Elegies for the Unbroken

Draco

The buzzing of the tattoo machine filled the small room, a constant, droning hum that slowly made the tension coiling in Draco's chest ebb away with each prick of the needle—the ink seeping deep under his skin, soothing in its permanency. He leaned back in the chair, his torso exposed, his shirt discarded in a careless heap on the floor. Almost every inch of it was covered in black lines by name, save for a few rare patches of skin around his sides. The needle dragged sharp, deliberate lines just under his ribs, the pain a dull thrum that he welcomed. It was almost meditative, a steady ache that drowned out the storm raging in his head.

“I’m just saying,” Blaise drawled from his perch on a stool nearby, “this might be the stupidest idea you’ve ever had. And that’s saying something... between the shop this morning, and now this. This  is a new low mate.”

Draco didn’t respond immediately. He’d learned long ago that Blaise’s commentary was like a persistent itch: irritating but inevitable. Still, the jab landed. This morning had been... impulsive, even for him. The purchase itself hadn't been an issue—his last name alone meant he could've bought the entire store and still walk out of it richer than all of the other clients combined. The reason for it however, was a different story. The choice hadn't been entirely out of the blue, he'd thought about it. Only for a second, in the ride back to campus in the middle of the night, sure, but it was forethought all the same. The tattoo was much of the same. They had reasons, purposes. They were needs, albeit ones he didn't fully process himself. But right now, he wasn’t in the mood to indulge Blaise’s wit or try to explain things he hadn't even vocalized to himself completely. His focus was elsewhere, tethered to the sharp sting of the needle and the memories he couldn’t quite shake.

Hermione Granger, holding him at knifepoint. The image was seared into his mind, as vivid now as it had been the night before. The way her hand had steadied, the blade pressing just enough to draw a thin line of blood at his throat. The fire in her eyes had been almost hypnotic, a mix of rage and defiance that had rendered him utterly still. She had looked terrifying under the yellow lighting, the knife dancing between her fingers with unreal speeds—a goddess demanding to be worshipped on hands and knees. And he had wanted nothing but to do exactly as she asked. 

Him, Draco Malfoy, the King of the Viper Courts—of all campus, the one people feared and whispered about. He had wanted to get on his knees with nothing on his tongue but her name as a prayer. That alone had been a horrible realization—this wasn't how things were supposed to turn out. This wasn't what he had wanted when he had started that game with her. But the battle had been a losing one it seemed, because no matter how much he played it in his mind, he couldn't see an outcome where she didn't become his one and only queen. Dark, dangerous, beautiful in her rage.

And then she’d laughed—manic and unhinged—her voice echoing in the cavernous warehouse. That sound had widened cracks in him he hadn't noticed until then and when the first tear finally broke through her composure, those cracks turned into shattered pieces, entirely destroying the carefully constructed image he’d had of her. She wasn’t just sharp edges and venomous wit. She was raw, unravelling, her control fraying at the seams. And those scars...

Draco’s jaw tightened, his fingers clenching briefly against the chair’s padded armrest. The scars had told a story he hadn’t been prepared to hear. Not self-inflicted, not accidental—he had thought about them often, even before he had known the sheer amount of them powdering her skin. Thought they were from an accident or a desire to harm herself. Or both. But it wasn't it. She'd said her mother's accident had been the reason but the words the slipped from her mouth afterwards had told a different story—one he couldn't get out of his head. One he couldn't condone. The marks were deliberate. Someone had put them there. Someone had tried to break her. And for reasons he couldn’t fully articulate, the thought made his blood boil. The kind of rage simmering under his skin that he didn't quite know what to do with. He'd been angry before, fuming, resentful or vengeful, yes. But this, this was the kind of anger that consumed someone from the inside out and it had taken him by surprise.

“You’re quiet today.” Blaise said, leaning back with a smirk that was equal parts curiosity and amusement. “Usually, you’re at least pretending to ignore me. But this? This is almost unsettling.”

Draco glanced at him, his expression flat. “You’re more tolerable when you’re not talking.”

Blaise’s grin widened. “Ah, there he is. I was starting to think you’d finally succumbed to whatever  kind of existential crisis you're clearly going through today. Maybe over a... certain someone?”

“Don’t.” The warning was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. 

Blaise raised his hands in mock surrender with a chuckle that was as warm as the room itself, but the glint in his eyes remained. He thrived on pushing boundaries, toeing the line until it disappeared entirely. He seemed so unbothered by the events of the night prior, sauntering around with his usual smile, lounging on his chair like he didn't have a care in the world. Even Theo had looked more affected this morning—as affected as someone like him could look. But Draco had known both of them long enough to be aware this was how Blaise handled things. Shoving them being a smile and wise-ass comments to avoid showing cracks in the façade. That, or he simply didn't feel the weight of the evening the way Draco did—unbelievable as it felt.

