The air between them was thick, suffocating, heavy with everything unsaid and everything too much already spoken. The last echoes of their screaming match still hung in the damp, cold night air of Hogsmeade, their ragged breaths the only sound between them.

Malfoy’s cheek still burned from where she’d slapped him. Hermione’s hands still trembled with the force of it.

Neither of them spoke.

And then—a voice cut through the silence like a knife.

"What, may I ask, do the two of you think you are doing?"

The words weren’t loud. They weren’t sharp.

But they didn’t need to be.

Hermione felt the breath in her lungs freeze.

Malfoy stiffened beside her.

Professor McGonagall stood at the edge of the street, her expression unreadable, her gaze piercing, unwavering. She had clearly just left the Three Broomsticks—her cloak was still drawn tightly around her, the edges damp from the misting rain. And yet, despite the quiet, restrained disappointment in her voice, her presence alone made the weight of their actions settle over them like bricks.

Hermione swallowed hard.

Malfoy said nothing.

McGonagall took a slow step forward, her eyes flicking between them, taking in everything—Hermione’s wild-eyed, breathless fury, Malfoy’s rigid, barely-contained anger, the sheer ugly wreckage of whatever had just passed between them.

And then—she sighed.

It was soft. Subtle. But it made Hermione’s stomach twist worse than any harsh rebuke ever could.

"Five days."

Hermione blinked, confused.

McGonagall shook her head, her voice measured, tired in a way Hermione had never heard before. "It has been five days. That is all. And yet—" her lips pressed into a thin line, "I find myself stepping outside a perfectly pleasant evening to break up a screaming match between two of my best students in the middle of Hogsmeade."

Hermione’s stomach plummeted.

"I had assumed," McGonagall continued, her voice still calm but carrying an unmistakable edge, "that the lot of you were adjusting as well as could be expected. That despite some… inevitable tensions, you were all finding your footing." She exhaled sharply. "Clearly, I was wrong."

Malfoy shifted beside her, stiff and unyielding, but still silent.

McGonagall let her gaze settle on them, unimpressed and unwavering.

"Screaming. In the streets. Like quarrelling schoolchildren." She tilted her head slightly. "Is this how you have chosen to reintegrate into Hogwarts? Is this what the past three days have led to?"

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted iron.

McGonagall let the silence settle for a moment before clasping her hands behind her back.

"I had expected conflicts. I had expected challenges. But I had not expected things to descend into chaos quite this quickly." A pause. Then, with unmistakable finality, "Clearly, something must be done before this escalates further."

Hermione inhaled deeply, trying to settle the war inside her.

Malfoy, still tense beside her, spoke for the first time. "And what, exactly, does that mean?"

McGonagall turned to him, her gaze steely.

"It means, Mr. Malfoy," she said evenly, "that as of this moment, you and your classmates will be participating in a structured, Ministry-approved project designed to bridge the gap between students. A project in which you will be forced to work together—civilly."

Hermione's stomach twisted.

Malfoy let out a sharp breath, the first sign of real, visceral displeasure. "You’re joking."

McGonagall’s brows rose slightly. "Do I appear to be joking, Mr. Malfoy?"

He clenched his jaw and did not respond.

Hermione exhaled sharply, already knowing—already dreading—what this meant.

McGonagall studied them both for a long, quiet moment, her voice softening just slightly.

"You may think you have the right to tear each other apart. You do not. Not anymore. The war is over ."

Silence.

Hermione’s throat burned.

Malfoy’s fists tightened.

And yet—neither of them said a word.

McGonagall gave a small, knowing nod. "I trust I will not have to have this conversation with the two of you again."

And with that—she turned on her heel and walked away.

Just like that.

Leaving Hermione and Malfoy standing in the middle of the street, drowning in everything they said. 

The kitchen was too bright. Too sharp. Too suffocating.

Hermione sat hunched over a steaming mug of coffee, fingers curled so tightly around the ceramic she could feel the heat searing her palms. But she barely noticed. She barely felt anything beneath the crushing weight of last night.

The fight had been catastrophic. Their worst yet. Cruel. Unforgivable.

