Lines in the Sand
Hermione
Hermione should have known better than to trust a quiet morning. It had been almost suspiciously calm: the kind of calm that screamed the other shoe was about to drop, hard. She’d left her dorm early, her notes tucked under her arm and her bag slung across her shoulder. The hallways were already bustling, the tide of students sweeping toward their destinations. Hermione weaved through the crowd with the practiced precision of someone who had long since learned how to avoid unnecessary collisions.
But of course, fate wasn’t on her side.
The collision wasn’t cinematic—no flying papers, no startled apologies. Just the jolt of impact, the oof passing the lips of her unfortunate victim and the sudden awareness of who exactly she’d managed to cross paths with. Draco Malfoy.
“Watch where you’re going.” he drawled, his tone laced with disdain so casual it almost felt rehearsed. His hands adjusted the strap of his bag, movements deliberate, unhurried. The world could wait for Draco Malfoy, or so his posture suggested.
Hermione blinked, her initial shock quickly giving way to irritation. Antagonizing him wasn't the right course of action here and she knew it. She should've bowed her head down, apologize and walk away. But even when she knew it was the logical—the safe—route, she did always have an issue with people who confronted her head on like they thought they were owed her respect. Her grip tightened on her notes, her knuckles whitening as she debated whether engaging was worth the inevitable fallout. Probably not. And yet.
“I could say the same to you.” she replied, her voice clipped as she straightened her posture.
Malfoy’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a flicker in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or something sharper. “Noted.” he said, his voice cool but pointed. He didn’t step aside, his presence looming like a shadow over her next move. Around them, the crowd seemed to ripple, students slowing as though drawn by some magnetic force. Hermione felt their stares, their curiosity sharp and suffocating. Whispers already lifting in the air between them, as if she was offering the spectacle of the day. And maybe she was, if Ginny's warning about people being scared of defying the Viper Court had any credence.
She inhaled, letting the breath settle her frayed nerves. “If you’ll excuse me.” she said, stepping deliberately to the side. But Malfoy shifted too, his movements mirroring hers with infuriating precision.
“Am I in your way?” he asked, his smirk small but unmistakable. The question was rhetorical. He was in her way, both literally and figuratively, and he was clearly enjoying it.
Hermione’s jaw tightened. She refused to rise to the bait, though her patience was wearing thin. With measured precision, she took another step to the side.
“Yes.” she said simply, her voice steady despite the irritation simmering beneath it.
This time, Malfoy let her pass. But his gaze lingered, heavy and unrelenting, as though weighing something in the air between them. The crowd around them seemed to deflate, disappointed that the tension hadn’t erupted into something messier, louder. And yet the whispers didn't stop, the eyes trailing her movements didn't look away. She clearly had made a vital mistake. Shit. Hermione didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. The lingering weight of Malfoy’s attention was impossible to ignore.
By the time she reached her classroom, the irritation in her chest had settled into a dull thrum. She chose a seat near the middle—neutral ground, safe. Not too close to the front where questions demanded answers, but far enough from the back to avoid the undercurrent of chaos. As she unpacked her notes and pens, her thoughts circled back to the encounter, replaying it with the precision of a post-mortem.
Malfoy. It had to be him, didn’t it? The untouchable king of the Viper Court, walking through the halls like the world was a stage built exclusively for his performance. And maybe, Hermione thought with begrudging honesty, the world had given him reason to think so. Money, power, looks—he had all the tools to bend the universe to his will. But that didn’t make him less insufferable.
She exhaled sharply, forcing herself to refocus. The day was just beginning, and she refused to let it be derailed by Draco Malfoy of all people. Her pen flew across the page as the lecture began, the neat, orderly lines of her notes restoring a fragile sense of control.
But even as she worked, a thought wriggled its way into her mind, insistent and unwelcome. The way Malfoy had looked at her—not with the indifference she had expected, but with something sharper, something calculating. It wasn’t curiosity. Curiosity would have been simple. Manageable. This was something else entirely, something that gnawed at her edges.
It didn’t matter, she told herself, pressing her pen harder against the page. It couldn’t matter. She didn’t have time for games, especially not his.
The lecture passed in a blur of words and diagrams, and when it ended, Hermione packed her things quickly, eager to escape the room. The hallway was crowded, the noise swallowing her in waves, but this time she was ready for it. Her movements were deliberate, her focus honed. She had no intention of being caught off guard again.
And then she saw him. Again.
