What It Means to Be Done
He should have walked away.
He should have let it go.
But his body was moving before his brain could catch up, each step toward McGonagall’s office fueled by something ugly and coiled tight beneath his skin. His fingers twitched at his sides, hands flexing into fists before he forced them loose again. The castle corridors blurred around him, but he wasn’t seeing any of it—just the echo of her voice, the way her words had sunk under his skin, barbed and venomous.
"You wish I was just as miserable. Just as fucking weak."
Draco’s jaw locked, his pulse roaring in his ears.
It had been an explosion, inevitable, unstoppable—three days of barely restrained tension snapping into a full-blown inferno. He didn’t even remember how it started, not really. Maybe he had smirked at the wrong moment, maybe she had looked at him like she could see too much. It didn’t matter. Because she had gone for the throat, and he had let her.
And the worst part? She wasn’t wrong.
She had ripped through his defenses like parchment, peeled back every carefully controlled layer of his indifference, until she was standing there, saying things that no one—no one—had ever dared say to his face.
"You wish I was just as pathetic as you, because then you wouldn’t have to face the fact that I survived it all and I’m still better than you."
Draco inhaled sharply through his nose.
Because it wasn’t just the words. It was the way she had looked at him when she said them.
Like she had figured something out.
Like she knew.
And that was unacceptable.
He needed space. He needed a reset. He needed McGonagall to fix this before the Ministry’s ridiculous project tethered them together for the rest of the year. He would not—could not—spend the next several months in close proximity with her, letting her pick him apart piece by piece.
The gargoyle loomed ahead, solid and impassive. He didn’t hesitate.
McGonagall would listen.
She had to.
Because the alternative?
Draco refused to consider it.
The entrance swung open, but he didn’t wait for permission. He strode inside with the righteous fury of a man who had suffered one indignity too many.
The door did not slam behind him—because Draco was not suicidal—but it closed with purpose, the sharp click echoing in the silence.
McGonagall did not glance up.
She kept writing.
Draco inhaled sharply through his nose, hands balling into fists at his sides. He stood there, waiting, stewing in his own frustration as the seconds dragged on, the scratch of her quill against parchment grating against his every nerve.
She was doing this on purpose.
He knew she was.
The portraits along the walls, ever-watchful, made his skin crawl. The chair in front of her desk—empty, waiting—was a trap. He would not sit.
His muscles tensed, his patience worn dangerously thin. The tick of the clock was unbearable. The flames in the sconces flickered. And still, she wrote.
Draco clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth ached.
And then, finally, McGonagall set her quill down. With slow, deliberate movements, she folded her hands atop her desk and regarded him with the kind of exhaustion that only came from decades of dealing with idiocy.
“Mr. Malfoy,” she said, voice steady. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Draco exhaled sharply through his nose. “Forgive my bluntness, Professor, but you cannot be serious.”
McGonagall blinked at him, utterly unimpressed.
Draco pressed forward, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “First, I was forced to live next door to Granger—share a wall with her,” he gestured sharply, as if physically repelling the idea, “and now I am being forced to be her partner on some ill-advised Ministry project?” His voice rose slightly, thick with disbelief. “This is absolutely unnecessary. Are you and the Ministry engaged in a coordinated effort to punish me for existing?”
McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line.
"I am going to extend you grace, Mr. Malfoy, and not entertain that question," she said evenly. "Instead, I will ask you why it is that you cannot seem to get along with Miss Granger."
Draco opened his mouth—
She raised a single hand.
He shut it.
“Correct me if I am wrong,” she continued, voice mild, but edged with steel, “but it was you and Miss Granger screaming at each other in the middle of Hogsmeade, was it not?”
Draco’s spine straightened.
“Not Mr. Potter. Not Mr. Weasley.” A pause. “Miss Granger.”
His scowl deepened, heat creeping up his neck.
McGonagall arched a brow. “I assumed she would have been the last person I would see exhibiting such behavior. But instead, in just five days, I have received multiple reports of escalating tension between the two of you.”
She tilted her head slightly. “So please, Mr. Malfoy—enlighten me as to what, exactly, is going on.”
