Mark My Words
Hermione
Hermione Granger was many things—iron willed, brilliant and a mean cook would the occasion ever arise—but at this precise moment, she was, first and foremost, utterly bewildered. She hadn't completely computed the fact that she was now sitting on Draco Malfoy’s lap, her legs dangling from the side of his thighs, his hands gripping her hips like they belonged there. She couldn’t decide what she hated more: the sheer nonsense of the situation, Draco Malfoy himself or the traitorous tingle the possessive grip had spread through her body for half a second before she had squashed it down like a particularly nasty bug.
She should move, or slap him, or find the nearest pointy object and stab it in his ridiculously toned thigh. And she would do all those things—as soon as the complete and utter confusion of the situation washed off of her, giving her back control over her motions and her thoughts. His words had frozen her in place. Not because she felt a thrill go through her at hearing his claim against her ear, but because... what the fuck?
After everything that man had done in the last few weeks—take notice of her, threaten bodily harm, steal and damage her most precious belongings, tie her up to a pipe in a dingy room and, effectively, single-handedly trigger a breakdown she had been keeping at bay for years. In what universe was this the logical progression for his behaviour? Her mind was spinning in a thousand different directions. How the hell had they even gotten here? Just last night, she’d been standing in a warehouse, holding a knife to his throat.
She had expected two different outcomes from it. The smart one—and therefore the least likely for Malfoy—was for him to finally back down, realize he was biting more than he could chew, throw a few disparaging comments about her little 'tantrum' and go back to his privileged life surveying his poorly-earned domain. The second—and the one she had been bracing for when she woke up—was for his games to escalate exponentially. Not only had she physically hurt him last night, in front of his cohort, but before her emotions broke loose she also showed him up, evidently proving she was better than him at something—even if that 'something' was the potentiality of stabbing someone in a lethal manner. Not her subtlest moment, but she had thought it would be more than enough for someone like him to try and bite back to save his fragile ego.
Whatever options she had circled through in her mind while she rushed out of his room this morning, it certainly hadn't involved this. Whatever 'this' even was.
“You’ve got some nerve,” she finally managed, her voice sharp. “If this is some kind of joke, Malfoy, I’m not laughing.”
“It’s not a joke.” he said, his grip tightening slightly, just enough to remind her of his strength—or to somehow warn her not to try and get up, as futile of an attempt as that was.
His lips curled into a smirk—not the cold, calculating one she’d come to expect, but something warmer, more dangerous. Hermione forced herself to focus, to find her footing in a conversation that felt more like a battlefield pulled straight out of the Twilight Zone. Gods she hated science-fiction, why did this idiot need to act so weird all of a sudden. And who had given him permission to become so handsy.
“Let me go.” she demanded, the last polite attempt she would make before taking matters into her own hands, regardless how much damage to his pride—and potentially a few of his appendages—she would do in the process.
Draco didn’t move. Instead, he leaned closer, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the lingering lavender from her shower. “Why would I do that?” he asked, his tone almost teasing.
She bristled, her fists clenching at her sides. “Because if you don’t, I will make you.”
His smirk widened, and he tilted his head slightly, as though considering her words. The glint in his eyes was amused. Hermione struggled to understand what, exactly, was remotely amusing here, other than the sheer stupidity of the words tumbling out of his mouth since he had entered the room. She'd still been so tired, so sore and emotionally drained from the night prior, she hadn't wanted to fight. Verbally sparring with Draco Malfoy always felt like playing speed-chess with a world champion who also happened to be a toddler, and quite frankly she didn't want to put up with it.
She had tried to be nice, hoping it would be too boring for him, that he'd throw the towel and leave her alone. Or maybe she had been so tired she just done the first thing that came naturally. Dressing wounds had been, after all, engrained deeply enough in her that she could've done it in her sleep with one hand tied behind her back. That tactic, clearly, had failed. Spectacularly so.
“You already marked me as yours.” he drawled, his voice low and deliberate. “I thought it was only fair for me and come do the same.”
Her brow furrowed, confusion flashing across her face. What? What kind of delusion did this man wake up in this morning? She had most definitely done no such thing. If anything, Hermione had tried her hardest to get him out of her way, out of her sight and out of her life. The exact opposite, in fact, to claiming him—for whatever twisted reason she would even had had to do something like that.
Instinctively her eyes glided down to his throat. Right under his larynx, a thin pink line stood out compared to the paleness of his skin. The last reminder of the knife that had been pressed there and had dug into flesh last night. Was this what he was referring to? If so, he was more stupid and misinformed about tissue reparation than she thought.
She’d meant to scare him, to prove a point. And now he was... what? Twisting it into some deranged declaration of mutual ownership? Something was deeply, deeply wrong with this man today—more so than usual at the very least.
