Elegies for the Unbroken

Draco

Draco had always been good at waiting. Patience, after all, was a weapon like any other, honed to precision and wielded with care. But this morning, sitting across from Theo in their usual corner of the café, he found his patience thinning by the second. The smell of stale coffee, overly sugary drinks and disinfectant clung to the air, and the muted chatter of other patrons grated against his nerves. He tapped his fingers against the table, the rhythm dissonant and disjointed just like his thoughts, a silent demand for Theo to stop stalling.

Theo, of course, didn’t seem to notice—or, more likely, didn’t care. He rarely dragged things out unless he had a good reason. He shuffled the cards in his hands with an absent precision, the faint snap of the deck filling the space between them. His expression was calm, unreadable, but there was a faint glint of amusement in his sharp blue eyes. The sharpness was familiar, back to its' muted and composed state, and Draco caught himself wondering how long Theo had been back on his meds. 

It was always like this: he’d stop for a while, let the raw edges of his mind spiral until the chaos that came with his condition became too much, and then quietly dose himself back into calm detachment. It was—medically speaking—very reckless behaviour, but Theo had a way of spiralling alone in his head that only he could solve with antics like theses. Draco and Blaise had long since learned to see the signs and react accordingly. They'd never tell their friend what to do, it was his own body, his own mind and it functioned in a way neither of them could relate to. They trusted him to be smart enough to mess himself up just enough that it was still salvageable the next day and so far it hadn't steered them wrong. According to Theo, the meds made his emotions feel muted, blurry, but Draco sometimes wondered if that made him more dangerous, not less. 

“Are you going to sit there playing solitaire all morning,” Draco drawled, “or are you going to tell me what you found?”

Theo’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk. “Patience, Draco. You’re the one who said this was a marathon, not a sprint.”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t say I wanted to stay behind the starting line either.”

With a low chuckle, Theo set the cards down and leaned back in his chair, his posture loose but deliberate. “Fine. You want the good news or the boring news first?”

“Start with boring and work your way up.”

“Her father’s a dentist,” Theo began, his tone flat, as though the words themselves bored him. “Mother was a dental assistant. She died in a car crash when she was about thirteen. No siblings. No extended family worth noting. She got emancipated at seventeen, worked her way through school, and landed here on a scholarship.”

Draco waited for more, but Theo simply raised an eyebrow as if daring him to find it interesting.

“That’s it?” Draco said, his voice sharp. “That’s what took you a week to dig up?”

Theo’s smirk widened, a dangerous glint in his eye. “That’s the boring part, remember? Now, for the good stuff: like I told you before, she knows how to count cards.”

Draco’s brow furrowed. “And?”

“And,” Theo continued, leaning forward slightly, “I tried following her digital footprint—or what little of it there was—outside from her student file and there’s no record of her ever setting foot in Vegas. Or Atlantic City. Or anywhere else remotely interesting. It’s like she picked up the skill for fun and then never used it. Which, honestly, makes her even more fascinating.”

Fascinating. The word grated against Draco’s ears, setting his teeth on edge. He didn’t like the way Theo said it, the faint trace of intrigue in his voice. Theo didn’t get fascinated easily. He was the kind of person who had very little interest into anything remotely breathing unless he had a reason to narrow his focus in their direction. It was rare enough to see him put effort into anything outside their usual games of manipulation and control, but the fact that he was putting that effort into Hermione Granger was… oddly irritating. 

“And this is worth my time because..?” Draco asked, his voice colder now.

“Because it doesn’t add up.” Theo said simply, shrugging. “Between that, the scars and that edge she has... She’s too controlled. Too precise. Everything about her screams calculated. Even hacking into everything I could find about her and her relatives, there’s no trail. No breadcrumbs. Just clean, boring lines where there should be anything. It's like Hermione's online history has been scrubbed clean.”

