Shielded

After Kingsley left, Hermione stood still for a beat before bounding up the stairs to the upstairs windows. Despite them being enchanted to prevent anyone from seeing inside, she moved the curtain only a little before peeking and letting out a sigh of relief.

“The two pursuers left!” she called down to Malfoy. Oh god, Malfoy. It’s now just the two of them.

“Oh, joy,” he shouted back from downstairs. From the sounds of it, he had gone deeper in the kitchen and was now… rummaging around?

She went back down, grabbing the trays from the coffee table on the way through the lounge, to check what he was doing in her kitchen. She stepped in to see him bent over, rooting through the first cabinet by the entrance, which happened to be filled with cleaning supplies. She watched him look at each bottle and then place it to the side for a moment before addressing him.

“What are you doing??” she asked in bewilderment.

“Trying to find more of that soup! I barely got any!”

“You ate two bowls! And soup needs to be refrigerated, you won’t find that in the cleaning cabinet!”

“I haven’t eaten all day, and what I have eaten in the last week has barely counted as food. Could you please point me toward where foods are refigrelated?”

“Refrigeration happens in the refrigerator,” she says, pointing at the relevant appliance. Without hesitation, Malfoy strode over and pulled the door open.

“It’s cold!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, that’s what refrigeration is. How have you been traversing the Muggle world without coming across kitchens?”

“I haven’t been traversing the Muggle world, just Muggle transportation, and that was only a handful of times. Now, which of these compartments store soup?”

“The red one with the plate on top. In fact, let me just do this for you. I’m afraid to see what you’ll do with a stove. Please, sit down.”

Malfoy immediately dropped himself in a chair at the dining table and began watching her. She surreptitiously kept an eye on him as she bustled about, clearing the trays from the lounge and washing the dishes. 

She kept expecting snide comments on Muggle methods being unsophisticated, despite his earlier claim of having an evolved perspective on the matter, and felt herself tensing in preparation almost reflexively. If not her approach, then her appearance had to be grating on him. 

Since his release from his year in Azkaban (she suppressed a shudder at the memory – she had seen him in passing at his post-release check up at St. Mungo’s, and the photo in the newspaper hadn’t even begun to capture the exhaustion and gloom he exuded; she didn’t think he had even noticed her presence), he had clearly recovered significantly. After over 8 years in house arrest, he had filled out again, and was back to his usual clean and proper presentation. In fact, the only noticeable differences in superficial appearance Hermione could identify was that his hair, which had been shorn in Azkaban, was now grown out, but shaggy and without the styling that she had grown accustomed to from when they were in school. That, and the Azkaban tattoo she saw the edges of above his collar. 

While these were both overall quite becoming on him, they were also minute changes. No, the largest difference was in the eyes. Where in their days at Hogwarts his eyes had always been alive with fury and antagonism, they were now… dead. Haunted. She even suspected that he Occluded his thoughts at a regular cadence, as she had seen his eyes flicker during their staring contest earlier. Whether this was a conscious habit or not, she didn’t know. If not, then this only showed how uncertain the past years have been for him, and she thought about how hard it had to be for someone like Malfoy to have a shield he couldn’t control in his brain, especially if he had been put under enough mental strain to just continuously and automatically feel like he needed to protect himself. 

With this disquieting thought, Hermione glanced once more at Malfoy, who had yet to lower his gaze. She finished lathering and rinsing the dishes, and then put them in the dish rack with plates at the back, bowls in the middle, and cups at the front. Storing dishes in order of size always scratched a pleasant itch in her brain. She tried to ignore his persistent stare as she put the pot of soup on the hob and turned it on, then pulled the loaf of bread out of the basket again to cut another slice. He continued watching as she buttered the bread and put it in the oven to toast up, and as she made her way to the fridge to pull out a water pitcher. It was when he craned his head to watch her get juice out of her pantry that she finally snapped.

“Can I help you??”

He startled, and to her surprise, blushed profusely.

“No, I’m just trying to acclimate myself to these Muggle methods that I’ll be exposed to over the next however many weeks,” he retorted defensively.

“Well… stop it. My job is to take care of that piece as much as possible. No one will expect you or ask you to operate an oven or fridge any time soon, and we definitely won’t have access to pantries, so this is just temporary.”

