In what lengths he'll go for love?
Draco Malfoy had spent years perfecting the art of indifference. It was a shield he wore, an unyielding mask of apathy that had served him well through the trials of war and the aftermath of redemption. But there was one weakness in his carefully cultivated armor—one that had begun in the dusty corridors of Hogwarts and persisted well into his years as a Ministry employee.
That weakness was Hermione Granger.
It had started as something he refused to name in their sixth year, buried beneath resentment and the overwhelming burden of his family’s expectations. He had been drowning in fear, duty, and desperation, but somehow, amidst it all, he still noticed her. The way she chewed on her quill when she was deep in thought. The fierce determination in her eyes when she defended her beliefs. The quiet sadness that lingered in her expression when she thought no one was looking.
It was maddening, really.
By the time the war ended, by the time Hogwarts stood as a mere shadow of what it once was, Draco had resigned himself to the inevitability of distance. Hermione was untouchable, a beacon of righteousness that he had no place reaching for. He thought that would be the end of it—that the ache in his chest would fade with time. It didn’t.
Years passed.
They both found their way to the Ministry, rising through the ranks with the same relentless drive that had defined them in school. Draco had expected their paths to diverge, for her to remain an unattainable figure on the edges of his existence. Instead, fate seemed to delight in placing them together.
At first, it had been bearable. Awkward, but bearable. She had been polite, if a little distant. They worked in separate departments, occasionally crossing paths in the hallways or during inter-departmental meetings. He had convinced himself that was enough—that he could be content with stolen glances and the occasional brush of conversation.
But then, their worlds aligned once more.
A high-profile case had forced them into collaboration, locking them in late nights filled with endless parchments, heated discussions, and moments of quiet understanding. He had watched her, admired her, ached for her in ways he refused to acknowledge. She was brilliant, infuriatingly so. She challenged him, pushed him beyond the confines of his own perceptions, and yet she never once treated him as the boy he had been.
It was in those nights, amidst stacks of paperwork and the dim glow of enchanted lanterns, that Draco realized the truth—he had never stopped yearning for her.
But longing was a curse he had long learned to bear in silence.
So he continued, day after day, pretending not to notice the way her laughter warmed the cold halls of the Ministry. Pretending that his heart didn’t stutter when she said his name. Pretending that the lingering glances meant nothing.
Draco Malfoy had spent years perfecting the art of indifference.
But when it came to Hermione Granger, he was utterly and hopelessly failing.
If there was one thing Pansy Parkinson could count on during their drinking nights, it was Draco Malfoy’s inability to shut up about Hermione Granger.
The first few times, it had been mildly amusing—watching their former prince of Slytherin lament over the unattainable brilliance of the brightest witch of their age. But after years of the same conversation, it had turned into background noise. Draco, sitting in the corner of their usual pub, swirling his fire whisky in frustration, ranting about some new, infuriating thing Granger had done that week.
"She’s insufferable, Pansy! The way she corrects me in meetings—Merlin, like I don’t already know the bloody law!" Draco huffed, taking a long sip of his drink.
Blaise smirked, leaning back in his chair. "So let me get this straight—you’re upset because she’s smarter than you? Again?"
"It’s not about that!" Draco shot back, though the faint pink dusting his cheeks suggested otherwise. "It’s the way she does it. All smug and—"
"Efficient? Prepared?" Theo interjected, lazily stirring his drink.
Pansy rolled her eyes, draping an arm over the back of her seat. "You know, Draco, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were obsessed."
"I am not obsessed."
"Mate, you are very obsessed," Blaise deadpanned. "We could play a drinking game with how many times you bring up Granger when we go out."
Theo smirked. "We’d all be unconscious in an hour."
Draco scowled at them, jaw tightening. "Fine. I’ll stop talking about her."
"No, you won’t." Pansy smirked. "And honestly, I don’t mind. Watching you flail over her is the best form of entertainment we have."
Blaise chuckled. "Agreed. Besides, one of these days, you’re going to slip and actually admit you’re in love with her."
Draco scoffed. "I am not in love with Hermione Granger."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Then, as if on cue, the entire table burst into laughter.
Draco groaned, rubbing his temples as his so-called friends continued their merciless teasing. Maybe he should start drinking alone.
Draco Malfoy would never admit it out loud, but when it came to Hermione Granger, he was an expert observer.
He knew she preferred her coffee strong, no sugar, but she would sometimes indulge in a cinnamon biscuit if she was particularly stressed. He knew she always tucked a loose curl behind her ear when she was deep in thought. He knew that on Wednesdays, she had back-to-back meetings, barely giving herself time to breathe, let alone eat properly.
And he also knew that, for some ridiculous reason, he wanted to make her life just a little easier.
It started small.
A well-placed report on her desk before she could even ask for it. A quiet intervention in meetings when someone tried to talk over her. A subtle reminder to the interns that ‘yes, Granger is brilliant, but no, she doesn’t have time to proofread your paperwork when she has an entire department to run.’
Then, it escalated.
The first time she found a steaming cup of coffee waiting for her on her desk, she frowned at it in confusion.
“Did you leave this here?” she asked her assistant, who only shook their head.
The coffee kept coming. Some days, there would be a small parchment with a hastily scribbled ‘You looked exhausted in yesterday’s meeting. Caffeine helps. No need to thank me.’ Other times, there would be no note at all, just a cup waiting for her like clockwork.
The cookies started appearing shortly after.
She had barely taken a bite out of one when Harry nudged her at lunch. “Alright, Hermione. Who’s your secret admirer?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. It’s probably some intern who feels guilty about making me correct their files last week.”