“It’ll fade in a day or two.” she said dismissively, her tone clipped. She knew enough about scars to know that a cut so benign—barely a scrape really—wouldn't even remotely leave a permanent mark. “Don’t get too attached.”
Draco’s smirk deepened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
The certainty in his voice sent a wave of unease through her. She was unsure what he even meant. The mark would fade in a few days, that was a biological fact—not a simple guess he could brush off with a wave of his hand. But he seemed so completely sure of himself that it almost worried her, for some reason. What was he planning, really?
And if only it had been her primary—and only —concern, it would have been fine. An easy thought to brush off as soon as she'd manage to kick him out of the room. Unfortunately nothing came easy with Malfoy and he seemed to have a way of getting under her skin in a manner that always made her uncomfortable. This time more so than ever, because she couldn't quite categorize what exactly it was she was feeling—other than how much she hated it.
The fire in his gaze, the way his hands held her tight like she might disappear if he let go—it was... almost nice in a way she didn’t know how to process. It wasn’t just foreign; it was unwelcome. She had had partners before—not many and she had learned the hard way it was a terrible idea in her kind of circles—but touch, heat... it had always felt more like a necessity, an itch that needed to be scratched to keep a clearer mind once in a while.
She seldom remembered someone looking at her like that. The possessive edge, that she was used to—the men in her past hadn't been the type of people that took kindly to their toys being uncooperative or coveted by others. She had learned very early on that the line between hate, lust and love was many things: thin, blurry and razor-sharp. But it most definitely wasn't a rare occurrence, nor a particularly avoidable one where she came from.
No, it was the heat in his gaze that gave her pause. Not the one that warned you to do as you were told to avoid getting stabbed in the back. Not the one that screamed of too much testosterone clashing, in need of a quick release with one of the few tolerable options. Certainly not the one she had seen in different coloured eyes when she'd been vowed to that she'd be tracked to each corner of the earth and followed by bloodshed like she'd never known if she dared to leave. She didn't quite know what this heat meant—but she felt in her guts that it told her one thing and one thing only: 'Bite back, so I can bite harder.'
“Last warning, Malfoy. Let. Me. Go.” she said firmly through gritted teeth, silently praying he wouldn't so she'd have a legitimate reason to punch him in the face again.
He simply shook his head left and right slowly, a gentle tsk tsk tsk passing through his lips. Fine. She pressed her hand against his chest, one of her feet finding footing against the floor instead of dangling uselessly and she made a move to get off of him and back onto solid ground. Malfoy's response was immediate. Instead of releasing her, he shifted his grip, spinning them both around with a fluidity and speed that left her breathless—and hinted that it hadn't been his first rodeo. Before she could react, her back hit the plush mattress, her head landing safely on her recovered pillow and his weight pressing her into the sheets as he hovered above her, his arms caging her in and his body firmly settled between her thighs.
“You don’t mean that.” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, the words brushing against her skin while his grin only grew wider.
Her heart slammed against her ribcage, her body coiled tight with a mixture of anger and something else she refused to name. The weight atop her was heavy and impossible to ignore, even as Malfoy clearly balanced most of it on his elbows to avoid crushing her. She hated feeling pinned down—especially by him. She bit the inside of her cheek hard, glaring at him with as much anger as she could muster.
“Get off me.” she snapped.
Draco didn’t move. Instead his eyes roamed her face, the curve of her neck, the way his oversize t-shirt slipped down her shoulder, bunched up around her stomach and finally stopping right where the hem of it had ridden up, a thin patch of scarred skin exposed to his gaze. She gritted her teeth, clenching her jaw harder. He had seen almost all the marks by now—above her waistband at least—but it was still a difficult experience for her to stomach. Every time parts of her skin was exposed, she expected his eyes to turn to the kind of disgust she witnessed all too often looking at herself bare in the mirror. Even now, she looked down at him, bracing for the way his eyes would flick back up, a taunt on his tongue and the ugly reality of her state reflecting in his eyes.
Instead, he never looked up at her. His expression softened, a flicker of something unrecognizable passing over his face. He put all his weight on one elbow, slowly guiding his other hand to the edge of the shirt, pinching it between his fingers to push it out of the way further, before bringing his fingertips to graze some of the jagged lines. Hermione shivered, his hands were cold and goosebump started to appear on her skin at the contact. The unwelcome contact, she infuriatingly had to remind herself.
“Beautiful..." he murmured, the word so quiet she almost didn’t hear it.
Hermione froze, her breath catching in her throat. What? Surely she had heard wrong. Her body could be called many things. Ugly, monstruous, broken. But beautiful wasn't one of them. It never was one of them. She hadn't been called beautiful—with all her scars out—since... She swallowed the lump in her throat hard, refusing to think about that time again. She opened her mouth to retort, to push him away, but the sight of him leaning down stopped her dead in her tracks again. In a matter of seconds, his lips were hovering dangerously close to one of the scars low on her stomach, his hot breath hitting her skin right below her navel, his eyes flicking ever so briefly to hers with a fire and reverence that stole the words from her tongue.