Draco was hearing the words coming out of Theo's mouth. He was understanding their meaning. He was aware of the puzzle piece they represented. But suddenly none of it computed because all he could focus on was one, tiny detail in the sea of information. Hermione, Theo had said. It wasn't the first time he'd heard his friend call her that since the party, and it didn't sound any better the more he heard it. He called her Granger. That's who she was. A faraway stranger, a stubborn thorn on his side that would be eradicated as soon as he found a way to dislodge her from his mind. Granger. Not Hermione. Not out loud at least. He could call her whatever he wanted in his mind, but here, in the light of day? Hermione sounded... intimate. And hearing it on Theo's tongue felt wrong in every way, leaving him with his jaw clenched and more questions about his own reactions than he was willing to ponder over. 

Blaise chose that moment to slide into the seat beside Theo, his arrival paired with a wink to their barista and a sly smile as he leaned back in his chair, unbothered by his lateness. He glanced between the two of them, his dark eyes gleaming with curiosity.

“What’s this?” Blaise asked, his grin widening as he took in the tension. “A lovers’ quarrel?”

Theo snorted. “Hardly. Draco’s just being impatient. Again.”

“I’m not impatient.” Draco said, his voice tight. “I’m just not interested in wasting time.”

“Right...” Blaise drew out the word with an air of mock understanding. He draped one arm over the back of his chair. “So, what’s the verdict on Granger? Is she hiding a secret life as a blackjack dealer or something?”

“Nothing that exciting, unfortunately.” Theo said with a shrug. “But she’s interesting.”

“Glad to see I'm not the only one with good taste here then.” Blaise’s grin widened, his gaze flicking to Draco. 

Draco’s fingers curled against the edge of the table, his nails pressing into the wood. He forced a smirk, the expression sharp enough to cut. “Good taste isn’t enough to keep you alive, Zabini. Maybe keep that in mind.”

Blaise laughed, the sound low and unbothered. “Relax, Drake. I’m just saying she’s got layers. You don’t see that often, especially not around these parts.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to Draco. "Speaking of layers, the party was over a week ago, how long until we put this little pet project in motion?" His voice was light, but the teasing edge was unmistakable. 

Draco’s smirk faltered, irritation simmering beneath the surface, knowing the party had been brought up just to get on his last nerve. He didn’t need the reminder. Blaise had relayed the story of Hermione stuck in a room with the two of them the morning after the party, his grin too smug for Draco’s liking. Even then, it had grated. The idea of her trapped between Blaise’s easy charm and Theo’s intense gaze as they played their usual games with her, had set something sour in his chest. He hadn’t liked it then, and he liked it even less now. Sure, he knew that prodding and poking at her from three angles instead of one was beneficial, that they were the perfect allies to make even the most resilient people bend and break. But still, no matter how much he had tried to logic his way through that particular problem, it never made him feel less annoyed. 

He’d shared the detail about her scars that same morning. For half a second, he’d considered keeping it to himself, hoarding it like a secret treasure—something only he knew, something that made her feel more like his puzzle to solve. But he’d decided against it. They needed the full picture. At least, that’s what he told himself.

"Really?" Blaise's voice broke through his haze of thoughts. He was watching him and whatever he saw etched on his features had him amused. "You're still bothered about that night, aren't you?" he laughed, dropping his head back for a second. "She held her own, you know. Better than we expected, actually." His grin widened. "Though I don’t imagine she enjoyed the company as much as we did."

Theo chuckled softly, shuffling his deck of cards with a fluid ease. "She reminds me of you, D. All sharp edges and defiance. Makes me wonder how she'll react to your... game."

Draco didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze sharp as he studied Theo and Blaise. The unspoken tension hung between them, but it seemed he was the only one feeling the pressure of it against his chest. It was her fault no doubt. He didn't know how, but it had to be. Draco Malfoy didn't do jealousy, especially not with the only two people that mattered outside of himself.

“Set it up today.” Draco said finally, his tone smooth but cold. “You both know what needs to happen next.”