Draco’s jaw worked, his mind running through every possible response, every justification.
Nothing he said would help him.
McGonagall stared, unblinking, waiting.
The silence stretched.
His anger curled tight in his chest, tangled with something sharper, something unspoken, but there was no winning this.
So, he took a slow, controlled breath and said through gritted teeth, “I fail to see why this requires a Ministry project.”
McGonagall smiled. It was not a kind smile.
“Then allow me to clarify,” she said smoothly. “You will work with Miss Granger. You will complete this project. And you will do so without turning this school year into an ongoing battleground.”
Draco’s fingers twitched. “And if I refuse?”
McGonagall’s smile widened—a victor’s smile.
“Then I do hope you enjoy repeating your eighth year.”
Silence.
A full five seconds in which Draco mentally reevaluated every life choice that had led him here.
Then, exhaling sharply, he turned on his heel and stormed out.
Because if he stayed one second longer, he might actually combust.
The castle corridors blurred around him, the flickering torchlight throwing jagged shadows along the stone walls, but Draco wasn’t seeing any of it. His mind was still trapped in McGonagall’s office, replaying every moment with an almost painful clarity.
"Not Mr. Potter. Not Mr. Weasley. Miss Granger."
His jaw tightened, rage burning beneath his skin, because McGonagall had looked right through him—straight through the layers of composure, past the carefully constructed indifference, and called him on his bullshit.
Because five days ago, Granger had been nothing but a fucking nuisance.
A name, a memory, a piece of his past that he had intended to avoid, ignore, erase.
And now?
Now, she was everywhere.
In his dorms. In his fights. In his thoughts.
Draco’s fists clenched at his sides as he forced himself to keep walking, but his pulse was hammering against his ribs, his mind already shoving him back—back to last night in Hogsmeade.
The moment she followed him out into the storm, Draco knew he was fucked.
He had left—he had walked out, stormed away like he always did, and that should have been the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
Because Granger never knew when to leave well enough alone.
She had followed him.
Out into the dark streets, into the biting wind and icy rain, with that relentless, infuriating, insufferable determination that made him want to scream.
And she hadn’t let him go.
"Really, Malfoy? You love to just storm out of every conversation when things don’t go your way."
Her voice cut through the downpour, sharp and accusing, and Draco had wanted to ignore her.
He should have ignored her.
But he wasn’t thinking straight.
He was still burning from the party, from the way she had looked at him, from the way she had shut him down in front of everyone, from the goddamn weight of her silence.
“I hate you, Malfoy. I hate everything about you.”
Draco felt the words like a slap. His breath hitched, his nails digging into his palms. He should have expected it—should have wanted it—but fuck if it didn’t send something sharp and twisting straight through his ribs.
Her words didn’t stop.
She hated how he walked, how he talked, how he carried himself like he was untouchable. She hated the way he pretended to be human for a moment, only to ruin it with cruelty. She hated the memories he had branded into her childhood—the name he had spat at her, the way he had stood by and watched while she bled.
He wanted to interrupt, wanted to stop her before she said anything else that made it harder to breathe. But then she said the thing he feared most:
“That was my fucking goal for this year, did you know that? It wasn’t to be Head Girl or to pass my exams—no. It was to make you regret walking into this FUCKING house.”
The air between them was electric, crackling with something neither of them could name, something ugly and familiar and utterly inevitable. Draco wanted to hit back, wanted to throw words at her that would cut just as deep—but there was nothing he could say that she hadn’t already carved into him herself.
So he did what he did best.
He laughed.
It was sharp and jagged, something bitter lodged in his throat. “You want to scream at me, Granger? Fine. Fucking fine. But if you want the truth—if you really want to know me—then listen up, because I am done holding my fucking tongue.”
And he let it spill out—the weight of his past, the rot that had lived inside him for years. The indoctrination, the expectations, the way his life had been written for him before he even had a say. The way he never had a choice.
He told her about the Dark Lord in his home, about waking up every day knowing that survival depended on obedience. About his father’s death. About his mother’s screams. About Astoria—about what they did to her, how they broke her, how he had watched it happen and could do nothing.