“Oh.” He seemed to want to say something, but when she waved at him impatiently to get it out, he rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, and murmured “Never mind” under his breath.

Suppressing a sigh at this childish behavior, she ladled the now-warm soup into a bowl, and gave him that together with the bread and beverages she had prepared. He immediately started shoveling the food into his mouth, reminding her very much of Ron, and not at all of the arrogant, proper boy she remembered Malfoy as. Somehow, she didn’t think he would appreciate this observation, so instead she just said,

“You’re welcome. I’m going to go to prepare the guest bedroom for you. Where are your things?”

While chewing the bread, he pointed outside, presumably at the car.

“Okay, I’ll bring them up with me. You’ll be alright here?”

He nodded his assent, still inhaling the soup, so she went outside to get the suitcase from the boot of the car and bring it up to her extra room. She had to move piles of books from the bed to the floor by the bookshelf, and then went to the linen closet to find some clean sheets for the bed. As she was finishing up placing the pillows, she heard the chair downstairs screech as it was moved, and then Malfoy’s steps creaking around below. To her surprise, she heard some more clangs of the ladle against the pot – was he eating even more?? – and then his shuffles back to the chair, followed by silence as he presumably picked back up eating.

She left his suitcase on the floor with the door ajar, and then went to the shared bathroom to grab some towels for him as well. After she left those on his bed, she went to her room and slumped down on the edge of her bed for a moment to think.

What had she gotten herself into? Somehow, with his overall silence during Kingsley’s visit, Hermione hadn’t fully absorbed the fact that she would be spending the next few days to weeks alone with Malfoy of all people. True, he had said that his views on Muggles had evolved, but if their interaction just now demonstrated anything, it was that he was still a petulant and demanding person, even at 27. How embarrassing.

Though, Hermione chided herself, he’d been isolated and stuck in house arrest until a couple of years ago. There’s only so much a person could develop without human interaction. And if Kingsley was to be believed, he had been on the run with no consistent companionship for the last year as well. In fact, she further contemplated, he’s been a surprisingly good sport about all these developments. He insisted on her feeling safe as well, and made sure to reassure her that his views on Muggles have changed. Maybe the rest is just growing pains?

Shaking herself of her ruminations, Hermione got up, pulled her own suitcase out of her closet, and made a quick assessment of the clothes that were available to her. She made a decision on what was needed, and had just started carefully packing clothes when she heard the chair squeak again, signifying Malfoy’s completion of his meal. When she heard him begin wandering around, clanging some more, she rushed to finish her preparation to go down to him. By the time she reached the stairwell, he was hovering around the base of stairs, looking at the photo of herself, Harry, and Ron on the table there. He looked up to see her watching him and sneered,

“So, how has the Golden Trio been holding up lo these many years?”

She stopped halfway down the stairs, raising an eyebrow at his tone. She glanced at the photo, where everyone’s arms were wrapped around the others’ shoulders, with her in the middle and the two boys at her sides. It had been taken years after her and Ron had broken up, and though it wasn’t apparent in the picture, they had only recently found a peaceful dynamic of friendship between them after a very long saga with lots of arguing. “They’re doing well. Ron and Harry are working as Aurors, and I’m obviously doing research. We grab drinks once a month or so. Why, anything you want to know in particular?”

He rolled his eyes. “No. In fact, I’d prefer not to discuss them much at all. I just thought I’d seize the bull by the horns.”

“What bull?”

“The bull that is our history. I don’t particularly like you, and you hate me, and as we’re going to be spending lots of time together, I thought you could air your grievances while you’re in your safe space. Didn’t know when to expect it, so I thought bringing up the three of you would be as good an introduction as any. ‘You made our lives miserable,’ and all that.”

Hermione scoffed, descending the rest of the way to the last stair. He wasn’t that much taller than her normally, so this placed her firmly above him. It may have been a petty power move, but whatever.

