. There was no anger, no mocking words between them. Only the quiet tension that clung to the air. “Malfoy” Hermione said, her voice tight but trembling. She wanted to yell, to demand answers, but there was something different now. Something in his eyes that stopped her. He was so... vulnerable. “What’s this? What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer right away, and she could see the conflict in his eyes—he didn’t want to be doing this, didn’t want her to know the truth. But he was trapped. Just like she was. “This,” Draco said, gesturing weakly to the Vanishing Cabinet, “this is how I survive, Granger. This is how I survive in a world that’s falling apart.” His words were edged with something dark, something Hermione had never heard from him before. “I don’t have any other choice.” Hermione swallowed hard, feeling a knot form in her stomach. She had always thought of Draco as someone arrogant, someone who thought he was above everything for all the times he'd called her a mudblood, or bullied her. But now, she saw the cracks in his mask. She saw the boy who had been forced into this life, a life he never asked for.
“So you’re going to go through with it?” she whispered, almost to herself. “You’re going to let the Death Eaters into the school?” His eyes flashed with something—regret, maybe fear, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. His gaze turned away, and she saw the way his jaw clenched. “I don’t want to, Granger. I never wanted to be a part of this. But if I don’t... if I don’t do what they ask... my family, my mother...” His voice faltered, and he turned away, trying to hide the pain behind his words. “I don’t have a choice. You wouldn’t understand.”
Hermione’s heart clenched in her chest. She did understand. In her own way, she understood more than she cared to admit. The weight of everything she had seen, everything she had lost. They were both just trying to survive. And they were both losing pieces of themselves along the way. As if touched by Draco's honesty and vulnerability, she let the thought roll off her tongue before she could stop herself. “I don’t want to die a virgin,” Hermione couldn't believe she'd said the words out loud. They'd spilled out, harsh and raw, and she immediately regretted them. But it was the truth. If she died, she didn’t want her first time to be in a battlefield, or worse, a Death Eater Revel, caught by the enemy without ever having experienced something real. Something that wasn’t born from fear or violence.
Draco turned to face her then, his expression unreadable. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he said, his voice soft but hoarse. “I know what you mean.” Hermione took a steadying breath, her nerves gnawing at her, but there was something else now—something more than just her own fear, her own desire to be seen. It was a connection. A bond between two people who had been pushed to the edges of their own limits. And in this moment, there was nowhere else for them to go but forward.
“I think it could be you, Draco. I could...I could be okay if it's you.” Hermione whispered, her voice low. She didn’t want to say it, but she had to. She needed him to understand. “I need it to be...you. You'd never tell a soul, and, we're not close at all. If I die, if it all ends, I want it to be with someone who understands me in this moment. Someone who knows what it’s like to be trapped in this. Someone who isn’t pretending anymore.” Draco looked at her then, his face shadowed with guilt and something else, something that looked a lot like relief. He took a step closer, his hand moving almost uncertainly towards her. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice barely more than a rasp. “Are you sure about this? You want it to be me?”
Hermione didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t know if it was the right decision. But in that moment, it felt like the only decision. She couldn’t live with the idea of dying without experiencing this. Without feeling something. “I’m sure,” she breathed out, meeting his gaze.
A strange quiet settled between them, heavy with the weight of their unspoken agreement. There were no more words. No more explanations. He stepped closer, his hands trembling as he reached for her, but there was no hesitation in his touch. He cupped her face gently, as if he were afraid she would break if he held on too tightly. Their lips met then, tentatively at first, testing, unsure. It was a brief peck and Hermione was surprised at how soft Malfoy's lips had felt. But it wasn’t long before the kiss deepened, driven by something darker, something more urgent. It was both of their first times and it was messy, awkward even, but it was real.
They were both unskilled in this, both raw and trembling with the weight of what they were giving each other. They didn’t need words. They didn’t need any more explanations. What they needed was this, this moment where the world outside didn’t matter. Where the war, the choices, the expectations, none of it mattered. They only had each other, for just one night, to escape the storm that was raging both inside and around them.
Draco pulled her closer, his hands guiding her, tentative at first, before they both gave into something deeper and their bodies collided. There was only the two of them. Only the quiet, aching intimacy that was born from fear, from need, from something they both had been too afraid to admit until now. And for the first time in a long time, they didn’t have to pretend. They didn’t have to be anyone else but themselves. When it was over, they lay there in silence, still tangled in each other’s arms, both of them uncertain of what to say. There was no arrogance, no bravado. Only two people, too scared to ask for anything more, yet too desperate to let go.
The second time it happened, they'd been in the throws of battle. Not their finest moment, but another clandestine collision none the less. Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom was a strange place for anyone to seek refuge in the middle of a battle. But in that moment, in the quiet pause between the chaos of spells and the growing tension outside, it felt like the only place that made sense. The castle was shaking with the weight of Voldemort’s presence; the sounds of curses and the shouts of death eaters rang through the walls. Dead lay scattered, blood stained the once proud stones with a deep red crimson.
Yet here, in this forgotten, damp space, it was as if time had slowed. Almost frozen.
Hermione had been running, darting through hallways, avoiding Death Eaters and trying not to think of the weight of her choices. The war had taken everything from her, and as she paused to catch her breath, she felt the sharp sting of a new wound—one that wasn’t physical. The war had torn her apart in ways she couldn’t even describe. She was tired. So tired. She found herself in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom almost by accident, but it was a welcome accident. She needed somewhere to hide, somewhere to breathe for just a moment before she would have to face whatever was coming next.
But as she entered, she froze. There, standing in the center of the room with his back to her, was Draco Malfoy. She should have been angry, should have wanted to curse him or shout at him. But she didn’t. She just stood there, staring at him, watching the way his shoulders were slumped, his posture weary. He didn’t hear her enter. Or maybe he didn’t care. He was too lost in his own thoughts, his own battle. He didn’t turn until the sound of her breath, the soft hitch of her chest, cut through the silence. His eyes snapped up to meet hers, and for a moment, neither of them moved.
There was no hiding it, no pretending. They both saw it in each other’s eyes: the haunted, tormented look that spoke of too many nights spent awake, too many deaths they’d witnessed, too many moments where they had both wondered if they would even survive this. His gaze softened, the hardness of the Malfoy pride cracking for a fraction of a second. There was something broken in him—something she understood in a way no one else could. “Granger,” Draco said, his voice rough, but there was no mockery in it. Only something hollow, something raw. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
Hermione swallowed, trying to steady her breath, but there was nothing steady about this moment. Not with the war looming over them. “I wasn’t looking for you,” she said, her words sharper than she intended. “I needed to be alone.” Draco took a step forward, his eyes intense now, searching her face as if he was looking for something she wasn’t sure she could give him. “No one is ever really alone in a battle like this,” he said quietly, almost to himself. Then, his gaze softened further, a quiet plea behind it. “And right now, it doesn’t matter what side we’re on. We’re both just surviving.”
Hermione felt the weight of his words settle in her chest, like a stone. She hated that he was right. There was no pretending anymore. There was no safe distance between them, no sides. They were both teetering on the edge of something they couldn’t escape. She was so tired. And the thought of facing the battle ahead, of what would come next, seemed too much to bear. Without another word, Draco took a step closer. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he was waiting for her to stop him. She didn’t. She couldn’t.
