Vanilla

Draco couldn’t remember the last time he had seen something so utterly… devastating.

She was a masterpiece caught in motion, unapologetically alive. The kind of alive that made something in his chest ache, raw and ragged. His gaze was a predator’s, roaming from the untamed curls piled atop her head to the tendrils that rebelled, framing her face with a wild kind of grace. Her eyes caught the low light like shards of amber, glinting with something he couldn’t place—freedom, danger, a dare. Her lips, stained the color of blood and ruin, curved around a secret he would burn to know.

The dress—black, sleeveless, sinfully simple—clung to her curves like it had been painted on, cutting off mid-thigh to reveal endless legs. He followed the line of her bare skin, down, down, to where black leather boots hugged her calves. The contrast was electric, sharp-edged femininity wrapped in rebellion.

She was a vision. A bloody, goddamned vision.

And if he were a better man, he would have left. He could’ve turned his attention to the food, the wine, anything but her. But he wasn’t, and he didn’t. Instead, he slouched low in the corner, sprawled out in the shadows of an armchair, and watched.

Hermione Granger wasn’t a girl. She wasn’t a woman. She was a siren, a witch twice over, and she didn’t even have to sing to drag him under.

When did that happen?

No. That wasn’t the question, not really. Because if he was honest with himself—a rare indulgence—he knew it had always been there.

It wasn’t this dress or this night. It wasn’t the way she moved, uninhibited and unselfconscious, as if she’d flung off every weight she’d ever carried. It wasn’t even the curve of her smile, sharp as broken glass.

It had started long before.

Sixth year. Potions class. He was drowning back then—war, trauma, loneliness pressing against his chest, and her presence had been the one solid thing in the room. She’d stood at the front of the class, blushing as she explained amortentia to the class. Her cheeks had gone pink as she listed the scents that drew her in, and Merlin, it had almost been cruel.

Vanilla.

It had been the vanilla that undid him, thick and sweet, clinging to the back of his throat. It had sickened him, the realisation that he wanted that scent to choke him, drown him, consume him. He couldn’t look at vanilla ice cream after that without tasting her.

He never told anyone, of course. Never dared.

“You alright there, mate?”

Theodore Nott’s voice cut through the haze like a blunt knife, shattering the moment as his broad frame sauntered into Draco’s line of sight. Just like that, the most captivating view Draco had ever been gifted—Hermione, glowing, unguarded, utterly mesmerising—was obliterated by Theodore’s infuriatingly smug presence.

“Fine,” Draco muttered through gritted teeth, his tone clipped enough to send most people running.

Not Theodore.

He raised one thick, incredulous eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk that promised nothing good. Without waiting for an invitation, he flopped down beside Draco, sprawling into the seat as if he owned it.

“Oh, good. You’ve got that ‘brooding death eater’ vibe going tonight. It’s really working for you,” Theodore said, crossing his legs like some self-satisfied therapist preparing for a long session. “Go on then, what’s got you skulking in the corner? Did someone drink your champagne or step on your dragonhide shoes? You look positively wounded.”

Draco didn’t dignify him with a response. His gaze flickered back to Hermione, catching her just as she turned toward the bar, leaving her little circle of admirers behind. She moved with a natural sort of elegance that made his chest tighten.

“Ah, I see.” Theodore’s voice dripped with mock revelation, his smirk widening as he followed Draco’s line of sight. “So it’s Granger tonight, is it? Fascinating. Tell me, how’s the pining going? Stabbing pain or dull ache?”

“Shut up.”

Theodore clapped a hand over his heart, feigning injury. “Come on, don’t be like that. It’s a party, mate. Loosen up. I even pulled strings to get you in here. You know, some of us have reputations to maintain. The least you could do is stop lurking in corners.”

Draco shot him a glare. “I’m not lurking.”

“Oh no, of course not. You’re just…” Theodore paused, tilting his head in mock contemplation. “Observing? Creeping? No, I’ve got it—brooding dramatically in poorly lit areas. Very on-brand, Malfoy. Excellent commitment to the aesthetic.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something unintelligible as Theodore stretched out further, clearly relishing this, which Draco was not.

“And for the record,” Theodore added, raising his glass in a mock toast, “if Granger catches you staring at her like that, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself when she hexes you. Though, honestly, I’d pay to see it. Maybe that’s what this party needs—some good, old-fashioned public humiliation. Really liven things up.”