Blaise twirled his lighter between his fingers, his grin widening, but he didn’t push further. Theo, for his part, simply nodded, his expression unreadable as he cut his deck. The ease between them was as smooth as it had always been, a well oiled machine that had gone through those motions a million time. He nodded once in return, a silent acknowledgment that they had finally decided to take matters into their own hands. Theo shuffled the cards absently, his gaze distant, but Draco knew him well enough to recognize the sharp focus lurking beneath the surface. He was ready, they all were.

"We’ll start slow." Theo had said days ago when they had first talked about the plan, his tone almost clinical. "Like an insidious sickness. One little push at a time until she cracks."

Blaise had leaned back then, his smirk as infuriatingly amused as ever. "Slow works. It’s more fun to watch it spread. Strip her down piece by piece until there’s nothing left but the shivering mess in the palm of your hand."

Draco had said nothing at the time, but the image had lingered, too appealing for comfort. The idea of Hermione brought low, her sharp edges dulled and her defiance turned into something pliable, something his to command, sent a thrill down his spine that bordered on arousal. He had shifted in his seat before it could take hold, but for a second the feeling had lodged itself in a small, dark corner of his mind. And that was the most infuriating part of all.

Draco stood, brushing imaginary dust from his jacket. “Time for me to set this ball rolling. I'll leave the rest to you, mates.”

He turned and left the café, his mind already spinning with plans. The irritation that simmered beneath his skin wasn’t going away, but he’d channel it into something useful. Something sharp. Something that would remind Hermione Granger she was playing a game rigged from the start.

Draco stepped inside the building where the women dormitory resided, like he had every right and reason to be there. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his expensive coat. The chill in the air had bit at his skin all the way there, but he hadn't noticed. His focus was elsewhere—on the precise timing, the predictable rhythm of Hermione Granger's life that had made this moment possible. Hermione would still be in the library, head bent over her notes, entirely oblivious to the world outside her neatly drawn lines. He’d watched her long enough to know exactly when she’d pack up, which route she’d take back, and how many minutes he had before she returned.

That predictability should have bored him. Instead, it had become an anchor. Something solid and constant during his day, punctuated by the chaotic spiral of his own thoughts as he watched her repeat the same movements, the same patterns and the same routes day in and day out with little variety. He wasn't admiring her—he refused to call it that, the idea alone made his sick. He was observing. He was gathering intel. He was—for all intent and purposes—pleasing the part of his brain that had latched onto her like a thorn or a splinter. The kind that crawled under his skin and made him itch for control.

He glanced over his shoulder once, ensuring the hallway was empty, before pulling a master key from his pocket. Blaise had acquired it in their first year—a relic of his particular talent for seduction and manipulation. He still boasted occasionally about how he’d charmed an RA into falling for him in three days flat, only to leave her hanging at a party after fucking her in an empty room. The memory made Draco’s smirk deepen as the door clicked open effortlessly. Too easy. His lips curled further as he stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

It had become apparent really quickly, as he observed Hermione, that she had a compulsive need, it seemed, to look for the doors and windows in every room she entered. Although Draco didn't know why—yet another mystery that infuriated him about her—he was pretty confident this need of hers would translate into her private quarters as well. He suspected someone like her wouldn't take kindly to her space, her sanctuary, being defiled in a way that made her realize it was all too easy to break the sanctity of her peace. This, of course, only made it all the sweeter when he took a long stride inside the room.

The space was exactly as he expected: one side a chaotic mess of colours and clutter that screamed Weasley—he had made a point to learn the redhead's name after the party, when he heard they had not only come but left together as well. The other side was… stark. Hermione’s side was ruthlessly tidy, everything arranged with military precision. Her books were stacked neatly on the desk, her pens arranged in a perfect line. Even her bed looked untouched, the blanket folded so tightly it could have been a display in a shop window.