He reached for her, his fingers grazing the side of her face, and Hermione closed her eyes. It was familiar—this touch. They had been here before, in this same place, in this same quiet understanding. It was messy and raw, but it was something they both desperately needed. “I don’t want to think about what it means if Harry dies.” Draco murmured, his voice low. “I don’t want to keep pretending like everything’s fine. Not with you. Not now.” Hermione looked up at him then, her heart pounding. She could see the same vulnerability in him that she had seen before, his occlumency walls down, his defenses slipping.
And she understood him in that moment. Not as the enemy, not as the Slytherin who tormented her in the past, but as someone who was broken in the same ways she was.
“Then don’t,” she whispered, her voice shaky but resolute. “Don’t face this alone.” Without another word, Draco closed the distance between them. His lips found hers in a kiss that was urgent, desperate. It was as if both of them were trying to erase the weight of everything that had been placed on their shoulders. They kissed with reckless abandon, as if this might be their last moment in the world. Draco’s hands slid down her back, pulling her closer as if he needed to hold on to her. She responded in kind, her hands moving to his chest, then lower, desperate to feel him, desperate to feel something other than the weight of the war.
In the eye of the storm and the looming presence of Voldemort hanging over them, Hermione and Draco gave in to the one thing they could control. Their bodies collided in a quick, sloppy, frantic way, no finesse, no tenderness, just the need to forget everything else, if only for a moment. The world outside was falling apart, but for a brief second, in the cold, damp bathroom, they found some comfort in each other’s arms. It was messy. It was imperfect. But it was theirs.
Afterward, they lay together on the cold floor, both of them breathing heavily, still tangled in each other’s arms. There was no time to talk, no time for explanations. The battle was still raging, and Voldemort’s ultimatum was still hanging over them. Draco pulled her close again for a moment, burying his face in her hair. “We can’t go back,” he whispered.
Hermione’s heart beat erratically in her chest. She wanted to say something, something meaningful, but the words wouldn’t come. All she could do was close her eyes, feeling his warmth against her, trying to block out the reality of the war outside. In the next moment, they disconnected, Draco pulled himself out of her and cast a quick cleaning charm. He threw his battle worn robes back on quickly as Hermione did the same.
He glanced into her amber eyes for, perhaps, the final time. He tilted his head.
"Thank you, Hermione." Hermione gasped at hearing her name roll off his tongue. He'd never called her by her first name before. She nodded back, her arms crossing over her body, hiding, as if suddenly subconscious, like she hadn't just let him between her legs. "You're welcome, Draco." And as if he'd never been there at all, he'd apparated away with a crack, leaving her reeling in the solitary bathroom.
Present Day - July 1998
The Hogwarts Express rolled steadily along the tracks, its familiar whistle echoing in the cold air, pulling Hermione Granger back into a world she never thought she’d have to return to. It was a world filled with memories of brokenness and war, of losses too deep to truly comprehend, and she was decidedly alone, her best friends Harry and Ron taking the Ministry's offer to join the Auror program sans N.E.W.Ts. However, for her, it was also a world she couldn’t leave behind.
The war was over, the dust was settling, but the weight of it all lingered in ways she hadn’t anticipated. The heavy thump of her loafers on the train’s floor seemed to echo louder than usual as she made her way down the corridor. She was braced for the inevitable, the uncomfortable, awkward silence that awaited her at the door of the Head Prefect compartment. Draco Malfoy, Head Boy. The very notion still made her stomach twist, but she had no choice now. It was unavoidable.
Her fingers hovered over the brass handle, and for a split second, she hesitated. Was she really ready to face him again? The boy who had once been her bitter enemy, the one who’d stood at the other side of the war? Who'd committed war crimes and was given probation on the sole fact her and Harry testified on his behalf? Her breath caught in her throat, but she steadied herself. She was no longer that girl, and this wasn’t the same Hogwarts. She couldn’t let the past haunt her like this. She pushed open the door with a quiet creak.
The compartment was dim, lit only by the soft glow of sunlight spilling through the window. Draco was seated by the glass, his eyes tracing the passing countryside, but his posture was rigid, too aware of the world around him. His pale face was framed by the usual sweep of platinum blonde hair, though it looked a little tousled, as if he’d run a hand through it in frustration. He looked older, weary in ways that Hermione hadn’t expected. There was a slight shadow beneath his eyes, a reflection of the war that had scarred everyone, even him.
At the sound of the door opening, he turned. His gaze was immediate, like a bolt of lightning, and the air between them crackled with the familiarity of years spent in each other’s orbit. His eyes, those cold grey eyes, narrowed as they locked onto hers. A flicker of something passed through them, something sharp and unreadable. “Granger,” Draco said, his voice low, but his tone laced with a hint of mockery. The old Malfoy sneer was present, but it wasn’t quite as biting as she remembered. “I didn’t think you'd have the guts to return.”
Hermione felt her chin lift instinctively. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, her stance defensive. “Well, the same could be said about yourself.” she shot back, her voice carrying the usual sharpness. But there was something off in her words, a subtle, guarded hesitation. Something she couldn’t quite put into place. Draco raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking into a small, knowing smirk. “Ministry mandated, if you recall.” he observed, his gaze flicking down to the space beside him on the bench. “Come to join me, Granger? Or are you just here to make sure I’m not plotting to destroy your precious Hogwarts?”
Hermione stepped further into the compartment, the door clicking softly behind her. She avoided his eyes for a moment, her heart unexpectedly thudding in her chest. Why was this so difficult? Why did it feel as if the air was thicker, laden with an invisible tension that neither of them could shake? “I’m not here for your theatrics, Malfoy,” she said, more curtly than she intended. “We’re Head students now, remember? It’s time to act like it.” The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. The years they’d spent as enemies hadn’t entirely faded from her mind. The sharpness in her words was an instinct she hadn’t quite been able to shed. But there was something different now. The bite in her tone didn’t have the same weight it once did.
Draco didn’t respond immediately, instead letting a silence stretch between them. His gaze seemed to soften just a fraction, and his smirk faded. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly thrilled about this.” he muttered, the words quieter now, tinged with something else, something almost resigned. Hermione felt a twist of confusion. She hadn’t expected him to be so candid. For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. The dynamic had always been one of animosity, but now? Now it felt like something else, like the edges of their rivalry were wearing thin, fraying beneath the surface.
“So, what now?” Hermione asked, trying to push the uncomfortable feelings away. “We just pretend we’re all fine? Pretend this isn’t the most ridiculous situation ever?” Draco’s eyes flicked to her, the usual walls up, but there was something lacking in his gaze now. “I think pretending is all we can do, Granger,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. “The war didn’t leave us any other options, did it?” He let out a sharp breath, frustration mounting. “I never asked for this. To be stuck with you of all people in this stupid position that I definitely don't deserve. You know what they think of me, and you know exactly what I think of you,” he said, a trace of bitterness sneaking into his voice.
Hermione's mouth tightened, but her usual retort never came. Instead, her eyes darkened, her jaw tightening as if battling a deeper frustration. “I don’t need you to remind me of that, Malfoy” she muttered, leaning back against the seat, eyes fixed on some point beyond her, distant. “You think I’m also thrilled about this? I’m not. But here we are.”