The tattoo artist glanced up briefly, her expression unreadable as she wiped away the ink and blood pooling under Draco’s ribs. “Almost done.” she said, her voice low and professional.

Draco gave a curt nod, his attention shifting back to the present. The sting of the needle felt distant now, overshadowed by the vivid replay of Hermione’s breakdown. She'd left herself fall on the couch after all was said and down—once the tears only remained as dried streaks tinted red onto skin. He hadn't expect her to try and run—she clearly didn't have the energy for it. But it had been clear she was fighting tooth and nail not to fall asleep, even as the weight of her own exhaustion was pulling her under. He couldn't blame her, even in those circumstances, it seemed like her own mind and body had lashed out back at her so thoroughly that there had been nothing left for her to cling to in terms of energy. And eventually she lost the battle—to her own dismay, he was sure—and passed out on the worn leather. 

After she’d finally collapsed, he and the others had driven her back to campus. Draco was surprised, even now, that she hadn't woken up. Not when he slid his arms under her body and lifted her against his chest all the way to the car. Not when he sat her down on the backseat, her head lulling dangerously close to Theo's shoulder—to Draco's displeasure—whilst Blaise sat next to him at the front. And not once they'd parked back in front of the campus, walking down the empty, quiet quad, the night air biting sharply at their skin. They’d settled her in Draco's bed then, her breathing even but shallow, the lines of tension on her face seemingly etched there even in slumber.

It had been unsettling, watching her sleep—and he had watched for hours, sitting painfully still in his armchair next to the bed. She looked smaller somehow, the armor she wore so well stripped away in the quiet of the night. And even then, she’d been defiant, her fingers curling into the fabric of his pillow like she was ready to fight even in her dreams. Her lips had parted, breaths and whimpers escaping them—sometimes words Draco couldn't quite decipher. And he'd been entranced, the night turning into day before he realized he hadn't closed his eyes once.

Blaise’s voice cut through his thoughts again. “You know, if you’re trying to exorcise your demons maybe pick something else next time... Like yoga. Or therapy.”

“Why are you here?” Draco asked, his tone sharp but devoid of real heat.

“To keep you company, of course,” Blaise replied with a mock-innocent expression. “Also, to witness whatever mid-life crisis you’re spiralling into at the ripe old age of twenty-four.”

Draco didn’t bother responding. He focused instead on the steady hum of the tattoo machine, the sharp lines being etched into his skin. The pain was grounding, a physical tether to a world that felt increasingly unstable under his feet—without mentioning the chaotic, incomprehensible state of his thoughts and the direction they had started to take. When the artist finally leaned back and announced she was finished, Draco exhaled slowly, the tightness in his chest easing just slightly. He stood, his movements deliberate as he pulled his shirt back over his head, the fabric brushing against the thin film covering his fresh tattoo. He didn’t flinch. He welcomed the sting.

Blaise stood, stretching lazily as Draco settled the payment. “Well, that was fun,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Shall we head back to our sleeping beauty now, or do you have another monumentally bad idea in mind?”

Draco clenched his teeth at the appellation—our, Blaise had said—and ignored him, stepping out into the brisk morning air. The wind bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were already pulling him back to the night before. To Hermione’s fire, her tears, the scars that told a story he was beginning to realize he desperately wanted to understand. More than anything, his thoughts circled back to the image of her, laying in his bed, wearing his shirt and clutching his people like it had done her a personal affront. And he wanted to be back there—just so he could look at her a few more minutes before, inevitably, she woke up and started spitting venom at him once more.

There was only one thing left in his head—a thing he had realized when he saw her break down,  a  promise he’d made to himself as he watched her sleep, even as he still battled with the implications of it: he had once been the man who tried to break her—barely a day ago, actually. And yet now he could swear on his own name that no one would ever take that fire from her again. Not while he still had breath in his body.

How quickly the tables could turn, when face-to-face with a goddess and a queen.

The quad was alive with the kind of lazy chaos that always came with the midday rush. Students lounged on the grass, sprawled out with textbooks they clearly weren’t reading, while others milled about in clusters, their conversations punctuated by bursts of laughter. Draco was so disconnected from it all—he had been for years. All he ever needed was to have Theo and Blaise by his side, and they had never been a part of the crowd. Even when they first arrived, they'd been floating above it all, now more than ever. But today Draco felt even more disconnected from the hustle and bustle of the student body. He had a goal in mind, a destination, and he didn't want to be delayed. He had yet to learn, it seemed, that things seldom happened the way he wanted to nowadays.

The air was crisp, the sun sitting high enough to take the edge off the autumn chill. It was the sort of picturesque campus scene that was background noise to him—or should have been, if not for the sharp stab of a voice cutting through the din of his single-minded focus.