Draco didn’t rise to the bait, but the muscle in his jaw ticked. Theodore chuckled, tipping back his drink with the kind of effortless ease that made him infuriatingly likable to most people.

“Well, don’t let me stop you, mate. Just try not to drool, yeah?”

Draco didn’t answer. He was too busy watching Hermione. Too busy wishing Theodore would sod off and stop turning his own miserable fascination into a spectacle.

But then, she walked away, practically gliding on air as she made her way to the bar. Every step was unhurried, deliberate, her hips swaying just enough to catch the dim light and hold it hostage. She gestured to the bartender, the motion smooth and practiced, and within moments, she had her drink. And then—just like that—she disappeared from his line of sight, leaving Draco to stew in the hollowness her absence carved out of the room.

He leaned back in his chair, jaw tight, his mood sinking back into the familiar depths of dissatisfaction. This was going to be a long, miserable night.

“Say,” Theodore began, and Draco could already feel the headache coming, “how many galleons do you reckon it would take to bribe you into actually going up and talking to her?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Theodore dramatically pull his coin purse from his pocket, holding it aloft like some kind of offering. He jingled it obnoxiously, waggling his eyebrows as if this were the most ingenious idea he’d ever had.

Draco swatted it away without looking. “I don’t need your money.”

“Oh, do forgive me, Lord Malfoy,” Theodore intoned, clutching his chest as if Draco’s disdain had struck him mortally. “I forgot myself. I’m but a lowly peasant, not accustomed to your rarefied world of obscene wealth. Us mere mortals must make do with our tiny, pitiful fortunes.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. At least eight different ways he could strangle his oldest friend were currently running through his mind, each more satisfying than the last. But alas, he suspected it would be frowned upon to commit murder in such a public venue.

“Why do I even put up with you?” Draco muttered, standing abruptly and brushing imaginary lint off his sleeves.

“Because I’m delightful,” Theodore said, grinning like the devil himself. “Also, I make you look marginally less like a miserable git by comparison. It’s my greatest gift to you.”

Draco shot him a withering look, but Theo’s grin only widened.

“No, wait—come back!” Theo called after him between peals of laughter as Draco turned to leave. “You’re so sensitive! Where are you off to now?”

“For a smoke,” Draco called over his shoulder, not bothering to slow his stride. “I’ll be on the balcony.”

“Ah, yes, brooding in peace. Very on-brand,” Theodore quipped, just loud enough to be obnoxious.

Draco ignored him, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked. The balcony would offer fresh air, space, and—most importantly—a reprieve from Theodore’s relentless antics. At least for a moment.

He had been working at the Ministry for four years now, steadily climbing the ranks as an Auror, and just a month ago, he’d been promoted to Head Investigative Auror. He had accepted the news with professional composure, shaking Kingsley’s hand with a firm, stoic grip, murmuring the appropriate thank-yous. Then, later that evening, he had celebrated the promotion like any self-respecting man of his station: by getting absolutely roaring drunk with his friends.

The thing was, ever since that promotion, he’d found himself working uncomfortably close to her.

Granger.

She was everywhere these days. He’d see her weaving through the office corridors, hair flying in wild curls, her arms full of reports, and that maddeningly focused expression etched across her face. She always looked like she was juggling six impossible tasks at once and somehow succeeding at all of them. On more than one occasion, he’d caught her with her wand clenched between her teeth, her hands otherwise occupied with stacks of parchment so tall they looked like they might topple and crush her.

She was chaos wrapped in determination, and he couldn’t seem to stop watching her.

Draco noticed far more than he should’ve: the times she arrived early and stayed late, the way she tapped her quill against her chin when she was deep in thought, or the sharp twist of her lips when someone interrupted her mid-task. He wasn’t proud of it, but some part of him catalogued these details as if they were crucial evidence in one of his cases.

If he wasn’t at the Ministry, he was out in the field, leading teams to investigate high-profile wizarding crimes. A good number of them were tied to the misuse of magical creatures, which meant their paths crossed more often than he cared to admit. It hadn’t come as a surprise to anyone—least of all him—when Hermione Granger had shot through the ranks of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures straight out of Hogwarts.

