Haunted

The library was quiet, save for the rustling of pages and the occasional scrape of a chair against the stone floor. The scent of aged parchment hung in the air, mingling with the faint chill that always seemed to seep through the castle walls at night.

Hermione Granger sat alone at a long oak table, surrounded by towering stacks of books. Her quill scratched methodically across a roll of parchment as she jotted down notes for an essay.

The rhythm of her work—write, pause, dip the quill—was soothing. Familiar. She clung to that familiarity like a lifeline, her focus narrowing to the neat rows of handwriting on the parchment in front of her.

But even here, surrounded by books, surrounded by safety, her nerves buzzed with tension.

It had been that way since the war.

Months on the run had honed her instincts to a razor’s edge. She had learned to listen for the subtle sounds of danger—the snap of a twig, the faintest shuffle of footsteps. It had kept her alive. Kept Harry and Ron alive.

Her breath caught briefly at the thought of them, but she forced it away. They weren’t here.

Hermione shifted in her seat, the ache of absence settling in her chest like a dull weight. Harry and Ron were deep into Auror training now, chasing a new purpose while she had returned to Hogwarts to finish her education. It had made sense at the time—Harry had always said he wasn’t coming back, and Ron, after some coaxing, had decided to join him.

“You should go,” Hermione had told Ron, the words carefully chosen, rehearsed in the quiet of her room at the Burrow. “This is a huge opportunity for you, and it’s not forever. I’ll be back at Hogwarts for a year. We’ll have time afterward to…”

“To what?” Ron had asked, his voice tinged with doubt.

“To be stronger,” she had replied, managing a soft smile. “This will be good for us. Time apart will help us grow.”

It was only half a lie.

The truth—what she hadn’t said—was that she was tired. Tired of always being the one with the plan, the one with the answers. She loved Ron, but the weight of their relationship, of trying to repair what the war had fractured, had been too much.

She had needed to breathe.

And now, here she was. Alone.

Hermione set her quill down, her fingers curling into a fist on the table. She forced herself to take a deep breath, but it felt shallow, like air caught in her chest. She didn’t regret coming back, not really. Hogwarts was familiar. It was safe.

At least, it should have been.

Her hand drifted to her wand, resting in her lap beneath the table. The smooth wood was warm against her palm, a reminder that she wasn’t powerless. That she would never be powerless again.

Still, her nerves hummed. She scanned the library, her eyes flicking to the rows of towering shelves and the flickering lanterns casting soft golden light over the aisles. Everything looked as it should. Quiet. Undisturbed.

But her instincts whispered otherwise.

It wasn’t just the library. It was everywhere. A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision, an unexpected sound behind her—each one sent a jolt of unease through her chest. She hated it, hated the way it made her feel like she was still being hunted.

She whispered to herself, “It’s nothing. Just the library settling.”

The words rang hollow, even to her own ears.

Her quill hovered over the parchment, but she didn’t move. Her thoughts were too loud now, the silence pressing against her like a weight. Rationally, she knew she was safe. Hogwarts wasn’t crawling with Snatchers or Death Eaters anymore.

But instincts that had once been her salvation now felt more like a curse.

Draco Malfoy stood in the shadows between two bookcases, his pale face obscured by the dim light of the library. His eyes, sharp and calculating, followed the movement of her hand as she wrote.

She didn’t know he was there. Not yet.

Draco told himself he had come to the library to study. It wasn’t a complete lie—there was a Potions essay waiting for him back in the dungeons. But he hadn’t come here for the books.

No, it was her.

He knew he shouldn’t linger, but leaving was harder than staying. He had told himself the same thing every night for the past two weeks, yet here he was again, pressed against the cold stone wall, watching her.

She looked exactly as she always had—poised, focused, determined. Untouchable.

It infuriated him.

It wasn’t fair that she could walk through these halls, her head held high, as though the war hadn’t left scars on them all. He told himself he hated her for it, for her resilience. For her perfection.

But the truth was more complicated.

The soft rustle of her parchment sounded unnaturally loud in the vast, empty space. Hermione forced herself to pick up her quill again, her fingers trembling slightly as she resumed her writing. But the rhythm was off now—hesitant, uneven.

Her mind wasn’t on the essay.

Instead, her thoughts drifted to the faint creak she’d heard minutes ago. It wasn’t her imagination. She was sure of it. She could still feel the prickling awareness that something—someone—was there. Watching her.