"Yeah, Hermione Granger was all over me last night," some faceless idiot was saying, loud enough to draw attention from the nearby tables. His voice dripped with the kind of smugness that came from too much confidence and not a single hint of proof any of it was earned. "Didn’t even have to try. Malfoy really missed out, that whore can really use her tongue. And that pussy... hmm boys—"

Draco froze mid-step, his body going rigid. The world around him blurred, the idle chatter of students fading into static as his focus zeroed in on the speaker. He didn’t know the guy, didn’t care to. All that mattered was the one name he dared to utter. The words, the implication, and the sudden, blinding fury that roared to life in his chest. The moron had signed his death warrant without even knowing he stood on death row already.

Blaise, walking a step behind him, picked up on the shift immediately. "Drake..." he said, a warning edge creeping into his usually smooth tone. "Don’t."

But it was already too late. The blood pounding in Draco’s ears drowned out whatever Blaise said next. His feet moved on their own, carrying him toward the source of the voice. The guy—a wiry, nondescript type with a mop of unkempt hair and a grin that begged to be wiped off his face—was holding court near one of the benches, a group of equally unimpressive lackeys hanging on his every word. It didn't matter that Draco knew he was full of shit—that every word coming out of his mouth were lies. Hermione had been with them all night, from the moment she stepped in the cafeteria to the moment he gently laid her down in his bed, wearing his shirt.

Mine 

That was the only thought that still roared through his brain, louder with ever stride he took, with every inhale he made. Hermione would never lower herself to someone like this random guy. She was too good for him. Too good for Draco. Too good for anyone. He knew that, the logical part of his brain could regurgitate that information over and over. But it did nothing to appease the fire burning through his veins now. For that poor sod, it was already too late.

"Malfoy." Blaise tried again, his voice sharper this time, but Draco didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate.

"You." The word cut through the air like a whip, silencing the group instantly. The guy turned, his grin faltering when he saw Draco stalking toward him. He had the look of someone who had just realized they’d been dropped into a pit with a predator.

"Uh... hey," the guy stammered, his confidence cracking. "What’s—"

Draco didn’t give him the chance to finish. His fist connected with the guy’s jaw in a blur of motion, the impact sending him sprawling to the ground. The collective gasp from the onlookers barely registered as Draco followed, grabbing the front of the guy’s shirt and hauling him up just to slam him back down again, one feet on each side of his body, towering over him with what could only be described as a feral snarl curling his lips.

"Say it again," Draco growled, his voice low and dangerous. His knuckles ached, but he didn’t care. "Say it again, I dare you."

The guy sputtered, blood dripping from his nose. "I—I didn’t mean anything by it!"

"Didn’t mean anything?" Draco’s grip tightened, his fury bubbling just beneath the surface. His fist flew back down onto the guy's face with a sickening crunch. "You’re spreading lies about Granger to boost your pathetic ego." Another punch, another crack, and a splatter of blood smearing his knuckles. "and you didn’t mean anything?". 

He slammed his fist against flesh a third time, feeling pain radiating through his own fingers. He was seeing red. Blood red. 

"Say." A punch. "It." A punch. "Again."

Blaise stepped forward, grabbing Draco’s shoulder. "Enough," he said, his voice calm but firm. "You’ve made your point."

Draco shrugged him off, his gaze never leaving the guy beneath him. The desire to hit him again—to make him understand just how badly he’d fucked up—was almost overwhelming. Hs face was covered in blood, bruising already forming along his jaw and cheekbone, his nose clearly broken and his eye starting to swell from the impacts. And yet it didn't feel like enough. It felt like, maybe, he should suffer for even tasting her name on his tongue. But then Blaise’s words cut through the fog of his anger.

"She's probably waiting for you back home, mate." Blaise said quietly, his tone measured. "We should go find her, yeah?"

The words landed like a punch to the gut. Draco’s grip faltered, and he stepped back, letting the guy slump to the ground. He wiped his bloodied knuckles on his trousers, his chest heaving as he struggled to rein in his emotions.

"You’re lucky I have somewhere to be," Draco said coldly, his voice steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through him. "Next time, keep her name out of your mouth."

Blaise's hand clamped on Draco's shoulder, giving it a few firm taps, maybe to congratulate him, or bring him back down to Earth, Draco wasn't sure. He didn't even really know where that anger came from. He had always been testy about Granger since he'd met her sure. And the night before had made one thing very clear: his obsession had evolved in ways he didn't want to look at too closely. But this was a new peak, even for him. 

"Drake, what the f—" Blaise started, no doubt to chastise him on his impulsive behaviour—rich coming from him of all people, the kind of impulsivity. But muttered words at their feet made them both stop in their tracks.