And in that moment, something passed between them, something quiet, but powerful. The years of animosity, the insults, the glares, the trauma from the war, it had hollowed out the space between them. What had once been fiery hatred felt cold now, like old, decaying embers that no longer held any warmth. Hermione swallowed, feeling a strange tightness in her throat. “So, what? We just co-exist?” The words tasted strange on her tongue, but they were true. She wasn’t sure what they were meant to do now. “Pretend it’s normal? That we’ve got nothing more to hide?”
Draco studied her for a moment, his gaze sharp and unreadable, and then let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Yeah, Granger. I suppose that’s exactly it.” But even as the words left his lips, neither of them believed them. The silence stretched between them again, heavier now. The past clung to the edges of the space like smoke, neither of them willing to breathe it in too deeply. And in the quiet, Hermione couldn’t ignore the gnawing feeling that something had changed—something fundamental. The old barbs were still there, still waiting to be unleashed. But the tension now felt different. They were no longer enemies, not truly. But neither of them knew how to move forward from the wreckage of their lives and the harrowing intimacy with which they'd known each other.
The train’s motion was almost hypnotic, the gentle swaying and rhythmic clicking of the wheels on the tracks offering no escape from the charged silence in the compartment. The pale light of the late afternoon filtered through the window, casting long shadows across the floor and draping both of them in a soft, almost spectral glow. Hermione sat with her hands tightly clasped in her lap, her fingers flexing nervously as she stared out at the blurring landscape. She should have been used to this by now, used to the way everything had changed since the war had ended. But this—sitting in a compartment with Draco Malfoy, both of them now head students, both of them still carrying the weight of their pasts—felt different.
The tension between them had been palpable ever since they’d boarded the train. The walls they’d both built up, during the war and in the years that followed, were still there, unspoken but undeniable. Hermione knew better than anyone how to keep her emotions locked away, but even she couldn’t ignore the undeniable pull of familiarity that came from being in the same room as Draco now. When he spoke, it was with the same drawl, the same casual arrogance that she had always associated with him.
“I didn’t expect this,” Hermione said, her voice quieter, almost hesitant. She shifted slightly in her seat, but not enough to look at him. “You. Me. Being head students. This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for my last year.” Draco’s eyes flicked to her again, and for a moment, the weight of her words seemed to land. “Trust me,” he said, his voice flat, “this wasn’t exactly in my plans either.”
The way he said it, like it was a burden rather than a privilege, caught her off guard. It was the first time he had admitted anything that didn’t come with a veneer of superiority, the first time he had shown any kind of vulnerability. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make her look at him properly. Really look at him. The same Draco Malfoy, yes, but so much more complicated now. The boy who had once stood beside Voldemort, the boy who had been a source of so much anger and resentment in her life, was sitting there, a man now, his past written all over his face and etched into his left forearm, just like her own past was etched into her arm.
They both sat in silence, the weight of what had been left unsaid heavy between them.
Hermione swallowed hard, trying to ignore the uncomfortable knot that had formed in her chest. There was so much history between them, too much, too much to unpack. It wasn’t just their shared animosity; it was the way they had been forced into roles they had never chosen, the way they had given their bodies to each other, not once, but twice. She had always seen him as the enemy, the privileged boy who thought he could have whatever he wanted. But now, looking at him, she realized there was something more. She couldn’t tell if it was pity, or empathy, or something else entirely. But it unsettled her in ways she couldn’t explain.
Draco shifted again, this time moving just slightly closer, the space between them narrowing ever so slightly. “You’re quieter than I remember,” he said, his eyes watching her closely. “You’re not as insufferable as you used to be either.”
Hermione found herself smiling, despite herself. She couldn’t help it. “I’ve grown up,” she said, her voice softer than before. “The war had a way of doing that to people.” Draco’s gaze flickered briefly to her, and for a moment, she thought he might say something cutting, something sarcastic. But instead, he just exhaled a slow breath. “It did change us all, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” Hermione replied, her throat tight. She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t need to. She could feel the unspoken weight of everything they had endured—everything they had lost. And in some strange way, that made the silence between them feel more like an understanding than an awkward gap. Another pause stretched between them, but this time, it didn’t feel as charged. It felt almost comfortable, like two people who had once been enemies, now standing on the edge of something new, something uncertain. It wasn’t friendship. It wasn’t even tolerance. But it was different.
“I didn’t think it'd be like this,” Hermione said, her voice quieter now, the weight of the words settling heavily in the air between them. “I didn’t think I’d be sitting here with you. I thought we’d still be at each other’s throats.”
“Well,” Draco said, a slight edge creeping back into his voice, “we still could be, at each others throats.” Her lips quirked up into a small smile. “But we won’t be, at least, not in public.”
Draco’s eyes softened just for a moment, and it was the smallest of shifts. “No,” he agreed softly. “I don’t think we will.” Before either could say anything more, the door to the compartment opened abruptly, and a group of younger students, heads poking in curiously, froze in the doorway. Their eyes flicked from Hermione to Draco, and then back again. Hermione saw them trying not to stare, their brows furrowed in confusion at the sight of the two of them together, alone.
“Sorry.” one of them said, their voice a little too loud, clearly trying to avoid any confrontation. “We didn’t know you were here.” Hermione blinked, suddenly snapped out of the moment. “No problem,” she said briskly, offering them a tight smile. “Carry on.” The students darted out of the compartment as quickly as they’d arrived, leaving an empty, lingering silence in their wake. As the door slid shut behind them, Hermione and Draco were left alone once again. But the air between them had changed—subtly, irreversibly. Hermione exhaled slowly and stood, turning toward the door. It was her turn to patrol the train cars. “I’ll see you at the feast,” she said, her voice more measured now. Before she could leave, Draco’s voice stopped her.
“Granger...”
She paused, her hand still on the door handle. “I'm willing to cooperate with you this year as Head Boy.” he said quietly, the words heavier than she’d expected, as though he were carrying some unspoken weight. Her pulse quickened, and for a moment, she couldn’t bring herself to turn around. “I suppose I can also try...” she said softly, but her heart thundered in her chest. The door clicked shut behind her. And the train continued on its journey, the two of them caught in its wake, not yet knowing how much further they would go.
The tension in the Great Hall was palpable as the students looked at Draco and the rest of the returning Slytherins. Some eyes narrowed, others seemed to look away in disgust. The whispers that fluttered like ghostly wings were hushed but unmistakable. Draco sat stiffly at the table, his grey eyes scanning the room, but never quite meeting anyone’s gaze. His usual confident, almost smug posture was replaced by something more rigid, defensive, sunken. He was no longer a Malfoy heir with a reputation to uphold. He was just a boy who had seen too much, done too much, and now had to face a world that didn’t trust him. A world that hated him.
Hermione could feel the undercurrent of judgment in the air. It wasn’t just her. The students around them were speaking in harsh tones, and every now and then she caught the word “Death Eater” under someone’s breath. There were still fresh scars on the faces of the survivors of the war. She could practically see the cracks in their determination, the sharp, bitter edges of their anger.
The Slytherins, the few who still filled the table, were hardly any better off. Theodore Nott barely acknowledged anyone, his face frozen in an expression of polite indifference. Even Pansy Parkinson, who was always quick to put up a front, looked stiff and uncomfortable, though she still gave an occasional sneer in the direction of the Gryffindors. Blaise Zabini made up the last of the Ministry mandated 8th year students. It was this or Azkaban. The Slytherins had been cast as the villains, even before they’d stepped foot back in Hogwarts. Everyone remembered who had fought for the Dark Lord, who had been part of the terror.