Draco, listening from three tables away, smirked into his own coffee.
It was ridiculous, really. The lengths he went to just to make sure she didn’t run herself into the ground. He wasn’t even sure when it had started—when the line between casual rivalry and deep-seated concern had blurred into something softer.
He told himself it was nothing. Just a gesture of goodwill. The way he had memorized her schedule, the way he knew when she needed quiet, when she needed caffeine, when she needed a reason to smile—it was all just… coincidence.
But then came the day she almost caught him.
He had timed it perfectly—Hermione always arrived at her office at precisely 8:05 AM. He had placed the coffee and biscuits on her desk at 8:03, ensuring he had enough time to slip away before she walked in.
Except, on that particular morning, she was early.
Draco had just turned to leave when the door opened, and there she was—eyebrows furrowed, eyes locking onto his like a snitch caught mid-flight.
“Malfoy?”
He froze.
Think, you idiot.
“Granger,” he said smoothly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I was just…” He glanced at the coffee and biscuits, still warm on her desk. His mind raced for an excuse. “Inspecting the… structural integrity of your desk.”
She blinked. “The what?”
“Wouldn’t want it to collapse under the weight of all those excessively detailed reports you insist on writing,” he added, smirking to mask the absolute disaster unfolding in his head.
Her eyes narrowed, flickering between him and the untouched coffee.
For a terrifying moment, Draco thought she had figured it out. That she knew.
But then, she exhaled, shaking her head with a small, tired smile. “You’re impossible, Malfoy.”
And just like that, she walked past him, picking up the coffee without a second thought.
Draco released a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
As he stepped out of her office, he allowed himself one small victory. She might never know it was him, but that was fine. He didn’t need the credit. He didn’t need a thank you.
As long as she kept accepting the small moments of kindness he could give, that was more than enough.
Draco Malfoy was not jealous. Absolutely not.
It was just that every time he saw some Ministry bloke lingering a little too long by Hermione Granger’s desk, he felt an inexplicable irritation settle in his chest.
It had started subtly enough. A casual glance at her lunch table to see who she was sitting with. A barely noticeable shift in his mood whenever someone—a particularly eager young Auror, a grinning curse-breaker from Egypt—managed to make her laugh.
But it wasn’t until he overheard Terry Boot, of all people, singing Hermione’s praises in the break room that Draco realized he might have a problem.
“She’s incredible,” Terry was saying, sipping his tea with a dreamy expression. “Brilliant, gorgeous, kind. Honestly, I’d ask her out if I wasn’t convinced she was way out of my league.”
Draco nearly choked on his own drink.
“Granger?” he scoffed before he could stop himself. “Out of your league? Since when?”
Terry raised an eyebrow. “Since always. She’s the whole package, Malfoy. You’re telling me you’ve never thought about it?”
Draco’s throat went dry.
Of course he had thought about it. He thought about it more than he cared to admit. He thought about it every time she bit her lip in concentration, every time she pushed her hair out of her face, every time she smiled at him, completely unaware of the chaos it caused in his head.
But he wasn’t about to tell Terry Boot that.
Instead, he rolled his eyes. “Granger’s too busy for romance. She practically lives in her office.”
Terry smirked. “Doesn’t mean people aren’t lining up to try.”
Draco spent the rest of the day scowling at his paperwork.
The worst part? Terry wasn’t wrong.
Hermione had admirers. Plenty of them. He had seen the way people looked at her, the way their eyes softened when she walked into a room. It wasn’t just her brilliance—it was the way she carried herself, the warmth she exuded even when she was arguing passionately about some ridiculous law reform.
And Draco hated it.
Not because she deserved less admiration. No, if anything, she deserved more. But because every single one of those idiots who fawned over her had the one thing he couldn’t bring himself to do—
They could tell her.
They could make a move. Ask her to dinner. Show up at her desk with flowers instead of anonymously delivered coffee. They could flirt with her outright without being haunted by years of history and regret.
And Draco?
Draco could only sit back and watch.
It was pathetic, really.
He told himself he didn’t care when he saw her talking to that handsome Hit Wizard from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He told himself he wasn’t affected when she received an anonymous Valentine’s Day gift—though he may have spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to figure out who sent it.
And he definitely didn’t care when she smiled at someone else the way he wanted her to smile at him.
Except he did.
He cared more than he was willing to admit.
Which was why, when he saw yet another wizard—this time, some smarmy-looking bloke from the Portkey Office—leaning a little too close to Hermione’s desk, Draco found himself casually strolling over.
“Granger,” he said smoothly, ignoring the way Portkey Bloke shot him an annoyed look. “Didn’t you say you needed help with that report on international magical transport?”
Hermione blinked up at him, surprised. “I—what?”
“Yes, the report.” He gave her a pointed look, then turned to Portkey Bloke. “Sorry, mate. She’s busy.”
Before she could protest, Draco had plucked a file off her desk and walked away, fully expecting her to follow.
She did.
Once they were out of earshot, she crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. “Malfoy, what was that about?”
Draco shrugged. “He was wasting your time.”
She frowned. “He was asking if I wanted to grab lunch. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Something sharp twisted in his chest.
He smirked instead. “Well, I saved you from what was surely going to be a terribly dull lunch. You’re welcome.”
She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Honestly, Malfoy, sometimes I think you—” She paused, shaking her head. “Never mind.”
Draco wanted to push. Wanted to ask what she was about to say.
Instead, he simply handed her back the file. “See you at the next meeting, Granger.”
And as he walked away, he pretended not to notice the way her gaze lingered just a little longer than usual.
Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the only one paying attention.
“Alright, this is getting sad.”
