Never have, never will...
Draco Malfoy slept soundly on Hermione's couch, his long limbs bent awkwardly to fit the cramped space of her tiny, mismatched furniture. The sight was almost comical, but there was something oddly peaceful about it too. She’d meant to make him tea before he left, but now, as she stood at the edge of the room, she couldn’t bring herself to wake him. Maybe he was just too tired to care about the cup of tea she’d offered. Or maybe—just maybe—the prospect of lunch with his father weighed on him just as much as it weighed on her. The thought tugged at her chest, But no. She couldn’t afford to feel sympathy. She pushed the feeling aside, trying to smother the flicker of guilt that somehow refused to be extinguished.
She pushed the feeling aside, reminded herself of the truth: Draco Malfoy wasn’t here out of the kindness of his heart. He had a motive. The House of Malfoy has a motive– always have, always will. And frankly, she knew that she may never decipher his reason so she settled into making herself believe that she didn’t care to know what it was—so long as it helped get Ron back. That was all that mattered now. At least, that’s what she told herself.
With a flick of her wand, she summoned a spare blanket from the cupboard. It floated gently through the air and landed softly over his sleeping form, the fabric pooling over him. She glanced at him one last time before retreating to her bedroom, letting the soft light of the dawn filter through the window, casting faint, slanted shadows across the room.
Hermione had planned to sleep, to let her mind rest after the tense lunch and the unspoken words she had tried to decode. But sleep, it seemed, was as elusive as rain during a drought. Since the moment she’d sat across from Draco at the table, exchanging words both civil and curt, every conversation they’d shared, every glance he’d thrown her way, now buzzed in her mind.
And then there was his presence—always so... effortless. He moved through the room with a kind of grace, as if the air itself bent to his will. He wore that air of confidence like a second skin. She wondered if he even knew how lucky he was. To have both parents still alive,they may be once wrapped by the horrors that haunted their world but they are alive and well. Did he ever pause to appreciate it? Or was he too wrapped up in his own self-importance to care?
Her thoughts spiraled and circled back to him for the next few days—his lithe figure, the way he spoke, how he ate, the elegance with which he carried himself. It was maddening, this fixation. It just all feels unfair; especially since he was so indifferent to her… so unaware of how he haunted her mind.
To be honest, she had become fixated on him, especially in his absence. She—no, they—should be working on the finer details of their plan together. After their lunch with his father, she had suggested they pay Zabini a visit. Although Draco hadn’t outright agreed with her, she hadn’t expected silence in return—not a single Floo call, not a letter. It had already been four days. Four days? Whatever. Hermione would never admit that his presence, or lack thereof, bothered her—much to her own chagrin. And since she wasn’t one to be bothered by the likes of Draco Malfoy, Hermione didn’t wait. She marched straight to Zabini’s. She needed answers. Why was Ron in that bloody place in the first place?
----
Blaise Zabini was a man of intention. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries or idle chatter. Everything he did had a purpose, every movement deliberate. In that way, he reminded Hermione of a predator—calm, calculating, but always in control. The moment she stepped into his study, the air shifted. He didn't greet her with a smile or an invitation to sit. No, Blaise Zabini simply stood, his tall, imposing figure a shadow in the dimly lit room. His movements were smooth, almost predatory, as he walked over to one of his cabinets. He sifted through it with methodical precision, his eyes narrowing as if weighing each object he touched. After a long moment, he pulled out a file and handed it to Hermione wordlessly.
No small talk, no pleasantries. Just a single motion.
Hermione didn’t waste time either. She tore open the file, her eyes scanning its contents like a hawk hunting its prey.
Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Ron was a Potions Master. He had been hired to gather rare ingredients from different locations. That much was clear. Had he been informed of the danger? Absolutely. Was there any indication that he’d disregarded it? Yes, obviously. Otherwise, she wouldn't be in this mess. The file was methodical, neat, and impersonal—just a list of assignments, locations, and dates.
But one thing was missing. She looked at Blaise, frustration mounting in her chest.
"What was he looking for exactly?" she asked, but she already had an idea what the answer would be.
Blaise’s eyes flicked to hers, cold and unreadable. "I can't say." His voice was smooth, deep, and chilling, like the stillness before a storm. "It’s a matter of client confidentiality."
Hermione swallowed hard, the answer as predictable as it was unsatisfactory. Blaise wasn’t just a supplier—he procured ingredients for his clients; and Ron, along with others, had been part of that. He supplied the government, he supplied the black market, he supplied those who could pay. But the truth of what Ron had been seeking, the reason he’d gotten himself caught in this mess, was a question Blaise would never answer.