“Malfoy, your inflated self-importance will never cease to amaze. You didn’t make our lives miserable. The literal war that we were thrown into did. Yes, you were annoying, and you obviously held very bigoted views toward me and elitist views toward Ron, but that’s you being an annoying kid. I’ve long ago moved on from that. And while I can’t do anything about you disliking me, I can assure you I don’t hate you. Why Kingsley thought I’d want to harm you, I don’t know – maybe you projected your own feelings onto me and conveyed this misplaced sentiment to him. But the point is, there is no bull on my end. I won’t take out any feelings on you, not that I’m the type to do that anyway, and I won’t secretly harbor resentment as I wait and plot against you. I meant it when I said my promise to keep you safe was enough. I’m not your enemy.”

Malfoy, who had taken on a very defensive pose, as if preparing for an attack, blinked in surprise. They stared at each other for a moment, before Hermione said,

“On that note, let me go clean up from dinner. Your bedroom is at the top of the stairs on the left –” she made her way past him, intending to go to the kitchen, when she felt a hand grab her upper arm. She turned around to see Malfoy staring at her. As soon as they made eye contact, he yanked his hand away again as if it had burned him. Her eyes followed the movement. With what seemed like great effort, he finally spoke,

“I know I was a cruel and vindictive child, and if I had been in the position you’re in now, we both know I would have used it against you. However,” he said quickly when she huffed in exasperation and made to move away, “I hope you believe me when I say I’m not that child anymore. I would accept any punishment you deem fit as retribution, as like I said, I would understand the inclination, but I hope you know that I’m not your enemy either. Even without the Vow, I would not harm you. And I’ll prove myself.” At this, he moved back a step, and raised his chin in defiance.

She gazed at him for a moment, and saw the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes before it vanished. She nodded, and said, “Understood. But again, I have no interest in doling out any sort of punishment. You’ve paid enough.” At this last statement, Malfoy opened his mouth to disagree, but Hermione raised her hand to stop him. “You have. You’ve been in a war, Azkaban, and house arrest. You lost your father and community, as suspect as both may have been, significantly overturned your prior belief systems, are now on the run, have lost your home, and are about to discontinue using magic for the benefit of the greater good. Your sacrifices are enough for me. Let’s leave it there. As I was saying, your bedroom is upstairs to the left, and the bathroom is across the hall from there. Feel free to shower or anything else – I’ll be up later after sending off some correspondences in preparation for my absence. If you need anything else, just give me a shout.”

Malfoy looked at her one more time before inclining his head and heading upstairs. Hermione let out a sigh while watching his ascent, then turned around to make her way to the kitchen. Based on the clanging she had heard while she was upstairs, she was preparing for a mess of cataclysmic proportions before stopping short in the entrance.

The kitchen was clean. Malfoy had put away everything by himself.

—

After sealing her last letter, Hermione slowly stretched out on her office chair, glancing at the clock. Damn, 11 already. Writing to everyone had taken much longer than expected. Laying out all the letters with owl’s treats for Hermes to pick up when he returned, she made her way upstairs to get ready for bed. She had heard Malfoy shower from the stairwell, and had heard him move around in his bedroom above her, so she wasn’t surprised to see his door shut. She went into her room, and absentmindedly changed into her pajamas (an extravagant word for shorts and raggedy t-shirt) and braided her hair in two plaits as she always did at night. 

She then bustled around a bit, packing some additional books and items in her suitcase, before surmising that Draco may need some entertainment for the road as well. After a moment of thought, she decided they had left on good enough terms despite him saying he disliked her, and headed over to his room. She knocked on his door, and after a moment heard his quiet “Come in?” from the other side. She cracked it open a sliver to see him in bed, a book already in his lap, looking at her questioningly. She glanced at the white undershirt he was wearing and blanket covering his legs and, deciding he looked prepared for company, let herself in fully with a small smile.

His eyes widened to almost comical levels as he took her in. His eyes swept from her feet, up her bare legs, across her misshapen shirt, and only briefly glanced at her face before he suddenly reared back, nostrils flaring, and violently averted his gaze to look at the opposite wall.

“Granger! I didn’t expect you to come in here if you weren’t decent!!”

Hermione was completely taken aback. She quickly glanced at herself to make sure she hadn’t accidently missed an inconvenient hole or something. Seeing nothing out of place, she looked at him in bewilderment, as he continued straining against the headboard to look away from her at the opposite wall.

“I am decent! Have you never seen a girl in shorts??”

“Of course I haven’t! But that’s not the problem! It’s…” at this he faltered, and his eyes glanced back at her momentarily. “It’s…”

“It’s?” 