Hermione glanced at Draco, catching a flicker of something in his eyes, regret? Resignation? She couldn't quite tell. But whatever it was, it wasn’t pride. The Draco Malfoy of old, the one who had sneered at the Gryffindors with a sense of superiority, was gone. In his place sat a boy who had to face the very people he once deemed beneath him, and the weight of their hatred was more crushing than any judgment his father had ever laid on him. When McGonagall had finished welcoming the first years, there was a sharp silence that settled over the room. The first years were all looking at Draco, unsure whether to be intimidated or disgusted, while the returning students seemed to watch him with a mixture of both.
"Welcome back, Draco," a voice sneered from the back of the hall.
Hermione’s head snapped toward the sound of it. It was Seamus. Of course. He couldn’t help himself. The anger in his voice was raw, unfiltered. The years had done nothing to soften the hatred he still felt for Draco, and it was impossible to ignore the flare of resentment that emanated from him.
Draco didn’t flinch, but Hermione could feel the tension in him as if he were holding himself together by a thread. His gaze didn’t linger on Ron, but his posture stiffened, just slightly. He turned his head ever so slightly toward her. Their eyes met, and in the brief exchange, there was an unspoken agreement, a recognition of how awkward and impossible this situation was. "We are not all defined by our pasts," Hermione spoke quietly, turning to face the Gryffindor table. She didn’t make eye contact with Seamus, she knew that doing so would only escalate the tension. "We’ve all made mistakes. And we are all here to heal and move forward."
Seamus, predictably, scowled, his fists clenched on the edge of the table. "I’ll never forgive him," he muttered under his breath.
"Enough." Ginny cut in, her tone sharper than usual, her brow furrowing as he looked at Draco. "We can’t do this now. Not here."
Ginny’s voice, though strained, had a certain weight to it, and the room went silent for a moment. Hermione felt Draco’s gaze shift to Harry as well, his jaw tightening as if in response to the unspoken history between them. The tension between them was familiar now—an old rivalry that had never quite been resolved. But she also felt the pulse of something else—a flicker of realization that there would be no easy answers. Not for Draco. Not for anyone. McGonagall’s sharp, commanding voice cut through the silence. "That will be enough, Mr. Finnigan. We are here to move forward, not to remain trapped in the past."
Hermione almost felt sorry for Draco as the entire hall seemed to turn its eyes on him. Even those who tried to remain neutral were watching him, waiting for his next move, as if expecting him to start hurling curses. The pressure was unbearable, and Hermione noticed that his hand was gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. The fight he had left was buried deep inside, something he’d learned to stifle. It wasn’t lost on her that, even in the face of this animosity, he refused to show weakness. He might not be the Malfoy who swaggered through halls with an arrogant smirk anymore, but there was a quiet strength to him, an undeniable resilience.
She turned her gaze back to McGonagall, who had been giving Draco a long, measuring look, before continuing. "In the spirit of unity and healing," McGonagall continued, her voice steady, though the weight of it still reverberated through the hall, "you will all have shared common rooms as 8th years. There will be no segregation between houses. We must work together if we are to rebuild. Mr. Malfoy and Miss Granger, of course, will reside in the Head Prefect dorms, as is customary."
The room reacted immediately, heads snapping toward them, some students still clearly processing the fact that Hermione Granger, once the hero of the Wizarding world, was now sharing a dormitory with Draco Malfoy. A few Slytherins looked at each other knowingly, while the Gryffindors seemed to bristle, no doubt wondering what it meant for them. Hermione could feel the heat of every student’s gaze, but she stood tall, refusing to look back at Draco. He, too, remained motionless, his eyes on McGonagall, his expression unreadable. Hermione had to laugh, if only they knew just how raw and emotional the two had been with each other, stripped naked.
McGonagall’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. "Let this year be a year of healing. Of learning. But most of all, let it be a year of unity." She didn’t wait for a response, and the faint sound of her heels echoed in the stone hall as she left the podium. The food appeared on the tables, but the tension in the air didn’t disappear. Hermione could almost feel the weight of the awkwardness settle between her and Draco, the new dynamic they would have to navigate.
As the students began digging into their meals, Hermione picked at her food, but her mind raced. How long would it take before they all forgot? How long before she and Draco couldn't pretend to hate each other for the sake of appearances? But in the silence between them, she knew that the truth was far more complicated. The weight of everything they had shared, the war, their hidden encounters, their secrets, was still there, still haunting them both. And this year, this new reality, would only bring it to the surface again. Of that she was sure.
Three weeks into the new year, and true to his word, Draco had been nothing but the perfect Prefect partner. He'd helped with the Head duties, pulled his weight on patrols, and even helped her with her Advanced Arithmancy paper when she had a question she couldn't quite figure out. He’d been reliable in every way, and, despite her initial reservations, had proven himself to be a surprisingly steady presence in her life.
But the more Hermione saw him in the mundane, day-to-day interactions, the more they spent time together as Prefects, the more she realized that the cracks in her composure were only getting worse. The strain of suppressing what had happened between them, what they had been through together, was taking its toll. They worked in silence most nights in the library, their heads bent over textbooks and parchment as the only sound between them was the occasional scrape of quills. Draco’s presence was constant, but it wasn’t intrusive. He’d fallen into the rhythm of her routines, whether it was studying in silence or offering the occasional half-sarcastic remark. They had come to understand each other in a way that felt comfortable.
The tension was always there, barely hidden, an undercurrent that neither of them addressed. But Hermione could feel it in the way his gaze lingered on her when she wasn’t looking. In the way he’d reach out to fix a strand of hair behind her ear when she was too distracted to notice. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to set her nerves on fire. That look, the one they had shared back in the Room of Requirement, the one that made her shiver with want despite herself, it was still there. Sometimes when she’d look up and find him watching her, his gaze would soften, just for a moment, before he’d blink it away.
But that wasn’t all. It was the way her body reacted to him every time he got too close. Every time he spoke a little too softly or touched her arm a little too casually. It made her stomach twist, and despite how good it felt to be with him, it made her want to pull away. The truth was, she wanted him. She always had deep down beyond all the anger, hurt, bullying. And the longer she fought it, the harder it became to ignore the magnetism between them. Maybe that was why she'd convinced herself the War was just an excuse to finally taste Draco Malfoy on her lips.
However, it was a dangerous thing to let those feelings fester. She hadn’t completely forgiven herself, let alone him, for what had happened in their sixth year. And she didn’t know if she could. Every glance between them was a reminder of how far they’d come, but also how much was left unsaid. The tension was like a crackling thread between them, always stretched tight, threatening to snap at any moment. Then there was the other thing, the thing that had her walking on eggshells, a constant source of anxiety gnawing at her insides.
She was late.
She hadn’t told anyone, hadn't wanted too. Her cycles had always been regular, but had disappeared during the war, and at first, she assumed that this was also the case. At first, she thought it was just the stress of the new term, or perhaps she was still recovering from the war, with all that time running and suffering malnourishment. But now, three weeks into the term and almost two months after the Battle of Hogwarts, it was becoming an issue.