Every vicious word, every dagger-eyed glare, every sharp, brutal truth still rang in her skull, rattling in her ribs.

And the worst part?

She didn’t even know who had won.

She took a slow, measured sip of coffee, willing her hands to stop shaking. She was alone—thank Merlin, she was alone. Just her, her regrets, and—

A parchment materialized onto the table with a rustle of crisp, enchanted paper.

Oh no.

She inhaled sharply.

The Wickedly Yours blast.

She could ignore it. She should ignore it.

But curiosity was a bitch. Against her better judgment, she glanced down.

The Night Everything Changed

Truth or Dare is meant to bring out secrets, but last night, it brought out something far more entertaining.

A game gone wrong, a misplaced dare, and suddenly, Gryffindor’s Golden Girl, Hermione Granger and Slytherin’s Brooding Prince, Draco Malfoy were exchanging shirts. Scandalous? Not as much as the dirty little things he whispered in her ear. But things didn’t stop there. A few barbed words later, and Malfoy learned the hard way that Granger’s slap is just as sharp as her tongue.

And that wasn’t the only unexpected pairing of the night.

If you didn’t think food could be seductive, you clearly weren’t at the party. Because Ginny Weasley and a banana left a certain Slytherin heir looking like he was about to start worshipping at the altar of potassium. No one knows what spell she put on that fruit, but Nott was practically on his knees.

Harry Potter & Daphne Greengrass: Someone get a camera, because the Boy Who Lived just lived his best life—right on Daphne Greengrass’s lips. That’s right, folks, Potter and Little Miss Pureblood Perfection locked lips, and it was not subtle. Was this a dare, a mistake, or the start of something that will make the Weasleys combust?

And then, there’s Blaise Zabini—the man, the myth, the mystery. Usually the epitome of Slytherin composure, Zabini bared his soul not just to Pansy Parkinson, but also… to the couch. The details are hazy, but one thing is clear—he really needed to get something off his chest.

One night. One game. Countless regrets.

And to think, it’s only the first week.

Wickedly Yours,
The Secret Keeper

Hermione froze.

The nausea that had been sitting in the pit of her stomach all morning turned into a violent, writhing thing, clawing its way up her throat.

No. No, no.

The last thing she wanted—after last night, after everything—was to be trapped in the same breath as Malfoy again.

The door slammed open.

And in stormed Ron Weasley.

"I FUCKING KNEW IT!"

Ron's voice cracked like a whip, slicing through the air, reverberating off the kitchen walls.

Hermione winced, the sharpness of it sending a fresh, vicious pulse through her skull.

Ginny groaned beside him, already exhausted. “Oh, here we fucking go—”

But Ron wasn’t listening.

He slammed the parchment onto the table in front of her.

Hermione barely flinched as it landed.

"You and Malfoy?!" Ron’s breathing was ragged, furious. "I knew this was going to happen the second they let those bastards back in! And now, of course, it’s my sister they’ve got their filthy claws in!"

Hermione’s fingers curled around her coffee mug.

She didn’t have the energy for this. Not after last night. Not after him.

"Ron, stop," she muttered, voice hoarse, but he wasn’t hearing her.

He wouldn’t hear her.

A sharp breath. A low, amused hum.

Then—

"Oh, good. We’re playing ‘Yell at the Slytherins’ again. Brilliant. My favorite game."

Theodore Nott.

Lounging lazily in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching Ron with all the interest of someone enjoying a theatrical performance.

Hermione barely had time to react before Ron whipped around, eyes blazing.

"Did you finally run out of decent blokes, Gin?" His voice cracked, raw with fury. "Or are you just so desperate for attention now that you’ll take it from the same kind of scum that helped kill Fred?!"

The room plummeted into a vacuum of silence.

A silence so thick Hermione felt it—an air pressure drop, a stillness before the crash.

Ginny froze.

Nott’s smirk vanished.

And then—Ginny exploded.

"YOU DO NOT GET TO USE FRED AGAINST ME, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING BASTARD!"

She shoved Ron. Hard.

Hermione sat paralyzed, too hungover, too tired to stop it.