She stared at him in awe. He seemed to be moments away from passing out or climbing out of the window to get away from her, she wasn’t sure which. She noticed she was holding her breath in anticipation, and let it out with a huff. At the sound, he glanced at her again, taking in her bewildered expression. All at once, he deflated, squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them again to finally look at her – no, to look above her shoulder. She shot a look over it as well and saw nothing there.

“Never mind. That was an overreaction. Please disregard it. How may I help you?”

“Uh…” she eyed him with bemusement. He clearly looked embarrassed, a flush covering his neck and cheeks. Deciding to move on from the weird moment, Hermione continued with her original point, “I was coming to see if you wanted to bring any books with you to read since it seems we’ll be lollygaggying around for a bit in random inns and such.”

“Oh,” he said in surprise, eyes flashing back to hers. He was still slightly flushed, and seemed to be overly focusing on the point at the top of her nose, but otherwise the strange reaction seemed to have passed. “Yes, that would be much appreciated. I actually looked at this collection a bit and found some interesting ones.” At this he lifted the book he had on his lap as an indication. 

Now it was Hermione who reacted in surprise. These were all her Muggle books. Will wonders never cease. “In that case, feel free to grab anything from this room or the hallway. Or if you’d like magical novels, those are in the lounge downstairs. Let me know if you need any recommendations.”

Malfoy inclined his head in thanks.

Taking that as the end of the conversion, Hermione wrung her hands, trying to figure out how to address his odd reaction. She didn’t want to unintentionally do anything that made him uncomfortable if it could be avoided. Seeing her hesitate, he raised a questioning eyebrow, and having no idea how to broach the subject, she just awkwardly said, “Okay, well, good night then.”

“Good night.”

With nothing else to be said, she slid back out the door and shut it tight behind her.

—

Draco felt his heart flying in his chest long after Granger had left. He used every technique he knew of to calm himself: he counted his breaths, rhythmically patted at his torso, and tried to distract himself with his book. It was only when he realized he had read the same line 15 times that he gave up with an exasperated huff.

There was no avoiding it. He had had a… reaction to Granger. A very positive, very intense reaction. No, he thought to himself, refusing to deny himself the truth. A reaction of attraction. Even the thought stopped him in his tracks. How?? Draco was never attracted to anyone. It has been a source of tension and dispute among himself and his friends, who had been desperately trying to get him laid since his 6th year when he was morose and overwhelmed by the Dark Lord’s tasks. At one point, they had smuggled Pansy into his bed, and he had responded with so much furious rage that she had run out crying, and his friends kicked him out of their dorm room until he cooled off and apologized. 

During the war, they were a bit more supportive of his abstinence, but they tried to cajole him into at least kissing someone, especially after the war but before Azkaban. At that point, his engagement to Astoria had been cut off, so they felt he was extra justified for a good snog, but no matter how many people they presented him with, he didn’t feel any kind of pull to them. He flat out refused.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t recognize individuals as being worthy of attraction. He knew Astoria was very beautiful, and Theo was handsome. Not just by others’ standards, but his own too. He could see this, and acknowledge it, but somehow the emotionally suppressed, duty-forward upbringing he had been raised with prevented that recognition from translating into anything romantic or sexual in nature. And Draco had never really minded. He had wondered about what the experience must be like, but more from a desire to satiate a curiosity than any real yearning for it. There were even a few times where he had been briefly concerned about how consummation, which he knew he would be obligated to perform with whatever wife he was tied to, would be performed, but between being too young to worry about such issues and being too busy stressing about a war, he never had an opportunity to fully reflect on the implications of his disinterest.

And then came Azkaban and house arrest. Over that time, he spent a long, lonely, isolated time reflecting on his past. On where everything went wrong to leave him in the position that got him on the losing side of the war. On the ideologies that pressured his parents to house a megalomaniac and sociopath. On the decisions he still had available to him, few as they were. Either he could coast along and, as his father wished, marry some foreign pureblood who didn’t care about the stain that the Malfoy name had in England, have kids with her, and parrot the same sentiments that left them with that stain to begin with to his children and their children in perpetuity. 