Hermione had tried to ignore it, push it to the back of her mind, but it refused to be buried. Her period hadn’t come, and she was well past due. She was fatigued and, as much as she tried to ignore it, her breasts were incredibly sore. And though she had considered every possible explanation, stress, exhaustion, even the possibility of a late or delayed period, it was hard to ignore the undeniable truth that lingered in the pit of her stomach. What if she was pregnant? The thought had plagued her daily. And every time she thought about it, her stomach clenched, and panic crept up her spine.
She couldn’t be. Not now. Not after everything.
But it wasn’t just the fear of being pregnant, it was the fear of what that would mean for her non existent relationship with Draco. Hermione hadn’t said a word to him yet, she hadn't even confirmed it. She couldn’t. It wasn’t the right time. And yet, the idea of facing Draco with this uncertainty, knowing they couldn’t undo what had happened, made her stomach twist in fear. Draco had believed in blood purity, Draco had fought (not by choice) for the Dark Lord's side. His parents also, would never condone or acknowledge any potential children between the two, they'd be illegitimate half-breed's.
In class, their interactions were as strained as ever. Draco was being subdued, calm, collected, and reserved, but there was a tension in the way he looked at her, a questioning in his gaze that she couldn’t ignore. He knew something was wrong. He could feel it too, because she always pulled her eyes away from him, kept her shoulders hunched, and her head down when he was around.
They were still pretending to hate each other, still keeping up the act in front of their friends. They bickered over trivial things, mocked each other with their usual sharp wit, and exchanged pointed glances when no one was looking. But every time Draco’s hand brushed against hers in passing, it sent a shock of heat through her body. Every time he spoke in that low, teasing voice, when it was just them in their shared prefect dorm, it pulled at her heart in a way that made her breath catch.
And now, with this uncertainty in the back of her mind, it was almost impossible to keep it all together. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep the act up. Hermione was trying her best to focus on her studies, she had to. But she couldn’t help but find herself glancing over at Draco during every break, wondering what he would say if she told him. She couldn’t help but think about the consequences of their shared past, about how their lives were so tangled together now.
Would he resent her? Would he want to run away? Or, worse, would he stay with her out of some misplaced sense of duty and then grow to resent her later in life? Her thoughts were spiraling when the bell rang, signaling the end of another long class. She snapped her book closed, quickly stuffing it into her bag, eager to get out of the room before anyone noticed the panic building inside her.
As the students filed out, Draco caught her arm. “Hermione,” he murmured, his voice soft and uncharacteristically serious. Hermione stopped walking, her heart pounding in her chest. She turned to face him, but her mind went blank. She couldn’t tell him. She wasn’t ready. “What’s going on with you?” Draco asked, his voice quieter now, his eyes searching hers. “You’ve been distracted lately.” Hermione swallowed hard, her throat dry. She couldn’t meet his eyes. Not now.
“It’s nothing,” she said, forcing a smile she didn’t feel. “I’m just tired and a bit overwhelmed with everything.” But Draco didn’t seem convinced. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush against her cheek, his fingers warm against her skin. “Talk to me, Hermione,” he said softly. “You know you can.” She closed her eyes, fighting back the rush of emotions threatening to spill over. The old Draco would never touch her like this, never offer help, never be...nice. She wanted to tell him everything when he was like this, showing her the side she always longed to see, but the words wouldn’t come, they died on her tongue. “I don’t know how,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. For a long moment, Draco didn’t say anything. Instead, he simply stood there, looking at her with that intense, almost heartbreaking gaze.
And in that moment, she knew he was the one person who could make her feel safe, who could ground her when the world felt too heavy, as he had done during the war. But could she tell him? Could she face the consequences of the secret she was carrying?
She wanted to pull her hair out in frustration, it was all so confusing.
Later that night, after the weight of the day had pressed down on her chest, Hermione found herself alone in the Prefects' dormitory. The room was empty, save for the soft glow of candlelight flickering on her desk. Her heart raced as her mind replayed her conversation with Draco.
She glanced over at her bedside table, where two pregnancy tests lay, one Muggle, and the other from Madam Pomfrey’s office, a discreet charm-imbued potion meant to confirm her suspicions.
Taking a deep breath, Hermione picked up the Muggle test first. The instructions were simple enough, and her hands trembled as she went through the motions. The few minutes that passed felt like an eternity. When the test result finally appeared, it was unmistakable. The faint line staring back at her made her breath catch in her throat.
She jumped off the toilet in shock, standing stock straight with her hand over her mouth. She didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t believe it. She blinked once. Twice. Three times before letting out a low "Godric..."
But the confirmation was there, in the two pink lines. With shaking hands, she grabbed the potion from Madam Pomfrey and downed it in one go. She felt a glow around her stomach immediately, golden and bright, and she felt her heart sink even further into her chest cavity as if that was possible.
Hermione Granger, War Heroine, Golden Girl, Brightest Witch of Her Age, Order of the Merlin, First Class, was pregnant with Draco Malfoy, the youngest Death Eater's child. She felt like she was going to be sick.
A soft knock at the door made her jump. She quickly shoved the test and vial under her pillow, attempting to calm her racing heartbeat.
“Hey,” Draco’s voice came through the door, warm but slightly hesitant.
Hermione swallowed, forcing herself to stand upright. “Come in.”
Draco stepped into the room, his eyes scanning her with that familiar intensity. His gaze flickered over to the bed, where she was trying to maintain composure. “You all right? You didn't come to dinner and I didn't see you in the library tonight, either.”
She nodded, but the tension was palpable, the uncertainty in her chest gnawing at her. “I’m fine, Draco. Just tired. I haven't been feeling well lately.”
He studied her for a moment longer, but then seemed to let it go, taking a step forward. “If you don't want to tell me that's fine, Granger. But, I'll tell you, I started seeing a mind healer, you know. Ministry mandated and all that as apart of my probation. It's...it's helped a lot, actually, sorting through all the trauma from the war and talking about it in confidence. Would you like me to put you in contact?”
She met his eyes, the weight of his offer pressing down on her. And for a moment, she was tempted to tell him everything. To let it all spill out. But she couldn’t. Not yet. So she nodded.
“Thanks, I'd like that.” she whispered.
Draco said he'd owl his healer tonight and that the healer would reach out to her. As Draco turned to leave, Hermione buried her face in her hands, the reality of her situation settling over her like a shroud.
Everything was about to change, for better or worse, only time would tell.
Hermione’s world had shifted into an almost unrecognizable blur in the last few weeks, the weight of what she was carrying growing heavier each day. Her mind was occupied with a million things at once, none of them feeling quite as real as the small life that was slowly, but surely, developing inside her. She had never anticipated this, the pregnancy, the physical changes, the toll it would take on her body. But what struck her the hardest was the overwhelming silence that surrounded it all.
The fatigue had worsened with each passing week, like a fog that settled in her bones, making every movement feel like an effort. She had tried to ignore it, pushing through her Prefect duties, her lessons, but there was only so much she could hide behind a mask of normalcy. When she slept through a full day of classes and only woke up when the sky was dark, she knew that this was it.
By the time she reached her eighth week, the morning sickness was an undeniable reality. Every morning, without fail, she would retreat to the bathroom in the Prefect dorms before Draco could stir, using silencing charms to cover the sound of her retching. She couldn’t bear the idea of him seeing her like this—weak, vulnerable. She had enough pride to keep him from worrying, even though every time she caught her reflection in the mirror, she saw the changes in her face. Her skin was paler, her eyes darker with exhaustion, and yet—despite all the physical evidence—she hadn’t told him a thing.