He watched her face change, watched the horror settle into her features, watched the fight in her eyes flicker—just for a moment.
And then she laughed.
“Oh, fuck you, Malfoy.”
And just like that, it was back—the fire, the rage, the venom. She looked at him like he was nothing, like his suffering didn’t count because it hadn’t been hers.
It shouldn’t have surprised him—shouldn’t have hit him like a fucking curse to the chest—but fuck if it didn’t feel like she had cracked open his ribcage and spit straight into the hollowed-out cavity where his heart used to be.
Because of course she would.
Of course, Granger would take everything he had just said—everything he had ripped out of himself, everything he had never spoken aloud—and throw it back at him like it was nothing. Like he was nothing.
And that— that —was why he had never let anyone in.
Because no matter what he did, no matter what he said, no matter how much he fucking bled —it would never be enough. He would never be enough.
Not to her. Not to anyone.
“You’re really— really —going to use my torture to prove your suffering?”
Her voice was shaking with rage, but he barely heard it past the ringing in his ears.
No. No, that wasn’t what he had meant.
But how the fuck was he supposed to explain that to her?
He had watched her break on the floor of his home. Had stood there—powerless, useless—while his aunt carved her up, while she screamed so loudly it had rattled inside his skull. He had wanted to stop it. Had wanted to throw himself in front of her and tell Bellatrix to take his skin instead.
But he hadn’t.
He had done nothing.
And now, standing here, with her rage bearing down on him like a hurricane, he realized that it didn’t matter what he had wanted.
Because all that mattered was what he had done.
Nothing.
“I had no choice , Granger—”
“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo , Malfoy.”
And there it was. The final nail in the coffin.
You always had a choice.
Maybe not a good one. Maybe not an easy one.
But a choice.
Her words sliced through him like a blade to the gut, and he could feel it—the old walls, the old instincts, the old defense mechanisms—snapping into place, shoving everything else down, down, down, where no one could ever fucking touch it.
Because that was the thing, wasn’t it?
It had never mattered how much he suffered. How much he lost. How much he wanted to be better.
He would always be the villain in her story.
He would always be the boy who stood by and let it happen.
And maybe—maybe she was fucking right.
Maybe that was all he deserved to be.
She was still talking, still pressing, still shoving the knife in deeper and deeper, and fuck —he was going to snap. He could feel it building inside him, the pressure, the rage, the years and years of guilt curdling into something dark and volatile.
He didn’t even realize he was moving until she was right in front of him, his breath coming out sharp, jagged, like broken glass scraping against his ribs.
And then she said it.
“You stood on the wrong fucking side, Malfoy. You chose that side. So no, I don’t think you fucking know .”
And something inside him shattered.
“I didn’t fucking choose anything, you stupid, sanctimonious bitch .”
His voice was hoarse, raw, torn straight from the parts of him he never let anyone fucking see.
But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down.
She never fucking did.
And then she went for the kill.
“I am better than you.”
He laughed.
He had to.
Because the alternative was falling apart completely.
“You sure about that, Granger?” His voice was quieter now, sharper, laced with something that tasted like blood. “Because right now, you sound just like me.”
And there it was—the flicker of hesitation, the crack in her armor.
He saw it.
She knew it.
And he fucking ran with it.
It was cruel.
He was cruel.
But he had nothing else left.
So he pressed. And pressed. And pressed.
Until she broke.
Until she slapped him .
The sting bloomed across his cheek, sharp and burning, but he barely felt it past the way his pulse pounded in his skull.
He touched his jaw, let out a breathless, bitter chuckle. “Did that make you feel better , Granger?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “Did you deserve it, Malfoy?”
His smirk returned, automatic, but there was nothing behind it.
Wouldn’t be the first time someone thought so.
Because she wasn’t the first.
And she wouldn’t be the last.
And then she said it.
The words that sent something cold and hollow spiraling inside him.
“I’m done.”
He stilled.
It was stupid, how much it hurt. How much it felt like she had just wrenched something out of him with her bare hands and left him bleeding in the street.