Or… just not. Give up the hopeless fight that left him in this position. By that point, the reformation classes he had to go through in Azkaban and his own personal research had forced him to confront the fact that the beliefs themselves were hogwash, so he had no fire left anyway. That, coupled with the very real fact that he had yet to feel even a modicum of interest in building anything beyond friendship with another person, solidified to himself that he had no personal investment in getting married.

The only motivation by that point would have been familial duty. As much as Draco would not have wanted to marry on his own behalf, he understood the traditional importance of marriage, and out of a desire for honoring his parents’ wishes, had some lingering willingness to go through with it, even if it was a farce, and much further down the line after other priorities had been addressed. 

He had rationalized to himself at the time that getting married despite his disinterest wouldn’t be much different from most traditional pureblood marriages anyway. It’s not as if his parents had any great passion between them – what they shared was a loyal and comfortable companionship that had developed through the years of being at each others’ sides. The rumor was always that Malfoys were only able to have one child due to magical reasons, but Draco suspected that what may be the actual truth was that Malfoys just weren’t very passionate in marriage. He had only seen his parents kiss once a year at the New Year’s gala. 

No, Draco pragmatically expected that any marriage he had would solely be for the purpose of producing an heir, and then to have a partnership to support each other through life, which sounded nice enough. Draco had accepted his fate long ago, and this acceptance carried him through his questioning beliefs, until it was made obsolete by none other than the father who had instilled those values to begin with.

“Draco,” Lucius Malfoy gasped from his bed, “come here.”

“Yes, Father?” Draco said, leaning down next to him so they could hear each other more clearly.

“I found you a suitable match. Eloise du Pont, the child of Toulouse. Her father recently consented to your engagement as long as you have a child within the year.”

Draco sighed — they revisited this subject once a month, each time with a new woman, each time going through the same tired rhetoric until Lucius gave in and withdrew his offer, all until the next month and woman. Draco’s opinions on the matter never changed.

“Father, I don’t wish to marry any time soon. The age of purebloods is passed, the pressure to build our standing is obsolete. Let’s focus on improving your health before we concern ourselves with the next hurdle.”

“The age of purebloods will never pass,” retorted Lucius, like he always did. Draco could almost recite the back and forth line by line. “Give us time to rest and regroup. You only falter now because you’re seeing us at our weakest without seeing us at our strongest. Just give us time. For now, rely on your duty to family.”

“I falter because we were wrong. Everything that motivated us was wrong. I care for this family, but even you have to see that it isn’t the legacy, and rather just our connection to each other, to be proud of. I will gladly marry, but only after we have had a chance to recover from the war. It’s too early to prepare for the next round of political scheming.”

“Care? Bah! You speak of care, but deny the legacy. There is nothing to care for without the legacy.” Lucius heaved a cough for a minute, interrupting Draco from his next line. Once he finished, Draco picked up as usual,

“There is plenty to care for without the legacy. We have overcome so much, and while we don’t have the best standing right now, we have finally been torn down enough to be able to build up with honor. Jumping into an immediate pureblood marriage would just give the impression we haven’t learned.”

Lucius wheezed, “Us? Learn? It’s the others who need to learn! The Malfoys are too great to be put down.”

Draco shut his eyes, trying for patience. This was always the point where Lucius would get worked up, begin ranting about the honor of the Malfoy name, and name drop some choice ancestor’s achievements, before Draco placated him by reassuring him that those achievements didn’t come from rash decisions and hurried marriages, at which point Lucius would concede that maybe a wedding wouldn’t be prudent, and dismiss Draco before falling asleep.

“Father –” 

But before Draco managed to carry on the script, Lucius unexpectedly continued,

“As I was saying, Eloise. In fact, we are days from sealing the engagement between you two.”

“What??” Draco balked, script forgotten. He felt his stomach drop to his toes. It never reached this point. They argued until Lucius withdrew, licked his wounds, and plotted, and then they repeated it all again a couple weeks later. They never proceeded past the point of initial negotiations, and Draco had treated the subject as a harmless means for Lucius to distract himself from whatever ailment he had caught in Azkaban. “Without my consent?”

“You’ll never consent! You don’t listen to reason!” snapped Lucius in irritation. “You won’t perform your duty and so I must! The family needs a pureblood heir, and you’re refusing every offer! My days on this Earth are numbered!”