With a flicker of irritation, Hermione closed the file. “Then we’re no closer to finding out why Ron’s in that bloody place, are we?”
Blaise didn’t respond. He simply turned his back to her, moving toward the window. The silence was suffocating, but Hermione had long since learned that this was the way of things with men like him—Zabini spoke only when necessary, and only when it suited him.
But still, she waited for an answer. She just stood there, eyes narrowing as she silently resolved to find the answers herself and was taken aback with the sudden change of topic.
"The Wolfsbane Ron provided you a few moons back, when the Ministry refused to allocate enough budget for your little wolf project," Zabini said, his voice calm, almost detached. He turned to face Hermione as he continued, "When you received it, did you ask him where it came from? It was very difficult to find some of those ingredients if you lack the financial backing, very very expensive at that. I wonder if you asked him if it passed through the proper process?"
Hermione’s chest tightened. She felt a surge of indignation rise within her, though she knew deep down Zabini had a point. She hadn’t asked. She hadn’t cared about the details, not when the potion was the only solution available for the werewolves. They were just victims of Greyback. Another disregarded casualty of the war. It was for the greater good, wasn’t it? She remained silent, the words caught in her throat.
"Exactly," Zabini said, his voice cold with finality. "You didn’t ask but you were aware of how they were acquired. I always wondered why you never sanctioned us.” He shrugged.
After a moment he answered Hermione truthfully “I’m not lying when I said I cannot disclose the full truth."
Hermione squinted at him, frustration bubbling beneath her calm exterior. She knew he wasn’t going to make it easy. But something about the way he spoke made it clear that there was more here, something far beyond what he was willing to reveal. Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion crossing her mind.
Zabini seemed to sense her resolve hardening. He sighed, then relented, just enough to shift the scales of their quiet power struggle.
"It was the Unbreakable Vow," he said, his voice low and measured. "Can’t—or I’ll die. All of my clients, except for those from the ministry, all were under an unbreakable vow with me to protect their identity. I’m sure I’m more useful to you alive than dead. And… Ron likes me."
What could it possibly be? Something Ron had been blabbering about nonstop if it is this important, something that had consumed him, a thought he couldn’t shake no matter how hard he tried. It had to be important—important enough for him to talk about it constantly. Hermione knows how Ron’s words to spill out in a steady stream whenever he is genuinely interested in something.
She and Harry had always listened to him, especially during their Wednesday night outings. They made an intentional choice to listen, to give him the space to speak so he’d feel heard. It was their way of supporting him, of making sure he never felt like a third wheel or invisible. But now, Hermione couldn’t help but wonder—what had Ron been so obsessed with lately? What was so crucial that it had been occupying his mind, over and over again? Her thoughts churned, but as always, they ran just seconds behind her realization, catching up with the pace of her mind. She needed to leave. She needed to ask Harry, maybe Ron told him in passing. She needed answers.
"Thank you for this," Hermione said, her voice steady, though her mind was racing.
Blaise gave a short nod. "Anything to help find him."
There was a pause, and then Blaise added, "Also sent Malfoy a copy of this."
Hermione’s brow furrowed in confusion. "What? Why?"
"He asked for it a few days ago."
"Right." That was all she could manage to say, her thoughts momentarily scattered. He had asked for it days ago and hadn’t even bothered to tell her? What the hell was he doing? The knot in her stomach tightened, frustration bubbling up. What could he be possibly doing to avoid her?
"Git," she muttered under her breath, not even realizing the word slipped out until she saw Blaise’s eyes flicker with something unreadable. He didn’t say anything, but she could feel the tension in the room shift. Of course, they’re friends. Loyalty and all that.
But she couldn’t afford to let herself be distracted by him—not now, not when there were more pressing matters at hand. She needed to talk to Harry.
---
Hermione walked into the library, her thoughts still spinning from her conversation with Blaise. Her thoughts swirling on what Ron was procuring, what he’d been involved with that Blaise couldn’t—or wouldn’t—disclose. The unanswered questions gnawed at her, but she couldn’t afford to let them consume her. She needed answers, and the library felt like the only place where she could find some peace to think.
She hadn’t been there long when a sudden pop echoed through the space, and Draco Malfoy materialized in front of her, startling her out of her thoughts.
He was still the same, or so it seemed at first glance—tall, impeccably dressed, with that sharp, aristocratic air that always followed him. But as her eyes flicked over him, something was off. His face was drawn, a little paler than usual. The usual haughty expression that clung to him seemed slightly muted, like the weight of something invisible was pressing down on him.