Blaise Zabini swirled the Fire whisky in his glass, watching Draco slump over the bar counter, an expression of pure misery plastered on his usually smug face. The dimly lit pub, their usual haunt, buzzed with laughter and chatter, but at their table, the mood was unmistakably grim—at least for one particular wizard drowning his sorrows in alcohol.
Pansy Parkinson, perched elegantly beside Blaise, shook her head in exasperation. “I swear, if I have to hear ‘Why does Granger have so many admirers?’ one more time, I’m hexing you, Draco.”
Draco groaned, dragging a hand through his disheveled platinum hair, making it stick up in odd angles. “It’s ridiculous,” he muttered, voice slurred just enough to reveal how many drinks he’d already downed. “Everywhere I turn, some idiot is making eyes at her. And she doesn’t even notice!”
Theo Nott chuckled, lazily stirring the ice in his glass. “And yet, here you are, utterly wasted, pining over her like a lovesick schoolboy.”
“I’m not pining,” Draco said stubbornly, though the effect was ruined when he slumped further into his chair, his cheek pressing against the cool wooden table. “I’m just…concerned.”
Pansy snorted. “Concerned that she might end up with someone who isn’t you?”
Draco scowled into his drink, swirling the amber liquid with a scowl. “It’s just—not fair. She deserves someone… better.”
Blaise smirked, exchanging amused glances with Theo. “You mean she deserves you.”
Draco huffed, sitting up slightly, though his shoulders sagged like a man carrying the weight of the world—or at least the weight of his very obvious, very unspoken feelings. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Theo said with a smirk. “It’s obvious to everyone except her.”
Pansy leaned in, her sharp eyes glinting with mischief. “So what are you going to do about it, Malfoy? Sit here every weekend, get pissed, and whine about all the men fawning over her? Because, hate to break it to you, but I don’t think that’s a winning strategy.”
Draco groaned again, rubbing his temples as if trying to physically rid himself of the problem. “She doesn’t even see me like that,” he muttered, and there it was—Draco Malfoy, the proud, sharp-tongued Slytherin, admitting to self-doubt.
Blaise let out a low whistle. “Oh, mate. That’s tragic.”
Theo leaned back, crossing his arms. “You know, for someone who prides himself on being an expert observer of Granger, you’re remarkably thick. The way she talks to you, the way she actually laughs at your awful jokes? She’s comfortable around you, Malfoy. That’s more than I can say for half the blokes sniffing around her.”
Draco blinked blearily at Theo. “You think so?”
Pansy groaned. “Merlin’s beard, he’s hopeless.”
Blaise smirked. “You’ve got two choices, Draco. You can keep brooding, letting every nameless suitor eat away at your soul, or you can do something about it.”
Draco sat up, considering this for a moment. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he let his head fall against the table again. “Merlin, help me.”
Pansy rolled her eyes, signaling the bartender for another round. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
Draco Malfoy was nursing what could only be described as the worst hangover of his life.
The pounding in his skull was relentless, like a herd of Hippogriffs stomping through his brain. He groaned, draping an arm over his face as he lay sprawled across his couch, still dressed in last night’s rumpled clothes. His flat smelled of Fire whisky and regret, and worse—he could hear his so-called friends loitering in his kitchen.
“I told you we should’ve poured a bucket of water on him,” Pansy’s voice drawled from somewhere near the counter.
“Tempting,” Theo mused. “But I think watching him suffer is more entertaining.”
Draco groaned louder. “Get out.”
“Not a chance, mate,” Blaise said, sauntering into the living room with a cup of tea in hand. “We’re here for a much-needed intervention.”
Draco cracked an eye open. “For what?”
Pansy crossed her arms, giving him a pointed look. “Your ridiculous obsession with Hermione Granger.”
Draco shut his eyes again. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you hate seeing Granger surrounded by admirers,” Theo corrected. “And we hate watching you spiral into a pathetic mess because of it.”
Blaise took a slow sip of his tea before setting it down dramatically. “So, we’ve decided it’s time to take action.”
Draco cracked his eyes open again, wary. “What the hell does that mean?”
Pansy smirked. “It means we’re done watching you wallow. You’re going to do something about this thing with Granger.”
Draco scoffed. “And what exactly do you expect me to do? March up to her and announce, ‘Hey, Granger, fancy a snog?'”
Theo grinned. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Draco groaned. “Absolutely not.”
Blaise plopped onto the couch beside him, smirking. “Then prepare for another round of drinks, because this is going to be a long, painful cycle for you, Malfoy.”
Draco sighed, rubbing his temples. “You lot are the worst.”
“And yet, we’re still your best chance at getting the girl,” Pansy quipped.
Draco exhaled sharply, already regretting whatever scheme they were about to drag him into.
Draco Malfoy had faced many challenges in his life. He had survived the war, navigated the treacherous politics of the Ministry, and even tolerated Potter’s smug face on a near-daily basis. But nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared him for the excruciating torment of being coached by his so-called friends on how to woo Hermione Granger.
"Alright, Malfoy, lesson one of this operation: charm, mystery, and subtlety," Pansy declared, standing in the center of Draco’s flat like she was about to conduct a military strategy meeting. "Which means none of your usual brooding and glaring like an offended hippogriff."
Draco scowled. "I do not brood."
Blaise smirked. "You absolutely do. It’s half your personality."
Theo leaned against the bookshelf, twirling his wand between his fingers. "And while some witches might find your brooding attractive, Granger is not one of them. She needs thoughtful gestures, intellectual conversations, and—dare I say—romance."
Draco groaned, running a hand down his face. "You want me to be romantic? I send her coffee and biscuits anonymously, doesn’t that count?"
