“In the Halls of Memory”
Draco Malfoy was born into a world of polished marble and whispered reverence, heir to a name that carried weight in every corner of the wizarding world. A Malfoy—wealthy, untouchable, the prince of Slytherin itself. He moved through the halls of Hogwarts as if they belonged to him, all effortless grace and quiet arrogance, the product of generations who had never known what it was to be denied. Power was his birthright, expectation woven into the fabric of his being. He bore it well—too well. Every step he took was measured, every word sharpened to a blade’s edge, because that was what was required of him. He was raised to be a force, not a person. To command, not to bend.
And yet, beneath the cool exterior, beneath the drawling remarks and the smirks that never quite reached his eyes, there was something else. A restlessness. A tension. A sense that, for all that had been handed to him, there was something still just out of reach.
Hermione Granger, by contrast, had earned every inch of ground she stood on. The Golden Girl, brilliant and relentless, as feared as she was admired for the sheer force of her mind. A Muggle-born who had carved her place into a world that had never been meant for her, who refused to be anything less than exceptional. There was nothing effortless about her triumphs, nothing easy about the way she ascended. Where Draco had been born into legacy, she built her own with ink-stained hands and sleepless nights, her hunger for knowledge a weapon sharper than any curse. But knowledge alone was never enough—she needed to be right, needed to be the best, because anything less was not an option. Not for someone like her. She had fought for her place every day since she had set foot in the wizarding world, and she would never stop fighting.
And Draco had hated her for it.
It was an old hatred, sharpened over years of conflict, carved into them both like a second nature. Their enmity had been instant, effortless—born the moment she had spoken in that bossy, insufferable voice in their first year and never once wavered. She was beneath him. And worse, she refused to act like it.
She had been the first to call him a coward, the first to glare at him as if she knew him, as if she could see right through all his carefully curated superiority. And he had thrown it back at her tenfold—taunting, sneering, always ready with a barb designed to hit where it hurt. Because it did hurt, more than it should have.
Because for all the names he had called her, for all the ways he had tried to undermine her, she was always there—rivalling him, besting him, making a mockery of everything he had been raised to believe.
She shouldn’t have mattered. She was just a Mudblood, just another insufferable Gryffindor. And yet, he always knew exactly where she was in a room. Could pick out the sound of her voice even in a crowded corridor. Knew the precise way her hand shot up in class, the way her quill scratched furiously against parchment when she was deep in thought.
And Hermione—she could hear his footsteps before she saw him, could sense the weight of his stare before she turned. She knew the way his drawl curled when he was about to say something cruel, the way his shoulders straightened when she landed a retort that hit too close to home. She told herself it was vigilance, that she had learned his habits out of necessity. But necessity had long since blurred into something else, something unspoken and uneasy.
Hatred was simple. But this—this fixation, this constant awareness—it was something far more dangerous.
Because for all their animosity, for all the vitriol they had exchanged, there was a truth neither of them would ever say out loud: they were the only ones who could match each other. The only ones who challenged each other the way they needed to be challenged.
Draco might have despised her, but he had never been able to ignore her. And Hermione—Hermione had spent too many nights replaying their clashes in her head, refining her arguments, sharpening her edges, preparing for the next battle.
Because this was a game neither of them could afford to lose.
They were opposites in every way that mattered. He, with his cold calculation, the quiet cruelty of someone who had never needed to be kind. She, with her relentless idealism, the sharp edges of a girl who had never learned when to stop. He was all effortless elegance, bred for power and control; she was all unyielding determination, a force unto herself. He scoffed at rules but was bound by tradition, while she followed them like scripture yet rewrote them when they failed her.
And yet—if one dared to look closely enough, past the sharp edges and practiced facades, they might see the similarities that neither of them would ever admit to. The way they carried the weight of expectation, the way their minds never truly rested, the way they were both, in their own ways, alone.