The barest flicker of heat coiled low in her belly, unbidden and most certainly unwelcomed, her breathing picking up ever so slightly with each tiny rise and fall of her stomach that brought his lips ever closer to her skin.
What the fuck was happening?
She hadn't been touched in a very long time. Her body was clearly craving the attention despite how much her mind despised the concept altogether. That was all. A biological response to unmet and neglected needs. Malfoy just so happened to be there. Nothing more, nothing less. Even the logical explanation that flashed through her now panicked brain didn't make her heartbeat settle or the knot in her stomach loosen.
No. She gritted her teeth against her own thoughts, her own physical reaction. Absolutely-fucking-not. This was one of his games. Very different from prior ones, but a game nonetheless. This was the only reason he was doing this, the only reason why he had spewed such utter nonsense since he'd stepped foot in the room. It all made sense now. Threats hadn't worked. Ruining her reputation and her academic career hadn't worked. Now he lowered himself to pitiful charming attempts to get her off guard. It was a tactic she'd have expected from Blaise more so than him, but it was suddenly so much more logical than anything else she had tried to comprehend today—appeasing her thoughts.
It was the game and there was no way in hell Hermione could let him get in her head and win. Not now, not ever.
It was instinct that took over then, sharp and immediate. She twisted her body, using his own momentum against him, the move drilled so deeply in her subconscious it was muscle memory at this point. One moment he was hovering over her, lips on the verge of brushing against her stomach and the next, she was on top of him, her legs straddling his hips and her hand wrapped firmly around his throat. She wished she had a knife in her palm now, it would have been much more effective than the squeeze of her fingers. For a second pure surprise overtook his features as he gave her one slow blink, lips slightly parted. But soon enough a grin stretched his mouth once more.
“Well, that's new.” he said, his voice strained but laced with amusement—and heat, eyes glancing down at the hand wrapped around the column of his throat.
Hermione glared down at him, her grip tightening slightly. “Do not test me, Malfoy.”
He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling beneath her hand. “Or what?"
His eyes glinted with something dark, something she didn’t want to acknowledge. She went to take her hand away, already shifting her body to the side to get off of him—the further, the better at this point. But once again, before she could remove her grip completely, his hand shot up, wrapping around her wrist, holding it firmly in place.
“Don’t stop now.”
The words made her stomach twist violently, her pulse roaring in her ears. She tried to pull her hand away, but his grip didn’t falter. Beneath her palm, she could feel his pulse quicken, his skin warm against her fingers. And then an undeniable reality—one her subconscious had somehow managed to ignore entirely until now—pressed firmly against her thigh: he was hard. A full-body realization hit her, sharp and jarring, as his hips shifted just slightly beneath her, pressing his length closer to her core.
Her fingers tightened involuntarily around his throat—a reflex, nothing more. Draco groaned, low and rough, his reaction visceral. His free hand, the one not pinning her wrist, slid up her thigh, his fingers curling around her flesh through the thin fabric of her sweatpants. When her grip on his throat subtly squeezed again, his hand tightened in response, his body pressing into hers like it was a challenge. The unwelcome heat took hold of her body again, her lips parting her so slightly—like she wanted to spit something, but the words didn't want to come.
“Fuck.” he rasped, his voice strained but tinged with something unmistakable. “Baby, if you keep doing that—”
Her mind screamed at her to stop, to move, to do anything but stay there, trapped in this maddening, confusing tangle of sensations. She could easily wrench her hand free, in that position he didn't have enough leverage to keep his hold on her if she wanted to escape—and she wanted to escape, she reminded herself. But her body wasn’t listening. The heat from his touch, the look in his eyes, and most of all the rasp in his voice she had never heard from him before—it was overwhelming, disorienting. And the worst part? A small, treacherous part of her—the one that made heat flood between her thighs despite her conflicting emotions—didn’t hate it.
“Don't fucking call me that.” she spat, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and something deeper, something barely contained and rolling right under her skin. Something she didn't understand, and didn't want to. "You're insane."
"And you like being on top." he retorted without missing a beat, hips shifting up to press harder against her, making her all too aware of his arousal.
She didn't. This was a power—a control—her past lovers hadn't been stupid enough to give her before. Only he would be foolish enough, or oblivious enough to the danger. Not that it mattered—her experiences, her preferences, her desires. Not now, and certainly not with him.