Pansy rolled her eyes. "That’s the bare minimum, darling. We’re talking grand gestures. Flowers. Letters. Dinners. Sweeping a girl off her feet, not tossing her a scone and hoping for the best."
Draco crossed his arms. "And how, pray tell, do I do that without making it obvious?"
Blaise and Theo exchanged wicked grins. "You don’t," Blaise said smoothly. "But that’s where the fun comes in."
Step One: The Anonymous Letters
It started with parchment. Not the official, stiff Ministry-issued kind, but elegant, smooth, and scented faintly of cedarwood and ink. Draco hesitated over the first letter, tapping his quill against his chin before finally scribbling down the words:
Granger, I hope today isn't as insufferable as the last. If it is, remember that even the brightest minds need a break. Perhaps a cup of coffee and a good book? I hear the shop on Diagon Alley has just restocked their first editions.No signature needed—you know who.
He stared at the note for a moment, questioning his life choices, before folding it and tucking it into an envelope. It found its way onto her desk the next morning, and by lunch, she was rereading it, a curious smile playing on her lips.
Theo, lurking by the Auror department, reported back with a smug, "She likes it, mate. Didn’t even throw it away."
Step Two: Thoughtful Gestures
Draco had already been quietly making Hermione’s life easier, but now he needed to step it up.
"Small things," Blaise advised. "Things that make her wonder but not suspect."
That was how Hermione Granger started finding little comforts throughout her day. A fresh ink bottle replacing her nearly empty one. A self-heating charm on her chair when the office got cold. A protective enchantment on her bag after she complained about a rip in the seam.
At first, she was suspicious.
"Someone’s messing with my things," she told Ginny over lunch. "But in a… weirdly considerate way."
Ginny had laughed. "Sounds like you’ve got a secret admirer."
Draco, eavesdropping from three tables away, nearly choked on his drink.
Step Three: The Flowers
"Cliché," Draco grumbled, staring at the bouquet in his hands.
"Timeless," Pansy corrected, plucking one of the roses from the bunch and twirling it between her fingers. "It’s a classic for a reason, darling. You’re lucky I stopped you from sending a bloody book."
Draco scowled. "Books are practical."
"And flowers are romantic," Theo said, pushing the bouquet into his arms. "Now, be a good little secret admirer and get these to her desk."
The flowers arrived without a note, placed delicately by Hermione’s paperwork. He waited, watching from his own office as she spotted them, brow furrowing before a soft, genuine smile appeared on her lips. She touched the petals, then looked around as if trying to spot the culprit.
"Oh, she’s thinking about you now," Blaise teased later. "You’re in deep, mate."
Step Four: More Subtle Surprises
Draco kept up his quiet, unnoticed efforts. When he overheard Hermione stressing about a deadline, an extra roll of parchment and a newly sharpened quill appeared on her desk the next morning. When she worked late, a cup of perfectly brewed tea found its way to her side—always her preferred blend, always the exact temperature she liked.
The highlight of his week, however, was when she absentmindedly murmured, "Whoever this is… they know me so well."
Draco had to bite back a smug grin for the rest of the day.
Step Five: The Mystery Deepens
Hermione was actively searching for her anonymous admirer now, Draco could tell. She started examining her desk more closely, looking over her shoulder after receiving another unexpected letter. It was both amusing and infuriating to see her detective instincts kicking in.
"I swear, I’ll figure out who’s doing this," she muttered to Harry one afternoon.
"And what will you do when you do?" Harry asked, glancing at her over his paperwork.
She hesitated, a small smile forming. "I suppose I’ll have to thank them."
Draco, listening from the doorway, smirked to himself. That was progress.
"You do realize that at some point, you’ll have to reveal yourself," Pansy said, sipping her wine as she lounged across his couch.
Draco exhaled slowly, staring at the latest note he had just finished writing.
"Not yet.”
Draco Malfoy prided himself on being many things: cunning, resourceful, and, above all, discreet. So it was an utter disaster when he was caught in the act of slipping a bouquet of tulips onto Hermione Granger’s desk at the Ministry. And, of all people, it had to be Ginny Weasley who caught him.
Draco had been careful. He had waited until Hermione had gone to the archives, scanned the hallway to ensure no one was around, and then, like a trained professional, made his move. The tulips—Granger’s favorite, not that he’d ever admit he knew that—were placed delicately on her desk, a small charm ensuring they stayed fresh longer.
It should have been flawless.
It wasn’t.
Because as he turned around, the distinct sound of someone clearing their throat froze him in place.
"Well, well, well," Ginny Weasley drawled, arms crossed, leaning against the doorway like she had all the time in the world. "If it isn’t Draco Malfoy, personal florist of Hermione Granger."
Draco’s mind raced at an unhealthy speed. "Ginevra," he said slowly, attempting to sound indifferent, but his voice cracked at the end. He cleared his throat. "Didn’t see you there."
Ginny grinned like a kneazle that had cornered a very wealthy, very doomed mouse. "Didn’t see me? That’s odd, considering I’ve been standing here for a full minute, watching you set up your little flower shrine."
Draco’s eye twitched. "It’s not a shrine."
Ginny pushed off the doorframe, striding toward him, eyes alight with pure mischief. "So… are we finally admitting you’ve been mooning over Hermione like a lovesick fourth-year?"
Draco scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I don’t moon."
Ginny gestured dramatically at the tulips. "Oh, no? Then what do you call this? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a whole lot like ‘pining with extra steps.’"
Draco opened his mouth, then closed it. His brain had officially short-circuited. "They could be from anyone."
