Chapter 11
For the next week, Draco was practically glued to Granger’s side, and frankly, he couldn’t have been happier. From morning meetings to late-night research sessions, he was her self-appointed shadow, revelling in every stolen glance, every heated debate, every moment he got to spend in her orbit.
Granger, on the other hand, was… exasperated.
The first day had been an endless string of bickering—her snapping at him to give her space, him refusing with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. But it was that evening, the when he stepped through her Floo a mere twenty minutes after leaving her, that she nearly launched herself out of her own window.
“Malfoy! What the hell?” she shrieked, eyes wide in horror.
He arched a brow, completely unfazed. “Did you really think I’d leave you to spend the night alone, Granger? Not happening. I just popped home to grab a few things, but I have strict orders to accompany you day and night.”
She gave him an incredulous look, lips pursed, fingers twitching as though she was restraining herself from hexing him into oblivion. But after a long, suffering sigh, she muttered, “Sure you have.”
He smirked, stepping further inside. “It could be McLaggen watching over you, love. At least I’m competent—and interested in your work. Have I not offered to help?”
Despite herself, she hesitated.
Draco noticed the way her expression softened, the way her fingers stopped twitching and instead curled around the nearest book. He knew her well enough by now to recognise it.
Because Merlin help him, she beamed when he showed interest in her research.
Her furry monstrosity, however, was far less accommodating.
Granger had insisted he sleep on the sofa, claiming something about him being there for work, not pleasure—though Draco was convinced she was just punishing him for shadowing her all day.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, every morning he woke up to the hellspawn attempting to smother him in his sleep. His once pristine suits were now infested with fur, his socks had mysteriously gone missing, and—Salazar—his ankles had become prime scratching posts.
Granger, of course, found it hilarious.
Draco had caught her smirking more than once, especially when he was locked in a battle of wills with the monstrosity.
“No—no! That is not yours! Leave my socks alone! Hey! Ow! Ow—bloody hell, that hurts, you demonic little—”
Right. Not his finest moments.
Granger’s demonic cat wasn’t the worst of their routine. During his whole life, Draco had endured many things—duels, Dark Lord threats, Potter’s sanctimonious lectures, The Weasel disgusting chewing habits—but nothing, nothing compared to the hell that was Pilates.
Circe’s tits, this wasn’t exercise; it was torture disguised as wellness. Draco prided himself on his physical endurance—he trained as an Auror, for fuck’s sake—but somehow, this innocent-looking Muggle class was activating muscles he didn’t even know existed. By the end of the first session, he felt like a newborn foal, wobbling around with what little dignity he had left.
Of course, Granger had protested when he announced he’d be shadowing her there, insisting it would be weird if he just stood in the corner watching like some deranged bodyguard. “If you’re coming, you’re participating,” she had said, smug as hell.
And, like an idiot, Draco had agreed. Piece of cake, right?
Wrong.
He should have questioned the way her lips curled into an almost villainous smirk when he signed up. He should have taken it as a warning. But all of it—every agonising plank, every humiliating attempt to keep up with these deceptively strong Muggle women—was worth it for one simple reason:
Now, thanks to their charming instructor and a class full of overly enthusiastic Muggles, he was officially known as Hermione’s boyfriend.
Despite all her initial protests, Granger had yet to correct them.
And that, that made it all so worth it.
He couldn’t deny it—Draco was happy. Just being near Granger every day was enough. He got to witness firsthand just how brilliant she was—how fiercely dedicated, how tirelessly determined. She poured herself into her work, never turning away anyone who sought her help, no matter how complex or hopeless their case seemed.
She was relentless. Fearless. Even with the looming threats of two of the most dangerous Death Eaters tracking her every move, she refused to be cowed.
Granger was unstoppable. And Draco had never admired anyone more.
But his routine was plagued by something darker—fear. A gnawing, relentless concern that refused to leave him.
Hestia Jones had done her best, but even her skill in Legilimency had only gotten them so far. Yaxley and Dolohov had revealed just enough to confirm what they already suspected—Granger’s work had caught the attention of a dangerous network of Dark Wizards. But the true extent of the threat remained a mystery.
The identities of those involved were still hidden, shrouded behind layers of Occlumency. And that wasn’t surprising. Yaxley and Dolohov had been trained by Bellatrix Lestrange herself—by Voldemort—and whatever they knew, they had buried deep.
Draco clenched his fists. He hated this. Hated feeling powerless.
And more than anything, he hated knowing that somewhere out there, in the shadows, someone was plotting against her.