He shouldn’t have cared.
But he did.
Because, for all the hatred, for all the screaming, for all the venom—she had always fought with him . Had always pushed back. Had always given as good as she got.
And now—
Now, she was done.
And that—that —was so much worse than any slap, any insult, any fucking hex she could have thrown at him.
Draco forced his mind to go quiet.
It wasn’t easy. His thoughts kept circling back, looping over the same jagged edges, catching on memories he was trying to bury. But he wouldn’t let them. Wouldn’t let her.
Not this time.
He had spent enough time letting her words rattle inside his skull, enough time letting them carve through him like something dull and serrated, enough fucking time giving a damn.
It was done. Over.
She was done with him.
And that was fine.
That was better.
His jaw locked as he moved through the corridors, his steps sharp, deliberate, every movement controlled to the point of rigidity. He had sealed it away. Had shoved it into the furthest corners of his mind, into the vaults where everything else that had ever threatened to break him had been stored.
Occlude. Breathe. Move forward.
The words pulsed in his head, a steady rhythm to hold onto, a tether keeping him from spiraling. He focused on the feel of the stone beneath his feet, on the sound of his own breathing, on the controlled tension in his muscles. Anything but the tightness in his chest. Anything but her voice—low, quiet, absolute—cutting straight through him.
"You let Bellatrix carve into my skin while I screamed, and you did nothing."
Draco clenched his jaw, his breath coming slow, controlled.
"You always had a choice."
His stomach twisted violently, nausea creeping up his throat.
Because he didn’t.
He never had a choice.
And yet, she had stood there, rain-drenched and furious, staring at him like he was the one who put the knife in her hands and forced her to carve the word into her own skin.
She had hated him for it.
And that was fine. That was expected.
He had assumed she blamed him for everything. The Manor, the torture, the war. He had known—down to his very bones—that, to her, he was just another fucking Death Eater who stood there and let her suffer. That no matter how many Ministry trials, no matter how many letters, no matter how many people tried to say he had been just a boy, she would never see that.
And he had been right.
At least, that’s what he thought.
Until this morning.
"You’re the reason we were even there!"
Draco’s fingers twitched.
Something sharp cracked through his chest, his mind short-circuiting—glitching—because that hadn’t been from last night.
That was this morning.
That was Granger.
That was her voice, raw and shaking, tearing into Weasley.
"You said his name, Ron!"
His pulse spiked.
"You led them to us."
Draco inhaled sharply, his Occlumency splintering at the edges.
She hadn’t blamed him.
Not for getting caught.
Not for being taken there.
She had blamed Weasley.
His fingers curled into fists, grounding himself in the sensation—the sharp press of his nails against his palm, the dull sting of it, something real.
He had spent so believing that every bit of rage, every moment of ice in her gaze, every lingering second of loathing was because she saw him as the reason she had been dragged into that nightmare.
But she hadn’t.
She had never thought he was the reason she was taken.
She had only ever blamed him for what he didn’t do once she was there.
And that?
That was so much worse.
Because hatred was simple. Hatred was easy. Hatred was expected.
But disappointment?
Disappointment was personal.
Disappointment meant she had, at some point, expected more.
Expected something from him.
And that—
That was unbearable.
His stomach churned.
Because it meant that somewhere in her mind, there had been a sliver of belief that he could have been more.
That she had once—however fleetingly—thought he was capable of being something other than what he was.
And now—
Now, she was done.
She had cut him loose.
And Draco—Draco wasn’t sure why that felt like the worst fucking thing in the world.
His hands flexed at his sides, tension radiating from every muscle, but his expression remained unreadable, detached. He turned the last corner toward the courtyard, walking with the same precision as before, pulse steady, breath even.
The corridor was already packed, voices buzzing around him, but none of it reached him. It was all static. Background noise.
He was moving on autopilot, his Occlumency holding steady, suppressing everything, keeping it all locked away.
Because that was the only way forward.
Because it had to be.
Draco arrived at the designated meeting room at precisely 6:59 PM.
Not a second earlier. Not a second later.