Ginny nodded solemnly. "Yes, because so many people anonymously sneak tulips onto Hermione’s desk. Right."
Draco glared at her. "You can’t tell her."
Ginny tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Oh, but why shouldn’t I? I mean, it would make such a cute story. ‘Hermione Granger, oblivious to the fact that Draco Malfoy has been secretly leaving her gifts like some enchanted romance novel protagonist.’ I’m sure she’d love to know."
Draco clenched his jaw. He knew Weasleys were trouble, but this one? This one was a menace.
"What do you want?" he asked, because at this point, bribery was his best bet.
Ginny’s grin widened. "Funny you should ask. I do want something."
Draco braced himself. "Well?"
Ginny leaned in conspiratorially. "Set me up with Blaise."
Draco blinked. Then blinked again. "You want what?"
"You heard me. Blaise Zabini. Tall, dark, devastatingly handsome, irritatingly smug. Set me up with him."
Draco stared at her like she had just spoken Mermish.
"Why?"
Ginny huffed. "Because he’s fit, and I’m bored. Also, he’s annoyingly hard to flirt with. I love a challenge."
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. "Weaslette—"
"Look, Malfoy," she interrupted, smirking. "I could just waltz into the archives and casually mention to Hermione that her desk has been mysteriously getting fresh flowers. I could even speculate that maybe—just maybe—it’s someone blonde, broody, and deeply obsessed with her."
Draco scowled. "That’s blackmail."
Ginny shrugged. "It’s negotiation."
Draco muttered several curses under his breath before sighing heavily. "Fine."
Ginny clapped her hands together. "Excellent!"
Draco ran a hand through his hair. "But if Blaise hexes me, I’m blaming you."
Ginny grinned. "Oh, don’t worry. I’ll handle him. Just set up a casual meet-up. Make it seem natural."
Draco snorted. "You do realize Blaise will see through this in half a second?"
Ginny waved a hand. "Of course. But it won’t matter. Once I have his attention, I’ll do the rest."
Draco stared at her, a little impressed and a little terrified. "You’re an absolute menace."
Ginny beamed. "I will try. Now, run along, Malfoy. Wouldn’t want Hermione walking in and catching you here, would we?"
Draco grumbled but took her advice, retreating before his luck ran out.
———
Draco found Blaise nursing a fire whisky at their usual bar, looking infuriatingly relaxed.
"What did you do?" Blaise asked the moment Draco sat down.
Draco groaned. "I got blackmailed into setting you up with Weasley."
Blaise blinked, then smirked. "Which one?"
"Ginny."
Blaise took a sip of his drink, looking far too entertained. "Huh. Can’t say I’m opposed."
Draco gaped at him. "You mean you actually like her?"
Blaise shrugged. "She’s feisty. And she doesn’t bore me."
Draco threw his hands up. "You could’ve just asked her out yourself and saved me the humiliation!"
Blaise smirked. "Ah, but where’s the fun in that? Now, tell me—how exactly did she blackmail you?"
Draco scowled. "I don’t want to talk about it."
Blaise laughed. "Oh, this is priceless."
Draco downed his drink, already regretting every life choice that led him to this moment. Ginny Weasley was going to be the death of him.
But, he supposed, if it meant Hermione stayed oblivious to his identity a little longer, it was worth it.
Probably.
Draco Malfoy was not a jealous man. Or at least, that was the lie he told himself every time some insufferable sod dared to breathe near Hermione Granger.
The problem was, this time, the threat was real.
Enter Julian Avery—the Ministry’s latest recruit, fresh from an international wizarding exchange program. He was tall, handsome, devastatingly charming, and—Draco’s personal nightmare—Hermione’s new work partner.
From the moment Avery stepped into the office, Draco knew he was trouble. The man was always hovering near Hermione, grinning at her like she was the last chocolate frog in the packet, and worst of all—he was good at his job. Smart, eloquent, and infuriatingly polite.
Draco loathed him.
And so, he took his frustration out on the only thing that would listen—his beloved green apple.
Seated at his desk, twirling the apple in his hands, Draco muttered under his breath.
“Oh, look at me, I’m Julian Avery. I’m so tall, so smart, so bloody perfect,” he sneered, voice laced with mockery. “Oh, Hermione, let me carry your books. Let me open the door for you. Let me flirt with you in broad daylight like a shameless peacock.”
The apple, unbothered by his ranting, remained silent.
Draco sighed heavily. “You see this? This is what I’ve been reduced to—talking to fruit because I can’t very well hex him in the middle of the Ministry.”
At that precise moment, Blaise walked in, took one look at Draco and the apple, and burst out laughing. “Merlin’s beard, mate, have you finally lost it?”
Draco scowled. “Shut it, Zabini.”
Blaise smirked, plopping into the chair across from him. “You’re actually talking to an apple. This is a new low, even for you.”
Draco glared at the apple like it was personally responsible for his suffering. “If I don’t let it out somewhere, I might actually strangle Avery.”
Blaise snorted. “You’re jealous.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
Draco groaned, rubbing his temples. “I just don’t trust him.”
“Sure, sure, because you’re deeply concerned about Hermione’s well-being and not at all because you hate the way she laughs at his jokes,” Blaise said, smirking. “Or how she lets him lean in way too close when they’re working.”
Draco’s jaw clenched. “He does lean in too close.”
Blaise chuckled. “And she doesn’t seem to mind.”
Draco slammed the apple onto his desk. “This is unbearable.”
The next few days were a disaster. Julian Avery was everywhere. If Hermione was in the records department, so was he. If she went for coffee, there he was, carrying an extra cup. If she stayed late to work, guess who decided to be a dedicated employee?