Her heart pounded in her chest, her mind screaming at her to end whatever this was before it spiralled further. But his gaze held hers, dark and consuming, his smirk daring her to do something—anything. The weight of his touch, the heat radiating off him, the maddening reality of his body pressed against hers was too much. Her hand flexed against his throat one last time and with a final, sharp breath, she released him, her fingers trembling as she wrenched her hand away. The moment lingered, heavy and electric, neither of them daring to break the fragile silence—the only sound echoing in the room their heavy breathing, just a little too erratic for comfort.
Hermione shifted, preparing to push herself off, distributing her weight to make a clean, swift and graceful escape that he wouldn't try to stop this time. That little game of his had gone on for far too long—and had messed with her psyche a little more than she was comfortable with. As she shifted ever so slightly on the mattress, her knee brushed against his side. His sharp intake of breath was immediate, followed by a low hiss of pain.
“Careful, baby.” he muttered, his voice low and hoarse, his emphasis on the nickname she hated still so infuriatingly smug. “It’s still fresh.”
She froze, her brow furrowing as confusion flickered across her face. “Fresh? Please tell me that guy on the quad stabbed you for his troubles?” she demanded, her voice sharp with suspicion. “What are you on about?”
Draco’s smirk widened, lazy and maddening. “Your mark, of course.”
Her confusion deepened, irritation sparking to life in her chest. “What mark?” she snapped, her patience fraying with each second he refused to explain.
She had bee convinced he meant the temporary scar across his throat, the one that was barely even pink anymore, already disappearing into a thin white line that would be completely gone two days from now. When he didn’t answer—because of course he wouldn’t—she leaned back slightly, her hands moving with purpose. Grabbing the hem of his shirt, she yanked it upward.
Please let it be a stab wound. Please.
What she saw stopped her cold. A thin plastic wrap was hastily secured against his side, tattoos and inked lines snaking all around it, some more faded than others. And right there, beneath the thin film of plastic— hinting at a freshly inked tattoo, was the unmistakable imprint of teeth, in bold black ink on slightly reddened skin. It took her mind only a fraction of a second to conjure a vivid image of last night. Of the bite she’d left on him, now immortalized in black lines against his pale skin.
Hermione stared, her mind struggling to comprehend the sheer insanity of it. The room seemed to shrink around her, the air too thick and heavy as she processed what she was seeing.
“You’re insane.” she repeated finally, her voice trembling with a mixture of disbelief and fury. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Draco’s gaze flicked to hers, his smirk unwavering and full of infuriating amusement. “I thought it was fitting.” he said simply, as if that explained anything.
Her chest tightened, her breathing shallow as anger surged through her veins like insidious venom. What the actual fuck!? She didn’t think. She acted. Hermione pressed her knee hard against the tattoo, earning a sharp hiss of pain from him. His smirk faltered, his hand instinctively flying to his side, but she didn’t stop. The satisfaction of seeing him wince was a balm to her frazzled nerves. Satisfied, she finally showed herself off him entirely. Her movements were sharp and deliberate, every inch of her body taut with fury and that unbidden heat she wanted to smother in its infancy.
Draco groaned, his hand covering his side as he pushed himself up slightly. But even now, with his lips curled in a pained snarl, he didn’t stop watching her. His grey eyes followed her every minute movement, gleaming with that maddening mix of amusement and fire—that she now unhappily associated with his arousal, in some twisted way at least.
“Get out,” she snapped, her voice rumbling slightly under the weight of her anger. “Get out, Malfoy. Now.”
For a moment, he didn’t move, lounging on her bed, his desire all-too obvious under the material of his pants, his gaze locked on hers as if daring her to say it again. But then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, he pushed himself up, wincing slightly as he adjusted his shirt.
“Whatever you say, Granger.” he said smoothly, his tone laced with infuriating ease.
He stepped toward the door, his movements unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. As if any of what had happened in this room was normal—enjoyable even. And then he was gone, leaving Hermione alone in the suffocating silence of her room.
She stood there for a long moment, her chest heaving as she struggled to rein in the storm of emotions swirling inside her. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as her mind raced to make sense of what had just happened. But no matter how hard she tried, one truth remained louder than any other.
Draco Malfoy was absolutely, undeniably insane.
Students shuffled in the classroom in their usual chaotic ways, conversations ricocheting off the walls, and the occasional frustrated sigh as someone hunted for a pen or an unoccupied seat. Hermione sat stiffly at her desk in one of the middle rows, her posture as rigid as the carefully controlled expression on her face. She had arrived early, as always, determined to reclaim some semblance of normalcy after the whirlwind of the next day—let alone the morning. So much had happened that even being in the classroom felt strange, as though she hadn't stepped foot there only yesterday. This was a space that made her feel more in control and she was eager to go back to a routine that had nothing to do with the Viper Court. To focus back on what she was really doing here. She wanted to pretend none of it had even happened in the first place—denial was so much easier than lingering on things she really didn't want to. But even as she unpacked her notebook and arranged her pens in a straight line, her mind refused to settle in that place of calm she so eagerly wanted to reach.