His eyes were shadowed with dark circles, the bags under them prominent, as if he hadn’t been sleeping. His hair, usually perfectly styled, hung messily around his face, as if he hadn’t bothered with it in days. It wasn’t a look Hermione was used to seeing on him—he seemed... drained. Tired, in a way that was almost unnatural for someone who usually carried himself with so much poise.
She couldn’t help but notice how sluggish his movements seemed, like every step slightly needs more effort than the last. He looked as if he had been through something, but whatever it was, it was clear he wasn’t willing to talk about it. Clearly, he was trying his best to act fine and clearly, he underestimated Hermione if he thought she would not notice.
"Malfoy," she greeted him, her voice steady, but the concern she felt slipped through for just a moment. “You look… tired.”
He gave a sharp, almost dismissive look, brushing off her comment with a flick of his hand. “I’m fine,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual bite, and the way he said it made it clear he wasn’t.
Hermione narrowed her eyes but said nothing more, opting instead to turn back to the pile of papers and notes in front of her. There was something strange about the way he looked, but she pushed it to the back of her mind. There were more pressing matters to attend to.
"Hey, you," Draco rasped to get her attention. He simply needed to have her undivided. His voice was rough like sandpaper, but there was an edge to it, something Hermione couldn't quite place.
She raised an eyebrow, indignant. Four days without a word, and this was the greeting he chose? "Hello, you?" Really?
"Where have you been?" she asked, her words sharp but laced with something softer, an edge of worry she couldn’t hide.
"Personal issues," he replied curtly, his eyes not meeting hers.
Hermione’s gaze faltered, but she pushed on. "I've been trying to contact you."
"I received them," he said, as if the words barely mattered.
"Then why haven't you responded?" she pressed, frustration bubbling up, twisting in her chest.
He met her gaze then, his expression unreadable, but his voice was steady. "I’m responding now."
Her fists clenched by her sides. "You could have visited my apartment. It’s always open for you," she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. The tremble in her voice surprised him. He hadn't expected to receive that kind of trust, not so freely. Not after… everything.
Draco blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "I didn't think that was an option," he answered, his tone strangely honest.
Her eyes softened just a fraction. "I don't know how to get to your house," she murmured, the vulnerability creeping into her voice before she could stop it.
"I’ll show you later," he replied, his voice almost gentle, though the usual coolness remained in his eyes.
“Zabini said he sent you a copy,” Hermione said, her voice tinged with a quiet suspicion.
Draco’s eyes flicked to hers, and his response was blunt, almost defensive. "I asked for it."
She didn’t let him off the hook. "Why didn’t you come with me then?" Her voice wasn’t accusatory, but there was a trace of confusion.
"You didn’t need me," he answered, his tone detached. "You handled him well enough."
Hermione frowned slightly, her gaze shifting down to the table, to the files scattered across it. "He’s intimidating," she whispered, as if she were trying to downplay the unease that still lingered.
Draco raised an eyebrow at her, his eyes narrowing just slightly, but he said nothing. Hermione flushed, an unfamiliar heat rising to her cheeks.
"Okay," she stammered, "he’s handsome. But still, you know…" Her voice trailed off, unsure whether she should have even brought it up.
That didn’t sit well with Draco. His jaw tightened, his gaze darkening. His eyes snapped to the file on the table—Ron’s file, thick with details and implications, like a weighty reminder of all that was still unsaid between them. He stared at it, as if willing it to offer some distraction, some escape from the uncomfortable knot that had formed in his stomach.
"I thought you backed out," Hermione admitted, the words slipping out before she could hold them in. The weight of them felt too heavy in the air between them. She tried to mask it, but there it was: her rawness, laid bare.
"Never," Never have never will. Draco said simply, his eyes locking with hers. And for a moment, the air between them thickened, crackling with something unspoken. "Although I’m certain you can pull it off without me. Except… you might just miss me."
The air seemed to heat up, the space around them charged with tension, like everything in that moment had stilled, frozen in place. And then, as if on cue, Hermione's voice sliced through the stillness, shattering the fragile bubble.
"You look like shit."
Draco’s breath caught, and for the first time, he was speechless. His lips parted, but no words came. Instead, the weight of her words hung in the air, and for once, he was thinking of a witty comeback when they were interrupted by Harry’s sudden appearance.
"Harry!” Hermione sighed almost gratefully.
To Draco's surprise, he hadn't expected Harry to be here.
"Hi, Hermione, and yes, Draco, you do look like crap. If I'm being honest, you remind me of Professor Lupin on—"
Hermione gasped “Yes, that's what you kind of look like, when we first saw him.” Harry just grinned.
“I am not following, care to provide some more details, as you may have known, I was never part of the golden trio so forgive me if I fail to understand the insinuation here” Draco said hastily. Hermione giggled.