“Don’t say that! You’ve only been out of Azkaban for a few weeks, but have been developing this sickness for months! It will pass, no need for rash decisions.”

Lucius sneered. “Let’s not lie to ourselves, my son. I feel myself faltering more and more each day. At least I could let the days pass from the peace of my bed instead of that dratted hellhole. At least I could be surrounded by you and your mother. At least I had the opportunity, as the man of the household, to settle all my affairs, including you.”

“But… but… this is unnecessary! I understand my duty, and would have been able to organize it. I’m an adult, can’t I make decisions on my marriage for myself??”

Draco felt the world crashing down around him. When Astoria’s engagement had been broken, he had been ecstatic. He found her pleasant enough, but had no draw toward her whatsoever, and always felt she deserved more than what he had to offer. Not only that, but he was genuinely unsure that he would be able to perform his marital duties for her. And he knew her. If not her, pureblood beauty that she was, there was no way he could commit to forming any sort of connection with this French noblewoman who was a complete stranger to him.

“If you had made even the slightest effort while I was in Azkaban, I wouldn’t have to worry, but you did nothing! I at no point saw you happier than when your engagement to Miss Greengrass fell through prior to your own imprisonment, and since then you seemed perfectly content with your bachelorhood. You reject every offer I put before you, so I’m making the decision on your behalf. Eloise is a fine choice.”

“Eloise?? She was a child when I last saw her!”

“She is now 17, so no concern—“ 

“No concern??” Draco exclaimed. “Father, I’m 25! There’s nearly a decade between us! She’s barely not a child, and I’m a full fledged adult! I can’t marry and… and… bed a 17 year old!” He had worked himself up at this point, feeling his cheeks over warm.

“Oh Draco, don’t be daft. You should be thanking your lucky stars we found anyone. In fact, be grateful they’re in a rush to conceive an heir as well — she’s their only child so your son would inherit both legacies.”

Draco sat up and looked around in bewilderment for a moment, completely at a loss for words.

“I don’t care about that! I don’t care about legacies! I care about building up our name to no longer be synonymous with the Dark Lord’s bigoted right-hand-men! Do you think I’m saying that just to hear myself speak?? I’m GLAD we lost, so I was finally forced to confront the delusion we were living in! I’m GLAD I don’t have to live with the same pressure that we used to! I don’t want to marry Eloise, I don’t want to marry ANYONE right now! I don’t want legacies, I don’t want marriage, I DON’T WANT CHILDREN!!” Draco’s chest was heaving, the outburst taking everything out of him.

Lucius just eyed him with boredom.

“Are you done? Yes? As I said, the contract is almost done, so no need to argue. You’ll marry in a week’s time, and hopefully conceive soon after. You WILL have children, as is your duty. And that’s final.”

It was this which finally shattered what was left of Draco’s resolve, brittle as it had been. His father, who he had looked up to all his life, had, for all his faults, been his most staunch supporter. He had given anything Draco could ever desire, broken down any obstacle that stood in his son’s way, taught him everything he knew about his life, and was a constant through some of the most trying periods of Draco’s life. Draco, in turn, had apparently misinterpreted this care as true fatherly love, and perhaps it had been in a way, but in this moment, Draco saw what it truly was: pure entitlement. A complete expectation that nothing would come in the way of what Lucius wanted in his life, and as long as Draco’s vision for his own life had been the same, their goals had overlapped, and Lucius’s drive for himself extended to Draco as well. Once Draco developed contradictory wishes, however, that support was not only withdrawn, but used against Draco. Draco had thought that with time, Lucius’s wish for Draco to live a happy life would allow him to at least come to terms with Draco’s shifted priorities.

But no. Draco’s chest heaved as the weight of what Lucius demanded of him truly sank in. Lucius wanted him, his only son, who had sacrificed his childhood to a war where they not only lost, but where he was treated as a soldier like any adult, forced to give up any autonomy, and blindly follow the demands of a truly deranged individual, to give up his choice in this as well. Rather than granting him reprieve, a choice, especially on such a personal matter that Draco was already questioning anyway, he demanded his son to sacrifice not only his childhood, but his immediate and extended future when he wasn’t ready. He exploded.

