Haunted

The weeks that followed passed in a surprising blur. For the first time since returning to Hogwarts, Hermione felt the edges of her paranoia begin to soften. It wasn’t immediate, but gradually, the prickling sense of being watched faded into the background.

She was surprised by Draco Malfoy.

Not only was he an excellent potions partner—sharp, methodical, and attentive—but their study sessions had started to evolve. What began as a rigid, academic partnership focused on potions grew into something broader, deeper. By the end of their second week of regular meetings, Hermione found herself looking forward to their discussions, which often veered wildly off-topic.

One evening, while reviewing potion theory, Draco had casually mentioned Homer’s The Odyssey, setting off a spirited debate about the merits of various translations. Hermione argued passionately in favor of Robert Fagles' lyrical style, while Draco insisted Richmond Lattimore’s version was superior for its precision and fidelity to the original Greek. Their voices grew louder, until Hermione caught herself laughing as Draco recited a passage in a mock-dramatic tone, complete with exaggerated hand gestures.

“You’re impossible,” she said, shaking her head with a smile.

“And you’re infuriating,” he countered, though there was no malice in his voice—only a faint smirk.

It wasn’t just literature. Over time, their conversations expanded to include Muggle Studies, magical theory, and even politics. Draco’s interest in Muggle Studies, which Hermione had initially assumed was superficial, seemed genuine. He asked thoughtful questions and seemed eager to learn about a world that had once been alien to him.

Still, their debates were often heated, especially when they touched on the academic methods they had each been taught. Draco’s pure-blood upbringing made for sharp contrasts with Hermione’s more modern, inclusive perspective, and they rarely saw eye to eye. But it was that very tension that made the conversations engaging. They challenged each other, pushed boundaries, and left every session feeling sharper, more energized.

By mid-October, their study sessions had become a near-daily ritual. They always met in the private study room—a compromise Hermione had initially agreed to for the sake of convenience but had grown to appreciate. The room offered a kind of sanctuary, away from the prying eyes and whispered gossip of the rest of the school.

It was a crisp Saturday morning when Hermione found herself sitting at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, a steaming cup of tea by her side and the Daily Prophet spread out before her. Neville sat beside her, finishing off a plate of toast while chatting about the new additions to the greenhouses.

“—and Professor Sprout thinks the self-fertilizing fanged geraniums might actually survive the frost this year,” Neville was saying, his eyes lighting up with excitement. Hermione nodded along, half-listening, when a shadow fell across the table.

Hermione looked up to see Pansy Parkinson standing there, a copy of Witch Weekly held in her perfectly manicured hands. For once, there was no smirk on her face, no glint of malice in her dark eyes. Instead, she looked hesitant, almost uncomfortable, as she held the magazine out toward Hermione.

“Hermione,” Pansy said softly, her voice lacking its usual sharpness. “I… I thought you might want to see this.”

Hermione blinked, startled by both the tone and the use of her first name. “What is it?” she asked cautiously.

Pansy hesitated, then placed the magazine on the table in front of her. “I’m not trying to be cruel, I swear. I just… figured you’d rather hear about it before people started talking about it.”

Frowning, Hermione glanced down at the glossy cover. Her heart stuttered as her eyes landed on the image—a photograph of Ron, his arms wrapped around a blonde girl Hermione didn’t recognize. He stood behind her, laughing, while Harry hovered nearby, his expression awkward but not disapproving. The headline read: Golden Girl Replaced? Weasley and New Flame Cozy in Diagon Alley!

Hermione’s stomach dropped, but the feeling wasn’t as sharp as she’d expected. She stared at the image, watching Ron laugh as if nothing in the world had changed, and felt a strange mixture of detachment and disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” Pansy said quietly, her hands twisting nervously in front of her. “I know it’s none of my business, but… well, I saw it and thought you should know.”

Hermione closed the magazine and pushed it aside, letting out a slow breath. “Thank you,” she said, her voice steady, though her chest felt tight.

Pansy tilted her head, her expression softening further. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Hermione replied automatically. But the way Pansy’s brow furrowed told her she wasn’t entirely convincing.

“Well, if you’re not,” Pansy added, her tone unusually sincere, “it’s okay to not be fine, you know.”

Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the sentiment. “Thanks,” she said again, this time with a hint of genuine appreciation.

Pansy gave her a small nod before turning and walking away, leaving Hermione alone with the magazine, her thoughts swirling.

Hermione took a deep breath, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. She was fine. She told herself she was fine. And yet, she couldn’t stop the faint sting of hurt—not so much because of Ron, but because of Harry’s presence in the photograph. They hadn’t told her. They hadn’t said anything.