Draco moved through the space slowly, his steps deliberate. He let his gaze roam, cataloguing every detail. It was austere, yes, but there was something else. The absence of personality felt deliberate, like she’d scrubbed herself out of the space entirely. Something that seemed to become a trend as far as she was concerned. It irritated him more than it should have. She was hiding something. She had to be. He thought about what Theo had said, about how mundanely boring her student file had been. Then he closed his eyes for a second, the image of her scars and her burning gaze on him as vivid in his mind as it had been a week ago. Those were two different people, there was no other way about it, Draco could feel it deep in his gut.

He pulled a cigarette from from where he had tucked it behind his ear and brought it to his lips in a fluid gesture. With a click of his zippo, he lit it, the flame flickering in the dim light. Smoke curled around him as he took a long drag, letting it settle his thoughts before releasing the cloud of smoke in Hermione's space. Slowly, almost methodically, he placed the cigarette on the edge of her desk, letting the ash begin to fall onto the wood and—just because he was feeling particularly petty, he nudged one of her rigidly set pens to be just a little crooked. 

A quiet mark. A reminder that he’d been here, that her perfectly controlled world wasn’t as impenetrable as she wanted it to be. 

It wasn't a grand show of strength. He could have cornered her in an alley, hurt her, scared her enough that she'd run. It wouldn't have been the first time he got his hands dirty. But Theo had been right, slow and steady was the way to go with a woman like Hermione. Especially if he wanted to savour stripping her of all her secrets, her walls and her pride bit by small bit. And for that he needed to burrow himself inside her mind like she had so effortlessly done with his—and slowly up the ante until she was unravelling. Theo and Blaise were already doing their part on that front, he was sure. His job, for tonight, was done.

But he didn’t leave. Not yet.

His gaze drifted to the rest of her things. Her bed, meticulously made, with only two pillows juxtaposed on top of each other. Her suitcase, barely peeking out from under her bed, seemingly empty. Her side table, with a simple lamp and a book on 19th century philosophers tabbed with coloured post-it notes that jutted out of its side. Her wardrobe. It was closed, the door slightly misaligned as if it had been opened and shut too many times. 

Before he could think better of it, he stepped closer and pulled it open. The contents were as sparse as he expected: a row of neatly hung clothes, all practical and devoid of flair, in a array of similar shades to what he had seen her sport since she arrived. Black, brown, beige and the occasional shade of grey. He let his fingertips brush some of the mixed fabrics without a proper goal in mind. Until one item caught his eye—a thin scarf, soft and worn, folded carefully on a shelf.

He’d seen her wear it before. He had actually noticed it on her twice, this week alone, the pale fabric draped around her neck like an afterthought, something simple that absolutely didn't pair well with that horrendous jacket of hers and yet still seemed to fit her... aesthetic?—surely it could barely be called that. His hand moved before his brain caught up, fingers brushing against the soft material. The touch sent a jolt through him—not the static kind, but the kind that settled low in his stomach, twisting there like a coil, like it had to be his now.

He wrapped the scarf around his fist slowly, the motion deliberate, almost reverent. The fabric seemed to warm under his touch, its softness at odds with the sharp lines and rigid control she wore like armor. Just as slowly as he did everything else, he lifted it to his face, the movement as instinctive as breathing, and the scent hit him like a punch. Lavender, sharp and clean. Like her hair that night at the party—something he hadn't been able to get out of his head no matter how hard he had tried. It was unmistakably her, clinging to the fabric like a whisper of who she was.

Draco’s breath hitched, his body responding in a way that was as infuriating as it was undeniable. The scent alone triggered something primal, a surge of arousal that blurred with his irritation. He hated it—hated how her presence, her existence, had carved out a space in him that he couldn’t fill with anything else. He had tried booze. He had tried sex. None of it had remotely worked. He pressed the scarf harder against his nose, inhaling deeply, the act both grounding and sending him precariously on the edge, a low, guttural groan escaping his lips before he could swallow it down. 

The unwelcome sound—finally—took him out of it, snapping his hand, and the piece of cloth, away from his face. This wasn’t about her. Not really. It was about control. Possession. The knowledge that he could hold something so intimately hers without her permission. That he could invade her space, her life, without leaving a single crack in his own. 