Robards, in his infinite wisdom, had decided Draco needed a break from his ‘round-the-clock Granger babysitting duties. He suggested Weasley take some of the shifts, as if Draco would let that happen without putting up a fight. But even he had to admit—grudgingly, of course—that the ginger tosser wasn’t entirely useless.
Whenever Draco had to personally chase down leads, Weasley took over escort duty. And, to be fair, the bloke wasn’t half bad at it. Not that Draco would ever say that aloud—he had a reputation to maintain. Between him, Potter, and the Weasel, they were the only ones competent enough to keep Granger safe.
Obviously, Draco was the best option. That went without saying. Potter was too scared of Granger, too noble for his own good. And Weasley—well, Weasley was a bit of a plonker, but he was fiercely loyal. And that had to count for something.
Still, Draco would rather eat his own wand than admit it.
****
Draco’s Saturday morning had started like clockwork—being half-murdered in his sleep by the furry menace that, for some unfathomable reason, insisted on sleeping on his face. Honestly, what was its obsession?
Now, with Crookshanks temporarily busy himself with another of his socks, he’d moved on to his next daily battle: bickering with Granger over something utterly stupid. Today’s topic? Breakfast.
“Urgh!” Granger huffed, jabbing a sharp finger into his chest. “Not this again, Malfoy! I told you, I don’t need your house-elf making me breakfast every morning. It’s completely unnecessary!”
Draco smirked, completely unbothered by her righteous indignation. “She’s a free elf, Granger. Paid, might I add. She does as she pleases. And if she wants to bring you breakfast, you need to stop with your dramatics, accept the bloody food, and thank her like a civilised person.”
“I am not being dramatic—”
“You’re making her sad, Granger,” Draco continued, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “Honestly, where are your manners? Poor Tippy, she’s always so sweet just to have you reject her croissants like some ungrateful bint.”
Granger let out an exasperated groan, rubbing her temples. “I just don’t want her going out of her way—”
“She likes cooking, Granger. It brings her joy. You turning your nose up at her perfectly good breakfast? That’s just rude. Disgraceful behaviour, really.”
Granger shot him a scowl, grabbed the nearest croissant off the tray, and took a vicious bite. “Happy?” she grumbled through a mouthful.
Draco grinned. “Ecstatic.”
Every bloody morning, she was a right pain in the arse— bloody stubborn and as obnoxious as a hangover. And yet, against all logic and self-preservation, he was absolutely smitten.
Later today, he was accompanying Granger to her Cambridge Open Community Day—the event she had invited him. He had already shadowed her at the university lab throughout the week, a fact he was incredibly smug about. He enjoyed the perks of his work—namely, watching her in her element, commanding a research team with that terrifyingly brilliant brain of hers.
Of course, being Draco Malfoy, he had attempted to have his way just a little.
“You should introduce me as your boyfriend,” he had suggested with an innocent expression. “It would be the obvious cover story. No one would question why I’m here with you all day.”
She had scowled at him like he’d suggested kicking a baby hippogriff. “That makes absolutely no sense, Malfoy.”
“Oh? And why not?” he had pressed, all feigned curiosity and barely contained amusement.
“Because,” she huffed, “even if you were my boyfriend, which you are not, no sane person’s partner follows them around their workplace all day, every day, like some kind of lurking gargoyle.”
“Protective boyfriend,” he had corrected smoothly. “Very devoted, wouldn’t let you out of his sight.”
Her nostrils flared dangerously. “You’re lucky I have more important things to do than hex you right now.”
So, to his immense disappointment, he was instead introduced as a fellow researcher from London. Something about being a biochemist—because apparently Auror or Potioneer Master wasn’t a viable option in the Muggle world.
Draco had graciously accepted this role, despite its many flaws. But he did take satisfaction in the fact that, despite all her grumbling, she might even like having him around.
For the sake of safety, of course, Draco had taken it upon himself to casually, very lightly, scan the thoughts of Granger’s colleagues with a bit of harmless Legilimency. Nothing invasive—just a little dip to get a sense of their general feelings toward her. If anything dodgy cropped up, he’d know.
And, unsurprisingly, everyone relied on her.
It was honestly hilarious to watch—Granger in her element, utterly oblivious to the way she commanded the room.
Hermione, can you check over this data?
Hermione, what do you think of this analysis?
Hermione, can we discuss my latest findings?
Hermione, can you breathe for one second and stop showing the rest of us up?
Okay, maybe not the last one, but Draco swore he could feel the desperation in some of them.
And, to absolutely no one’s surprise, a handful of her Muggle colleagues had very obvious, very tragic crushes on her.
Pathetic. Draco scowled at them.
