In the Shadows
Hermione stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the common room, the soft flicker of the fire casting long, languid shadows across the stone walls. She wasn’t looking at her reflection; no, she was staring at the space between her own eyes and the glass. The image before her seemed distant, unfamiliar, as if the reflection belonged to someone else. Someone less burdened. Less... confused.
Her fingers, pale and delicate, brushed the edges of her robes absentmindedly, her thoughts a jumbled mess of unspoken words and a flutter of dread deep in her chest. Ron’s laugh had been so easy, so carefree, just a moment ago. That sound had once been something she could take comfort in, but now it cut through her like a shard of ice. It had come from across the room—him and Luna, laughing together over some silly inside joke.
Her breath hitched as she replayed the scene in her mind: Ron leaning in ever so slightly as Luna whispered something in his ear, their faces too close, their smiles too wide. Their eyes sparkled with a familiarity that had always been reserved for her. Or at least, she thought it had been.
Ron had sworn there was nothing to it, that Luna was just a friend. Just a friend. Hermione had wanted to believe him. She really had. But something in the way they spoke to each other, in the way their conversations lingered just a little too long, made her feel as though she was intruding on something she wasn’t meant to see. It wasn’t the words that mattered—it was the unspoken bond between them, the way Ron’s gaze softened whenever Luna spoke, the way Luna tilted her head when Ron teased her, as though she was already a part of him.
She clenched her jaw, a flicker of annoyance rising in her. Emotional cheating , she thought, a term that felt too heavy to even whisper aloud. She wasn’t the kind of person to make accusations without proof, to let her insecurities take root in her mind and grow, twisting into something toxic. But this... it felt different. Every time Ron was with Luna, she felt like an outsider in her own relationship. Like she was the one who didn’t belong.
Hermione’s fingers tightened on the mirror frame, as if it could somehow hold her steady, stop the weight from pressing down on her chest. She wasn’t supposed to be this person. She wasn’t supposed to question him all the time. She wasn’t supposed to feel like a nag, harping on him about every little thing. But no matter how many times she asked him to stop or to change, he always apologized, always said it was nothing, but then the next day, she’d find them laughing together again, and that same, sick feeling would return. She had learned to smile, to pretend that it didn’t hurt as much as it did. To wear the mask of indifference, to say she was fine when she wasn’t.
It wasn’t that she wanted to control him—she didn’t. She just wanted to feel safe again, wanted to feel like she mattered. That her love wasn’t something easily lost, so easily replaced with a fleeting joke between friends. She longed for him to see her the way he saw Luna, with that same easy warmth, with the same intensity that made her feel cherished. But no matter how many times she asked, no matter how many late-night talks they had, it was as if Ron never fully understood how his actions made her feel. It was as if her feelings didn’t quite reach him in the same way.
She took a step back from the mirror, the cold glass now reflecting her face, pale and drawn. Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t say anything. There was nothing more to say. Her reflection stared back at her, waiting for an answer. But there wasn’t one.
Maybe it was easier to pretend she was happy. Easier to smile when he smiled, to laugh along when he laughed, to hold his hand and feel the warmth of his fingers against hers, even when the space between them felt as wide as the chasm in her heart. I’m fine , she thought, pressing her lips together in a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
In the silence of the room, Hermione tried to believe it. She tried to convince herself that she was fine, that it wasn’t so bad, that she wasn’t so alone. But in the deepest part of her, where the insecurities lingered, the truth was undeniable.
She was losing him. And she wasn’t sure if she could ever get him back. She wasn't sure she wanted to…
–
On the other side of the castle, Draco Malfoy sat in the dimly lit Slytherin common room, leaning back in his armchair, the soft crackle of the fire his only company. His book was open in front of him, though his eyes were unfocused. His mind, as it often did these days, had wandered back to her. Hermione Granger.