"DO YOU EVEN HEAR YOURSELF, RONALD?!" Ginny roared. "YOU SOUND LIKE A—LIKE A BLOODY—" Her words choked off, rage strangling her voice.

But Ron wasn’t done.

"And you—" he spat, finally turning on Nott. "What the fuck do you even want from her, huh? You just get off on corrupting a Weasley? Messing with one of the good ones?"

Nott exhaled slowly.

And then—he laughed.

Low. Slow. Sharp.

"You Gryffindors are so fucking predictable," he murmured. "I could set my fucking watch to your moral tantrums."

A chair scraped violently across the floor. Ginny shoved herself between them.

But Ron wasn’t done.

His fury had shifted.

It had locked onto something else.

Something worse.

The air around them changed.

And Hermione knew.

She felt it coming before she even turned.

Because she knew exactly who had just entered the room.

Ron whipped around.

His entire body bristled.

Hermione closed her eyes.

And then—

"And you, Malfoy—"

Her stomach dropped.

Ron's voice was low now, simmering with something deeper than anger. Something raw. Something dangerous.

"You think you’re better now? That just because Hermione’s willing to humor you, because she’s the only one dumb enough to waste her time trying to pretend you’re capable of change, that it makes you different?"

Hermione flinched.

The words cut.

But before she could respond—before she could even breathe—Ron delivered the final, lethal blow.

"You didn’t just sit back and let it happen—you helped. You helped the people who tortured her. You stood in that room while she screamed for hours and did absolutely nothing. She’ll never forget that."

The world froze.

Hermione’s lungs stopped working.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

The air was razor-thin.

And then—

Laughter.

Low. Hollow.

"You think I don’t fucking know that, Weasley?"

Malfoy's voice was lethal.

"You think I don’t already know I’ll never be anything other than the monster in your goddamn nightmares?"

Hermione’s breath hitched.

"You want me to grovel?" Malfoy took a step forward, his voice sharp as a blade. "To admit it? Fine. I don’t deserve her forgiveness. I never fucking will."

His gaze flicked to her—just for a second.

And Hermione saw it.

Something fractured.

Something wrecked.

Then—

"And guess what?" Malfoy’s voice was ice-cold. "I don’t want it."

Hermione’s stomach plummeted.

"I don’t want any of it. Not from her. Not from you."

And then—he turned.

Started to walk away.

Hermione’s breath came fast and shaking, her vision blurred at the edges, her pulse hammering wildly, erratic, uncontrolled.

Something inside her was splitting apart, cracking under the weight of the room, of the words still ringing in the air, of the ghosts clawing at her ribs and dragging her under.

She couldn’t breathe.

She felt it clawing at her throat, that feeling—like being trapped in a moment she couldn’t escape, drowning in the echoes of the past, in the sound of her own screams, in the cruel snap of Bellatrix’s laughter, in the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth.

And Ron—Ron—standing there, throwing it in her face like it was a weapon, like it was a fucking game, like he hadn’t sat next to her in that tent, held her shaking hands in his own, swearing he’d never let anything happen to her again.

The pain in her chest ripped wide open, an unbearable thing clawing its way out.

And then—

Then it exploded.

"YOU’RE THE REASON WE WERE EVEN THERE!"

The words detonated into the air, ripping through the room like a shockwave, burning through her throat, through her bones, through everything he had ever made her feel.

Malfoy stopped.

Dead.

His entire body locked in place, rigid, unmoving, as if the weight of her words had frozen him where he stood.

The silence was violent, ringing in her ears, shattering through the world around her.

But she wasn’t done.

She couldn’t be done.

"You said his name, Ron!"

The accusation came like a blade, slicing through the air, through the stunned, breathless silence.

Ron blinked. “What?” His voice was barely a whisper, like he hadn’t heard her properly.

Like he hadn’t known.

But Hermione didn’t stop.

"You said his name,” she spat, the words nearly choking her on the way out. "That night. That night in the fucking woods. You broke the Taboo. You led them to us."

The world lurched.

Ron took a step back, his head shaking, mouth opening and closing like he couldn’t form words.