Draco Malfoy. A tattoo. Her bite mark.
The memory surged back like a tidal wave, and she gritted her teeth, her fingers tightening around the edge of her desk. She’d spent the walk to class trying to rationalize it, to file the insanity away in some dark corner of her mind where it wouldn’t gnaw at her focus—alongside the temporary loss of mental acuity her body had no doubt suffered for having felt any kind of arousal under his touch. But it was impossible. Every time she thought she’d buried it, his infuriating smirk, the way he’d looked at her like she was both a challenge and a prize, clawed its way back to the surface.
“He's an idiot. You're fine.” she muttered under her breath, willing herself to believe it.
As if on cue, the door at the back of the room swung open with a creak, and her stomach twisted in anticipation. She didn’t have to look to know who it was. The air seemed to shift, charged with a presence she couldn’t ignore even if she wanted to. Eyes drifted to the back, following the movements of everyone's favourite rich boy, whispers already rising amongst the ranks like it was an unspoken rule not to gossip whenever the Viper Court was in the vicinity. It irked her all over again.
Malfoy strode in, flanked by Blaise and Theo, his expression one of infuriating nonchalance. His gaze swept the room briefly before landing on her, and a slow, deliberate smirk spread across his lips as soon as their eyes met. She refused to flinch under the weight of his stare, though her pulse quickened against her will. Just seeing his smug face forced her to remember what had happened barely a few hours earlier and a fresh wave of anger rolled through her. She turned around to stare at her closed notebook, hoping if she ignored him hard enough, he would go sit in his usual spot and not try to infuriate her further.
“Hello, Granger.” he drawled as he approached, his voice carrying just enough volume to draw a few glances from nearby students, who looked away from him to take a peek at her instead.
She didn’t respond. If she pretended he didn't exist, maybe he’d lose interest. Maybe he’d move to his usual seat in the back row and leave her alone. Of course, that tactic had never worked with Malfoy since she had met him—if anything it was the exact thing that had led her right in his path. And yet she stubbornly kept her mouth closed and, obviously, he responded by doing whatever he pleased, as usual.
He sauntered over to the empty seat beside her and plopped down unceremoniously, his movements unhurried, as though the entire room belonged to him. Blaise and Theo followed suit, taking the seats directly behind them. Hermione stared straight ahead, her jaw clenched so tightly she thought it might crack.
“Ignoring me is a good look on you.” he said, each word dripping with amusement.
Hermione turned to him sharply, her glare enough to make Blaise chuckle softly from behind her. “What do you want, Malfoy?” she snapped, trying to keep her voice low but firm.
She didn't want to cause a spectacle. Not again. There were already enough gossips surrounding her—even more so after Malfoy's outburst in the quad earlier. What small whispers she'd heard about it on her way to class had been gnarly to say the least.
Draco’s smirk widened, and he leaned back in his chair, draping one arm over her backrest with a practiced ease that made her blood boil. “To learn, of course. Isn’t that why we’re all here?”
Her eyes narrowed, but before she could retort, the professor entered the room, signalling the start of the lecture. Hermione turned her attention to the front, grateful for the distraction, though the weight of Draco’s presence beside her was impossible to ignore. His arm remained draped over the back of her chair, his fingers occasionally brushing against her shoulder in what had to be on purpose, and every now and then, she caught him watching her out of the corner of her eye. She clenched her jaw so tight she thought she might break a tooth, firmly set on ignoring him to the best of her ability.
The lecture topic—philosophical ethics—should have been enough to command her focus. It was a subject she loved, one she excelled in, and yet every time she tried to concentrate, Draco managed to pull her attention back to him—even if she did her best not to let it show in anything other than the annoyed set of her tense shoulders. He was like a thorn lodged beneath her skin, irritating and impossible to ignore.
The professor had barely introduced the day’s topic when Malfoy's voice boomed out, drowning the entire room in silence—every whisper suddenly quiet as everyone eyed him, no doubt expecting another one of his famous 'Malfoy performances'.
“Do you think moral absolutism accounts for human fallibility, Professor, or is it an outdated oversimplification?”
Hermione’s pen snapped in her hand. Of course he would. History fucking repeating itself.
The professor, clearly startled, unused to Draco speaking up showing an interest in his course, ever, took a moment to consider the question. “An interesting point, Mr. Malfoy. It depends on how one interprets absolutism. Care to elaborate?”
Draco didn’t miss a beat. “Well, if morality is absolute, there’s no room for nuance. Human beings aren’t static; they’re contradictory by nature. Absolutism seems more like a crutch for people afraid of complexity than a practical ethical framework.”