Because the only thing worse than having to endure an entire project tethered to Hermione Granger was the thought of looking like he cared about it.
The room was already half full when he stepped inside.
Pairs of students were scattered throughout, some sitting stiffly apart, others already talking in low, wary tones. The tension in the air was palpable—resentment lingering just beneath the surface, quiet but undeniable.
It was clear no one wanted to be here.
Theo and Ginny were seated toward the far side of the room, Ginny looking positively murderous while Theo leaned back lazily in his chair, smirking like he was thriving in the chaos. Pansy and Potter were at another table, Pansy filing her nails while Potter stared blankly at the wall, looking as though he had already aged five years just from sitting next to her.
Draco scanned the room once, ignoring the brief flickers of attention as some of the students turned to look at him. He had no interest in whatever theories they were spinning in their heads.
He was only concerned with one thing.
Granger wasn’t here.
His jaw tightened.
It wasn’t as if he was eager for her presence—far from it. He would have rather spent the evening alone, Occluding himself into a stupor, forcing his thoughts into silence, ensuring that nothing from this morning resurfaced.
But the fact that she was late?
That meant something.
Because Granger was never late.
Not for class. Not for meetings. Not for anything that required her attention.
Which meant—
He exhaled sharply, dragging out a chair before dropping into it, leaning back as if he didn’t have a single care in the world.
It didn’t matter.
It didn’t matter.
She would show up. Or she wouldn’t. Either way, Draco would sit here for exactly thirty minutes, read the Ministry’s pointless materials, and leave without a second thought.
This wasn’t his problem.
She wasn’t his problem.
His fingers tapped against the table.
A full minute passed.
Then another.
The clock ticked over to 7:03 PM.
Draco forced himself to sit still, his jaw locked, his fingers curled into his palm beneath the table. His foot tapped once against the stone floor—sharp, controlled.
Across the room, Ginny let out a groan, throwing her quill onto the table dramatically. “Oh, fuck off with this,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. “Why do we have to do this today? We have all year. This is torture.”
“You say that like the Ministry gives a shit about our suffering,” Theo replied, leaning his chair back onto two legs, looking thoroughly entertained. “If anything, they feed off it.”
“Careful, Theo, your conspiracy is showing,” Blaise murmured, flipping through the parchment in front of him without any real interest.
Draco barely heard them.
He was too busy staring at the empty chair next to him.
“Where’s Granger?”
The question came from Pansy, who was now idly twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she studied him.
Draco didn’t look at her. “How the fuck should I know?”
Pansy hummed, unconvinced. “Aren’t you two obsessed with each other now?”
Draco shot her a glare that could have stripped the flesh from bone.
Theo smirked. “I’m sure she’s just lost in the library or whatever. You know how she gets.”
Draco ground his teeth together. That wasn’t the problem.
Granger didn’t get lost in the library. She didn’t lose track of meetings. She didn’t ignore her responsibilities. Especially one that was ministry mandated.
She was late.
Which meant something was wrong.
The realization sat heavy in his chest, an uncomfortable weight pressing against his ribs, but he shoved it down, locking it away before it could take root.
She wasn’t his problem.
The door creaked open.
Draco’s head snapped up before he could stop himself.
But it wasn’t her.
It was McGonagall.
The murmurs in the room died instantly.
“Good evening,” she said, her voice as calm and commanding as ever. “I won’t waste your time, as I’m sure many of you are eager to get this over with.”
Ron snorted.
McGonagall gave her a pointed look before continuing. “As you are all aware, this project is not optional. It is a requirement for your continued attendance here at Hogwarts. The Ministry has been quite clear in their expectations.” She clasped her hands in front of her, her expression unreadable. “You will be working with your assigned partners for the duration of the year. Your goal is to foster understanding and—hopefully—move forward in a way that ensures a more unified future for wizarding Britain.”
Silence.
Then—
“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” Blaise murmured under his breath.
Pansy stifled a laugh.