The thought made his pulse quicken, a dark thrill threading through his veins even as his jaw tightened against the urge to throw the scarf back on the shelf and leave it untouched. This was dangerous territory and he knew it. It had been a long time since he'd wanted this kind of feeling, of control, so badly—and he rarely let himself think about the last time it had happened. But he didn’t discard the scarf like he should have. He couldn’t. His grip on the fabric tightened, his thumb brushing over its edge as if committing its texture to memory. 

He took a slow, shuddering breath, the scent of lavender invading his senses even now. He hated how instinctive it felt, how natural, to press the scarf to his nose and inhale. The scent had filled his lungs, stirring something deep in his chest and—more importantly—stoked a fire in his lower belly, the exact same way he had felt himself harden under her daring eyes at the party, when he imagined himself sinking his cigarette against her skin.

The sound of footsteps and chatter passing in front of the door in the corridor outside snapped him out of his own reverie. His head jerked toward the door, his heart echoing in his ears as the reality of where he was settled over him. Hermione would be returning from the library, with her roommate in toe, any second now. He wasn't even sure how long he had stood there, in the middle of her room, unmoving. He glanced at his watch and then at the scarf in his hand, hesitating for a fraction of a second before stuffing it into his pocket quickly. The cigarette still burned on the desk, its ash scattering like breadcrumbs. He straightened, his movements quick but efficient, giving the room one last look-over, ensuring he had left no other trace of his presence.

Satisfied, he slipped out through the door, locking it behind him before sauntering back down, to the exit opposite the main entrance, his pulse thrumming in his ears as he stepped into the cool night air. The scarf was still in his pocket, its weight metaphorically heavy, like a dirty little secret he wasn’t ready to examine too closely.

As he walked away, his thoughts churned, a tangled mess of irritation and satisfaction. He hated her for making him feel this way—hated the way she occupied space in his mind, the way her presence dug under his skin and refused to let go, making him act in ways that were so beneath him. It wasn't the first time that had happened—as Blaise and Theo worriedly enjoyed reminding him—but it was the strongest time yet. It was a minefield he was all-too aware of. But he couldn’t stop. Not now. Not until he’d unravelled every thread, pulled her apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but the truth.

And maybe, just maybe, the pieces would belong to him then.

The scarf sat on the edge of Draco’s desk, an unassuming thing that somehow felt like it occupied more space than it physically could. The pale fabric caught the soft light spilling from the nearby lamp, highlighting the faint wear along its edges, the subtle fray of threads that suggested it had been touched often, handled with care. He hated how much he noticed about it, how every detail seemed etched into his mind like a brand. 

He hated he had it in the first place. Why did he take it? It had taken a hold of him like a compulsion and before he knew it, he had to have it. Odd. Infuriatingly, maddeningly, odd.

Draco leaned back in his chair, the cool leather pressing against his spine. His cigarette smouldered between his fingers, the ash dangerously close to falling onto the cluttered papers beneath it. He didn’t care. His focus was elsewhere, fixed on the scarf like it was mocking him. The rational part of his brain insisted he should burn it, shred it, do something to erase its existence before it burrowed any deeper under his skin. But the rest of him—the darker, more stubborn part—couldn’t let it go.

The scarf smelled like her. That sharp lavender scent, clean and just flowery enough. It clung to the fabric like a memory, like something she’d left behind for him and him only to find. Of course, that wasn’t true. She didn’t even know it was missing. But the thought of her realizing it, of her searching for it and wondering where it had gone, made something twist in his chest—a sharp, possessive thrill that felt like a rush of pure adrenaline like nothing else.