“I—I didn’t—”

“You did!” Hermione screamed, her voice raw, splintered at the edges. "We were safe, Ron! We were fucking safe! But you—you said it, you said Voldemort and the second you did—"

A sharp, broken breath ripped from her.

"They found us."

She was shaking now, her whole body vibrating from the force of it, from the weight of saying it out loud, from the realization that he never knew.

That he had stood here, yelling at Malfoy, blaming him, all while he—he—had been the reason she ended up on that fucking floor, the reason she had been carved open like she was nothing, the reason her screams still lived in that house, rattling around the halls like trapped ghosts.

Ron’s face had gone white.

His hands were shaking.

“I didn’t mean—”

"You got us caught, Ron!"

It came out strangled, wrecked.

He took another step back, his mouth pressing into a thin, bloodless line, his breath stuttering like he was trying to pull in air but couldn’t.

“I—I didn’t know—” His voice was hoarse, cracked down the middle, but Hermione wasn’t listening.

"You stood here and used it against me." She could barely get the words out, could barely form them through the way her chest ached, through the way her throat was burning, like her own body was rejecting the truth, rejecting what she had just forced into the open.

Ron flinched.

"That night—I begged for you." Her voice broke completely, a shattered, fractured sound that made Ginny suck in a breath. "I screamed for you, Ron. I thought— if you could hear me—"

She shook her head violently, like she could dislodge the memories before they dragged her back under.

"And now you—” Her voice turned sharp, razor-edged. “Now you stand here—in front of me—and throw it in my fucking face?!"

Ron swallowed, hard, and for the first time, his eyes were wet, glistening. "Hermione, I swear, I—"

"DON’T YOU FUCKING SAY MY NAME!"

Her voice cracked through the room.

She was sobbing now, wrecked and gutted, her chest heaving, her entire body shaking violently.

Ron looked like he might be sick.

His face was hollowed-out, something broken flashing behind his eyes.

Harry was already stepping forward, already moving, already reaching—

And then—

Hermione collapsed.

Her legs just gave out, and she might have hit the floor if Harry hadn’t caught her.

"I’ve got you," Harry whispered, his voice tight, his grip firm as she shook against him.

"I—can’t—breathe—" Hermione gasped.

"I know," Harry murmured, holding her closer. "Just breathe. Just breathe, Mione. I’ve got you."

He lifted her.

Physically carried her away.

Through the stunned silence.

Through the wreckage of everything they once were.

Through Ron’s shattered, horrified stare.

And Hermione let him.

Because she had nothing left to give.

Harry didn't say a word as he carried Hermione up the stairs.

She was trembling against him, her body light in his arms, but heavy in every other way. Her breath was still uneven, still ragged, as if she couldn't quite remember how to breathe properly, as if her body had forgotten how to exist without the weight of her own words pressing down on her.

When he reached her door, he pushed it open with his foot and stepped inside, gently lowering her onto the edge of her bed.

She curled forward instantly, wrapping her arms around herself, shoulders shaking.

Harry crouched in front of her, resting a hand on her knee.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, the same words he’d whispered downstairs, the same promise he’d made what felt like a lifetime ago. "Just breathe, Mione."

Hermione sucked in a sharp, uneven breath.

But the moment she closed her eyes, she was there again.

The floor.

The pain.

The feeling of her own skin breaking apart beneath Bellatrix’s wand.

And the worst part—the worst part—

The part she never said out loud.

That moment. That tiny moment.

When she thought Ron would come for her.

When she prayed for it.

She squeezed her eyes tighter.

"He's never going to forgive himself," Harry said softly, and Hermione let out a wet, hollow laugh.

"Good."

Harry exhaled, shifting so he was sitting in front of her, cross-legged on the floor.

"Mione." His voice was careful, soft, but weighted with something deeper. "Ron didn’t know."

She let out a sharp, bitter exhale. “I know he didn’t, Harry. That’s what makes it worse.”

She swallowed, fingers clenching into fists where they rested against her knees.

"He blamed Malfoy all this time,” she whispered, voice hoarse. "All of them. He stood there—stood in front of me—and acted like it was all their fault, like we weren’t running from that war the entire time, like we didn’t make a million fucking mistakes that got people killed."