McGonagall disregarded the murmurs. “Each pair is required to meet once a week on Fridays, as none of you have scheduled classes that day. The Ministry will provide tasks and discussion topics for you to complete, and by the end of the year, you will present a final project that demonstrates your—” her lips twitched slightly, “—cooperation.”
He was barely listening.
McGonagall glanced around the room. “I expect you all to act like the adults you are. And if you cannot…” She let the sentence hang ominously in the air.
No one spoke.
Then McGonagall’s gaze landed on him. “Mr. Malfoy.”
Draco sat up straighter. “Professor.”
Her brow arched. “Where is Miss Granger?”
He inhaled sharply through his nose. “I wouldn’t know.”
McGonagall studied him for a moment before nodding. “Very well. I trust she’ll arrive shortly.”
Draco didn’t respond.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply through his nose, forcing himself to relax.
“Alright then,” McGonagall said, pulling out her wand. A flick of her wrist, and a stack of parchment floated into the air, landing neatly in front of each pair. “These are your Ministry-issued project guidelines. I expect you to read them in full before next week.”
There was a collective groan from the room, followed by a muttered, “Brilliant. More paperwork.” from Potter.
McGonagall continued, either oblivious or purposefully ignoring the tension in the air. “For today’s session, you will be given your first task. It is meant to serve as an introduction—a way to establish a baseline between partners. I suggest you take it seriously.”
She paused. “Some of you will find this process… challenging.”
Theo made an exaggerated sniffling sound. “She means you, Weaselbee.”
Weasley shot him a glare.
McGonagall sighed. “Maturity, Mr. Nott. I highly recommend it.”
Theo grinned, unbothered.
McGonagall ignored him and continued. “Your task for today is a simple one: write three things your partner should know about you.”
Silence.
Then Ginny muttered, “Oh, fuck off.”
McGonagall gave her a look before raising an eyebrow at the room. “For some of you, this may seem unnecessary. However, the Ministry believes that mutual understanding is the foundation of a stronger future. If you have complaints, I encourage you to direct them to Minister Shacklebolt.”
A collective wave of dread settled over the room.
No one wanted to do this.
Especially not Draco.
But as much as he wanted to ignore the entire situation, he couldn’t shake the irritation—the tension—coiling tight in his chest.
Because he wasn’t writing down a damn thing until his partner arrived.
And she still wasn’t fucking here.
His fingers tapped once against the table.
Then again.
McGonagall glanced at him. “Mr. Malfoy, if Miss Granger does not arrive within the next ten minutes, you will complete the assignment on your own and deliver it to her at your next meeting.”
Draco forced himself to nod, even as irritation flared beneath his skin. “Understood.”
Across the room, pairs were already working through their assignments, albeit with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Ginny looked like she wanted to strangle Theo with her bare hands, while Theo, to no one’s surprise, looked like he was thriving on the chaos.
“I think my first fact is that I am devastatingly handsome,” he said, twirling his quill between his fingers.
Ginny groaned. “I think my first fact is that I’m going to kill you before this project is over.”
“You wound me, Ginevra.”
“I’m about to wound you for real, Nott.”
Draco barely heard them.
He could feel McGonagall’s gaze flicking to him every so often, assessing, waiting—likely wondering just how long he’d sit here before asking.
He refused.
Because he didn’t care.
Because it wasn’t his problem.
And yet—
His jaw clenched as his quill remained untouched on the parchment in front of him.
Because what the fuck was he supposed to write?
Three things your partner should know about you.
Nothing.
That was what he should write. That was what she deserved.
But she wasn’t here to see it.
His eyes flickered back to the door, something heavy pressing against his ribs.
7:13 PM.
Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to focus on the parchment in front of him. He didn’t have time for this. He wasn’t about to sit here and—
The door slammed open.
Every head in the room turned.
And there she was.
Hermione Granger.
Standing in the doorway, breathless, hair windblown, her cheeks flushed like she’d been running.
Draco’s entire body locked up.
Because something was wrong.
He knew it the moment he saw her.
Her shoulders were stiff, tension radiating from every inch of her frame. She wasn’t composed, wasn’t her usual, overly-prepared, prim-and-proper self.
She was—
Unsteady.