Draco was ready to explode.
One fateful afternoon, Hermione and Julian were reviewing case files together, heads bent close, whispering about Merlin-knows-what. Draco sat at his desk, gripping his apple so tightly it was a miracle it didn’t burst into juice.
“Stop smiling at him,” Draco muttered under his breath.
“Stop touching his arm,” he grumbled.
Then—
“Stop breathing near him!”
Blaise, who had just walked in, quirked a brow. “Malfoy, I swear, if you start throwing apples at people, I’m getting Pansy.”
Draco huffed, tossing the apple onto his desk. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
He was not fine.
The final straw came when Hermione laughed—laughed—at something Julian said. It was a real laugh, the kind where her eyes crinkled and she had to cover her mouth.
Draco shot up from his chair so fast that Blaise actually reached out to stop him. “Whoa, where are you going?”
Draco straightened his tie. “To get some fresh air.”
“You mean to commit a crime?” Blaise said dryly.
“Maybe.”
Draco stormed out, apple in hand, muttering curses under his breath. Outside, he found a quiet corner and leaned against the wall, exhaling sharply.
Looking at the apple, he shook his head. “This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous.”
But the apple, like all good listeners, remained silent.
Meanwhile, inside, Blaise turned to Pansy, who had just noticed Draco’s dramatic exit. “Your favorite idiot is losing it.”
Pansy sighed, leaning against the desk. “Is this about Granger again?”
Blaise nodded. “He’s reached a new level. He’s been monologuing to an apple.”
Pansy smirked. “This I have to see.”
Outside, Draco was still grumbling to his apple when a shadow loomed over him. He looked up and groaned. “Oh, bloody hell.”
Pansy stood there, arms crossed, smug amusement written all over her face. “I hear you’ve developed a new hobby.”
Draco scowled. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Oh, really?” Pansy plucked the apple from his hand, turning it over with interest. “I was under the impression this was your emotional support fruit.”
Draco groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This is the worst day of my life.”
Pansy patted his shoulder. “Cheer up, Malfoy. At least you’re entertaining.”
Draco stared at her. “That doesn’t help.”
Pansy tossed the apple back to him and smirked. “Good luck with your little crisis.”
Draco sighed, watching her walk off before looking down at his apple once more. “I need new friends.”
The apple, once again, remained silent.
Draco Malfoy was having a perfectly tolerable evening. Which, considering he was at a pub with Pansy, Blaise, Theo, and—unfortunately—Weasley’s loud-mouthed sister, was an achievement in itself.
They were seated in the VIP section of The Serpent’s Den, a dimly lit wizarding pub known for its expensive liquor, underground dueling bets, and—for some absurd reason—having the most comfortable leather couches in all of London. Draco was nursing his fire whisky, half-listening to Theo complain about some goblin dispute at Gringotts when his peace was utterly and completely shattered.
“I still can’t believe Hermione actually went on that blind date,” Pansy said dramatically, swirling her wine. “Poor bloke, though. I bet she probably debated him into exhaustion before dessert even arrived.”
Draco nearly choked on his drink. His head snapped toward Pansy so fast, Blaise winced in sympathy. “I’m sorry—what did you just say?”
Pansy, unaware that she had just detonated a nuclear bomb in Draco’s world, waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, didn’t you hear? Hermione went on a blind date tonight. I heard from Daphne, who heard from Susan, who—”
“—who needs to shut up before I lose my mind,” Draco interrupted, his voice deadly quiet.
Ginny, sipping her Butterbeer, gave him a pointed look. “Oh, this is going to be good.”
Blaise smirked. “You alright there, mate? You look like someone just set fire to your ancient family manor.”
Theo snorted into his drink. “Or worse—made him listen to Granger’s enthusiastic lectures about elf rights for five hours straight.”
Draco ignored them, his mind racing a mile a minute. Hermione was on a date? With some random wizard? Who was he? Where was he? And more importantly—why was Draco not hexing him into oblivion right now?
“She doesn’t even date,” Draco muttered, gripping his glass. “Since when does she date?”
“Oh, since Lavender Brown decided Hermione needed to ‘get out there,’” Pansy said, quoting with her fingers. “She set it up.”
Draco slammed his drink down. “Brown?”
Ginny looked like she was having the time of her life. “Relax, Malfoy. It’s just one date.”
Draco turned to her, eyes sharp. “Weaslette, you knew?”
Ginny shrugged, clearly enjoying his misery. “Oh, I knew. I also knew you’d react exactly like this, which is why I didn’t say anything.”
Draco inhaled sharply, standing up so abruptly that Blaise had to grab his sleeve. “Oh no, you don’t,” Blaise drawled. “Whatever insane, possessive nonsense you’re planning, don’t.”
Draco yanked his sleeve free. “I’m just going for a walk.”
“A walk,” Theo deadpanned. “A casual walk. That definitely doesn’t end with you crashing her date and hexing some poor bloke into next week?”
Draco gave a sharp smirk. “Of course not. I’m perfectly civilized.”
Pansy scoffed. “Right. And I’m the next Minister for Magic.”
Ginny sat back, eyes gleaming. “This is better than the Harpies’ last match. Please tell me you’re going to make an absolute fool of yourself tonight, Malfoy.”
Draco sneered but didn’t dignify her with an answer. Instead, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the pub.
Finding Hermione had been ridiculously easy. She wasn’t the type to frequent high-end wizarding restaurants or trendy magical cocktail bars. No, Granger would pick a cozy, intellectual setting—somewhere like The Ink & Ivy, a quaint little book-themed café nestled in a quiet Diagon Alley corner.