He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply as he tried to push the thought away. The smoke burned his throat, grounding him for a moment before his mind circled back to the same maddening place. HermioneGranger. Her name alone was enough to set his nerves on fire, the syllables grating against his psyche like nails on a chalkboard. He couldn't stop remembering how Theo had pronounced Hermione. How Blaise had smugly recounted the way he'd slip a wild curl behind her ear. The fire in her eyes when she stood in front of him, chin tilted defiantly, daring him to hurt her, break her, like he was more insignificant than anything and everything else in her life.

She’d walked into his world with her sharp words and defiant gaze, refusing to flinch no matter how much he pushed. People here—the pleb he had seen come and go from the University grounds for years—didn't usually take work or forethought. They heard about their reputation and flinched from a glance or a well placed quip. She hadn't and that had been enough for him apparently. Enough for Blaise and Theo too, if the strange amount of interest they had shown was anything to go by—something he felt himself gripping the armrest of his chair just thinking about. 

Her scars spoke of a past that didn’t fit the clean lines of her student file. Her demeanour, her gaze, her energy. Not of it made sense and this was exactly why she occupied space in his head like she belonged there, carving out a place for herself without permission, making herself Queen of his fortress.

Draco exhaled, the smoke curling around him like a shroud. He hated her for it. Hated the way she got under his skin, the way she made him feel like he wasn’t in control. But it didn't matter anymore. He was still grappling with the realization—the inevitability really, that he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t let her slip from his grasp. That he didn't even want to. She was a puzzle, an enigma, a problem. And Draco didn't only want answers, solutions. That need had slowly, insidiously started to morph into something else, something he knew too well. 

Obsession.

The cigarette burned low between his fingers, the ember threatening to singe his skin. He stubbed it out in the ashtray with a sharp twist, the motion practiced and almost graceful. His gaze drifted back to the scarf, and for a moment, he just stared at it, his thoughts a tangled mess, his head trying to find a compromise between irritation and desire.

This was moronic. Dangerous. And yet, the idea of giving it back or getting rid of it like he should—of letting it slip from his grasp—felt impossible now. It wasn’t just a scarf. It was hers. A piece of her that he’d taken, that he now owned. A minuscule part maybe, but a part that was now his, nonetheless. The thought sent another jolt through him, one he tried and failed to suppress.

A knock at the door shattered the silence, and Draco’s head snapped up, his body tensing instinctively. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze darting between the scarf and the door before he stood and crossed the room in a few quick strides. He opened the door just enough to see Blaise standing on the other side, his ever-present smirk firmly in place.

“You look mighty tense.” Blaise said, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Something on your mind? Someone, maybe?”

Draco’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Theo’s got another theory about Granger. Thought you’d want to hear it.”

“Not now.” Draco said sharply, but the words felt hollow even as they left his mouth. Of course he wanted to know everything he could about her and Blaise didn't miss the discrepancy, of course. He never missed anything.

“Right...” Blaise drawled, his tone laced with amusement. “Well, when you’re done brooding, you know where to find us.”

He turned to leave, but paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “By the way, that thing you’re hiding behind your back? It’s cute. Very... stalker-ish of you.”

Draco’s grip on the door tightened, his pulse spiking as he realized his desk—and by default Hermione's scarf that was in full display atop it, were visible just over his shoulder from the doorway. He didn’t respond, didn’t give Blaise the satisfaction of a reaction, but the smirk on Blaise’s face as he walked away made Draco’s blood boil.

He shut the door with more force than necessary, his chest heaving as he leaned back against it. The scarf laid crumpled in front of him, the fabric looking soft and warm even from a distance. He should have been angry—at Blaise, at himself, at everything—but all he could feel was the weight of the scarf and the maddening pull of her scent still clinging to it.

Draco crossed the room and dropped himself onto his bed, just far enough away for the piece of cloth to be out of his reach. He didn't want a repeat performance. Getting a hard-on from smelling her things? He wasn't a prepubescent boy anymore, that had been an affront to his composure, pure and simple. It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. And yet, as he sat there and stared at the pale fabric, he knew he was lying to himself.

The scarf still smelled like her, and Draco had committed that scent to memory now.