"No bitch is worth this," the guy spat under his breath, the words slurred through swollen lips. "Not even her."

Draco didn't have time to move. He didn't have to. The crack of Blaise’s shoe meeting the guy’s face was as sudden as it was brutal. The force sent him sprawling back to the ground, his groan of pain barely audible over the stunned murmurs of the crowd. Blaise straightened, his usual lazy smirk replaced with something colder, angrier, as he shook out his foot like the guy’s face had dirtied his shoe.

Draco raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t comment. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in the faintest hint of approval before he turned sharply, stalking away. Blaise fell into step beside him, his expression dark.

"Punching first, talking never. That's more my thing than yours." Blaise muttered, glancing sideways at Draco. "What the hell is going on with you?"

Draco didn’t answer immediately. His mind was still racing, a chaotic mix of rage and guilt. It wasn’t just the lie that had set him off—it was the fact that he had been the one to put it into circulation in the first place. He’d started those rumours, asked Blaise to spread those things about her all around campus, used them as a weapon against her in his game of wits, and now they’d come back to haunt him, like an insistent laugh at the back of his head giggling 'you already fucked it all up' in repeat.

"He deserved it." Draco said finally, between gritted teeth.

"Sure," Blaise said, his eyes narrowing. "And I’m not saying he didn’t. But this?" He gestured vaguely behind them, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "This isn’t you. Losing your shit like that? Obsessing like this? It’s not the first time you’ve fixated on something, but this... this is going a bit far Drake."

Draco stopped walking, his gaze snapping to Blaise. "What’s your point?"

Blaise raised an eyebrow, his calm veneer cracking just enough to let something sharper through. "My point is, if you don’t figure out what the hell you’re doing, you’re going to lose control. Completely."

Draco didn’t respond. Instead, he turned and continued walking, his pace quickening. He needed to see her, needed to know that she was still where they’d left her. That she hadn’t slipped away while he was out losing his temper. Blaise was right—this wasn't like him. He had gone to great length in the name of his fixations before, but not like this. It was always about him breaking someone, gaining something. Never was it about him protecting someone else's honour. Others didn't matter, they never had. But now? Her? He didn't want to believe it, couldn't seem to understand what his body already knew too well—even if it made no sense, even if it was a complete backtrack from his past behaviour. 

Whether he liked it or not, she was suddenly the only thing that did matter. 

Draco slammed the door to his dorm open with more force than necessary, the loud bang echoing through the otherwise quiet space. Instantly his shoulders tensed realizing that if Hermione was still sleeping, he most certainly had woken her up with the ruckus—yet again something he shouldn't and hadn't ever worried about before. 

His eyes darted immediately to the bed, his chest tightening when he saw it empty. The adrenaline from the fight in the quad was still buzzing in his veins, his nerves frayed and his patience razor-thin. She wasn’t here.

"She’s gone." 

Theo’s voice came from the corner of the room, calm and disinterested as he turned a page in the book balanced on his lap. He was reclined in Draco’s chair, his long legs stretched out, feet propped up on the side of is bed and a steaming cup of tea precariously perched on the armrest. Theo didn’t look up, but there was a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if he’d anticipated Draco’s reaction.

Draco’s jaw tightened, his gaze snapping to Theo. "Where?"

"Her dorm." Theo replied, finally deigning to glance up. "Left about an hour ago."

Draco crossed the room in a few quick strides, his movements sharp and deliberate as he shrugged off his jacket and threw it onto the bed. The bed she had laid on a few hours ago, so small and yet so imposing. The bed that probably smelled like her, all lavender and blood. The bed that was... missing a pillow. Her pillow. Shit.

"And you just let her go?"

Theo raised an eyebrow, his expression one of practiced neutrality. "She’s not a prisoner, Draco. She woke up, realized she wasn’t where she wanted to be, and left. What was I supposed to do? Chain her to a radiator? Again?"

Draco’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, the ache from his earlier punches flaring up again. "You could have stopped her."

Theo snorted, a low, amused sound. Draco wasn't quite sure why he was so annoyed—affected even, by the fact that she wasn't where he had left her. It was almost eleven in the morning, the sun was high in the sky and she hadn't even know they'd brought her back here in the first place. Everything logical would have stated that, by now, Hermione would have been wide awake and as far away from him—and his room—as possible. And yet since the second he'd left the tattoo parlor, he'd set out to come back and see her there, curled up in his sheets, without a second thought about it. 

"Right. Because that would have gone over so well. She was already pissed from last night—still is, by the way." Theo took his feet off the bed, stretching his shoulders before slowly taking a sip of his tea, looking at Draco pointedly over the rim of his cup. A slow, knowing grin spread on his lips. "And if I’m not mistaken, she’s picked up on the fact that you’ve been stealing her stuff... You know, the stuff you think we don't know about?" he added, tapping one finger against the desk drawer where Draco had been taking to storing all of the miscellaneous things he requisitioned from Hermione's room over the week.