“NO!” Draco bellowed. “I. WILL. NOT!! I WILL NOT MARRY ELOISE, NOR WILL I MARRY ANYONE ELSE YOU PROPOSE! IN FACT,” at this he sank down very close to Lucius again, and lowered his voice, “heed me, Father. I vow to you now, that as long as I live, I will not marry any woman willingly, nor father any children with any woman I’m made to tie myself to. If you force this farce of a marriage, I’ll withhold consummation forever. I will accept any and all repercussions to this, for this and all marriages you find after. Let it tear down any remaining shreds of positivity which remains associated with our name from the last sorry individuals who hold them. In fact, I vow that I will remain celibate for the rest of my life. I will die unmarried and alone, and the Malfoy line will end with me.”

Lucius’s eyes widened in disbelief. Draco held eye contact, refusing to back down, letting every ounce of sincerity add weight to the truth of his words. Lucius inhaled, and coughed, before at last wheezing out, “You’re no son of mine. Get. Out.”

Draco winced, but turned around, strode across the room, and slammed the door behind him without saying goodbye.

Lucius died that night.

Well, if anything pulled him out of the strange, exhilarated mood Granger had left him in, it was thinking of his father. With a bit more of a cleared head, Draco re-evaluated the episode from earlier. What was it that put him out of sorts? He had felt prepared enough at the prospect of her entering when she had knocked – he had seen her clothes from when she had been lounging around the house, so he had expected more or less what she had appeared in. So what had been the issue? He had seen girls in their pajamas growing up, and although none of them had worn Muggle shorts, there were those who had been in nightgowns who at least showed skin to their knees. Maybe it was the shorts?

He thought of seeing her legs, muscular and tan as they were, and felt his heart stutter. Okay, so a nonzero reaction, but still not the full-fledged, panic-inducing ferality he had experienced. He thought of the scars and scabs he had seen on her shins and thighs she had presumably gathered over the course of life, and his pulse quicked a bit more. Those signs of life, of vitality, of adventure had also been oddly compelling. Considering it was more than he had felt toward anyone else before, definitely something worth noting, but still not the culprit.

The lumpy shirt… definitely not, he thought with slight disdain. He had glimpsed the edge of the Mudblood scar, which had prompted a reaction as well, but it was the familiar guilt and disgust at his past that he had grown accustomed to, not one of attraction. What else was there? Well, her hair had been in plaits… at the thought, his heart immediately picked back up again, and he felt his breath shorten. Her hair had looked so soft and strong, strands woven between each other, with the ever-escaping tendrils showing her hair was never meant to be contained, cascading down to her waist. What would it feel like to grab them, to run his hands along them, to wrap them around his hands… He felt his face flush, and to his alarm, he felt stirring below his belly button. What?? That was DEFINITELY new. 

Other than waking up in the morning, Draco had never, not once, felt physical arousal as a grown adult, especially toward another person. He jolted out of bed in alarm, and began pacing, trying to distract himself from this stream of thought. 

His father, Granger’s plaits. Dumbledore’s death, Granger’s plaits. Dementors, Granger’s plaits. 

Nothing worked. 

He kept walking and walking, willing his physical response to subside, before finally ripping the door open to dash into the bathroom and splash cold water in his face, gasping silently at his reflection. He stared at the slightly unhinged look in his eyes, working desperately to regain his senses.

Okay, this is fine. He just… hadn’t been prepared. Now that he knew, he could brace himself against it. It wasn’t actually that Granger was the first person he’d ever felt attraction toward, it was just that her hair had caught his attention. In fact, he further rationalized, it was most likely this novelty. Everyone had seen Granger’s hair in its various phases of unboundedness, and her classic buns and ponytails when she did work. He just hadn’t ever seen it plaited. It wasn’t attraction he felt toward Granger. The physical reaction had just been… he flailed internally trying to come up with an explanation. 

Never mind, the physical reaction was just an anomalous response. He could keep it contained – he simply needed to keep his guard up, maintain his distance, and he would adjust to this as well. It’s not like she regularly kept her hair in plaits anyway. This was a one-time temptation.

Having come to this (at best feeble) conclusion, and being unwilling to dig into it further, he returned to his room, and made himself drift off into a restless sleep.