*Hogwarts Library*
The library is quiet, save for the occasional rustle of parchment and the soft scratch of quills against paper. Light filters in through the high, arched windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor, stretching between bookshelves like ghostly remnants of the past. The air is thick with ink, dust, and something else—something unspoken.
Draco moves through the aisles with unhurried ease, his footsteps measured, deliberate. He doesn’t need to weave between the tables or glance at the spines of the books; he knows exactly where he’s going. He always does. The library has never been his domain, not really, but lately, he finds himself here more often than he cares to admit. It’s not the books that draw him in.
At the far end of the room, Hermione sits where she always does, surrounded by the quiet chaos of her work. Books sprawl across the table in an unruly mess, stacked haphazardly, pages bristling with parchment slips, a battlefield of knowledge at war with itself. A deep furrow carves between her brows, her quill poised mid-thought, frozen in the delicate balance between brilliance and obsession. She doesn’t notice him—or at least, she pretends not to. Her gaze remains fixed on the page, but he catches the way her fingers twitch against the parchment, the way her shoulders stiffen, just barely, when he stops a few paces away.
Draco lingers for a beat too long, watching. Then, with a breath that barely stirs the air, he turns , takes his seat and picks up his quill.
His quill glides over parchment with a practiced ease, the ink pooling in sharp, deliberate strokes. His handwriting is immaculate—of course it is. Each letter stands in perfect alignment, a regiment of precision and control, because to him, even words must bow to his will. The scent of fresh parchment lingers around him, crisp and clean, untouched by ink blots or hesitation. His fingers, long and pale, hold the quill with the same poised arrogance as he holds himself, but there’s a tension beneath the surface—just a flicker. A curl of frustration that tightens at the corner of his mouth when the words don’t come as easily as they should. He hates when things resist him. He hates even more that some things simply refuse.
Hermione’s quill moves with purpose, each stroke chasing the next, a relentless pursuit of thought. Ink smudges the side of her hand, dark against skin that rarely notices the mess left in the wake of her mind. Her notes fill the page in a hurried scrawl—neat in their own way, but chaotic in their eagerness, a flood of information that demands to be captured before it slips away. Her lips move silently, shaping the words as she writes them, as if tethering them to memory with every breath. Stray parchment corners bend beneath her elbows, creased and folded in the urgency of her work, but she doesn't care. There’s no time for perfection, only progress. She pushes forward, even when her eyes burn, even when her shoulders ache, because stopping has never been an option. Not for her. Not for anything.
Draco watches from across the library, his gaze lingering longer than it should. He sees the ink on her skin, the furrow in her brow, the relentless drive in the way she moves. He tells himself it’s a curiosity—nothing more. But even he doesn’t believe that anymore.
He approaches slowly and leans against the edge of the library table, arms folded, the crisp sleeves of his shirt pushing against his forearms in a way that looks effortless—calculated. His gaze sweeps across the open books in front of her, unimpressed, lingering just long enough to make it clear he isn’t here for the reading. A single brow arches, slow and sharp, the weight of his attention settling heavy between them. “Granger,” he drawls, the word curling off his tongue with the same careful disdain he reserves for things he can’t quite figure out. "Must you always look so... preoccupied?"
Hermione doesn’t look up. Her quill doesn't pause, doesn't falter, because acknowledging him would mean he’s worth acknowledging. Instead, she exhales through her nose, the barest flicker of irritation tightening the lines around her mouth. “Some of us have work to do, Malfoy,” she replies, voice clipped, but there’s something underneath it—something she won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing.
Draco smirks, the expression lazy, dangerous. "Work," he repeats, letting the word hang between them like a challenge. He nudges one of her books with the tip of his finger, just enough to shift it out of place. Just enough to watch her bristle. "Is that what you call this? Seems more like an unhealthy obsession."
Her quill stops mid-stroke. The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. Slowly, deliberately, Hermione lifts her gaze, and when their eyes meet, there’s nothing soft about it. Her stare is sharp, unyielding, a quiet storm threatening on the horizon. “At least I’m obsessed with something worthwhile,” she says, and it’s not just a retort—it’s a challenge, one he isn’t sure he’s ready to accept.