Draco stilled, his stomach twisting. "What are you talking about?"

Theo leaned back further in the chair, his smirk widening. But Draco already knew. The pillow. 

"She left with one of your pillows. Or, more accurately, a pillow you took from her dorm last week." he shrugged a shoulder in the direction of the bed. "I’m pretty sure she figured it out, if the murderous expression she had when she stormed out is any indication."

Draco’s mind raced, the implications settling uncomfortably in his chest. He had expected her to be angry—she had every right to be after last night’s events—but the thought of her piecing together his habit of taking small, inconsequential things from her room made his throat tighten. It wasn’t supposed to be something she noticed, let alone something that would drive her further away. Maybe he had overdone it with the pillow—a lot of bedding often got lost in the communal laundry, surely a missing pillow wouldn't attract too much attention? But he hadn't accounted for one second that she'd ever come to his room, sleep in his bed, let alone recognize the extra pillow he'd been sleeping with for days.

"I followed her," Theo continued, his tone casual as if he weren’t throwing gasoline on Draco’s already volatile mood. "To make sure she got to her dorm in one piece. Not that she appreciated it. Thought she was going to punch me at one point. Or stab me. Maybe both, honestly. This woman is slightly terrifying." he raised an amused eyebrow. "Either way, she made it back safe. Slammed the door in my face for my trouble, though."

Draco paced to the window, his fingers twitching with restless energy as he stared out at the campus below. The anger he felt wasn’t directed at Theo—not entirely. It was at himself, at the situation, at the maddening pull that Hermione Granger had over him. He had left this morning expecting to find her here when he returned, expecting to be able to... what? Apologize? Explain? He wasn’t sure. How could he know when he didn't even understand what he wanted, what he felt. But now she was gone—barely a building away maybe, but far enough—and the absence felt like a physical ache. He needed to see her.

Theo watched him in silence for a moment before speaking again. "You’re spiralling. And not the way you usually do."

Draco turned sharply, his eyes narrowing. "Don’t start."

Theo shrugged, his expression a careful mask of neutrality. "It’s different this time." he said, his tone measured but pointed. "You’ve always had a thing for breaking people, for bending them until they snap. But this? This isn’t that. You don’t want to break her." he leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. If he didn't know Theo better, Draco could've sworn he saw something akin to worry in his eyes, for just a second. "You want to keep her."

Draco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. The words hit too close to the truth, a truth he wasn’t ready to admit, even to himself. Mine, he thought possessively, the single word so potent it choked the air out of his lungs and throat. Theo, of course, didn't possess the kind of reservations that kept Draco silent. He’d always been good at seeing the things he—and anyone else—would rather keep buried.

"She’s everything you’ve always needed but never wanted, isn’t she?" Theo continued, his voice quieter now but no less incisive, voicing things even Draco's brain hadn't been able to compute just yet. "Strong, brilliant, just damaged enough to make you think she gets it—gets you. Just resilient enough to make you feel like you're not a lost cause either. And you can’t handle it."

Draco’s fists clenched at his sides, the burn in his bruised knuckles a welcome distraction from the storm brewing in his chest. "What are you trying to say?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"I’m saying," Theo replied, leaning forward in the chair, putting his elbows on his knees with an almost infuriating calm, "that you’re so fixated on her because she terrifies you. She’s proof that you can survive whatever demons you think make you weak. And you hate that she's showing you it's possible. That she's doing it so naturally when you—we—have been drowning it out for years instead."

Blaise, who had been lounging near the door, finally spoke up, his usual smirk replaced with something more serious. "And it’s worrying. You’ve obsessed over people before, but with her? It’s faster, harder." he crossed his arms as he spoke, like shielding himself from feelings he was so unused to and so uncomfortable voicing. Grand displays of care weren't their usual song and dance, despite the many years linking them three together. "You’re not just trying to prove something anymore. You want to own her. And no one knows what that’s going to look like."

"I don’t need a fucking intervention." Draco’s gaze snapped to Blaise, his frustration simmering just below the surface. 

"No," Blaise agreed, his tone sharp. "You need to figure out what the hell you’re doing before you burn everything down—and not the way I like it." 

Blaise paused, his expression softening slightly as he glanced between Draco and Theo. "We like her too, you know." he added, his voice quieter but no less certain, the words forcing Draco to clench his fist harder. "She’s not just some random girl. She’s special, and I get why you see that. Hell, Theo and I saw it too."