Draco spotted her through the window instantly.
She was seated at a corner table, laughing—laughing—at something her date was saying. The man across from her had curly brown hair, a pleasant smile, and the kind of boring, inoffensive face that made Draco irrationally want to set something on fire.
Draco’s jaw clenched. This was ridiculous. He had spent months—years—quietly making her life easier, sending anonymous gifts, keeping a discreet watch over her well-being, being her constant. And this nobody just waltzed in and got her undivided attention over a dinner date?
Not. Happening.
Without another thought, Draco pushed open the café door.
Hermione looked up just as Draco approached their table, her brows furrowing in confusion. “Malfoy?”
Draco gave her date a brief, disinterested glance before focusing entirely on her. “Granger.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
Draco smirked, sliding into the seat beside her, effectively cutting off her date from half the table. “Just grabbing a coffee. Imagine my surprise when I saw you here.”
Hermione sighed. “You don’t drink coffee that much.”
Draco shrugged. “Tonight, I do.”
Her date, clearly baffled by the entire situation, cleared his throat. “Er—hello?”
Draco finally turned to him, expression blank. “Oh, are you still here?”
The man blinked. “I—what?”
Hermione groaned, rubbing her temples. “Malfoy, go away.”
Draco leaned back casually. “Can’t. I’m quite comfortable, actually.”
Her date looked between them, realization slowly dawning. “Wait—is this the Malfoy?”
Hermione closed her eyes in resignation. “Oh, Merlin.”
Draco’s smirk widened. “Ah, so she talks about me.”
“Not in a good way,” Hermione shot back.
Her date, however, seemed to pick up on something because his expression turned amused. “I see.” He stood up, placing a few galleons on the table. “I think I’ll call it a night. It was lovely meeting you, Hermione.”
Draco watched, smugly satisfied, as the man left without another word.
Hermione exhaled sharply. “Unbelievable.”
Draco turned to her, feigning innocence. “What?”
Hermione crossed her arms. “You ruined my date.”
Draco raised a brow. “Did I? He seemed eager enough to leave.”
Hermione glared. “Because you scared him off!”
Draco placed a hand over his heart. “Me? Scary? Granger, I’m offended.”
Hermione huffed, grabbing her coat. “You know what? I don’t have the energy for this.”
Draco stood up as well, matching her step as they exited the café. “Come on, you can’t honestly be upset. The bloke was duller than Binns.”
Hermione sighed. “That’s not the point.”
Draco smirked, walking beside her through the dimly lit alley. “Then what is the point, exactly?”
Hermione hesitated, glancing at him, something unreadable in her gaze. “I don’t know,” she admitted softly. “I guess I just wanted to try something new.”
Draco’s smirk faltered just a fraction. For a brief moment, he almost—almost—said something real. Something true.
But then, she rolled her eyes. “Of course, you had to go and be Draco Malfoy about it.”
His cocky grin returned. “It’s a gift.”
Hermione shook her head, muttering something under her breath as they walked together toward the nearest Apparition point.
And despite her exasperation, despite her frustration—she didn’t tell him to leave.
And that? That was enough.
For now.
Draco Malfoy considered himself a man of dignity, intelligence, and charm. But dignity had long since abandoned him when it came to Hermione Granger. And now, as he sat in his office, eavesdropping on Pansy’s conversation with Blaise and Theo, he realized he had reached a new low.
“She’s going on another blind date tonight,” Pansy announced, swirling her wine glass with an air of satisfaction. “Can you believe it? The third one this month.”
Draco’s quill snapped in half.
“Really? Good for her,” Blaise said, taking a sip of his drink.
Draco glared at him. Good for her? No, it was not good. It was a disaster.
“With who?” Theo asked, intrigued.
Pansy smirked. “Some bloke from the Department of Magical Creatures. Apparently, he’s ‘kind and intelligent’—her words, not mine.”
Draco was seething. Kind and intelligent? He was kind and intelligent! He had risked his life for that insufferable witch multiple times, and this was how she repaid him? By entertaining the idea of dating some random sod?
No. Not on his watch.
Draco stormed out of the room, mind racing. He needed a plan. A scheme. A way to put a stop to this atrocity.
And then, like a gift from the heavens—or perhaps the depths of hell—an idea struck him.
A very Malfoy thing to do.
One hour later, Draco stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection in horror.
“I hate everything,” he muttered.
He had done it. He had actually done it. He had Polyjuiced himself into Hermione Granger.
It had taken an embarrassing amount of time to pluck a stray hair from her scarf, and an even more embarrassing amount of time to brew the potion correctly. But here he was, looking like an exact copy of her, minus that he opted to wear unisex outfit incase the potion wears off.
And he regretted everything.
His hair—her hair—was a mess of curls that wouldn’t stay put no matter how hard he tried. His robes felt wrong. And worst of all, he had her voice. Her soft, intelligent, proper voice.
“This is fine,” he whispered to himself, forcing a deep breath. “This is all perfectly fine.”
It was not fine.
But Draco Malfoy had committed to this madness, and there was no turning back now.
The restaurant was a cozy little place in Diagon Alley, filled with soft candlelight and quiet chatter. Draco—still disguised as Hermione—walked in, head held high, and scanned the room.
And there he was.
The enemy.
Hermione’s date.
The man was sitting at a corner table, smiling politely as he checked his watch. He was too well-dressed, too polite-looking, and too ready to steal Hermione away.
Draco wouldn’t allow it.
Taking a deep breath, he marched over and dropped into the seat opposite the man.
“Hello,” he said in Hermione’s voice, barely restraining a grimace. “I’m Hermione.”