The cravings were the most frustrating part of it all. One minute, she was disgusted by the idea of food; the next, she was driven to find oranges, pickles, and toast, nothing else seemed to settle in her stomach. The oddest combination, but it was the only thing that stayed down. Draco would give her strange looks when she’d turn up at breakfast with a pile of toast and a handful of oranges, but he was too polite to ask any questions.
Her weekly visits to Madam Pomfrey had become routine. The older woman had been her rock, always there with a quiet word and a safe space to confide. She was under strict orders to keep Hermione’s condition confidential, and Madam Pomfrey honored that with the utmost discretion. Hermione knew, however, that she couldn’t keep this from Headmistress McGonagall forever. Sooner or later, McGonagall would have to know. She would have to.
But Hermione wasn’t ready. She wasn’t even sure how to be ready for the inevitable conversation. Everything had changed so fast, and she wasn’t prepared to face the consequences of it all. Not to mention, she needed to ace all her N.E.W.Ts! She hadn't the first idea about magical pregnancies and a bunch of questions had flit through her mind. Would her magic faulter? Could she use complex spells while pregnant? She just didn't know and she doubted the Hogwarts library would have books on magical pregnancy.
Meanwhile, Draco’s presence in her life felt like both a comfort and a weight. He was quieter lately, withdrawn, and yet she felt the pull between them more intensely than ever. She noticed his absence when he wasn’t around, but she didn’t let it show. There was something more to him now, something that wasn’t the same as before. She wasn’t sure what had shifted, but she felt it in the way he looked at her, the way he hesitated when he touched her, like he was afraid of breaking something.
Draco, too, had his own struggles.
He had started seeing a mind healer due to the terms of his probation. It was becoming clear to him now, in the quiet moments between classes and late at night when he was alone with his thoughts, that he had never fully understood the magnitude of the things he had done during the war and beforehand, especially to Hermione. He’d seen her as filth, dirty, as someone who didn’t understand his world. But now, in the quiet of his therapy sessions, he was working through his guilt, and it was becoming painfully clear how wrong he had been.
He had no idea how to approach her now. He wanted to apologize, but the words were caught in his throat each time she pierced him with those intoxicating amber eyes. Every time he saw her, he was overwhelmed with a mix of regret and something else, something deeper, something more personal. But he couldn’t figure out what to say or how to say it.
The longing to make things right with her haunted him, especially now that they were so close, yet so far apart. He realized that the feelings he had buried for years, the way he’d once dismissed her as the "know-it-all Gryffindor," were more complicated than he’d ever allowed himself to admit. And now, with everything that had happened between them, especially those two intimate moments they’d shared in secret, he was beginning to see that maybe there was a way forward.
It was during one of these moments of reflection, on a Thursday afternoon, just before lunch, that Hermione’s secret began to unravel. She’d been trying to sneak in a quiet trip to the bathroom between classes, her nausea threatening to overwhelm her. Her hands gripped the sides of the sink, her stomach churning as she bent over, wishing the world would stop spinning. The silencing charm was a relief, but she knew she could still be seen.
It was at that moment, when she straightened up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, that she saw Pansy Parkinson standing in the doorway, an expression of suspicion in her sharp eyes. "Hermione," Pansy said, crossing her arms. "Are you alright?"
Hermione froze, guilt flooding her chest. She'd never had the best experiences with the Slytherin girl, remembering the awful way she'd made fun of her in their fourth year. "Pansy…" Pansy’s eyes narrowed. "Granger, look, I know that we have never been anything remotely close to friends, but, everyone can see that you are clearly unwell, and maybe you can consider it an apology tour, but I do find it in my best interest to make sure you're not dying and making me an accessory to murder."
Hermione’s heart stopped. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. She’d never been good at hiding things, and Pansy was a Slytherin, but she’d hoped, for just a moment, that she could. With a sigh, Pansy stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. "You’re not going to get out of this one, Granger. Spill."
Hermione’s resolve cracked. It wasn’t the anger or the accusations she had been expecting, it was the quiet understanding in Pansy’s voice. The weight of it all had been pressing on Hermione for too long, and the moment she saw the genuine concern in Pansy’s eyes, she broke.
"I don’t know what to do," Hermione whispered, her voice breaking. Pansy’s eyes softened. "And what exactly is the issue, Granger?" Hermione’s chest tightened, and she couldn’t stop herself from crying. "I'm pregnant." Pansy couldn't contain the small gasp that left her lips but she quickly gripped Hermione's hands, offering comfort to the girl. "Salazar, Granger, that's quite a bomb to drop. You're strong you know that? If it were me, I'd be freaking out right now." Hermione sniffled, wiping at her eyes. "I'm about eight weeks along. The nausea is wicked and the fatigue is awful. And, Pansy, while I appreciate you letting me confide in you, I'm not ready to say who the father is." Pansy’s gaze shifted, her eyes flicking toward the door. "Alright. I am assuming no one else is aware?"
Hermione stared at her. "You're the only one." Pansy nodded. "Then let me help you. My, my mom has some books in our library at home about Magical Pregnancies. I can, maybe, get them for you?" Hermione took a deep breath, her heart racing, and nodded slowly. "Okay. Okay that's a good start. Thank you, Parkinson." Pansy smiled, a smirk pulling at her lips. "Good. And in the meantime, I’ll make sure to keep the rumor mill quiet. You don’t need that extra stress." Hermione managed a small laugh through her tears. "Thanks, Pansy. Truly."
"Consider it reparations for almost giving up your best friend to Voldemort, Granger." Pansy teased, before adding more seriously, "And as far as who the father is, do you think he'd not want it? Were you guys together?" Hermione wasn’t sure what to believe anymore, but she did know one thing. She wasn’t alone in this. "N-No. We were not together and I can't be certain whether the father would want this child or not." Pansy nodded. "Alright, why don't we try to get you cleaned up and tame that hair down before your next class, eh?"
Pansy drew her wand and helped Hermione with cleansing and grooming charms. She felt relief for the first time in weeks.
Draco had been observing Hermione for weeks now, his focus sharpening with every passing day. It wasn't so much the way her mood had shifted—he'd been used to that since the war—but something about the way she carried herself now seemed different, fragile almost. He had never been particularly concerned with anyone’s health before, but something about Hermione's quiet, withdrawn demeanor had tugged at him, even when he tried to push it to the back of his mind.
She was always tired, her usually sharp wit dulled, her skin a little paler than it had been even a few weeks ago. She ate the same foods every day, toast, pickles, and oranges, and though she made the effort to join the others at meals, he could see that she wasn’t eating enough. Her appetite was weak, and when she did eat, she barely touched anything else.
But what really stood out to him was the way she seemed to disappear after classes. It wasn’t like her at all. Hermione Granger, the girl who had always been the first to ask questions, to help others, was slipping through the cracks. The silence between them had become heavier, more oppressive. He couldn’t ignore it, not when they passed each other in the hallways, or when he found her sitting alone in their shared common room, lost in thought. And then there was the sickness. Sometimes she would rush out of the room early in the morning, or during late-night patrols, and he would hear her retching in the bathroom. She used silencing charms, of course, but sometimes she forgot and the sound still carried, a sharp reminder that something was amiss.
