Chapter 17
Potions had worked better than expected. Draco was initially resistant, viewing my presence in his sanctuary as an intrusion rather than a cooperative experiment. But by the third batch, something changed. He no longer barked instructions as if I were a hopeless first-year student, nor did he look for ways to mock my technique. Instead, he began explaining things—not in the condescending tone he used to use at Hogwarts, but with genuine interest. There had even been a brief but real glimpse of something lighter beneath his usual scowl.
That was progress.
But that wasn’t enough.
I needed to go further.
So I decided to take a different approach, one that did not involve strategy or subtle manipulation. Instead of attempting to impress him or elicit his reluctant cooperation, I would simply inquire about him.
After all, it was the simplest way to connect with others.
We were back in the library, late at night, surrounded by towering shelves and the soft glow of flickering candles. The manor’s vast collection of tomes had become both my refuge and my battleground, a place where knowledge and strategy intersected in an attempt to comprehend this bond, this magic—him. Draco sat across from me, deeply immersed in a book, his face drawn in quiet concentration. The golden light from the lanterns cast soft shadows on his features, emphasizing the sharp planes of his face and the way his silver eyes flicked across the pages with precise intent.
He had always been gorgeous.
But, in the silence, unguarded and unconcerned by my scrutiny, he was human.
I hesitated briefly before closing my book with a soft thump.
His eyes lifted lazily.
“Granger,” he said without looking up.
I ignored how my stomach twisted as he casually said my name.
“Draco.”
That caught his attention.
His eyes lifted from the page, his brow arched in curiosity. “What?”
I studied him for a second, debating the best way to phrase it, before settling on the most basic truth.
“What do you actually want?”
He remained still.
I caught it, but not visibly or in a way that others would notice. His fingers stopped fidgeting with the edge of his book. His breath hitched so slightly that I almost missed it. His carefully crafted mask of disinterest did not slip, but rather hardened.
He set the book down slowly and deliberately, as if to give himself time.
“What do you mean?” His voice was unreadable, but the slight edge in his tone indicated that I had hit something deep.
I shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “Your mother wants you to reclaim the Malfoy name. The Ministry wants us to be a symbol of political harmony. “But you—” I tilted my head slightly, leaning forward to watch him. “What do you want?”
A sharp exhalation.
His gaze shifted away for a brief moment, allowing me to see his hesitation, uncertainty, and unwillingness to admit something.
I’d never seen Draco Malfoy hesitate before.
He took a deep breath and tilted his head back slightly, his gaze fixed on the high ceiling above us, as if looking somewhere other than at me would make answering easier.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
I frowned. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
His laugh was hollow and devoid of humor. “I mean exactly what I said, Granger.” His fingers tapped against the wooden table in a rhythmic, restless manner. “Throughout my life, every decision was made for me. My parents set my path, the war decided my fate, and now this bond determines my future.” He exhaled sharply again, and when he returned my gaze, there was something raw beneath the usual layers of arrogance and indifference. “When exactly was I supposed to figure out what I wanted?”
My chest tightened.
I had been so preoccupied with my own resentment and lack of choice that I had never really considered his.
Draco Malfoy had been born with expectations. It has shaped my life. Trapped beneath it. And now, just as he had clawed his way out of the war, his father’s shadow, and the sins of his past, he was bound to another thing he did not want.
For the first time, I understood.
“Well,” I said softly, “maybe now’s your chance.”
He looked at me then.
Not irritated. Not in amusement. Not even under suspicion.
But he actually looked at me.
And for a fleeting, delicate second, his walls cracked. Something flickered behind his eyes, something real and unguarded.
But Draco Malfoy disliked being vulnerable.
The moment shattered as he smirked, leaning back in his chair as if to shake off the weight of the conversation. “Are you always this insufferably determined?”
I huffed and rolled my eyes. “Get used to it.”
He chuckled and shook his head as he ran his hand through his hair, messing up strands that had once been perfectly styled.
“Merlin help me.”
Something had shifted, but I didn’t realize it at the time—not with him laughing and my heart still beating a little too fast.
Maybe I didn’t have to make Draco Malfoy like me.
Perhaps I just needed to make him notice me. Perhaps he needed to know that someone had seen him.
I let the silence between us grow, heavy with possibilities and unspoken confessions. The gentle rustle of ancient pages and the steady drip of candlewax became our sole chorus. “I see someone,” I said, barely above a whisper, “who is more than just a conduit for everyone else’s plans. I see a man fighting to be himself, even if every step forward feels like fighting against a tide of expectation.”
Draco’s eyes, which were normally cold and guarded, flickered with a vulnerable uncertainty I had never seen before. His gaze shifted downward, as if the weight of every unspoken memory rested on him. “Granger,” he said, his tone tinged with both defiance and something more gentle, “it’s not that simple.” The admission, raw and unguarded, hung between us like a promise of something profound.
I reached out, my hand hovering near his, not touching but offering quiet support. “Maybe it isn’t,” I said, “but sometimes the simplest truths are the hardest to ignore.” The light from the lanterns danced across the table and our intertwined shadows, creating a fleeting illusion of intimacy that felt both dangerous and absolutely necessary.
Draco exhaled slowly, as if releasing years of tightly guarded secrets. His fingers brushed against mine, a tentative, electric recognition of the bond we were only now beginning to understand. “Maybe,” he admitted, his voice low and uncertain, “it’s enough to just start asking.” In that vulnerable moment, with the world reduced to the quiet corners of a dusty library, I realized that our journey was not about molding him to fit a predetermined role, but about discovering the man beneath the armor—a man who, for the first time, might be allowed to choose his own destiny.
Outside, the night darkened, enveloping the manor in a shroud of possibility. Amidst the silent watch of ancient tomes, I found myself daring to hope that, together, we might one day rewrite the narrative of our lives—a narrative not dictated by duty, legacy, or the ghosts of our past, but one forged in the honest, perilous act of truly seeing each other.