Harry’s jaw tightened.

But he didn’t argue.

Because he couldn’t.

Because she was right.

Hermione sniffed, rubbing furiously at her eyes, as if she could erase the evidence of her breaking apart.

"I don't forgive him," she said suddenly, voice firm despite the shaking.

Harry nodded, his gaze steady. "You don’t have to."

Hermione inhaled sharply, chest aching.

"You do, though."

Harry hesitated. “I do what?”

"You forgive him," she whispered. "You always forgive him."

A pause.

Then—

"Yeah," Harry admitted quietly. “I do.”

Hermione let out a sharp breath, her fingers pressing hard into the mattress. “How?”

Harry was silent for a long time.

Then, finally—

"Because he came back."

Hermione froze.

Because it was true.

Because Ron had left them in that tent.

Had walked away. Had abandoned them.

But in the end—he came back.

She pressed her fingers to her temple. "I don’t know if I can do that, Harry. I don’t know if I can just—just forgive him."

Harry’s fingers tightened around his own knees, his expression unreadable.

"You don’t have to," he repeated. "Not now. Not ever, if that’s what you need."

Hermione let out a shuddering breath.

"But I need you to know something, Mione," he said softly, voice lower now, weighted.

She lifted her gaze.

Harry swallowed, and when he spoke again, his voice wavered slightly.

"I should have gone back for you."

Hermione stilled.

Her heart stopped.

"What?"

Harry’s throat bobbed. “That night. At the Manor.”

Hermione’s entire body tensed.

"You—you did come back," she managed, barely above a whisper.

"Not fast enough." His voice was strained, filled with something deep and aching. "I should have gotten to you sooner."

Her breath caught.

"You were unconscious when we found you," Harry continued, voice rough, like the words were physically hurting him. "You were barely breathing, Mione. And I—” His voice broke slightly, something raw surfacing. "I thought I was going to lose you."

Hermione swallowed hard, her fingers twisting into the sheets beneath her.

"Sometimes, I wake up, and I still hear you screaming," Harry admitted, barely audible now. "And I think about—about how I should have done more. Should have fought harder. Should have—"

"Stop," Hermione whispered.

Harry’s mouth clamped shut.

She inhaled slowly, evenly, willing the room to stop spinning.

"You did come back for me," she said, her voice steadier this time.

Harry opened his mouth, like he was about to protest, but Hermione shook her head.

"You came back for me," she repeated, firmer now. "And that’s why I’m still here."

A long, heavy silence.

Then—Harry nodded.

Hermione exhaled sharply, rubbing at her eyes. “We’re a fucking mess.”

Harry let out a low, dry chuckle. “Yeah. But at least we’re a mess together.”

Hermione let out a small, tired laugh, shaking her head.

A pause.

Then—

"I'm sorry."

Hermione blinked. "For what?"

"For not stopping Ron," Harry admitted. "For letting him say all that. For not realizing how bad it was for you."

Hermione inhaled deeply, shoulders still trembling slightly. "It’s not your job to fix this, Harry."

"Doesn’t mean I don’t want to."

Hermione gave a watery half-smile, her eyes burning again.

And then—

Harry shifted, reaching out, and Hermione let him pull her into a hug.

She pressed her forehead into his shoulder, feeling his steady, even breaths, grounding herself in the simple, unwavering fact that Harry Potter had always been her constant.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured again.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

The world outside moved on, indifferent to what had unraveled downstairs, to the words that had shattered the air and left jagged edges behind. But in this quiet space, in the stillness of a too-bright room, time felt suspended.

For the first time in years, there was no war to fight, no enemy to outmaneuver, no desperate, last-minute plan to hold onto like a lifeline.

Nothing hunting them.
Nothing to run from.
Nothing but the silence between heartbeats.

And maybe that was the strangest thing of all.

Hermione moved first, stretching her legs out, rubbing at her temple like she could press the headache out of existence.

Harry followed a moment later, leaning back against the headboard, exhaling slowly as he stared up at the ceiling.

Then, finally—

“It’s strange,” she murmured. “Everything should feel… different now.”

Her voice was hoarse, almost like she was confessing something forbidden.