He could practically smell the admiration. The worship. Honestly, if one more bespectacled idiot gazed at her longingly, Draco might have to accidentally jinx someone’s shoelaces together.
He was rudely yanked from his morning mental ramblings while sipping his tea when Granger’s fireplace roared to life, green flames licking at the hearth.
Instinct took over. Wand gripped tight, he was primed to hex whatever poor sod had the audacity to show up unannounced at her flat. Meanwhile, Granger—utterly unfazed—barely spared a glance from her book, curled up on the sofa.
But instead of an intruder or imminent danger, out stumbled Theodore bloody Nott, looking as smug as ever, with the kind of dramatic expression one might expect from a man arriving to deliver a life-altering prophecy.
Draco lowered his wand with an exasperated sigh.
“For fuck’s sake, Nott. Ever heard of a text? An owl? Hell, even a Patronus would be less obnoxious than barging in like a deranged drama queen,” Draco grumbled.
“Draco!” Theo gasped. “You absolute tosser! You’ve disappeared for an entire week! How dare you? I texted you, you read my messages, and you didn’t even bother to reply! Multiple times!”
“Right,” Draco drawled, barely suppressing an eye-roll. “Must’ve got distracted. Been busy.”
“Oh, bollocks,” Theo huffed. “If it weren’t for Tippy, I’d have assumed you were dead. You’re a wanker, terrible friend.” Then, as if just noticing the other occupant of the room, he turned with a dazzling grin. “Oh, sorry, Granger! How are you, my darling?”
Granger smiled warmly, and Draco immediately scowled. “What do you want, Theo?” he cut in before this turned into a bloody tea party.
Theo sighed dramatically, flopping into the nearest chair. “What do I want? Misery loves company, mate! And I need to discuss my tragic existence—what else?”
Granger let out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes. “What’s troubling you this time, Theo?” she asked before Draco could do the sensible thing and throw him out.
“Oh, Hermione, my sweet, kind-hearted darling,” Theo lamented, flopping back dramatically. “It’s Luna! She’s been ghosting me ever since we shagged, and it’s driving me insane! No one has ever ghosted me before! Me!” He clutched his chest as if personally offended by the universe. “And to make matters worse, last night I saw her looking all cozy with George bloody Weasley!”
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Who cares—-“
Theo wailed. “A Weasley! one ear Weasley!”
Hermione smirked. “I don’t get it, Theo. You were the very first to claim dibs on a threesome with Draco and me—why so shy all of a sudden? Just march right up to Luna and George, and ask them.”
Theo gasped, “Excuse me, Granger! That was different!”
”Different how?” Hermione asked, clearly entertained.
Theo huffed, waving a hand. “Well, for starters, I knew you’d never go for it. And, more importantly, I love winding up Draco—watching him get all huffy and territorial is one of life’s greatest joys.” He punctuated his point with two patronising pats to Draco’s cheek.
“Who said I’d never go for it?” Hermione asked, completely unfazed.
Draco whipped his head towards her. “Granger!” he barked, eyes flashing, while Theo momentarily forgot how to breathe.
Hermione just shrugged, smirking as she turned back to her book.
“Right,” Theo finally said, regaining his composure. “I think I could be persuaded to forget all about Luna if you two actually gave it a go with me.” He waggled his brows suggestively.
“Absolutely not, you wanker,” Draco snapped. “Just take Granger’s advice and talk to Luna and George. What’s the issue? Not a fan of the ginger twin? Thought you used to gush about the dragon tamer?”
Theo let out a chuckle. “Charlie Weasley? Please. The man is a rugged, sun-kissed, dragon-wrangling dreamboat. Everyone with a pulse has a crush on him. Unfortunately, he’s straighter than a bloody broomstick.”
“What the hell are you on about? Not everyone has a crush on him,” Draco scoffed, then turned to Hermione. “Right, Granger?”
Hermione glanced over the top of her book, lips twitching. “Oh, absolutely,” she said, “Because a rugged, sun-kissed, dragon-wrangling man covered in mysterious scars is so unappealing.”
“Unbelievable.” Draco scowled.
Theo snorted.
Turning the conversation back to Theo’s original dilemma. “So, back to your Weasley problem. Are you going to be an adult and talk to Luna, or keep whining about it for bloody weeks?” Draco asked.
Slumping back in a chair. “I hate it when you sound like a responsible adult.” Theo groaned.
Hermione grinned. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t happen often.”
Draco muttered something about being surrounded by insufferable people and reached for his tea, only to scowl when he spotted a stray ginger cat hair floating in it. Crookshanks, curled up smugly on Hermione’s lap, flicked his tail in triumph.