He couldn’t pretend anymore. It was obvious. Hermione was sick. But what was it? The mystery gnawed at him, and it frustrated him, too, because he couldn’t ask her about it. Every time he tried to bring it up, when he offered her help with her studies or a simple “Are you alright?” she would smile at him, that tight, polite smile she always gave when she was hiding something, and change the subject.
He had his suspicions, of course. But he wasn’t sure he was ready to face the reality of what was happening. He had been raised in a world where his father’s view on blood status had been gospel, and Draco had always followed those teachings, even when he hadn’t wanted to. It had taken therapy, sessions with the mind healer that his probation dictated, to begin peeling away those layers, to start seeing things differently.
But even now, as he watched her with growing concern, the years of conditioning screamed at him. 'You're a Malfoy. Your bloodline means everything.' That voice, his father’s voice, had been drilled into him for so long. How could he, how could they, be together if she was Muggleborn? And yet, despite all that, Draco couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward her, the way his chest tightened whenever she entered the room. It was more than lust, it was something deeper, something that scared him. His heart raced as he tried to ignore the possibility that maybe he was the one who had caused the changes in her. He had no way of knowing for sure, not without confronting her, but the thought of it, of a child, a little piece of him, he couldn’t let that thought go.
One evening, Draco found himself in an awkward spot with his friends. They had gathered in the common room after dinner, discussing plans for the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend, when Theo, Blaise, and Pansy began teasing him about Hermione. “Draco,” Pansy said with a sly smile, “You’ve been looking at Granger a lot lately. What’s going on there, hmm?” He scowled, but didn’t deny it. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “What about it?” Theo raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been acting a little too fond of her, mate. What’s the deal? You’ve been intent on bullying her since first year.”
“I haven’t.” Draco muttered, though his face betrayed him. The truth was, he’d never been able to stop thinking about her, not really. Even at his most warped and twisted, he'd always hated himself for thinking of her. His mind was drawn back to their brief moments together, those moments when it had just been the two of them, away from the prying eyes of their classmates. They had been enemies, but there had been something raw and real in the way they had connected.
Blaise leaned forward, his grin widening. “Oh, I know what’s going on. You’ve finally fallen for her, haven’t you, Draco?” Draco swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. Instead of answering, he stood abruptly, walking across the room and pacing. “It’s not like that. It's complicated. You don’t understand.”
“Complicated?” Pansy’s voice was almost teasing, but there was something in it that made Draco freeze. “It’s Granger. What are you so afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid.” Draco snapped, turning on his heel. But his words were hollow, and even he knew it. The truth was, he was terrified. Not just of what his feelings for Hermione meant, but of what they would mean for the rest of his life. Theo and Blaise exchanged looks, then shrugged. “Whatever, mate,” Blaise said. “But if you don’t act soon, someone else might.” Draco’s stomach tightened. “No one else is getting near her.” he muttered under his breath, barely aware of what he had just said.
Pansy narrowed her eyes, studying him closely. She knew this would not be pretty. If Draco really liked Hermione, and Hermione was already pregnant with someone else's kid, it could be disastrous for Draco. As far as Pansy knew, they'd never been together in that way. “Well, if you care that much, maybe you should actually talk to her. You know, find out what’s going on. I’m sure she’d appreciate it.” Draco didn’t respond. Instead, he made his way out of the room, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. He had to do something, he couldn’t just stand by anymore. Later that night, he found himself back in the Prefect’s quarters, a letter from the Weasley family clutched in his hand. Errol, the Weasley’s half-blind owl, had somehow misdirected it, and Draco had been the one to receive it. It was addressed to Hermione, so he figured he’d just drop it off for her.
He walked quietly into her room, determined to be quick about it. Her bed was neatly made, and everything seemed in place. Draco’s eyes lingered on her bedside table, where he noticed a vial of something clear and unmarked, its label visible even in the low light. He moved closer, his curiosity piqued, but when he saw the words Pregnancy Potion written in fine script on the label, his heart stopped.
Pregnancy Potion.
The room seemed to spin around him. He staggered back and bolted out of her room, his mind whirling. He couldn’t breathe. His chest tightened, and his stomach lurched. The realized idea of a child, his child, was overwhelming. It was one thing to suspect it, to think about it, and it was another thing to actually see it in reality. He stormed back to his own room, slamming the door behind him. His heart pounded in his chest as his mind raced with a thousand questions. Was it his? Had it always been his? He couldn’t fathom the idea that he might be a father, that a piece of him might be out in the world, growing in someone else’s hands.
But as much as he hated to admit it, he knew what he had to do. He had to face this. He had to make a decision. He had to decide what kind of man he was going to be, for her, for the child, for himself. Because if this child was his, if it was real, he was going to be there. He wasn’t going to be the same coward that ran away from everything, from everyone. This was his chance for redemption, for himself, and for them. But first, he had to wait for Hermione to come forward. When she was ready to hash whatever the hell was between them, he'd be there.
Whatever choice she'd make, he'd respect it. It was the least he owed her, after all...
Hermione couldn’t shake the unrelenting warmth that seemed to flood her body at all times—though she knew, deep down, it wasn’t the heat of her emotions or the fire of the ever-present anxiety. It was her growing child. She had entered her fourth month now. Four months pregnant. Sixteen weeks.
It was hard to believe. Looking at herself in the mirror each morning, she saw the subtle curve of her abdomen pushing against her sweaters, a reminder that the secret she had held for so long was becoming harder and harder to keep. The extension charms she had layered over her skirt were no longer enough, and while she could still hide the change with baggy sweaters and strategic placement, the truth was beginning to show. Even her face felt rounder, softer, and there were mornings when the fatigue nearly took her out of the game. The nausea, too, was relentless. Thankfully, the morning sickness had subsided after a brutal first few weeks, but she still retched more than once a day, her body revolting against the very thing she had to keep secret.
Yet, despite the physical reminders of what she was hiding, she couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of joy. The baby was growing. The baby was real. And she had no idea how to tell Draco.
The thought twisted in her gut. She had kept this from him for so long, afraid that once the truth was out, everything would change. She hadn’t been able to tell him because she wasn’t sure what she wanted from him. He was trying. He was being so kind, more than she ever expected. His little gestures—leaving her ginger tea in the mornings, slipping notes into her textbooks, his quiet but constant presence—hadn’t gone unnoticed. But she couldn't understand why he did it. Was it out of guilt? Was it because he knew? Or, as was much more likely, did he just feel sorry for her?
But every time she felt him come a little closer, her heart caught in her chest. That morning, she sat in the shared eighth year common room, trying to work through her homework. Her fingers pressed into the pages of her books, but her mind kept drifting. The second she found herself staring at the clock, it was as if the minutes had slipped through her fingers. She wanted to finish the potion notes, to focus, to be the Hermione Granger she had always been, but today felt different. As if reading her thoughts, a familiar voice broke through her reverie.
“Spill it.” Pansy’s sharp tone was laced with concern as she slid into the chair next to her, a soft smile playing on her lips. “I think it's time you tell me the whole story. Your minds a million miles away.” Hermione stifled a smile, brushing her hair out of her face. “I wouldn't even know where to start.” Pansy raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking as she leaned in closer. “The beginning, perhaps?” Hermione sighed. "Alright. But you cannot tell anyone, alright? It all started back in sixth year..."