Malfoy stood near the corner, Theo and Blaise flanking him like bookends. They were an unapproachable wall of sharp angles and easy confidence, their presence carving a wide berth in the flow of students around them. For a fleeting moment, Hermione considered taking a different route. But the thought irritated her almost as much as Malfoy himself.
Squaring her shoulders, she kept her course. Blaise said something low, his voice carrying a note of amusement, and Theo’s quiet laugh followed. Hermione didn’t look their way, didn’t acknowledge the gravitational pull of their presence. But she felt Malfoy’s gaze land on her again, heavier this time, like a thread stretching taut between them.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stumble. Her steps were steady, her posture unyielding as she walked past without so much as a glance. If Malfoy wanted her attention, he wasn’t going to get it—not on his terms.
And yet, as she disappeared into the crowd, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that the thread hadn’t snapped. It had merely stretched, pulling tighter with every step she took.
The cafeteria was as alive and loud as it had been every single time Hermione had entered it, like a storm trapped under a glass dome. She stepped through the double doors, her tray balanced precariously as her eyes scanned the sea of tables. Most were full, clusters of students huddled together in their usual cliques. She spotted a few familiar faces from her lectures but quickly dismissed them. Familiarity didn’t equal safety, and besides, solitude had always been her preferred company. Except for Ginny who always seemed to force herself into her bubble whether she wanted it or not—an intrusion that, on rare occasion, had been nicer than she'd admit.
Finding an empty table near the edge of the room, Hermione sat down and began to arrange her things with a precision that bordered on compulsive. Notebook to the left, water bottle to the right, sandwich perfectly centered. The ritual steadied her, gave her hands something to do while her mind tried to catch its breath. She took a moment to inhale deeply, willing the chaotic hum of the cafeteria to recede into white noise.
But the quiet didn’t last.
The shift in the room’s energy was subtle at first, like the faint crackle of electricity before a lightning strike. Conversations grew quieter, laughter dimmed, and heads began to turn toward the entrance. Hermione didn’t need to look to know who had just walked in.
The Viper Court.
Draco Malfoy, Theo Nott, and Blaise Zabini strolled into the cafeteria like they owned the building—which, for all Hermione knew, they might as well have. They didn’t do anything overtly dramatic, no grand gestures or loud proclamations. But their presence rippled through the space, an unspoken demand for attention. Students moved aside as they passed, creating a natural path that led them to their usual table near the center of the room. She had seen that song and dance a million times back home, but seeing it in a setting as mundane as her University's cafeteria was jarring, putting back into perspective just how much people actually revered the trio. She had been told as much, had seen it for herself, but it was nothing compared to witnessing an entire room holding its collective breath while the three of them sauntered to their seats.
Hermione kept her head down, forcing her focus onto her notes. If she just stayed still, kept her movements small, they wouldn’t notice her. At least, that’s what she told herself. It wasn’t until she heard Blaise’s voice—louder than necessary, tinged with deliberate amusement—that she risked a glance in their direction.
“Well, well...” Blaise said, his gaze sweeping lazily across the room before landing on her. “If it isn’t the new pretty little scholar.”
Hermione stiffened, her grip tightening on her pen. She didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge him. Ignoring them was the only strategy that made sense. Engaging meant giving them what they wanted. She had already toed the line earlier with Malfoy but she wasn't about to make her case worse.
But Blaise wasn’t one to let things go so easily. “What do you think, Malfoy?” he continued, his tone light but laced with mischief. “Think she’ll lend us her notes? Or give us private tutoring sessions, you know, for educational purposes.”
There was a beat of silence before Draco responded, his voice lower, smoother. “I doubt it. She doesn’t look the type to share.”
Hermione’s stomach twisted. She could feel the weight of their attention, a pressure that was both irritating and impossible to ignore. And yet, she refused to look up. She scribbled another line in her notebook, biting absently in her sandwich though her focus was so honed onto their gazes upon her—not just theirs, but more than half the room it seemed—that she didn't taste a bite of it.
“Granger.” Draco said suddenly, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. It wasn’t loud, but it carried, clear and unmistakable.
Hermione’s hand froze mid-sentence. How did he even know her name? Slowly, deliberately, she set her pen down and looked up.
Draco was leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest and a faint smirk playing on his lips. Theo and Blaise flanked him, their expressions unreadable but no less focused. Around them, the cafeteria seemed to hold its breath once more.
“Yes?” Hermione said, her tone clipped but calm. She met his gaze head-on, her chin lifting slightly. Dangerous game, Hermione.