“I think it was the full moon or after the full moon that’s why Remus looked batshit tired that day on the train” Harry reminisced oblivious to how Draco seemed to freeze.But Hermione noticed.
“Wait, you do know that he is a werewolf, right?” Hermione asked.
“Yes, I am not ignorant Granger.”
“Who would've guessed there’d come a day when you wouldn’t be so vain?" Hermione joked.
"Not everything has to do with appearance," Draco responded solemnly.
"Well, obviously not for the eleven-year-old Malfoy with perfectly sleek hair always pushed back," she teased.
"You're late, Potter," Draco said, quickly changing the subject.
"Oh, right, sorry. I’ve been busy volunteering. It’s the full moon yesterday, so Neville needed help harvesting hibiscus petals and peppermint sprigs for the lupus balm."
"It’s fine, Harry. Don’t mind Malfoy," Hermione rolled her eyes.
After a few banters, they quickly shifted focus to what Ron could be procuring.
—-
"Maybe Wolfsbane ingredients?" Hermione suggested.
"No, we have an overstock of that," Draco answered.
"It’s not easy to procure, even I can’t get it," Harry said.
“Well Potter, just because you are incompetent, does not mean we all are.”
“Bloodroot? Those are difficult to find given the weather. I’ve heard, Nott has been developing prototypes to control the weather.” Hermione shared.
"No, that’s not a true ingredient of Wolfsbane," Draco clarified.
“Really? Bloodroot is used for lessening the pain during transformations” She argued.
“It was during the 19th century. Do keep up with your readings Granger” Malfoy retorted, looking smug.
"How do you know all of this, Malfoy?" Hermione asked, genuinely curious.
"I know it’s hard to believe, especially since you grew up with two clueless heads always following you around, but other people actually enjoy learning and excel in class," Draco jokes.
"Well, I know that about you," Hermione responded, her tone casual, though her words made Malfoy’s chest puff out with an unexpected sense of pride. To be acknowledged by Granger—of all people—was no small feat.
"But what I don’t understand," Hermione continued, narrowing her eyes, "is why you know so much about werewolves. Didn’t your mentor despise Lupin?"
And just like that, the warmth of pride evaporated from Draco's chest, replaced by an uncomfortable tightness. His expression faltered, though he quickly masked it with a forced sneer.
"The views and opinions of the late Severus Snape do not reflect the views and opinions of his great protégé," Draco replied flatly.
As they bickered, Harry’s mind wandered. Hermione had asked him to come because they both knew how much Ron loved talking about his job, though he only shared certain private details with them in coded terms. He must have mentioned it to them. Harry’s thoughts drifted to their conversations when something lit up. He’d had a conversation with Ron one late night. They had been discussing fangs, and Ron was animated, speaking excitedly about it while they played Wizard Chess!”.
“Mione, it’s fangs.”
"What are you talking about, Potter? We don’t use fangs in Wolfsbane."
“Granger, honestly! I do not understand how you manage to live with him and survive a war?”
"He mentioned something about fangs being his next assignment, but he was vague about it. I thought he was joking at the time, especially since we were talking about the Falcons and the newly presented Quidditch team called Bloodfangs."
To Hermione, it still didn’t make sense. Fangs? Vampires? Vampire teeth? As seconds ticked by, it clicked in her mind.
"Harry... it’s werewolf canines. Think about it."
"They’re illegal, Mione."
"Exactly! He’ll bend the rules if he’s passionate about it. It makes sense. Besides, he’s always carried a guilt for Romilda Vane’s death." Hermione hushed.
"What, so he’ll kill a werewolf for his passion ior I don’t know, to ease his guilt?" Harry asked weakly.
"Canine teeth grow back every time, should they choose to remove them. And during transformation, they get a fresh pair. Losing them doesn’t cause any pain, either," Draco muttered, his voice soft but deliberate.
They all absorbed the weight of Ron's illegal activities. Both Harry and Hermione quietly process the revelation. Honestly, none of them minded. The war had changed them all, and they understood more than anyone could imagine.
Eventually, Malfoy shrugged. "At least now we won’t be blindsided when we negotiate for your boyfriend’s life."
"Now we just leave and pay Nott a sweet visit," Draco added. Hermione still hadn’t denied that Ron was her boyfriend, and that irked him to no end. He had been dying to know the truth about their relationship. Of all the people, the love interest of the Golden Girl was the one he knew the least about. She was so discrete about it, it drove him mad. Hermione was frustrating, and Ron was annoying. Bloody Salazar, Nagini could bite him for all Draco cared.