She wasn’t meeting anyone’s eyes.
She hadn’t even looked at him yet.
McGonagall arched an eyebrow. “Miss Granger. How kind of you to join us.”
Granger swallowed hard, nodding. “I—I’m sorry, Professor. I lost track of time.”
Liar.
Draco knew instantly.
McGonagall didn’t seem convinced either, but she simply nodded toward the empty chair across from him. “Sit down. You have an assignment to complete.”
Granger hesitated—just for a second—before moving quickly, sliding into the chair, her quill already in hand.
She didn’t look at him.
Not once.
Draco’s irritation flared into something sharp.
The door had barely clicked shut before Theo leaned forward, smirking. “Granger. That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you late for anything. Is the world ending?”
Granger gave a tight smile. “Something like that.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed.
Liar, liar, liar.
There was a fine line between his frustration and the unease settling beneath his skin, but he didn’t ask. Didn’t push.
Because if she wanted to play it off, fine.
But she was going to look at him.
Even if he had to force her to.
Draco picked up his quill, tapping it once against the parchment before speaking lowly, just for her—
“You’re late, Granger.”
She froze.
Draco exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. “You missed the introduction.”
Her quill didn’t stop moving. “I’ll catch up.”
Not an answer.
Not an explanation.
Just deflection.
His grip tightened around his quill. “McGonagall seemed surprised. You being late.”
Her hand paused, if only for a second.
“I said I lost track of time.”
Lie.
He knew it.
She knew it.
And it was infuriating.
Draco’s fingers curled against the edge of the table. “What were you doing?”
That got her attention.
Her quill stopped.
“What does it matter to you?” she asked, voice quiet.
Draco stilled.
There was something different in her tone now. Something flat. Detached.
He tilted his head slightly, lowering his voice. “Just curious, Granger.”
Her lips parted slightly, as if she had a retort ready—but then she stopped.
She shut her mouth.
And just like that, she went back to writing.
Ignoring him.
Draco’s fingers tapped against the table.
That wasn’t right.
Hermione Granger didn’t just drop things. She didn’t ignore fights. She didn’t let things go.
But right now?
Right now, she was shutting down.
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping, threading with something sharp. “You’re acting strange.”
Her hand tightened around her quill, but she didn’t look up. “I’m acting fine.”
Lie.
Again.
Draco narrowed his eyes. “You weren’t fine this morning.”
Her hand stilled.
For a second, she didn’t breathe.
Then—slowly, carefully—she placed her quill down, folding her hands over the parchment in front of her.
And finally, she looked at him.
But not like she had before.
Not like she had all week, burning and furious and unrelenting.
No.
This was different.
This was calculated.
“I said I was done, Malfoy.”
Draco’s stomach twisted.
His breath hitched before he could stop it.
His jaw locked.
He knew exactly what she was doing.
He knew it was a calculated move, a deliberate strike, meant to hit him where it hurt.
Draco leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, schooling his expression into indifference.
Fine.
Fine.
If that’s how she wanted to play this.
He picked up his quill, flicking his gaze back to the parchment in front of him.
“Then let’s get this over with,” he said coolly.
She didn’t respond.
She didn’t have to.
And in that moment, Draco understood—nothing had happened before she got here.
This wasn’t the aftermath of some unknown event.
This was just Hermione Granger when she didn’t care.
And Draco hated it.
The silence between them was suffocating.
Draco wrote his list slowly, quill gliding over the parchment with precise, measured strokes. He could feel Granger next to him, doing the same—could hear the faint scratch of her quill, steady and methodical, like she was just completing another task.
Like this was just any other assignment.
Like she wasn’t ignoring him.
Like she wasn’t pretending not to care.
He didn’t like it.
He finished first, setting his quill down lightly, fingers twitching as he flicked his gaze to her.
She didn’t pause.
Didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t acknowledge him at all.
Draco exhaled sharply through his nose, reaching for his paper and sliding it across the table toward her with deliberate ease.
A moment later, hers slid back in return.
No words.
No glance.
No fight.