The man smiled warmly. “Ah, lovely to meet you. I’m Andrew.”
Draco hated him already.
“Nice to meet you,” Draco said stiffly, resisting the urge to sneer. Hermione doesn’t sneer. Act normal, Malfoy.
Andrew signaled the waiter. “Would you like some wine?”
Draco froze. Hermione would like wine. But he, Draco Malfoy, wanted whiskey. And saying that would blow his cover.
“…Water,” he said reluctantly.
Andrew nodded. “So, Hermione, Pansy told me you work in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. That must be fascinating.”
Draco had no idea what Hermione actually did on a daily work basis. He knew she was brilliant, and that was enough for him. But details? No clue.
“Yes, it’s very…” He paused. “Very… law-ish.”
Andrew blinked. “Law-ish?”
Draco panicked. “Yes! Lots of laws. Very legal.”
Andrew gave a polite chuckle, and Draco took that as a victory.
The waiter arrived, setting down their drinks. Andrew smiled at Draco. “So, what do you like to do in your free time?”
Draco considered his answer carefully. What would Hermione say?
“Oh, you know,” he began, twirling a curl around his finger, “reading. Knitting. Rescuing house-elves. The usual.”
Andrew’s brows furrowed slightly. “Knitting?”
Draco nodded sagely. “Yes. I find it… calming.”
In truth, Draco Malfoy had never touched a knitting needle in his life.
“Wow,” Andrew said, clearly impressed. “That’s quite unique. You must have a very delicate touch.”
Draco choked on his water.
Before he could recover, Andrew reached across the table, gently touching Draco’s—Hermione’s—hand. “You’re really quite wonderful, Hermione.”
Draco went rigid. Oh, Merlin, no.
Panic surged through him, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “I HAVE DRAGON POX.”
Andrew’s eyes widened in horror. “What?!”
Draco coughed dramatically. “Yes. Highly contagious. Very, very dangerous.” He clutched his throat for extra effect. “Oh no, I feel it coming on.”
Andrew scrambled back so fast he nearly knocked over his chair. “I—I had no idea! Maybe we should reschedule—”
“No need,” Draco gasped, clutching his chest. “I must… go… before I infect you.”
And with that, he grabbed his glass of water, dumped it over his head for dramatic flair, and sprinted out of the restaurant.
Draco didn’t stop running until he reached the nearest alleyway. Chest heaving, water dripping from his face, he let out a breathless laugh.
He had done it.
He had single-handedly destroyed Hermione’s date.
He was victorious.
And then—
“Malfoy?”
Draco turned slowly, dread creeping down his spine.
Hermione Granger stood there, arms crossed, brow raised in suspicion. “Why,” she began, “are you wearing my face?”
Draco, still in Polyjuiced form, stared at her, then down at his soaked robes, then back at her.
“…I can explain.”
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “I doubt that.”
Draco sighed. “I couldn’t let you go on another date.”
Hermione frowned. “Why?”
Draco ran a hand through his wet hair as the Polyjuice wore off Draco's hands trembled slightly as he reached for Hermione’s, his fingers hesitant but desperate to touch. His heart pounded in his chest, the weight of everything he had kept buried now pressing against his ribs, demanding to be set free. She watched him with that knowing look in her eyes, her lips slightly curved as if she had been waiting for this moment.
"You knew, didn’t you?" he asked, voice hoarse with emotion.
Hermione tilted her head. "Knew what? That you’d get all possessive and ruin my date just to prove a point?" Her voice was teasing, but there was a softness to it that encouraged him to go on.
Draco let out a shaky breath, his thumb tracing gentle circles on her wrist. "I tried to fight it, you know. I told myself that it was just an old rivalry, that it was nothing more than a habit to notice every little thing about you." His silver eyes locked onto hers. "But then, I saw you smiling at someone else, laughing at someone else’s words, and it hit me like a Bludger to the gut. It wasn’t just a habit. It’s never been just a habit."
Hermione’s breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned in, as if waiting for him to continue.
"I love you, Hermione," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper, yet thick with everything he felt. "I’ve loved you since Hogwarts. Maybe even before I knew what love was. It started with irritation, turned into fascination, and then—Merlin help me—it became something I couldn’t ignore even when I tried."
He swallowed hard, his hands now cradling hers. "I didn’t just ruin that date because I was jealous. I ruined it because I wanted you to see it. To see me. To catch me in the act of being absolutely, pathetically in love with you."
Hermione’s lips parted slightly, her eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Then, to his utter surprise, she chuckled. "You know," she murmured, stepping closer, "I was waiting. I wanted to catch you in the act and even ask my work friends to help me make you feel jealous. To see if you’d finally break and admit it."
Draco blinked, stunned. "You—what?"
Her fingers curled around his shirt, tugging him just a fraction closer. "You’re not as subtle as you think, Malfoy," she whispered. "I’ve been waiting for you to say it out loud. Because, truth be told, I feel the same."
Something inside Draco shattered and reformed all at once. He exhaled sharply, as if the weight of years had suddenly lifted, and then he did the only thing that felt right—he kissed her.
It wasn’t hesitant or unsure. It was desperate, fierce, a culmination of everything unspoken between them. Hermione responded with just as much urgency, her hands tangling in his hair as she pressed against him.
When they finally broke apart, breathless and flushed, Hermione smirked up at him. "Took you long enough."
Draco laughed, forehead resting against hers. "If I had known you were just waiting, I would’ve done this ages ago."
She grinned. "Well, you’ll just have to make up for lost time, won’t you?"
And as Draco kissed her again, he knew he had no intention of wasting another second.