Now, seven years later, she was the Assistant Head of International Cooperation for the Safety and Security of Magical Creatures. In essence, she was outranking most of the people she called her peers. Including him.

It wasn’t just her title that fascinated him, though. It was her.

She was singular in every way, an impossible force that seemed to defy the natural order of things. How she could look perpetually frazzled and yet be the most composed person in the room baffled him. How she could charm foreign diplomats, argue legislation into submission, and still find time to reorganize entire departments was beyond him.

Draco didn’t want to admit it, but she was a distraction. An infuriating, magnetic distraction that lingered in his mind long after she had swept out of view, leaving the faint scent of ink, parchment, and that damned vanilla behind her.

Yes, Hermione Granger was truly fascinating.

The balcony was mercifully quiet, with only a few others lingering at the opposite end, their murmured conversations a distant hum. Draco claimed a solitary spot at the far corner of the railing, where he could savour the anonymity of shadow and silence. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a practiced flick of his wand, and took a long drag.

The night sky sprawled above him, scattered with a smattering of stars that flickered faintly against the inky black. He squinted, trying to trace the constellations, but the alcohol coursing through his veins dulled his focus. Every time he thought he had found one—a line, a pattern—it slipped from him, the stars blurring into a meaningless jumble.

The party had been Neramus McCain’s doing, the kind of event that pretended to be about networking but was really just a thinly veiled excuse for the old guard to drink themselves into oblivion. As Head of International Cooperation for the Safety and Security of Magical Creatures, McCain was Hermione’s boss, and by extension, one of the many Ministry officials Draco found himself forced to liaise with on missions.

Short, perpetually grumpy, and forever reeking of firewhiskey, McCain had a reputation for being as sharp as he was surly. But beneath the veneer of respectability was a man who didn’t bother hiding his dependency on a stiff drink at any hour of the day—morning, midday, or midnight.

Not that Draco was in any position to judge.

He exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it dissipate into the cold air. His own vices weren’t exactly subtle. The smoking habit had started about a year after Azkaban, creeping into his life like a necessary evil. His mother, of course, had been horrified. Narcissa Malfoy had given him that disappointed look, the one that stung worse than any hex, but he’d ignored it. Sod it. He was Malfoy in name only now—and that name itself was damaged goods—so if he wanted to shave a few years off his life with a bad habit, who was to stop him?

He let the cigarette dangle between his fingers as the memory of his court-appointed healer’s voice echoed in his mind.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she had said during their last session, peering at him over her half-moon spectacles, “you do realize that flippantly joking about your own death isn’t as charming as you think it is? It’s a coping mechanism—an unhealthy one.”

He’d shrugged her off at the time, offered some glib comment about accepting his inevitable demise. But here, alone under the stars, her words clawed their way back to him, unwelcome and persistent.

Draco tapped ash from the end of his cigarette, his eyes drifting out over the balcony’s edge. He tried not to think about her words or what they might mean. Tried not to let the creeping weight of introspection settle on his shoulders.

Instead, he inhaled again, letting the burn fill his lungs, and stared at the sky. The stars, at least, didn’t expect anything from him.

“Malfoy?”

So much for peace and quiet. Draco exhaled slowly, already bidding farewell to his precious solitude as Harry Potter’s unmistakable voice cut through the night.

Rolling his eyes, Draco took another drag of his cigarette before turning to face the inevitable. There Potter was, standing at the entrance to the balcony, silhouetted against the golden glow of the party inside.

Potter, of all people.

Head Auror, his boss, and the living embodiment of Draco’s karmic reckoning. There was a cruel sort of poetry to it, wasn’t there? After years of tormenting the Golden Boy in school, Draco now reported to him. Life had a twisted sense of humour. They weren’t rivals anymore, not really, but they weren’t friends either. Civility was the best they managed—a cool, professional truce.

“I didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” Harry said, stepping closer, his eyes scanning Draco from head to toe with an unreadable expression.

“No, neither did I,” Draco replied, his tone clipped. The truth lingered unsaid on his tongue: The only reason I’m here is because your best friend is. He shoved the thought aside, unwilling to entertain it for long. Instead, he gestured vaguely toward the lively din of the party inside. “Shit party.” 