It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Her throat tightened at the memory of Snatchers closing in, their laughter echoing through the trees. Of the way Fenrir Greyback’s predatory gaze had lingered on her, sending cold fear spiraling through her chest.

Hermione shook her head sharply, forcing the memory away. That was then. This was now. She wasn’t running anymore, wasn’t hiding.

Still, her body didn’t seem to know the difference.

Her wand remained in her lap, her fingers brushing over its smooth surface as though grounding herself in its familiarity. She hated feeling this way—like prey. She hated even more that it might all be in her head.

What would Harry and Ron say if they saw you like this? she thought bitterly. Jumping at shadows in the safest place in the wizarding world.

But they weren’t here.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder again, her pulse quickening as her eyes scanned the rows of bookshelves. Everything was still. Too still.

Draco shifted slightly, his back pressed against the cold stone wall as he watched her. He told himself he wasn’t doing anything wrong, that he wasn’t hurting her by simply… observing.

But the truth felt murkier.

He had lingered too long tonight, let himself get too close. The tension in her posture, the way her hand hovered protectively over her wand—it thrilled him and shamed him in equal measure.

She sensed him.

Draco’s fingers twitched at his sides as he debated retreating. The logical part of him screamed to leave now, before she turned and caught him standing there like a thief in the night.

But he couldn’t.

There was something intoxicating about watching her like this, seeing her stripped of the shield she wore in public. He had spent years watching her from a distance, telling himself it was hate that drew his gaze to her, hate that made him notice every curl that fell out of place, every flash of defiance in her brown eyes.

But it wasn’t hate.

Draco clenched his fists as he stepped deeper into the shadows, his heart hammering in his chest. It was obsession.

The creak came again, louder this time, and Hermione’s head snapped up. Her heart leapt into her throat as she rose from her seat, her wand gripped tightly in her hand.

“Who’s there?” she called, her voice sharp and commanding despite the tremor beneath it.

The silence pressed against her, heavy and unrelenting. She took a cautious step forward, her wand held out before her as the light from its tip illuminated the narrow aisle of bookshelves.

Her breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as her gaze darted to every shadow, every dark corner.

“I’m warning you,” she said, her voice rising. “Show yourself, or—”

A faint shuffle of footsteps echoed from deeper in the library, cutting her off. Hermione’s grip tightened on her wand as she turned toward the sound, her pulse pounding in her ears.

“Lumos Maxima,” she whispered, and the light from her wand flared, casting a wide glow over the surrounding shelves.

Still, there was nothing.

Draco pressed himself against the far wall, his breath caught in his throat as the light from her wand swept dangerously close to where he stood. He had underestimated her sharpness, her courage. Even now, with her body tense and her hand trembling slightly, she didn’t hesitate to confront the unknown.

It was maddening.

The rational part of him knew he should leave. Her wand was powerful enough to expose him, and the thought of being caught—of her seeing him like this—made his stomach churn.

But another part of him, the darker part, couldn’t look away.

Hermione turned back toward her table, her shoulders still tight with tension. Draco exhaled quietly, his chest rising and falling as he watched her retreat. She glanced over her shoulder once, her eyes scanning the shadows one last time before sitting down.

She muttered something under her breath—a spell, no doubt—and the faint shimmer of protective wards flickered around her.

Draco’s lips curled into a bitter smirk. She was always prepared. Always ready for a fight.

And yet, for all her vigilance, she still hadn’t seen him.

Hermione stared at the essay in front of her, but the words blurred together on the page. Her wand rested on the table beside her, its comforting presence doing little to ease the knot of tension in her chest.

She tried to focus, tried to tell herself it was nothing. Just her imagination. But deep down, she didn’t believe it.

Her instincts rarely lied.

Draco lingered for a moment longer, his gaze fixed on her as she leaned back in her chair, her hand brushing absently over her wand.

She looked tired.

It was a strange thought, and one he immediately pushed away. Hermione Granger wasn’t tired. She was untouchable, unbroken. The war hadn’t left its mark on her the way it had on him.

And yet…

Draco shook his head, turning sharply on his heel as he slipped through the shadows toward the dungeons. He told himself he wasn’t hurting her, that he would leave her alone soon.

But as he descended the cold, winding staircase, he knew it wasn’t true.

He would be back.