Harry glanced at her, waiting.

She swallowed, running a hand over her face. “We were always waiting for something, weren’t we? Always planning, always looking over our shoulders, always bracing for the next fight.” Her voice wavered. "And now—" she gestured vaguely around them. "It’s over, Harry. We survived. We won.”

A pause. Then—

She let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "And I have absolutely no fucking idea what to do with myself."

Harry tilted his head back, considering her words.

Then—

"Yeah," he admitted. "Me too."

Hermione turned to look at him, brow furrowed.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair, shaking his head slightly.

"I wake up and—and I don’t have to check for my wand under my pillow. I don’t have to listen for footsteps, don’t have to stay on edge, waiting for something to go wrong. I don’t have to think about what comes next." He exhaled, his gaze distant. "It should be a relief, right?"

Hermione nodded.

"But it’s not," he said quietly. "Not really. It’s just… weird."

She swallowed. "Yeah."

A pause.

Then—

"You still have nightmares?"

Her voice was softer now, almost hesitant.

Harry’s jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded. "Yeah. You?"

Hermione nodded too. "Yeah."

Harry let out a breath, nudging her knee lightly with his. "Do they ever… get better?"

She hesitated, then shook her head. "Not really."

A long pause. Then—

"They just… change."

Harry was quiet for a moment, mulling over her words, letting them settle. Then, after a beat—

"You think we ever stop looking over our shoulders?"

Hermione let out a soft breath, something that was almost a laugh, though it never quite reached her eyes.

"I don’t know," she admitted. "I hope so."

Harry nodded, leaning his head back. "Me too."

Harry and Hermione sat in silence for a long while, breathing, existing, letting the weight of everything settle into something almost manageable.

Then, the telltale whoosh of magic swept through the air.

Both of them turned just in time to see two thick parchment envelopes appear on Hermione’s bedside table, the red wax seals gleaming under the morning light.

Hermione blinked, straightening slightly.

Harry sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Should I be worried that official Hogwarts correspondence now feels like a threat?"

Hermione let out a weak chuckle, though there was no real humor behind it. "Probably."

With a resigned exhale, she reached forward, breaking the seal on the first envelope. She unfolded the letter, her eyes scanning quickly—then stopping dead at a certain line.

Harry frowned. “What?”

Hermione’s grip on the parchment tightened.

She cleared her throat and started reading aloud.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Office of the Headmistress
Professor Minerva McGonagall

To all returning Eighth Year students,

It has come to my attention that ongoing tensions within the Eighth Year cohort have resulted in unnecessary conflict, disruptions, and, most concerningly, public altercations. Such behavior is neither conducive to a productive learning environment nor reflective of the values upheld by this institution.

In response, effective immediately, all Eighth Year students will be required to participate in a structured, long-term Inter-House Collaboration Project. This initiative is designed to foster cooperation, strengthen problem-solving skills, and rebuild positive inter-house relationships.

This project will be graded and will necessitate a significant investment of time and effort in the coming weeks. Participation is mandatory.

Partnerships have been carefully assigned based on individual strengths and compatibility. The designated pairings are as follows:

• Granger, Hermione – Malfoy, Draco
• Weasley, Ginerva – Nott, Theodore
• Greengrass, Daphne – Potter, Harry
• Davis, Tracey – Weasley, Ronald
• Parkinson, Pansy – Finnegan, Seamus
• Patil, Padma – Corner, Michael
• Patil, Parvati – Smith, Zacharias
• Brocklehurst, Mandy – Longbottom, Neville
• Abbott, Hannah – Zabini, Blaise
• Bones, Susan – Thomas, Dean

Your first formal meeting will take place this evening at 7:00 PM. Further details regarding expectations and objectives will be provided at that time.

I trust you will approach this endeavor with the dedication and maturity expected of you.

Sincerely,
Professor Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Hermione’s voice cut out at the end of her own name, eyes locking onto a particular section as if she could force it to change through sheer willpower.

Harry leaned over her shoulder, scanning the page.

He didn’t even try to hold back his laugh. "Oh, brilliant."