Draco’s smirk deepened. “I was just wondering if you’re as thorough with your notes as you are in… other areas.” The way he said it—low, deliberate, and dripping with insinuation—sent a ripple of muffled gasps and suppressed laughter through the nearby tables.
The insinuation hung in the air, as subtle as a bulldozer in a china shop. There was no mistaking what he meant, nor the effect he was trying to coax with his words. It was uncalled for, out of nowhere, but she had no doubt it was so childish retribution of his after the hallway incident. Hermione felt a flush of heat rise in her chest, but she forced it down, her expression remaining neutral. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a visible reaction.
“Why? Need a crash course on what you can’t manage yourself?” she replied smoothly, her voice steady and deceptively sweet.
The room seemed to ripple with the subtle tension of her words, the unspoken challenge embedded in them. Blaise’s grin widened, and Theo’s lips twitched as if suppressing a smirk. Draco’s expression didn’t falter, but something in his gaze sharpened, like he hadn’t expected her to bite back and he wasn't remotely happy about it.
“Hmm... Pity.” he said finally, his tone still casual but edged with something more dangerous now.
Hermione didn’t respond. Instead, she picked up her pen and returned to her notes, her movements deliberate as if to say, I’m done with this conversation. And she was. She had already gone too far, indulged his stupid little game too long. She didn't know why Draco Malfoy had set his sights on her today but she needed it to stop—and needed to put a tight restraint on that big mouth of hers.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the hum of the cafeteria resumed, the room shifting back to its usual rhythm. But Hermione could still feel their eyes on her, heavy against her back.
By the time she finished her lunch and packed up her things, the tension in her chest had eased, replaced by a simmering annoyance. She’d stood her ground, sure, but the encounter had left a mark—a thread of irritation woven into the fabric of her day. She didn't want anything to do with Malfoy, his ridiculous 'court' or the politics and mind games this place—and this trio—supposedly thrived on.
As she left the cafeteria, she couldn’t help but glance back. Draco was watching her, his expression unreadable, his gaze like a weight she couldn’t quite shrug off. She turned away quickly, her jaw tightening as she headed out for her next lecture. Whatever game he thought he was playing, she had no intention of being part of it. And yet, as she walked, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she might have set the pieces on the board herself, throwing the game in motion with her impulsive reactions.
Even the afternoon slug didn't drown the faint murmur of students shuffling to their seats and chatting about their day animatedly. Hermione slid into a spot near the middle, her notebook already open and pens lined up with military precision. She was happy to realize that in almost every single class so far, she had been able to snatch one of those middle-of-the-room spots she found her safety in.
Unfortunately, safety was a relative concept.
Draco Malfoy strolled in five minutes late, his entrance a perfectly calibrated disruption. She had—despite herself—noticed this was his usual M.O. The door swung shut behind him with a soft thud, but the ripple effect was immediate. Heads turned, whispers stirred, and the professor hesitated mid-sentence, glancing briefly toward the intruder before resuming his lecture. Malfoy, of course, looked utterly unbothered, his pace unhurried as he made his way up the rows. She expected him to huddle with his little posse at the back, as she had seen him do on multiple occasions now. But even though his cronies were perched on their little makeshift thrones a few rows further back, Malfoy chose to sit a row behind her, slightly to her right forcing himself to be in her peripheral vision still. Naturally.
Hermione didn’t look at him. Or rather, she told herself she wouldn’t look at him, her resolve wavering as her gaze flicked upward for a fraction of a second before snapping back to her notebook. He’d seen her glance, she was sure of it, and the faint curl of his smirk was visible even in from the corner of her eye. Fucking nuisance.
She’d heard Ginny’s voice that morning on the quad, still ringing in her ears like a warning bell. “You’re the talk of the school.” Ginny had said, her tone caught somewhere between amusement and concern. “People can’t believe you stood up to Draco Malfoy today. Not once, Hermione. Twice. Do you even realize how reckless that is? Were you sleeping in your coffee when I told you nobody goes against there for good reasons?”
Hermione had rolled her eyes, pulling her scarf tighter against the chill. “It wasn’t reckless. I didn’t do anything worth talking about. He made a comment. I responded.”
Ginny had grabbed her arm, stopping her mid-stride. “You don’t get it. People don’t respond to Malfoy. And when they do, they regret it. He doesn’t just let things go, Hermione. He’s…” She paused, searching for the right words. “Focused. And not in a good way. Once you’ve caught his attention, it’s hard to shake it.”