Draco clenched his jaw, flipping her parchment over with one hand and scanning her handwriting—sharp, clean, effortlessly perfect, just like always.
Hermione Granger
- I never leave things unfinished.
- Sometimes, I wake up thinking life will feel normal again. It never does.
- I hate when people tell me to relax.
He stared at it.
A muscle in his jaw twitched.
His fingers curled against the parchment, a sharp, inexplicable irritation rising in his chest.
He didn’t even know why.
Maybe it was because it was so Granger—efficient, controlled, neatly packaged with just the right amount of detachment.
Maybe it was because her second fact was too close to his own. Because it meant—what? That she felt it, too? That some mornings, she had the same fleeting illusion of normalcy before reality crashed down like it always did?
Or maybe it was because she still wasn’t looking at him.
Draco’s fingers twitched, irritation thrumming beneath his skin. He looked up at her, waiting for something—anything—some acknowledgment, some reaction.
But there was nothing.
Granger had already picked up his list.
She read it quickly, eyes scanning over his parchment with the same apathetic efficiency she’d used to complete the task itself.
Draco Malfoy
- I don’t forget the things people say when they think I’m not listening.
- I hate when people assume they know me.
- I still wake up expecting everything to be the way it was before the war.
Draco watched her.
Watched her not react.
Not pause. Not stiffen. Not give the slightest indication that his words meant anything.
She just set the parchment down and moved on.
That was it.
Last night they had torn each other apart, ripped into each other with venom and fire, with everything they had—
And now?
Now, when something in his words should have landed, should have meant something, should have at the very fucking least earned a look—
She gave him nothing.
Draco’s grip tightened around his quill.
"Very well," McGonagall’s voice rang out, slicing through the heavy quiet. "I trust you’ve all completed your task. You may leave."
Chairs scraped against the floor as students immediately stood, eager to escape.
Granger didn’t hesitate.
She gathered her things with calculated ease, not a single movement wasted. Her parchment, her quill, her ink—collected and tucked away before Draco had even fully processed McGonagall’s dismissal.
Then, without a word, without a glance, without a single sign that she had ever given a damn—
She walked away.
Draco didn’t move.
Didn’t stand. Didn’t blink.
Draco remained seated as the room emptied around him.
The scrape of chairs. The murmur of voices. The distant sound of footsteps echoing down the hall. It all faded into the background, dull and meaningless, drowned beneath the weight of her silence.
Granger didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t glance back.
Didn’t acknowledge him in the slightest as she walked out the door.
And that—that was worse than any argument they’d had. Worse than the screaming, worse than the fury, worse than every venom-laced word they had thrown at each other these past few days.
Because this wasn’t about rage.
This wasn’t about hate.
This was absence.
And Draco—Draco didn’t know what to do with that.
His fingers curled against the edge of the table, a sharp, involuntary twitch.
Because this was what she had meant last night.
"I’m done, Malfoy."
She hadn’t just been talking about the fight.
Hadn’t just been talking about them.
She had been telling him, plain as day, that she was finished. That whatever fucking thing had been forming between them—twisting, crackling, dangerous—was over before it even began.
And the worst part?
The worst fucking part?
Draco had spent the entire day waiting for her to prove herself wrong.
But she hadn’t.
Not once.
Not in the way she avoided his gaze. Not in the way she read his words without a single flicker of reaction. Not in the way she walked past him as if he were nothing more than another piece of furniture in the room.
And Draco—Draco wasn’t sure what to do with that.
He exhaled sharply, shaking off the tension in his shoulders, forcing himself to stand.
The classroom was nearly empty now, save for McGonagall, who was stacking the leftover parchment with a flick of her wand.
Draco didn’t wait for her to speak.
He didn’t need another moment of being watched.
Didn’t need anyone else realizing what had just happened.
He strode toward the door, pulling it open with more force than necessary, stepping into the dimly lit corridor.
Granger was already gone.
Draco stood there for a second too long.
Then, jaw clenched, pulse unsteady, he turned sharply on his heel and walked the opposite way.
Because if she was done?
Then so was he.
Even if it felt like a fucking lie.