Hermione couldn’t stop herself. “That’s an oversimplification in itself,” she interjected, her voice sharp, her eyes snapping to his. “Absolutism doesn’t dismiss complexity; it provides a foundation. Without moral absolutes, ethics devolve into relativism, and then who decides what’s right or wrong? It’s chaos.”
Draco turned to her, his smirk deepening as if he’d been waiting for this. Because he had, she chastised herself, annoyed that every time he had played that stupid card she had been unable to watch her mouth.
“Chaos is the natural state of things, Granger. Humans thrive in it. Absolutism tries to put everyone in the same box, but life doesn’t work like that.”
“Thriving in chaos is just another way of saying people get away with anything they can rationalize.” Hermione shot back, her tone clipped. “Moral absolutes are what prevent that. They’re the lines that shouldn’t be crossed.”
“And who draws those lines?” Draco countered, his voice smooth, almost amused. “People in power? People with agendas? Your lines are another person’s leash. Doesn’t sound very moral to me.”
Their debate spiralled from there, a rapid-fire exchange of arguments and counterarguments that left the rest of the class in rapt silence. The professor, to his credit, didn’t interrupt, watching the spectacle with a mix of fascination and mild concern.
Draco leaned closer as Hermione refuted another one of his points, his fingertips brushing against her back. His eyes flicked to her mouth as she spoke, his smirk softening into something almost genuine.
“You’re very passionate when you put me in my place.” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. “It’s almost cute.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re a fucking twat. Does that count as an absolute?”
The corner of his mouth twitched, and for a moment, she thought he might laugh. Instead, he leaned back, his arm still draped over her chair, his fingers finding a stray curl against her back and idly twisting it around his index.
“Touché, Granger.” he said softly, the amusement in his tone unmistakable. "Touché."
By the time the professor finally stepped in to redirect the discussion, Hermione’s cheeks were flushed, her pulse racing. She sank back into her seat, glaring at her notebook as if it were somehow responsible for the heat in her face. Draco, meanwhile, looked entirely too pleased with himself, his smirk softer now, almost… warm.
“You’re fun when you’re riled up.” he said quietly, his voice carrying a note of something that almost sounded like admiration.
Hermione’s jaw tightened, and she turned away from him, her attention firmly fixed on her notebook. But she could feel his gaze lingering on her, and it made her skin prickle. Why couldn't he simply leave her alone? He'd had a good laugh this morning, with whatever shit he had been trying to pull—she refused to entertain the idea that it had been nothing more than another iteration of his little games. Why continue to play that new part of his out in public for all to see? Gods he was annoying.
When the lecture ended, Hermione gathered her things quickly, determined to escape before Draco could find a way to further irritate her. But as she stood, his arm brushed against hers, and his voice stopped her in her tracks.
“See you around.” he said, his tone light but carrying an undertone she couldn’t quite place.
She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. She was too busy stomping out of the room, her frustration bubbling over as she tried—and failed—to ignore the way his behaviour had yet again left her reeling, her heartbeat picking up, her nerves frayed and his stupid voice echoing in her head as she took a sharp turn down the corridor, determined not to see any more of Draco Malfoy for the rest of the day.
Hell the rest of the year—if she thought she could manage that, which was unfortunately a pipe dream.
The library was supposed to be safe—and by safe she meant Malfoy-free. Rows of books stretched endlessly in every direction, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional turning of pages or the muted scratch of pens on paper. It should have been the perfect place for Hermione to collect herself, to bury her mind in academia and forget—even for a moment—the maddening presence of Draco Malfoy.
But, of course, peace was a foreign concept when it came to him. Especially today.
Hermione’s pen hovered over her notebook, her notes on ethical frameworks barely legible through the scrawl of frustration. She’d spent the better part of the last hour trying to drown out the memory of their debate in class: his smug smirk, the way his fingers had casually brushed against her back, the infuriating warmth in his gaze. It was maddening. He was maddening.
“Well, well...” a familiar voice drawled, shattering the fragile silence. “What a surprise” he added in a tone that left little doubt it was anything but.
Her grip on the pen tightened as Draco’s voice reached her, low and unmistakably amused. She didn’t bother looking up, scrawling another line in a tight, hurried handwriting on a page that was already full to bursting with notes, all the way to the margins.
“Go away, Malfoy.” she said, her tone clipped.
“And miss out on the pleasure of your company?” he countered, sliding into the seat across from her with infuriating ease.
His long legs extended under the table, one of his foot strategically sliding between hers with a slow tilt of his head. Blaise and Theo appeared moments later, each taking a chair at her table like it was the most natural thing in the world. The whispers coming from surrounding tables became so loud all of a sudden, it was a miracle nobody came to shush everybody out.