Draco’s brows furrowed, but Blaise didn’t give him a chance to interrupt. "We’ve all had shit parents, shit childhoods," Blaise continued, his tone uncharacteristically earnest. "That’s why we’re us. Why we’re brothers. And Granger? She’s like us—hell my bet is she's had it much worse than all of us. And yet somehow she’s so much better than any of us lot. She’s survived the kind of damage that breaks someone, you could see it in her eyes last night, and she doesn’t just live with it—she thrives in spite of it."

Theo nodded slightly, the motion subtle but affirming. "That’s what makes this so different," Blaise went on. "You’ve never spiralled this fast, this hard. And we’re not just worried about her, mate. We’re worried about you."

Draco didn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he ran a hand through his hair, leaving them a dishevelled tangle of blond strands. His thoughts were a chaotic mess, each one louder and more insistent than the last, and his friends' words had not helped to ease the storm brewing in his head. If anything it had only made it worse. Turned his need to see her into urgency. He needed to go find her, to fix this somehow, to make her understand that no matter what she thought, she was his now and there was no going back—even if it was crazy. Even if it was stupid. Even if he was burning himself out too fast, too soon. 

Even if she still hated him.

"Give her space." Theo’s voice cut through his internal chaos, calm but firm. "You charging in like a bull isn’t going to help your case. I told you, she was pissed. You've seen what happened last time you provoked her D." he added gesturing lazily towards Draco's face, the small cut on the bridge of his nose.

Draco exhaled sharply, his frustration mounting. Space? The word didn’t register, not in the state he was in. Every fiber of his being was screaming to find her, to drag her back here if he had to. The energy from the fight earlier still burned in his veins, the words of that idiot ringing in his ears, his blood coating his knuckles and leaving him restless and raw. He couldn’t wait. He wouldn’t. Theo didn’t understand—couldn’t understand—this relentless, clawing need to see her, to know she was there, even if it meant risking another argument.

Without a word, Draco grabbed his jacket off the bed, his movements sharp and deliberate. Theo watched him with a raised eyebrow, but didn’t say anything further, only letting out a faint sigh as Draco strode toward the door, Blaise shaking his head in disapproval despite the small laugh that escaped his lips. Draco wasn’t waiting for permission, wasn’t interested in advice. His thoughts were a whirlwind, each one louder and more insistent than the last as he yanked the door open and left, his destination already set.

Draco’s knuckles hit the door with a sharp series of knocks, loud enough to echo down the hallway in a clear, incessant demand. His patience was already thinner than the air on a mountain peak, and the idea of waiting for someone to open the damn door was grating. Three more knocks and he would let himself in. Three. The was a shuffle behind the door. Two. Shadows stopped right behind the wooden panel. One. The buzzing irritation in his chest grew just a inch bigger.

Finally, with no time to spare, the door creaked open just enough to reveal a sliver of Ginny Weasley’s face, her expression a perfect storm of suspicion and annoyance. Her red hair was pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, a few stray strands framing her face. She took one look at Draco, and her scowl deepened.

"What the hell do you want?" she asked, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. Her hand stayed on the edge of the door, her body poised to slam it shut if he so much as breathed wrong.

Draco barely restrained the urge to roll his eyes. The Weasley girl had never done anything noteworthy enough to catch Draco's attention until the day she had appeared with Hermione at his party. And since then she had remained as unremarkable, to him, as everyone else. Definitely no the type of person who would have the guts to stand up to him. And yet.. It seemed he wasn't the only person Hermione had influenced without her knowledge. 

"Granger." he said simply, his voice flat. "I need to talk to her."

Ginny’s eyes narrowed, her gaze sweeping over him with the kind of disdain usually reserved for something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of her shoe. "You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here after everything. I don't know what happened between you two, but I doubt she wants to see you right now."

"I don’t have time for this," Draco snapped, his patience fraying further. "Is she here or not?"

"Even if she were," Ginny said, her voice dripping with venom, "why the fuck would I let you anywhere near her?"

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but any retort he had was cut off by the sound of Hermione’s voice from somewhere inside the dorm. "It’s fine, Ginny."

Ginny turned, clearly torn between her loyalty to Hermione and her desire to throw Draco out on principle. After a long moment, she stepped aside, her glare promising dire consequences if he tried anything.

Hermione appeared a moment later, her damp hair curling at the edges, a towel draped around her shoulders over a plain t-shirt—his t-shirt, he realized, heat instantly burning his insides—and sweatpants. She looked as though she had just stepped out of the shower, the faint scent of lavender trailing behind her—a scent that Draco simply couldn't stop noticing now. Nor was he able to link it to anything or anybody but her. 

His gaze dragged over her, catching on the sight of his t-shirt hanging loose over her frame, the hem brushing way below her hips, covering the hem of her sweatpants entirely. The sight stirred something primal in him, a possessive thrill that settled low in his stomach. She was still wearing his shirt. His.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" she asked, her tone weary but edged with defiance.