“So what are you saying?” Hermione had asked, more sharply than she intended. “That I should sit quietly and let him talk down to me?”
She knew that, yes, it was exactly what she was supposed to do, what she had wanted to do. But some impulses were harder to shake than others and her biting back was one of them apparently—a great time for her to figure that out, really.
Ginny’s expression softened. “No. I’m saying be careful. Malfoy’s not just playing games. For him, it’s about control, and nothing good comes from being at the center of his attention.”
Now, seated in the lecture hall, Hermione tried to channel Ginny’s advice. Ignore him. Stay quiet. Don’t attract more attention than you already have. But then Malfoy opened his mouth.
“Would Rousseau not contradict himself, then,” Draco said, his voice cutting through the air like a knife, “by suggesting that man is born free but is everywhere in chains?”
The professor paused, clearly startled, but he recovered quickly. “An interesting question, Mr. Malfoy. I would argue that—”
Hermione tuned out the rest, her pen hovering above the page. She knew what this was. She’d seen it before. Draco wasn’t asking because he cared about Rousseau. He was asking because he wanted a reaction. Not from the professor—he could feign academic curiosity well enough to earn their indulgence. No, this was for the students. For her.
Her fingers tightened around her pen, her jaw clenching as she forced her focus back to her notes. Ignore him. Don’t take the bait.
But then he spoke again.
“And if the social contract is predicated on mutual agreement, doesn’t that make it inherently fragile? What happens when one party decides the contract no longer serves their interests?”
The professor opened his mouth to respond, but Hermione’s voice cut through first. She was so sick of him interrupting the lecture as some show of force for a few glances and giggles. Some people—her—wanted to learn, to focus, to actually contribute to society at some point instead of remaining a waste of air.
“It depends.” she said, her tone sharper than she intended. Her head lifted, her gaze locking onto Malfoy’s over her shoulder with startling precision. “On whether you’re discussing Rousseau’s original framework or one of the many misinterpretations people have latched onto since. If it’s the latter, then yes, it’s fragile. But Rousseau wasn’t naive. He accounted for dissent, which is why his focus was on collective will, not individual convenience.”
The room fell silent. The kind of silence that had weight, tension, anticipation. Hermione could feel the stares pressing in from all sides, the collective disbelief that anyone would dare interrupt Draco Malfoy mid-performance.
Draco leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening ever so slightly. “Impressive.” he said, his voice a shade too casual. “And here I thought no one else in this room had anything interesting to say.”
Hermione’s lips twitched, her annoyance blooming into something sharper. Ginny’s warning echoed in her mind, but it wasn’t enough to stop her. “Perhaps if you spent less time performing, you’d realize the rest of us are already ahead of you.”
A collective gasp rippled through the room. Blaise, seated a few rows behind Malfoy, let out a low whistle, while Theo’s head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable but his interest unmistakable. Malfoy, to his credit, didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk deepened, his eyes narrowing in what could only be described as amusement. Hermione knew the edge that was hiding behind it though. She had struck a nerve. Again. Shit.
“Touché.” he said smoothly, inclining his head slightly as though they had just been dueling.
Hermione didn’t respond. She turned back to her notes, her pen moving with renewed determination as the professor awkwardly resumed his lecture. The tension in the room lingered, though, thick and heavy like an overcast sky threatening rain. She ignored it. Or at least, she tried.
The rest of the lecture passed without incident, though Hermione could feel Malfoy’s gaze on her like a physical weight. It wasn’t constant—he had the tact to make it intermittent—but it was there, unmistakable, and it grated on her nerves. By the time the professor dismissed the class, she was the first to gather her things, her movements quick and precise as she stuffed her notebook into her bag. She didn’t look back as she exited the lecture hall, but she didn’t have to. She could feel them watching, Malfoy and his entourage, their attention a tangible thing that followed her into the corridor. She walked faster, her shoulders squared and her jaw tight, refusing to let them—him—see her flinch.
It wasn’t until she was halfway to the library that her pace slowed, the adrenaline ebbing away as her mind replayed the exchange. She should have kept her mouth shut. She should have ignored him, let his question hang unanswered like so many others had before. Engaging was a mistake, one she couldn’t afford to repeat. And yet, a small, rebellious part of her couldn’t help but feel satisfied. She hadn’t just held her ground; she’d pushed back.
Still, she knew better than to think it was over. Draco Malfoy didn't seem like the type to let things go, and Hermione Granger wasn’t the type to back down—even when she so clearly should, or wanted to. The collision course had been set, and there was no telling when the crash would happen.