Pansy was gob smacked when Hermione finished telling her story. She'd had no idea things had escalated so far. She genuinely thought they hated each other. "My god Granger, you're both idiots."
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hermione replied too quickly, forcing her voice to remain steady.
Pansy’s gaze softened, but there was still an edge of suspicion in her eyes. “Draco...just...Merlin Granger you need to talk to him.” She leaned back, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “I think you both would benefit from it.”
Hermione’s stomach churned. “I...” Hermione’s voice faltered. “I just don’t know how to tell him. He’s been so different lately. But I don’t want him to feel forced into this. I don’t want him to do something out of guilt. Not when we haven’t even talked about, about us or what this means. Technically there was never even a us to begin with.”
Pansy’s sharp gaze softened. “But it’s his, Hermione. It’s his child, and you don’t think he has a right to know?” Hermione shook her head, biting her lip. “I just...I’m not ready for him to reject me like that. I'm not ready for him to see me like this.” She placed her hand on her stomach, the barest hint of a smile crossing her face as she did so. “I don’t know how to handle this. I don’t even know if he wants it. If he wants me. I am a muggleborn after all.”
Pansy’s expression softened as she leaned forward, her voice quiet but firm. “Hermione, please, trust me when I tell you, that Draco has long since abandoned any thoughts of blood purity. He will not care about this child's blood status. I think, you should give Draco the benefit of at least making a decision on his own, hmm?”
Hermione’s throat tightened with emotion, but she nodded, grateful for her friend’s unwavering support. “Thank you, Parkinson. I, I promise to talk to him by the end of the week. Just...just give me a week.”
And for the first time in weeks, Hermione felt like she might have some chance of figuring this out.
It was a week later when Hermione finally found the courage to confront Draco.
The thought had been gnawing at her for weeks. She had known, in her heart, that it was only a matter of time before he found out. She had seen the way he had been looking at her lately, watching, waiting, as if he knew something was wrong but didn’t know what. This morning, she couldn't avoid it any longer. She had felt the weight of her secret pressing down on her chest like a heavy, suffocating cloak. She knew Draco wouldn’t let her keep it from him much longer. It was time to face the truth, no matter how difficult it would be. She had arranged to meet him in their shared study space, the one they’d used for years but never quite as intimately as they did now. She walked into the room, her heart thudding in her chest, and found him already sitting at the desk, his head down, scribbling something on a piece of parchment.
He didn’t look up when she entered, but there was something in the air, something different. The usual tension between them was gone, replaced by an understanding that had bloomed over time, unspoken but there, like a quiet promise. Hermione hesitated by the door, wondering if she was making the right choice. The silence stretched between them, thick with anticipation, until Draco finally lifted his head. "Hermione." he said softly, his voice oddly gentle, almost cautious. He always said her last name like it was an accusation, a way to remind her who she was. But now, when he said her first name instead of her last name, it felt...different. More personal.
"Look." she started, her heart hammering. "Draco, we need to talk." His expression shifted, a flicker of concern passing through his eyes. “What’s going on?” he asked, putting down his quill and leaning back in his chair. His posture was open, inviting, but there was a tension in his shoulders that he couldn’t quite mask. He'd been waiting for this moment. Hermione’s breath hitched as she crossed the room slowly, sitting down across from him at the desk. She met his gaze, trying to steady herself, but she felt raw, exposed in a way she hadn’t expected.
“I’ve been hiding something from you.” she started, the words tasting foreign on her tongue. The confession was harder than she had anticipated, but it was out now, and there was no taking it back. Draco didn’t speak immediately, his gaze sharp and calculating, but he said nothing. Instead, he simply nodded, as though waiting for her to continue.
“I’m pregnant. she said quietly, the words hanging in the air between them like a weight, heavy and undeniable. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she couldn't bring herself to look away from him. "It’s yours." The silence that followed was suffocating. Draco’s face went slack, his lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came out. His eyes darkened as he took in what she had just told him. There was no anger, no shock, just a quiet stillness, like he was processing something deeply, something that took time to understand. He'd known this was coming and had processed so much already with his mind healer, but hearing her actually say the words, really cemented his reality.
“I’m sorry it took so long.” Hermione rushed to add, her voice trembling. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to, I didn’t want you to feel trapped, or worse, some misplaced devotion to stay with me because of the baby.”
Her words faltered, and Draco cut her off. “You think so low of me?” His voice was low, almost unreadable. “And you think this”—he gestured vaguely between them—“is some misplaced sense of duty?”
Hermione flinched at the edge in his voice, but he didn’t seem angry, just lost. He seemed to be searching for something in her, like he needed to know the answers to questions he hadn’t dared to ask himself. “This is a lot,” he finally said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, fuck. How did we get here, Hermione?” He leaned forward, the exhaustion clear in his eyes. Hermione exhaled shakily, swallowing hard. “I know I should have told you sooner, but I wasn’t ready. I’m still not. But I couldn’t keep it from you forever.” He was silent for a long moment, before he sighed deeply, looking down at his hands. “No, you couldn’t.”
The air between them was thick with unspoken words, but neither of them spoke for a long time. They simply sat there, two people trying to reconcile the past with the present, unsure of where to go from here. Finally, Draco broke the silence. “I’ve been thinking a lot,” he said quietly, not looking at her. “I’ve been seeing a mind healer. For some time now. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. My father, he’d want me to turn away from you, from this. He’d call me weak for giving up everything I was supposed to stand for. But you..." He paused, his voice thick with emotion. “You have always commanded my attention. From the moment we met, I couldn't fathom how a swotty little muggleborn witch could best me in all my subjects. How someone, who, supposedly stole magic was so much better than me? I despised you because I admired you. You were the very thing I was taught to hate and I couldn't help but be drawn to you, anyway. So I bullied you and said horrible things.”
Hermione stared at him, her heart in her throat. “What are you saying?”
Draco met her gaze, and for the first time, there was no mask, no arrogance, no pretense. Just a man, lost and uncertain, but trying to find himself in the mess of the world they had both inherited. "I'm saying that I am sorry, Hermione, for all of it. For everything. And I know, I know that it can't make up for all the things I have done, but I do want to do better. I want to try to be a good wizard. I want to be here for the both of you. I want to be part of this. I want to be a part of you. And I don’t know if I’m ready, but I’m willing to try. For the baby, for us.” He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “I never thought I’d say that, especially not after everything.”
Tears sprang to Hermione’s eyes, and for a moment, she just stared at him, speechless. The words she had wanted to hear for so long, words she had never expected to come from him, were finally out in the open. But it wasn’t easy. Nothing about this was easy. “I forgive you, Draco.” she whispered, her voice shaky. “I don’t want to be a mother on my own, and I don't want to bring this child into a world where it's parents hate each other. I don’t. I just wanted to make sure this was the right thing before we made any choices.”
He nodded, his voice raw, but steady. “I don’t think I’m ready for this either. But I want to try. I want to be a father, but I don’t want to be my father.” He leaned forward, his eyes locking with hers. “I want to be someone who deserves you. I want to be a father who their child looks up to and admires, not by brainwashing, but because I do the right thing.” Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. “Draco…” He smiled softly, the first real smile she had seen from him in weeks. “We’ll figure this out, Hermione. Together.” And for the first time in a long time, Hermione felt a spark of hope. They didn’t have all the answers. Hell, they didn’t even know what came next.
But they had each other. And, maybe, for now, that was enough.