That earned him a snort from Potter, who shook his head, a small chuckle escaping. “Yeah, McCain’s not exactly known for his hosting skills.”

Draco arched his brow. “That’s putting it generously.”

Harry smirked, leaning against the railing a few feet away, his hands shoved into the pockets of his suit. “Didn’t think this was your kind of crowd, though,” he said, his tone light, almost conversational. “Parties, I mean. You usually keep to yourself.”

“I like to keep my work and my personal life separate,” Draco replied coolly, taking another drag of his cigarette. “But you know how it is. Obligations.”

“Obligations,” Harry repeated, nodding slowly. He glanced at the cigarette between Draco’s fingers, his expression flickering briefly into something disapproving, but he said nothing about it.

Harry sighed, breaking the silence. “Well, I’m only here as a messenger. Nott wants you. Something about needing to leave because—” he lifted his hands, forming exaggerated air quotes, “—his devilishly good looks are being wasted here.”

Draco couldn’t help the faint smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “That’s Nott for you.”

It was, in fact, very Nott. Self-absorbed to the point of caricature, yet somehow disarmingly generous when it came to his friends. Theo was a walking paradox—equal parts narcissist and loyal bastard, always ready to stir the pot or lend a hand, depending on his mood.

Harry huffed a small laugh, straightening his robes. “Well, I’ll see you at work, Malfoy.” He extended a hand, and Draco hesitated for the briefest of moments before snubbing out his cigarette with a precise flick against the balcony railing. With another practiced wave, the butt vanished into thin air.

He grasped Harry’s hand in a firm, measured shake. “Yeah,” he said shortly, his voice even. “See you at work.”

Harry gave him a clipped smile in return, then turned and walked back inside. Draco watched him weave through the crowd until he reached Ginny. She looked up as he approached, her face softening into a warm smile before they embraced briefly but intimately, as though it was second nature.

Something sharp and unwanted twisted in Draco’s chest. He clenched his jaw against it, refusing to acknowledge the pang for what it was—envy, loneliness, whatever pathetic emotion was creeping its way to the surface.

Draco turned sharply, pushing his way back inside, scanning the crowded room for Theo. He spotted him quickly—of course he did. Theo was leaning casually against the bar, charming the life out of a young witch Draco didn’t recognize.

With a sigh that bordered on a growl, Draco shoved through the throng of people, earning himself a few annoyed glares along the way. When he reached Theo, his friend lit up like a Christmas tree.

“My darling, Draco,” Theo greeted with an exaggerated flourish, bowing low as though they were in the middle of a ballroom.

Draco stared at him flatly. “Theo.”

Unbothered, Theo straightened and turned to the witch, offering her an apologetic smile that was somehow both devastatingly sincere and completely insincere. “You must excuse me, my dear. This one gets awfully prickly when he’s neglected for too long.” He winked, planting a light kiss on her hand before stepping back. “Duty calls.”

“Theo, enough,” Draco growled again, his patience wearing thin.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” Theo replied, breezily waving him off. He sauntered toward the exit, and Draco followed, but something made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

He was being watched.

Draco slowed, eyes scanning the room until he found the source of the prickling sensation. Hermione Granger.

She stood across the room in a small group, Harry and his wife among them. Draco vaguely registered the others but paid them no mind. His gaze locked on Hermione.

She wasn’t smiling, not exactly. Her expression was... curious, as though she were trying to figure him out. That sharp, assessing look she was so good at, the one that always made him feel as if she could see straight through him.

Her painted lips curled slightly as she raised her wine glass, taking a slow sip. An eyebrow arched in silent challenge.

It was as if the rest of the room faded into nothing. The noise, the crowd, the heat—it all melted away. The only thing that mattered was her. And Merlin help him, he wanted her to keep looking at him, wanted her to hold that thread of connection for just a second longer.

But then some drunk idiot stumbled into him, breaking the moment like shattering glass. Draco shot the man a withering glare before turning back, but Hermione had already shifted her attention, laughing at something Potter said.

The knot in his chest tightened. He wanted her to look again, to bring him back into focus. But she didn’t.

With a sharp inhale, he spun on his heel, his mood souring further. Theo, oblivious as ever, was already halfway out the door. Draco caught up to him, grabbing his arm harder than necessary.

“Oh, someone’s grumpy,” Theo quipped, entirely too amused.