“This isn’t a group study session.” Hermione whispered through her teeth, finally lifting her gaze to glare at them. “Find somewhere else to loiter.”
Blaise leaned back in his chair, his lips quirking into a lazy grin. “Relax, kitten. The library’s public. No one’s stopping you from ignoring us.”
“I don't have time for another one of your stupid games. I’m trying to work.” she shot back, her patience hanging by a thread. “Unlike some people.”
Theo’s expression remained impassive, though his eyes gleamed with faint amusement. “I hear some people thrive under distraction. Consider this an experiment on our part. You might well thank us later." he shrugged a single shoulder.
Hermione shot him a withering look, but it only seemed to amuse him further. She returned her attention to her notes, determined to pretend they didn’t exist—apparently that was the one mistake she never seemed to learn from. That lasted all of thirty seconds before Draco leaned forward, his leg sliding further between her two feet under the table and his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Still upset about the tattoo?” he asked, his tone laced with mock concern.
Hermione’s pen stilled mid-sentence, her knuckles whitening as she gripped it tighter. She refused to dignify the question with a response, though the heat rising to her cheeks betrayed her composure.
“Or was it the choking?" he drawled. "I have to say, it was a first for me but, well... You know as well as I do we both thoroughly enjoyed it."
Her jaw clenched, her breath coming in sharp bursts. “If you don’t shut up, Malfoy, I swear—”
“You’ll what?” he interrupted, his smirk deepening. “Bite me again?” he shrugged, leaning back. "I still have some free real estate, if you aim right."
Blaise snorted, and Theo let out a low chuckle. Hermione, however, didn’t find it the least bit amusing. What the fuck was wrong with these people. She slammed her pen down on the table, the sound echoing through the quiet library. Several nearby students glanced their way—if they hadn't been outright staring already, and she could feel the weight of their attention.
“Do you have any idea how unhinged you are?” she hissed, her voice low but sharp. “What kind of person does that?”
“A sentimental one, of course.” Draco replied without missing a beat.
Hermione let out a sharp, humourless laugh. “You’re completely deranged.”
“I wouldn't get you hot and bothered if I wasn't now, would I?” he countered, his tone infuriatingly casual.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” she exclaimed, her voice a little louder than necessary, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Why are you like this? Whatever new angle you're trying to play, it's pathetic, even for you.”
Draco didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he rested his chin on his hand, watching her with an intensity that made her squirm.
“You make it so fun, why would I stop?” he said finally.
His voice was softer now, almost sincere—if she ever believed him capable of that, which she most certainly didn't. Regardless, the shift in tone caught her off guard, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. She looked away, her eyes landing on her notebook as if it might offer her an escape.
“Alright, that’s enough from you lovebirds.” Blaise said, breaking the tension. He leaned forward, his grin still firmly in place. “You should be flattered, kitten. He doesn’t go to this much trouble for just anyone, you know?”
“Gee, what an honour,” Hermione deadpanned, her sarcasm cutting through the air as she rolled her eyes blatantly.
Theo snorted softly, his gaze flicking between Hermione and Draco. “You gotta admit, the lovestruck puppy look... It’s a bit much, even for you, D. But I have to say, if anything it’s entertaining to observe, at least.”
“I’m glad my suffering amuses you all.” Hermione muttered, slamming her notebook shut. She pushed back her chair with a loud creak, standing abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me, I have actual work to do and a pressing need to never see your faces again.”
Draco’s smirk faltered slightly as she turned to leave, but he recovered quickly. “See you soon!” he called after her, his tone light and his voice loud over the background noise.
She didn’t look back. She marched out of the library, her heart pounding and her mind racing. She’d thought she could ignore them, that she could push past whatever game Draco was playing. But the truth was, he was getting under her skin more and more as time went by—especially with this new version he was portraying himself as. And she hated it.
Hermione slammed the door to her dorm with more force than necessary, the resounding thud reverberating through the quiet space. Her chest heaved as she leaned back against it, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. The day had been excruciating—one endless series of provocations, smug comments, and infuriating smirks from Draco Malfoy. She’d thought the Viper Court’s games were exhausting before, but this? This was something else entirely.
“You okay?” Ginny’s voice pulled Hermione out of her spiral. Her roommate sat cross-legged on her bed, a half-eaten bag of crisps resting beside her. She was scrolling on her phone but looked up with a raised brow when Hermione didn’t immediately respond.
“Fine.” Hermione bit out, shrugging off her bag and tossing it onto the desk. Her pens clattered noisily as she dropped them next to it. “Just had an infuriating day.”
Ginny’s lips twitched, her curiosity clearly piqued. “Infuriating, huh? Let me guess. Malfoy?”