Ginny shot him one last murderous glare before muttering something about needing to get to class. She grabbed her bag, slamming the door behind her as she left, leaving Draco and Hermione alone in the room.

Draco stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, the door resolutely shut behind him. The space was small, the strange mixture of chaotic clutter and obsessive neatness exactly the same as the last time he'd slipped himself into the room. Being there while Hermione was present, instead of sneaking in, felt foreign—and strangely enough, not entirely unpleasant.

"You weren’t in my room when I got back." he said, as though the accusation on its own was enough.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest. "Was I supposed to wait for you?"

"Yes." Draco replied without hesitation, his gaze locked on hers.

"Why? So you could lord over me some more? Tie me up somewhere dark? Or—gods forbid—steal the sheets off my bed next time?" she raised an accusatory eyebrow, vaguely gesturing to the bed and the second pillow that had found its way back on it now. "Get over yourself, Malfoy."

Draco’s jaw tightened, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. His eyes flicked to her hands, noticing the faint tremor in her fingers before she clenched them into fists. The fire in her eyes was still there, defiant and unyielding, and it made his pulse hammer. She didn’t cower. She never had, not even when she should have. And that only made him want to own her more.

"You’re missing the point." he said, stepping closer, the scent of lavender growing stronger. "You should’ve stayed."

"Again: why?" she shot back, her voice rising slightly, patience fraying. It seems she wasn't in the mood for games today—which he probably should have expected. "Because you said so? Because you think you can just dictate what I do now?"

His gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a near growl. "Because I wanted to see you there."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding. They weren't the whole truth, but they were something. The only something Draco could manage to reveal about whatever it was he now felt towards her. Or maybe it was the only 'something' he thought wouldn't get him punched again. Although the thought of it wasn't terrible—it may even have sent a slow thrill up his spine. Hermione stared at him, her expression sharp and incredulous, like he’d just declared the sky green. 

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she demanded, her hands falling to her sides. "A week ago you wanted me suspended. Yesterday you quite literally kidnapped me for shits and giggles. But now you, what? Want me to play house in your little room all day? You’ve lost your damn mind."

Draco’s frustration flared, but it wasn’t anger anymore. It was need. Obsession. Her words didn’t cut the way she probably intended; instead, they fuelled the fire raging inside him. He could see  the way her breathing quickened, the way she held her ground even though he was standing too close. He didn't care if he was being delusional. She was still standing up to him knowing the effect it had on him. She had to know and yet here she still was. 

Mine. He wanted to say it. To growl it in her ear. To declare it as facts. 

He didn't.

"Who's blood is that?" she asked suddenly, her gaze dropping to his hands. 

Her tone was flat. She looked more tired than concerned, like she didn't have the motivation to fight with him right now and changing the subject was preferable to having an argument she thought to be moronic in nature. Gods even when she silently judged him, when she was barely restraining herself from rolling her eyes at him. She was so infuriatingly brazen. Magnificent.

"Some idiot in the quad thought it would be funny to spread lies about you." Draco said, his teeth grinding together at the memory, his fingers clenching and unclenching as if he welcomed the pain of them.

Hermione blinked, her confusion quickly replaced by irritation. "And you thought punching him was the best solution?"

Draco’s jaw tightened. "It worked."

Hermione let out a short, humorless laugh. "Unbelievable. Malfoy..." she sighed, heavy and loud. "You are the one who started those rumours." she pointed out—a detail he chose to, once more, overlook.  'Why the fuck would you think I suddenly need you defending my honour?"

His response was immediate, his voice low and unyielding. "Because no one gets to talk about you like that. No one."

"YOU talk about me like that!" she exclaimed and his jaw clenched. There was only exasperation in her tone, over anger.

Another sigh, just as loud and pointed, escaped her lips as she let her hand come up to pinch the bridge of her nose tightly. She stared at him for a long moment, her expression a mix of disbelief and something else he couldn’t place. Then, without a word, she turned her heels, offering him her back. She disappeared into the bathroom in just a second, leaving him standing in the middle of her room, the scent of lavender lingering in the air like a taunt and his thoughts racing. Was this her trying to dismiss him? Was he supposed to leave now?—he wasn't going to, but still.

When she returned a moment later, she was holding a roll of gauze in one hand and a small bottle of antiseptic in the other. She didn't look happy—tiredness still stretched her features tightly, exasperation, weariness and anger tinting a few of her expressions here and there. He had learned them all by now. She pulled the desk chair over to where he stood, gesturing for him to sit on the bed. 

"Sit." she ordered, her tone brooking no argument.

Draco hesitated for a moment before complying, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. Hermione sat in the chair, dragging it close enough that her knees brushed against his. He spread his thighs instinctively to give her more room. He had sat on that bed a few times now but there was a sort of electricity in the air—and zapping through his body, from doing it when she was so close, so near he could simply reach out to touch her and pull her down with him. The simple thought warmed his body and he felt himself tense up—unfortunately not his shoulders but way lower than that. 