Draco watches her for a moment longer, something flickering in the pale grey of his eyes. He could push, he could press—he always does—but today, for reasons he doesn’t care to name, he steps back. “Careful, Granger,” he murmurs, voice lower now, the teasing edge dulled. “You might burn yourself out.”
She watches him go, jaw tight, eyes narrowed, but her heart is beating faster than she’d like to admit. And when she picks up her quill again, her fingers are just the tiniest bit unsteady.
Hermione forces herself to focus, to anchor her mind in the steady rhythm of ink against parchment, but the words blur at the edges, dissolving under the weight of his lingering presence. She tells herself it’s nothing. Just another petty distraction. Just another interruption from someone who thrives on making her life difficult.
But still—her fingers curl tighter around the quill, the echo of his voice threading through her thoughts, winding itself into the spaces she doesn’t have time for.
Across the library, Draco settles into a chair with a casual sprawl that doesn't quite reach comfort. His eyes skim over the students milling about, but his thoughts—traitorous, unwelcome—are caught somewhere between the sharp clip of her voice and the way her eyes had burned when she looked at him. He shouldn’t have pushed her. Or maybe he should have pushed harder. He isn’t sure which.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. Hermione keeps her head down, keeps writing, but she can feel him. Even from across the room, even when she doesn't look. It’s infuriating.
And then, like clockwork, he’s back.
“You know, Granger,” Draco says, appearing at her side again, voice all silk and subtle amusement. His hands find their way into his pockets, his stance deceptively relaxed. “I was just thinking—you really don’t get out much, do you?” He reaches for one of the books nearest to Hermione, flipping through it lazily, as if he couldn’t be less interested in what she’s reading. His fingers skim the pages, idly turning them without really looking.
Hermione exhales slowly, carefully placing her quill down this time. She looks up at him with the patience of someone who’s already weighed all the ways this conversation could go, and none of them end with him leaving her in peace.
“Fascinating. You must be exhausted from all that thinking.”
Draco smirks, the expression infuriatingly effortless, flipping another page. “It’s just—every time I come in here, you’re exactly where I left you. Makes a man wonder if you’ve been cursed to haunt this library forever. Tragic, really. Just imagine the rumours. ‘Hogwarts’ Brightest: Found Fossilised Over Arithmancy Texts.’” He gestures vaguely at the stacks surrounding her. “Truly, a cautionary tale.”
“What do you want, Malfoy?”
Draco smirks, the expression infuriatingly effortless. “Maybe I just enjoy your company. Did you ever think of that?”
Her lips press into a thin line, and she levels him with a look that could fell lesser men. “No.”
For a moment, something flickers in his expression—too quick to catch, too subtle to name. Then, with a low hum of approval, he tilts his head slightly. “If you actually left this place once in a while, you might find there’s more to life than footnotes and ink stains.”
She glares at him, and he takes it as his cue to leave, but not before trailing his fingers lightly over the spine of the books he picked up as he goes. It’s a touch so fleeting, so meaningless, but it sends a thread of irritation—or something else—down her spine.
Hermione watches him disappear into the maze of bookshelves, and she hates that she finds herself listening for the sound of his footsteps. She tells herself she’s glad he’s gone. She tells herself it’s better this way as she reaches for one of the books he had touched, only to pause. The page is open—perfectly open—to the exact passage she had been searching for.
Her fingers tighten slightly on the parchment. She hadn’t left it there.
For a moment, she stares at the words, her mind caught in the tangled web of logic and impossibility. Then, shaking her head, she pulls the book closer, brushing off the thought as coincidence.
And yet, as she picks up her quill once more, she can’t quite shake the lingering awareness of him, threading itself into the quiet of the library like something unspoken. Like something waiting, and for the first time in a long time, the words don’t come so easily.