Hermione’s fingers tightened around the parchment, her breath coming a little too sharp, a little too fast. “This has to be a mistake. I mean—she saw what happened last night. She knows we—”

She cut herself off, pressing her lips together, exhaling through her nose.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “She knows you what?”

Hermione huffed. “She knows that Malfoy and I can’t be in the same room without wanting to kill each other.”

Harry snorted. “Well, technically, you can—you just prefer not to.”

Hermione shot him a glare. “This isn’t funny, Harry.”

His smirk faded slightly, though the amusement still lingered in his eyes. “I know it’s not. But McGonagall isn’t stupid, Hermione. She didn’t pick these pairs at random—she’s forcing you two to work together for a reason.”

Hermione let out a sharp, disbelieving breath. “What, to make my life miserable?”

Harry tilted his head. “Or maybe to make your life easier.”

Hermione scoffed. “By putting me with Malfoy? Please.”

Harry shrugged. “You might not see it now, but you two are more alike than you think.”

She stared at him. “I am nothing like Malfoy.”

Harry gave her a knowing look.

Hermione opened her mouth, then snapped it shut.

Hermione inhaled sharply, shaking her head. “He doesn’t even want to work with me.”

Harry sighed. “And you don’t want to work with him, so congratulations, you’re even.”

Hermione clenched her jaw, folding the parchment so tightly her fingers ached. She didn’t want to talk about Malfoy anymore. Didn’t want to think about him anymore.

She needed a distraction.

Her eyes flicked down to the list again.

And there it was.

An opening.

Her lips curved just slightly, a little sharp, a little knowing.

“So,” she said, voice casual. “You and Daphne Greengrass, huh?”

Harry choked.

His ears burned instantly. “That wasn’t—” He shook his head furiously. “That was just a dare.”

Hermione hummed, feigning disinterest as she unfolded her letter again. “Mhm. A dare that, according to The Secret Keeper, lasted ‘far longer than it needed to.’”

Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I hate this year already.”

Hermione smirked. “That bad?”

“No—it wasn’t—” He let out a frustrated sound before dragging a hand through his hair. “Look, it was fine. I mean, she’s—” He hesitated, searching for the right word.

Hermione watched him flounder with mild amusement. “Pretty?”

Harry gave her a flat look. “That is not the point.”

Hermione shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be the point. But I am right.”

Harry let out an exaggerated ugh, slumping back against the headboard. “You are so annoying.”

She smiled into her coffee. “I know.”

Harry sighed dramatically. “It’s just weird, okay? I wasn’t expecting it.”

Hermione shot him a pointed look. “Neither was Daphne, I’d imagine.”

Harry groaned again, rubbing his face. “Merlin, this is my worst nightmare.”

Hermione snorted. “Oh, please. Your worst nightmare involves Voldemort coming back from the dead and cursing you into an eternity of reliving your fifth year. This is just Hogwarts gossip.”

Harry peeked at her through his fingers. “You are enjoying this.”

Hermione smirked, taking another sip of coffee. “A little.”

Harry let his hands fall to his lap, glowering at her. "So glad my suffering is entertaining for you."

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. It’s just one kiss, Harry.”

Harry huffed. “Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one snogging a Slytherin in front of half our year.”

Hermione paused, just a fraction too long.

Harry caught it instantly.

His head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing. “Wait.”

Hermione immediately regretted everything.

“Hermione.” Harry sat up straighter, his gaze sharpening. “Did something—”

“Nope.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Something did happen.”

“Harry, no—”

His grin widened. “You and Malfoy—”

"Absolutely not!” Hermione nearly shouted.

Harry exhaled, shaking his head as he leaned back against the headboard, amusement still flickering behind his tired eyes. Hermione didn’t acknowledge it—would not acknowledge it—choosing instead to stare down at the crumpled letter in her hands, its words now burned into her brain.

The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but loaded. The weight of the morning still clung to her, the sharp edges of it dulled slightly but not gone. She knew they wouldn’t be—not today, not tomorrow. Maybe not for a long time.

Eventually, Harry let out a low sigh, running a hand through his hair. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Hermione closed her eyes, tilting her head back against the bedpost.

She didn’t have it in her to argue.