Hermione shot her a sharp look, but Ginny’s grin only widened. “Oh, come on, it’s obvious. He’s been tailing you like a particularly annoying shadow lately. What’d he do this time? Declare his undying love in the middle of class?” she raised an eyebrow, wiggling it slightly, visibly trying not to laugh at the shock and horror on Hermione's face. "You know gossip travels fast here, especially about him. I've heard a lot of... suspicious things today."
“Nothing suspicious.” Hermione muttered, rubbing her temples. The memory of their classroom debate, his too-close proximity, and the smug satisfaction radiating off him all day resurfaced unbidden, making her jaw tighten. “But he’s definitely up to something again.”
Ginny set her phone down and tilted her head, her expression somewhere between amused and concerned. “What kind of something? I mean, it’s Malfoy. Isn’t he always up to something? You're not in any... real trouble with him, right? I know you punched him and all and I'm totally on your side, but I wasn't kidding when I said you shouldn't get them on your bad side.” she winced. "I mean... more than you already have, clearly."
“This feels different...” Hermione admitted reluctantly, pacing the small room. Her steps were sharp, purposeful, but they didn’t help dissipate the energy buzzing under her skin. “He’s not just trying to win some petty game or make a point. It’s like...” She trailed off, unsure how to articulate the tangled mess of thoughts swirling in her head.
“Like what?” Ginny prompted, her tone gentler now.
“Like he’s trying to stake some kind of claim.” Hermione finished, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. "He says weird shit, gets fucking tattoos and acts so fucking smug about it. Like he knows something I don’t.” She huffed, aware that not even half of this would make any sense to Ginny but needing to vent for just a second while she calmed her nerves. "I know it's all part of his new tactic to get under my skin, this bastard is relentless but fucking hell who does shit like that!? He's a fucking weirdo Ginny."
Ginny let out a low whistle, leaning back against the wall. “That’s... concerning. And kind of weirdly intense. Even for Malfoy.”
“Exactly!” Hermione said, throwing her hands up. “It’s like he’s playing around and as soon as I think I figured out the rules, he switches them around, and I hate it.”
For a moment, Ginny was quiet, her gaze thoughtful. Then she straightened, a mischievous glint in her eyes. There was no universe in which this was good. Ginny loved a bit of drama—as much as anyone else did in this school, Hermione supposed. Unfortunately her roommate was also strangely obsessed with following the ins and outs of her dynamic with Malfoy, as much as she could at least—thank the gods she would never hear about the warehouse incident.
“You know, you could always turn the tables on him.”
Hermione frowned. “What do you mean?”
Ginny smirked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Well, the Viper Court is throwing one of their most infamous events tomorrow night. It’s the talk of the school every year. Something... special compared to their usual parties, to say the least." her smile widened in anticipation. "You should go.”
Hermione blinked, taken aback. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” Ginny pressed, way too giddy about it all. “It’s the perfect opportunity. Show up, remind Malfoy you’re not some pawn in whatever game he’s playing. That he doesn't have a claim to stake, like you said. Maybe even have a little fun while you’re at it.”
“Fun?” Hermione echoed incredulously. “At a Viper Court party? You’ve got to be joking. Those things are nothing but chaos and bad decisions wrapped in loud music and too much alcohol.”
Ginny shrugged. “And yet, you went to one before.”
“Because you bullied me into it." Hermione’s glare returned full force. "And that was a monumental mistake.”
“Or was it?” Ginny teased, her tone sing-song. When Hermione didn’t respond, she added more seriously, “Look, I get it. Malfoy’s a pain in the arse. But if he’s going to keep trying to get under your skin, why not make him sweat a little? Show him you’re not so easily rattled. If someone can, it's gotta be you.”
Hermione hesitated, the idea taking root despite her better judgment. She hated to admit it, but Ginny had a point. Letting Malfoy dictate the terms of their interactions, no matter how infuriating, felt like conceding ground. And she wasn’t about to let that happen. Staying silent and ignoring him had clearly not worked. If anything it had made him bolder and it seemed to spark his interest all the more, every single time.
Maybe it was time she retaliated. Not directly—she would rather not have to revisit the warehouse's closet anytime soon, she didn't have enough clothes to keep loosing them to his manic knife games, nor enough bleach to clean the blood that inevitably came afterwards. But in a way that would make it clear once and for all: you do not own me.
“Fine.” she said finally, crossing her arms. “I’ll go. But only to make a point.”
Ginny’s grin was blinding. “That’s the spirit! Now.... The important part. What are you going to wear?”
Hermione groaned, already regretting her decision. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” Ginny said breezily, reaching for her phone. “Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”
Hermione doubted that, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she sat on the edge of her bed, her mind already racing with possibilities. If she was going to do this, she needed to do it right. Malfoy wanted to play games? Fine. She’d play. But this time she’d make damn sure she came out on top, unchallenged.