He wasn’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to notice her. For years, he’d played the part of the Slytherin prince, the heir to a legacy that demanded pride and cruelty. To her, he had been nothing but a source of mockery and disdain. To him, she had been the Mudblood , an easy target, a symbol of everything he had been taught to hate. But over time, things had shifted. Somewhere between their shared classes and the moments of unspoken understanding, something had changed. Something he couldn’t quite explain.
He could no longer stand the mask. Not when it came to her. It was as if, beneath his carefully crafted exterior, there was a part of him that—despite everything—couldn’t help but care about her. She was different. She had always been different. It was in the way she carried herself, in the way her mind worked, in the way she wore her heart on her sleeve, even if she didn’t always show it.
He had seen it from afar, even across the great expanse of Hogwarts. He could see the way Hermione had started to change. How her posture had become slightly slumped, the weight of something invisible pulling at her shoulders. How her smiles had started to fade just a little when Ron was near, how her bright eyes dimmed whenever she thought no one was looking. He had watched it all, quietly, from the shadows, unable to stop himself.
Ron and Luna.
The thought gnawed at him. It wasn’t that he was jealous—he didn’t feel jealousy the way most people did. But there was something about the way Ron had started to behave around Luna Lovegood that made Draco’s stomach twist. The quiet flirtations, the inside jokes, the way Ron would lean in just a little too close when she spoke. He’d watched them, seen the way Ron’s attention had shifted so easily, so subtly.
And Hermione? She hadn’t even noticed how it was happening. At least from his point of view she hadn’t. Or maybe she had and just couldn’t bring herself to confront it. She was too loyal, too loving. She wouldn’t see it, not with Ron. She wouldn’t admit that maybe he was slipping away, caught up in something with someone else.
It was painful to watch. The way Ron had let it happen, and the way Hermione had started to wither in response. He could see the way she tried to pretend it didn’t bother her, how she tried to act like everything was fine, like nothing had changed. But he knew. He saw it.
He clenched his jaw, the frustration rising in him. She doesn’t deserve this.
But he couldn’t help her in the way he wanted to. Not openly. Not in front of everyone. He knew she would never turn to him for comfort. She wouldn’t even think of it. Not after all the things he’d said to her, all the insults he’d thrown at her over the years. No, she wouldn’t come to him. And even if she did, he wasn’t sure what he’d say. He wasn’t sure what he could offer her, other than more hurt.
But there had to be a way. A way to reach her, to offer her something without making it obvious. A way to show her she wasn’t alone, even if it was in the quietest, most discreet way possible.
The idea came to him slowly, like a whisper. It was nothing grand, nothing dramatic. Just a small thought, a little plan that started to take root in the back of his mind. He could leave her notes. Simple, anonymous notes. Nothing too revealing, just a few words. Something that might give her a moment’s pause, make her feel like someone understood, that someone cared. He could slip them into her books, into the corners of the library, under her seat in class.
It wasn’t much. But it was something. It was a way to remind her that there was someone who saw the changes in her, someone who knew how she was suffering, someone who noticed how beautiful she was even when she couldn’t see it herself.
He thought about it for a long time, letting the idea settle in his mind. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was something he could do. Something he could offer her without ever saying a word.
But do you know what gnawed at Draco the most? That Harry Potter never noticed Hermione's pain. Harry might swear he would do anything to help his friends, but when it came to Hermione, when it came to seeing the cracks in her smile, the hurt in her eyes, he turned a blind eye. He couldn’t be bothered. He was the hero of the world, but when it came to his own, he was too busy playing the impartial bystander.
Pathetic.
Draco looked down at the book in front of him, his fingers tracing the edge of the page, though he wasn’t reading. His thoughts were elsewhere, on her, on the small plan that had started to take shape. He wasn’t sure how he would begin, how he would leave the first note. But it didn’t matter. He would.
And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to remind her that there was someone who cared. Someone who could see her pain, even when the rest of the world, even Ron, refused to notice.
If only she knew that someone had been watching all along.