Oblivious to the thoughts already assaulting his mind, Hermione, settled the gauze and antiseptic on her thighs, her movements precise and methodical. She reached out for his bloodied hand without looking up and the contact of her skin was tantalizing—he could barely focus on anything but the feel and look of her small hands wrapped around his long fingers.

"You're an idiot.'" she said quietly as she worked, dabbing at his knuckles with a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic. "You shouldn’t do... this shit."

He watched her, his gaze unwavering. She was so close, her hair still damp, the loose t-shirt sliding slightly off one shoulder. His t-shirt. His claim on her, whether she realized it or not. It made it all the harder to keep himself in check, to swallow the desire that was inevitably mounting in his core. Fuck she looked so perfect in this shirt. She should never wear anything else. Maybe he should steal all her clothes and force her to wear this every. single. day.

"Do what?" he asked, his voice low, though he already knew the answer.

"Punch people? Lose your shit?" she said, looking up into his eyes for a second before focusing back on his hand, slowly applying gauze around the bruised knuckles in a gesture that felt so practiced it made Draco's anger from the previous night flare up again. "I get it, you loathe me, we've established that quite well. And that's fine, I can take it but other—" she tried to continue nonchalantly, almost bored, or tired.

Draco’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist with enough force to make her look up. His voice was low, almost a growl. "You don’t get to decide that."

Her breath hitched, her gaze locked on his. For a moment, neither of them moved, the tension between them crackling like a live wire. For some reason he couldn't endure the thought of her still believing he hated—no, loathed—her. He should. He had wanted to, so badly. Because hate came naturally, hate was easy. This... primal, gut-wrenching need, was foreign and uncomfortable and so unbearably all-consuming. 

"You’re already mine." he said, his voice firm and unrelenting, the words he kept to himself finally slipping out. "Whether you want to be or not. You’ve been mine since the moment I saw you—since the moment you looked at me, exactly like that, with all that fury and loathing."

Hermione’s eyes narrowed in anger—or maybe it was confusion at his sudden folly, her jaw tightening as she started to pull her wrist free, but Draco didn’t give her the chance. With a swift motion, he pulled sharply, gripping her waist with his free fingers. In a swift, deft motion, he spun her toward him, forcing her to lose her balance. The chair tipped slightly as she slipped, and before she could recover, he pulled her onto his lap, her body flush against his torso.

Her gasp was sharp, her hands flying instinctively to his chest to regain her balance as her legs dangled awkwardly over his thighs. She was so close now that he could feel the faint tremble of her breathing, the heat of her body seeping through his clothes. The scent of lavender surrounded him, overwhelming and intoxicating, and his groan escaped before he could stop it. The weight of her, the presence of her pressed against him, sent a jolt of fire through his veins. He had already started to grow hard, the sight of her in his shirt earlier having undone him, but this—her in his arms, her heat against his body—was pure torment. Excruciatingly delicious torment.

Hermione froze, her wide eyes locking with his. She was flushed, the barest hint of pink rising under her skin, and Draco thought she’d never looked more infuriatingly perfect. 

"Malfoy," she hissed, her voice a mixture of anger and disbelief. "what the bloody hell are you doing? Let go, right fucking now."

Draco didn’t answer immediately. His grip on her hips tightened slightly—he knew she would try to get off, get out, fight back, and he didn't want to give her the chance to. His gaze dragged over her face, memorizing the curve of her jaw, the sharpness of her glare, the way her lips parted just enough to show her teeth when she was furious. She was magnificent, defiance radiating from her in waves, and it only made him want to hold her closer, to claim her fully in every way possible.

"You can hate me all you want." he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, the words vibrating against her skin. "But it doesn’t change anything."

Her breath slowed, and for a moment, he thought she might shove him, slap him, scream at him. Anything but sit still. But she didn’t. She didn’t move at all, her hands remaining on his chest, her body tense and trembling against him. She sat so very still he thought she might have stopped breathing. Blinking. That kind of stillness coming from her was terrifying, hinting at an imminent blow-up. And it would be glorious. It would be worth it. As long as he got to inhale her scent straight from her hair and press her small body tighter against his hot skin.

Draco leaned closer, his lips brushing just near her ear as he whispered the words that had been burning in his chest all day. 

"You’re mine, Granger." he growled, lips brushing the delicate lobe of her ear, a warm, damp curl caressing his cheek. "You’ve always been mine since you stepped foot here. You may not want it, you may fight it, hell you may despise me and run from me every single day from now on, but it doesn't matter, there's nowhere you can go, because you'll stay fucking mine all the same."