“Blimey,” Neville muttered, glancing between Hermione and the magazine. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Hermione quickly said again, though her voice had an edge to it.

Before Neville could say more, Ginny appeared, her fiery hair unmistakable as she approached the table. Her eyes landed on the magazine, and her expression darkened. “What’s this?” she demanded, snatching it up before Hermione could stop her.

Ginny’s face turned red as she scanned the headline and the photograph. “That idiot,” she hissed. “I can’t believe him.”

“Ginny, it’s fine,” Hermione said, reaching out to touch her arm. “Really. It’s not like we are still dating.”

“Fine?” Ginny rounded on her, the magazine clutched tightly in her hand. “He couldn’t even have the decency to—ugh!” She tossed the magazine onto the table, her frustration practically vibrating off her.

Hermione sighed. “Ginny, did you really think he’d wait?”

Ginny hesitated, her anger flickering. “No, I guess not, but,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “But I didn’t think he’d do something like this. He could have told you about it before you found out from Pansy Parkinson of all people.”

Hermione offered a small, strained smile. “It’s fine, Ginny. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

But even as she said the words, Hermione felt the faint ache of exclusion. They had moved on—Ron, Harry, everyone. And here she was, still piecing herself back together, still trying to find her place in a world that no longer felt like hers.

Ginny frowned, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she sat down beside Hermione and muttered, “He’s still an idiot.”

Hermione nodded, her gaze drifting to the magazine, and forced herself to take another sip of tea.

The sting would fade. It always did.

Draco leaned back in his chair in the Slytherin common room, lazily twirling his wand between his fingers. His thoughts had been restless all morning, drifting back to the growing rapport he had with Hermione. It was disorienting to think that in just a few weeks, they had gone from uncomfortable, tense discussions to a tentative but genuine friendship. Did he still want more? Of course, but being able to call her a friend was something he hadn’t dared to hope for before.

His musings were interrupted by the familiar swish of fabric and the soft thud of Pansy Parkinson perching on the armrest of his chair. Her expression was uncharacteristically serious, though a flicker of mischief lingered in her eyes. “You owe me one,” she said, her tone gentler than usual.

Draco arched a brow. “Do I?”

Pansy sighed, pulling a magazine from under her arm and setting it carefully on the table in front of him. Witch Weekly. The headline read: Golden Girl Replaced? Weasley and New Flame Cozy in Diagon Alley!

His stomach twisted as his gaze landed on the image: Weasley laughing, arms wrapped around some blonde girl, with Potter awkwardly nearby. It wasn’t the picture itself that unsettled him—it was what it might mean for Hermione.

“What’s this?” he asked, though he already had a sinking feeling.

“I showed it to Granger this morning,” Pansy said, her voice soft. “She deserved to know.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he glanced up at her. “Why would you do that? Are you trying to upset her?”

Pansy shook her head, her expression shifting to something almost apologetic. “No, Draco. I’m not trying to hurt her. If anything, I thought… well, maybe it’s better if she sees it now rather than later. The whole school’s going to be talking about it. At least this way, she knows before the whispers start.”

Draco studied her, unsure of her motives. “And why would you care?”

Pansy gave a small shrug, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t know. Maybe because she’s not as unbearable as I used to think she was. Or maybe because you’ve been walking around like a lovesick puppy, and it’s getting embarrassing.” She flashed him a wry smile. “Besides, if anyone deserves a nudge in the right direction, it’s you.”

Draco rolled his eyes and grabbed the magazine, shoving it into his bag as he stood. “You’re impossible, Parkinson.”

“And you’re hopeless,” she shot back, though there was no malice in her tone. As he started to leave, her voice followed him, quieter this time. “Good luck, Draco.”

He hesitated for the briefest moment, then strode out of the common room, the magazine weighing heavier in his bag than it should have.

When Draco arrived at the library, he headed straight for their usual study room. He paused at the door, his hand on the handle, as he caught sight of her through the small window. Hermione was sitting at the table, her head bowed, shoulders tense. Even from here, he could tell she’d been crying.

His chest tightened. He pushed the door open quietly and stepped inside. She looked up at the sound, quickly wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper.

“Malfoy,” she said, her voice thick. “Sorry—I—this is stupid.”

Draco frowned, setting his bag down and moving closer. “What’s stupid?” he asked softly. His chest tightened as he knelt before her, caught between an overwhelming urge to comfort her and the fear of saying the wrong thing. This was uncharted territory for him—being vulnerable, letting someone else’s pain matter more than his own.

She shook her head, avoiding his gaze. “All of it. Ron. That bloody magazine. I don’t want him like that anymore, but…” She trailed off, her voice trembling. “It feels like I’m being replaced. Like I don’t matter anymore.”

Draco’s throat tightened. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped at her cheeks, his movements uncharacteristically tender. “Granger,” he said, his voice low, “I’m sorry you’re upset, but they could never replace you. You kept them alive for years. You’re the brightest witch of our age—hell, probably any age. But more than that, you’re kind. You’re selfless. You’re… incredible.”

Her breath hitched, and their eyes met. Draco hesitated, suddenly unsure of himself. “If you want to be alone right now, I understand,” he said, beginning to rise.

But as he stood, so did she. “No,” she said quickly, reaching out to grab his face. Before he could process what was happening, her lips were on his.

Draco froze for a moment, his mind racing. Is this actually happening? But the softness of her lips, the warmth of her hands against his skin, pulled him under. He kissed her back, his hands settling on her waist as he lost himself in the moment.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing heavily. “I’m sorry,” Hermione began, her face flushed. “I—”

“Don’t,” Draco interrupted, his hands still resting on her waist. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“This is crazy,” she said, her brow furrowing.

Draco’s heart sank, and he began to step back. “I understand.”

“No, you misunderstand,” she said, stopping him, pulling him back towards her. “I just didn’t expect this.” She motioned between the two of them. Her fingers slipped into his hair, her nails grazing his scalp just enough to send a shiver down his spine. The sound of his groan surprised even him, but her quiet laugh against his lips only spurred him on.

Without thinking, he lifted her, sitting down in the chair and settling her on his lap so she straddled him. She laughed softly, sliding her fingers around his shoulders, up to his neck, and started to kiss him again. This time, the kiss was deeper, slower, as if they were trying to memorize each other.

Draco’s hands roamed up her back, pulling her closer as her warmth seeped into him. His heart raced, his mind a chaotic jumble of disbelief and exhilaration. He didn’t want this to end. But he didn’t want to scare her either. He would take the cues from her, only go as far as she seemed comfortable with.

They stayed like that for a while, just exploring each other. Sooner than he would have liked, Hermione broke the kiss, resting her forehead against his. “What now?” she murmured, her breath brushing against his lips.

Draco pulled back slightly, holding her face in his hands. “Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he said, his voice low.

She smiled—a real, radiant smile—and he thought he might combust on the spot. “Okay,” she said. “How about we actually study, and then, if you want, we can walk out of here together. I will even let you walk me to my dorm room. Because that’s what I want, if you want it too.”

Draco’s chest ached with how much he wanted to say yes. “I want it,” he said simply, smiling back at her.

They spent the next few hours studying, though Draco had a hard time focusing. The weight of her earlier kiss lingered in his mind, and every now and then, their hands would brush, sending jolts of electricity through him. When the librarian announced closing time, they packed up their things and headed out together.

As they walked back to the Gryffindor tower, Draco carried Hermione’s bag. At some point, she slipped her hand into his, and his stomach flipped at the simple contact. He felt his cheeks warm but didn’t let go, rubbing his thumb across her hand as they walked.

When they reached the portrait hole, Hermione turned to take her bag. Draco reached to her face and stroked her cheek, his voice soft. “Are you sure?”

She smiled up at him, rising onto her tiptoes to kiss him again, this time deeper, more certain. When she pulled away, she whispered, “Yes, I’m sure.”

She reached for her bag again, but Draco grabbed her by the waist and pushed her into an alcove, where they could have just a moment of privacy. He pushed her firmly against the wall, his lips finding hers with renewed intensity, giving her a small bite to her lower lip. She gasped against him and the sound made him groan as she pressed her body closer against his. He knew she had to be able to feel how hard he was, and just as that thought was winding its way through his mind, she grabbed his shoulders and wrapped her legs around him, grinding herself on him. He cursed under his breath and pulled her closer to him. A noise in the hallway had him remembering where they were, and he pulled back reluctantly.

“Sorry,” he muttered, panting.

Hermione smirked and said, “I’m not.” She lowered herself from his grasp, grabbing her bag and stepping back toward the portrait. Just before she disappeared, Draco called out, “Hey, Granger.”

She turned, her brows raised. “What?”

“Get ready,” he said, smirking.

“For what?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“To be courted by me,” he said confidently.

Her cheeks flushed, but she stepped back toward him, kissing him one last time. “Looking forward to it, Malfoy,” she murmured before disappearing through the portrait hole.

Draco leaned against the cool stone wall as Hermione disappeared through the portrait hole, his breathing uneven. He felt like he was unraveling, but for once, it wasn’t terrifying—it was exhilarating. He’d never wanted anything more than to keep her close, even if it meant risking the fragile balance they’d just begun to find.

Draco stared after her, his lips still tingling from her kiss. Merlin help him, she was going to undo him completely—and he couldn’t wait to let her.